Impossible Dreaming
Bruce brought the food and I took the drinks to the Giveback meeting last night and as hoped, the refreshments lured folks to hang around after the meeting and do a bit of bonding. They were still digging the dialog ninety minutes after the confab ended. So, from now on, the first Thursday of each month after our "Community Meeting" when survivors, family members, students, professionals and Dr. Schutz address particular topics, we'll nosh and network.
Today, I'm proud to say, I tackled a tax problem for an old client, a creditor problem for a family member and banking issue for a dear friend. I even set up a credit repair plan for someone. I made the needed calls, stayed focused, wrote the required letters, stayed focused and balanced the balances, still staying focused. It was an all day job and I took breaks between each task, but I am satisfied to have met my fiduciary responsibility to each person, pleased to have made a difference and done something for them they had been unable to manage by themselves. Being useful is such a boost!
Tomorrow after cleaning the church, I will pack and prepare for my trip to Destin on the Florida panhandle where I will play with my new granddaughter, visit with my daughter and become decadently slothful lolling around in a luxury hotel. Works for me!
But now I shall begin to keep my promise about THE BOOK. Unlike real authors with undamaged brains, I have no outline, no idea what to include or exclude and won't be able to write sequentially. I intend to work on my life's adventure story as the mood and memories hit. We'll discover it as we go, then I'll edit and put the completed pieces together chronologically.
IMPOSSIBLE DREAMING
It was just past seven on a foggy California morning and I, along with three other Juniors, was relegated to the school library as punishment. We would spend an hour before and after school in the library, in my case, for a week. I considered myself a political prisoner. At John Swett Union High School, girls were to be properly dressed in dresses or skirts, never clothed in pants of any kind. Ever. Sick to death of the restrictions society - and especially my father - placed on females, I was determined to bring about change.
Too modest to go the Godiva route, I had recruited almost thirty girls who agreed to wear slacks or jeans to school and carry protest signs all around the school grounds beginning that Monday. Only seven of us actually showed up, and six were easily dissuaded by a few words of warning from Mrs. Keyes, the girls dean who, along with a large crowd of staff and students, had learned of our planned demonstration via rumors which we, ourselves had spread. A protest demonstration without an audience would of course be pointless.
I began my speech as my spineless friends slunk off to change into "decent attire." Although my tummy quivered and a cold sweat formed on my brow, I stood my ground even after our no nonsense principal Mr. Wilson pried the sign from my trembling fingers and gave me "one last chance" to become the demure young lady he thought I should be. I was a great disappointment to him and he had no choice but to suspend me on the spot. Later, he relented and exiled me to the library gig.
Jealously, I gazed at the boys lounging in the shadowed west corner of the library. No one told them how to dress. All three wore their blue jeans low on their hips with the waist bands rolled over so the belt loops didn't show. Narrow cuffs turned up all six pantlegs to a height just above the shoe revealing white socks. One of the Buscalia boys had on a snug white tee shirt with the sleeves rolled high and tight. His cousin wore a starched plaid shirt with a similar sleeve treatment. Outside the school grounds, he kept a pack of unfiltered Camels rolled securely against his left arm almost at shoulder height.
In my blue and green plaid pleated skirt, short sleeved blue sweater bloused at the waist and a green neck scarf tied with poofy short tails, I fit right in with the other girls, and I hated it. The boys ignored me even though I deliberately chose a path to a table nearby. I was embarrassed and angry. I wanted the freedom they so easily walked in. I wanted to be regarded as their equal. I needed to do something to prove myself worthwhile, as strong, independent and daring as they thought they were.
That's when I met Gertrude Caroline Ederle who became my role model. I found her in a magazine left open on the library table where I sat sulking. She was short, well muscled, even a bit stocky. I admired her countenance, with a slight smile but a firm jaw and a look of sheer determination. She was pictured in a plain, one piece swim suit, but I was convinced she wore pants any time and anywhere she wanted. The picture wasn't current. Gertrude, born in 1906, was now fifty years old, an old, old woman. Nonetheless, excitement replaced my shame as I hungrily read her story.
Gertrude was a swimmer, had been to the Olympics and had won many competitions, but what really caught my imagination was her quest to swim the English Channel. She was disqualified on her first attempt but in August of 1926 was the first woman to conquer the Channel just a few months shy of her 20th birthday. Eventually, she swam it in both directions.
I was enthralled! Over the next few weeks I researched and learned all I could about the Channel called the "Mount Everest of marathon swimming," and the swimmer who had quickly become my heroine. I learned that Gertrude used a swimming stroke called the front crawl and I searched for information on how to do that. Since I was not at all a swimmer yet, I had no idea of the amplitude of this learning curve. You cannot adequately learn to swim from a book.
Over the next two years I swam in the bay from the shoreline near Joseph's Marina which then included a cafe, bar, boat and swimming docks, bait shop and resident "experts" on swimming, boating, fishing and everything nautical. Soon everyone at the marina knew of my Impossible Dream of swimming the English Channel, a treacherous twenty one mile, heavily traveled sea-lane prone to raging winds, cross currents, frigid waters, powerful tides and Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish. Most scoffed, some good-naturedly, others with mean spirited scorn, but a few took me under their wings and even chaperoned me in their small boats as I took longer and longer swims.
The marina was within walking distance of the low-income project in Rodeo where our family lived and I swam afternoons and weekends, then after my parents were asleep, I crept out of my bedroom window and down to the marina to swim at night, usually with someone, but occasionally alone. I had no idea how to train and never figured out what a front crawl was, but training became my passion, and although I continued to push for female rights by unsuccessfully signing up for auto shop and dropping out of home economics, swimming kept my political activities in check to the point I was able to complete high school without being permanently expelled.
At last, as my high school graduation loomed just weeks away, I began to face the sad truth that I had no sponsor or any idea how to attract one. I also had to admit I lacked the endurance for the Channel. I could go the distance in the bay. Greased down and kept hydrated and fed by my volunteer trainers in their little boats, I had made swims of twenty three miles on several occasions, but not in the hostile conditions I would find in the Channel.
It was the day before graduation practice that I walked to the marina for my last "Impossible Dream" swim. No grease, no guardian in a boat, not even a swim cap, just me and the bay. I stayed in the water three hours talking to myself and the Lord, bidding the Impossible Dream farewell. It had served its purpose. Now, there were other dreams on the horizon, other adventures to experience. I asked God to fill my life to the full even if it hurt at times. The salt of my tears flowed and mingled with the semi-saltiness of the bay streaming down my face as I left training in those murky waters for the last time. Yes, I would swim again at the marina. Like ordinary recreation bathers, I would play in the water with friends, but never again would I truly be a "swimmer."
Today, I'm proud to say, I tackled a tax problem for an old client, a creditor problem for a family member and banking issue for a dear friend. I even set up a credit repair plan for someone. I made the needed calls, stayed focused, wrote the required letters, stayed focused and balanced the balances, still staying focused. It was an all day job and I took breaks between each task, but I am satisfied to have met my fiduciary responsibility to each person, pleased to have made a difference and done something for them they had been unable to manage by themselves. Being useful is such a boost!
Tomorrow after cleaning the church, I will pack and prepare for my trip to Destin on the Florida panhandle where I will play with my new granddaughter, visit with my daughter and become decadently slothful lolling around in a luxury hotel. Works for me!
But now I shall begin to keep my promise about THE BOOK. Unlike real authors with undamaged brains, I have no outline, no idea what to include or exclude and won't be able to write sequentially. I intend to work on my life's adventure story as the mood and memories hit. We'll discover it as we go, then I'll edit and put the completed pieces together chronologically.
IMPOSSIBLE DREAMING
It was just past seven on a foggy California morning and I, along with three other Juniors, was relegated to the school library as punishment. We would spend an hour before and after school in the library, in my case, for a week. I considered myself a political prisoner. At John Swett Union High School, girls were to be properly dressed in dresses or skirts, never clothed in pants of any kind. Ever. Sick to death of the restrictions society - and especially my father - placed on females, I was determined to bring about change.
Too modest to go the Godiva route, I had recruited almost thirty girls who agreed to wear slacks or jeans to school and carry protest signs all around the school grounds beginning that Monday. Only seven of us actually showed up, and six were easily dissuaded by a few words of warning from Mrs. Keyes, the girls dean who, along with a large crowd of staff and students, had learned of our planned demonstration via rumors which we, ourselves had spread. A protest demonstration without an audience would of course be pointless.
I began my speech as my spineless friends slunk off to change into "decent attire." Although my tummy quivered and a cold sweat formed on my brow, I stood my ground even after our no nonsense principal Mr. Wilson pried the sign from my trembling fingers and gave me "one last chance" to become the demure young lady he thought I should be. I was a great disappointment to him and he had no choice but to suspend me on the spot. Later, he relented and exiled me to the library gig.
Jealously, I gazed at the boys lounging in the shadowed west corner of the library. No one told them how to dress. All three wore their blue jeans low on their hips with the waist bands rolled over so the belt loops didn't show. Narrow cuffs turned up all six pantlegs to a height just above the shoe revealing white socks. One of the Buscalia boys had on a snug white tee shirt with the sleeves rolled high and tight. His cousin wore a starched plaid shirt with a similar sleeve treatment. Outside the school grounds, he kept a pack of unfiltered Camels rolled securely against his left arm almost at shoulder height.
In my blue and green plaid pleated skirt, short sleeved blue sweater bloused at the waist and a green neck scarf tied with poofy short tails, I fit right in with the other girls, and I hated it. The boys ignored me even though I deliberately chose a path to a table nearby. I was embarrassed and angry. I wanted the freedom they so easily walked in. I wanted to be regarded as their equal. I needed to do something to prove myself worthwhile, as strong, independent and daring as they thought they were.
That's when I met Gertrude Caroline Ederle who became my role model. I found her in a magazine left open on the library table where I sat sulking. She was short, well muscled, even a bit stocky. I admired her countenance, with a slight smile but a firm jaw and a look of sheer determination. She was pictured in a plain, one piece swim suit, but I was convinced she wore pants any time and anywhere she wanted. The picture wasn't current. Gertrude, born in 1906, was now fifty years old, an old, old woman. Nonetheless, excitement replaced my shame as I hungrily read her story.
Gertrude was a swimmer, had been to the Olympics and had won many competitions, but what really caught my imagination was her quest to swim the English Channel. She was disqualified on her first attempt but in August of 1926 was the first woman to conquer the Channel just a few months shy of her 20th birthday. Eventually, she swam it in both directions.
I was enthralled! Over the next few weeks I researched and learned all I could about the Channel called the "Mount Everest of marathon swimming," and the swimmer who had quickly become my heroine. I learned that Gertrude used a swimming stroke called the front crawl and I searched for information on how to do that. Since I was not at all a swimmer yet, I had no idea of the amplitude of this learning curve. You cannot adequately learn to swim from a book.
Over the next two years I swam in the bay from the shoreline near Joseph's Marina which then included a cafe, bar, boat and swimming docks, bait shop and resident "experts" on swimming, boating, fishing and everything nautical. Soon everyone at the marina knew of my Impossible Dream of swimming the English Channel, a treacherous twenty one mile, heavily traveled sea-lane prone to raging winds, cross currents, frigid waters, powerful tides and Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish. Most scoffed, some good-naturedly, others with mean spirited scorn, but a few took me under their wings and even chaperoned me in their small boats as I took longer and longer swims.
The marina was within walking distance of the low-income project in Rodeo where our family lived and I swam afternoons and weekends, then after my parents were asleep, I crept out of my bedroom window and down to the marina to swim at night, usually with someone, but occasionally alone. I had no idea how to train and never figured out what a front crawl was, but training became my passion, and although I continued to push for female rights by unsuccessfully signing up for auto shop and dropping out of home economics, swimming kept my political activities in check to the point I was able to complete high school without being permanently expelled.
At last, as my high school graduation loomed just weeks away, I began to face the sad truth that I had no sponsor or any idea how to attract one. I also had to admit I lacked the endurance for the Channel. I could go the distance in the bay. Greased down and kept hydrated and fed by my volunteer trainers in their little boats, I had made swims of twenty three miles on several occasions, but not in the hostile conditions I would find in the Channel.
It was the day before graduation practice that I walked to the marina for my last "Impossible Dream" swim. No grease, no guardian in a boat, not even a swim cap, just me and the bay. I stayed in the water three hours talking to myself and the Lord, bidding the Impossible Dream farewell. It had served its purpose. Now, there were other dreams on the horizon, other adventures to experience. I asked God to fill my life to the full even if it hurt at times. The salt of my tears flowed and mingled with the semi-saltiness of the bay streaming down my face as I left training in those murky waters for the last time. Yes, I would swim again at the marina. Like ordinary recreation bathers, I would play in the water with friends, but never again would I truly be a "swimmer."
Labels: English Channel, Gertrude Caroline Ederle, swimmer
© 2006 by Iona Hoeppner
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