Cleaning the Pool

Today was my turn to do the morning skimming of the community pool. A few members of our neighborhood volunteer to do simple chores to keep the pool clean and safe. At sunrise, the only neighbors who are up are usually out walking in the desert, so I thought I would have the pool to myself. Feeling a bit naughty, I slipped into one of my old Wicked Weasel bikinis – a few straps of spandex with fabric not much larger than postage stamps.

I was happily skimming fluffy, yellow palo verde pollen from the water, and listening to a Bangles album through my AirPods when I thought I heard someone calling my name. Turning toward the voice, I discovered Trouble, my young teen neighbor, calling to me from across the pool.

I removed my AirPods and said “good morning.” She stared at me – or I should say, at my almost nothing of a bikini – and declared, “I’ll be right back to help,” and scampered off.

About ten minutes later, Trouble came back to the pool wearing four tiny, orange triangles of fabric, held in place by white strings tied in perfect little bows. Easily, she exposed as much skin as I, but I didn’t say anything. I remember wearing impossibly small bikinis at her age and not feeling anything but proud of my body and the thrill of showing it off.

She found the pool brush and joined me. I remembered something that happened on a river trip a few summers ago and told her the story.

Our river group, 10 of us, stopped at a side-canyon on the Colorado River, where we knew a pretty creek and a patio of rock offered a place to dip and sun. We all knew each other well. Like so many river groups, we didn’t bother with swimsuits. We swam, had lunch, and all sunned ourselves, ten of us naked on the rocks with not a care in the world.

Not long after getting settled, we heard another river group coming up the creek. This is not uncommon, to encounter other groups on the river. The first of the group arrived that included a beautiful, young blonde woman in a jet-black one-piece swimsuit. She spied us all nude on the rocks, grinned ear-to-ear, and was out of her suit in seconds. She was near to me and gestured toward a large flat rock near me saying, “May I?” 

“Sure,” I said. She laid out on the rock, as naked as I was, seemingly in complete bliss.

She was on a commercial trip, so her guide waited for the rest of her group to catch up. Soon, they all came marching up the trail and stopped cold, glaring disapprovingly at my group, as well as the young blonde. They just stood there, apparently appalled at the sight of naked people, especially one of their own.

The blonde was mortified, almost in tears. She got up and put on her suit. With her head hung low, she rejoined her group as they returned to the river without joining us, without enjoying the lovely little side canyon. It occurred to my group that we perhaps should have jumped up and put our swimsuits on. But, honestly, we just didn’t think of it in time.

Trouble said, “That’s so sad. It must have been terrible for her.”

“Tell you what,” I said, “think about what might have happened after she rejoined her group. Make up a story and tell it to me tomorrow.” Trouble thought for a moment. She smiled and agreed.

We finished cleaning the pool, talking about her life. Her school work is all online (not great, she says), and she has only one more week. Her social life right now is TicTok, Instagram, and Zoom and she is afraid the summer will be long and lonely.

I am looking forward to hearing her story tomorrow.