Wild Waters

When I finished high school, I moved to a town on the beach. Ten minutes walk would take me to a wide blue horizon, a cool sea breeze, soft warm sands and waves that were the perfect size for surfing without any real risk of injury or death. I lived with mates who were keen surfers. Our bath always had a trail of sand leading to the plug, wet suits hanging from the shower curtain rail and the smell of turtle wax and seaweed lingered from one side of the house to the other.

With all that you’d reckon I'd have leathery brown skin, a smattering of sun spots, freckles across my face and the ability to hang ten, duck dive and swim like a fricken otter.

Truth is I have pale white skin, a few suspect moles and my water skills are limited to the ability to drink it when I can’t find a Coke Zero.

The beach has never appealed to me and getting wet has been reserved for showers and baths. In my time by the seaside I went into the water twice. Once because I was trying to impress some girls by skinny dipping, another time because I fell asleep on a blanket and the tide came in.

So – shitmanandfarout – it was hard for me to adjust to the idea that I’d be going to swimming lessons with the kids. It was Reservoir Mum’s idea of course but even I can understand that kids should be skilled enough to keep their heads above water if they were ever unfortunate enough to find themselves in it. I was just hoping that swimming lessons would be Reservoir Mum’s domain, (or nanny’s, or a distant relative's, or the guy who runs the late night Kebab van in Preston) but no such luck. We’re booked in every Tuesday for (what feels like) eternity. Arch at nine am, Lewis and me at nine thirty and Tyson and Reservoir Mum at ten.

Yep. That’s right. Lewis AND me. In the water. With other people who may not have showered and are probably peeing.

Here’s a report of our first trip to the pool as a family...

The muggy air and the echoey screaming and hollering makes me feel like I have a concussion. Fucking togs – on entry into the water trapped air escapes and makes fart bubbles right next to several of the Mums I’ll be spending the next half hour with. Yes, of course, I am the only Dad. Lewis loves the water. I love it about as much as I like dipping into tubs of cow shit and worms but I do my best to pretend that I am pretending to love it cause Reservoir Mum is watching. A woman brushes against me. Her legs are hairier than mine (I’m talking bear-in-the-rapids-searching-for-salmon hairy) and I’m thinking Lewis better enjoy this a hell-of-a-lot. The group instructor seems to have her sense of self built around the fact that she is very stern. 'The kids will get used to it,' she says. I want to tell her to keep her I’m a tough girl and I don’t care who knows it routine to herself but I notice something on one of the mother’s teeth and am almost certain it’s a pube. We start singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus…’ and I feel ridiculous enough to consider putting my face under the water into Faeces-ville. The instructor yells ‘And what do the Mummy’s on the bus do?’ and avoids eye contact with me. I think Mummy’s? What the fuck do I look like? before internalising a vision of myself pooncing around in a circle with a bunch of women. Oh, shit. Still, I stew on her discrimination for a minute and am just about to scream Are there any fricken dads on this bus! when she introduces the next chorus with, ‘And what do the Dads on the bus do?’ and I bite my tongue. Take it easy man. Just take it easy. We start swimming through the pool to collect floating toys. We’re told to get one each and return it to the toy tub but I think Stuff it, this is my chance and me and Lewis return five toys in record time, biceps bulging from the effort. Sure, some of the other kids are a bit upset but my point is clear – I’m feeling insecure and DADS RULE! More dancing. Safe entry lessons. Lewis is losing interest and telling me he wants to get out. I want to get out too but I can see Reservoir Mum on the sidelines. She looks so happy so I do my best to last the full thirty minutes. Lewis scratches my stomach with his toe nails as we’re told to get in a circle and hold hands. The cute little girl next to me smiles as we bounce in unison to the left. I grimace at her cause that faraway look in her eyes tells me she’s pissing and I’m bouncing right through it. Then we change direction and I realise the giantess instructor is holding my other hand. She has that same look in her eyes. We’re outta here. Fucking togs stick to my skin and reveal every nook and cranny of my nether regions. They might as well be painted on. Wet towels. Debri stuck to my foot that feels like cigarette butts and mouse poo. I line up my wet arse with a dozen hairy old men arses in the change rooms. My cold wet jocks stick to my ankles. I can’t kick them off. I resign myself to bending over and nearly fall. For one of the few times in its life - before I regain my footing and clamp up - my anus is exposed to the cold air. The old men chuckle. My pool experience has lived up to expectation.

It was a torture I never want to revisit but Reservoir Mum, Archie, Lewis and Tyson are as happy as hell as we waddle our way with bags of wet stuff to the car. They love it. I love them. So, I guess I’ll suck it up next week and do it all again.