September 2009 Issue

We gathered our swimsuits under cut-off shorts and bleach-stained t-shirts. Granola mix and peanut butter and honey sandwiches were in tote. A group of eight, twenty-somethings pushing thirty, decided on a whim to go swimming. We chose the far southwest end of Lake Pueblo State Park (the Reservoir), intending to not get apprehended by Pueblo's own Coast Guard. We disregarded "No Swimming" signs and dared each other to jump off cliffs into the green splash of summer. Diving was postponed until we could acquaint ourselves with the temperament and thirst of this man-made rain barrel.

Finding ourselves secluded, all but visually, off of a rugged path, we staked a nice spot with large rocks and a natural dock made of dark slate that merged into the shoreline. With caution and chuckles, we dipped toes and then heads, one by one, under the water. Heat from a July sun dissipated with bodies submerged.

With each doggie paddle and clumsy breaststroke I became braver, venturing further than anyone else. Everything is quieter away from the shore. I can hear my breath, feel the water hit my nostrils. I'm reminded of the ocean off the coast of Florida, my limbs stroking the water for mobility and an occasional backstroke. And although this is not exotic or wild, my perusal of the surroundings generates a Rousseauian freedom that seems to overshadow any prior happiness.

I look back to the shore and spy three members of my group trekking up a cliff where others are lined to take the plunge. Part of me is jealous that my audacity only shows itself while driving in traffic and after an evening with Joe six-pack, minus Joe. But, this is me, always the observer wading off the shore where the wetness of my hair blurs the lines of living thing and water.

The divers are so far, yet I can feel the rush of finding footing just before the jump and I can hunt out bits of brainwaves that are trying to decide whether to use pinched fingers to hold the breath or to trust serendipity that says, "Forty seconds. You can hold your breath for forty seconds."

Each one, driving their feet into the dark green below, hollows a space in the water where their bodies cut shadows and silhouettes. One friend waves his arms in rapid calisthenic circles and I know which means of holding his breath he's chosen. The thrill of the jump is overshadowed by the first inhalation on the water's surface-a flashback to amniotic fluid and your first survival.

We meet on the shore and talk about the cliffs. We domesticate our towels on varying rocks perfect for our bottoms. We eat just-thawed peanut butter and honey sandwiches and dissect the absurdity of a canary yellow thirty-foot boat blasting music and spewing out fumes while the all-male cast throws beer cans overboard and gets off on their brute and brawn.

Sometimes Pueblo seems socially landlocked-a floating collection of childhood memories that drifts untouched by big city progress. Visiting the water again, I understand that the big city dream is alive and well-that the big city dream was invented, molded, extinguished and revived in a place called Pueblo. And although this man-made dam was created to retain, the maps of my friends' faces, while feeling the coolness of a fervent summer sun after dipping their egos into this year's mountain runoff, suggest that there is much that has been absolved.

Presumption forces me to swim.

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