Swimming in the NAG

When I was 18 years old I spent the summer living in the bunkhouse of my buddy Chris’ family lake cabin. I had a job, but I don’t really recall working that much. I think I spent most of the summer in the water; on water skis, hanging out at the sand bar, or heading to other lakes with friends.
The bunkhouse was all mine. Chris lived in the boathouse, and some girls from New Zealand lived in the cabin itself…at least for part of the summer. At some point one of the girl’s ex-boyfriends flew up from New Zealand to propose to his lost love. The girls left shortly after that (it was more like fleeing the scene of a crime than leaving), and the ex-boyfriend stayed. Not exactly a fair trade, but he had a guitar and knew how to use it, so we didn’t complain. The bonfires drew a bigger crowd with live music.
I had this other buddy, Nick, who lived on a different lake and had a ski boat. He tended to live life as if tomorrow wasn’t likely to arrive. I never wore a watch back then, and I remember on the days when I had to work I would turn to Nick and ask, “Hey, what time is it?” His answer was always the same…”It’s summertime.” It may not have answered my question, but it reminded me that there were more important things then work sometimes.
I think we all have that one summer that is eternally etched in our minds. That summer that defined what summer was supposed to be about. I can’t describe in detail all the things that made that summer so memorable (most of which involved events that, to my Irish Catholic mother, would be considered capital crimes with no statute of limitations). I can say that the memories of those 3 months helped me define how I wanted to live my life. Working hard enough to be able to leave work behind, and stringing enough days together to make some incredible memories with great friends. In my mind, that is the key to staying content with life.
The other day, as I was sitting in the control room of my alternative workspace in the middle of the Northern Arabian Gulf a young Lieutenant knocked on the door.
“Sir, a bunch of us are going swimming and wanted to know if you cared to join us?”
I felt a crooked smile forming on my face. “Is it safe to go swimming off an oil platform?”
“I don’t know sir, we’ve never tried it before.” came his response accompanied by a mischievous smile that may just as well have been a dare.
“I’m in!” I said, without hesitating long enough to think about what I was about to do.
By the time I had changed into shorts and walked outside I could already hear the cheers, and shouts, and splashing from 4 stories below. As I made my way down the last of the ladder wells, I was psyched to see that they had rigged a rope swing to properly deliver us into the rolling seas below. 20 sailors fidgeting like ten year olds, all waiting for their next turn on the rope…but they gladly handed it off to me as I approached, knowing I was a few swings behind.
It was 125 degrees that day. The water was incredible. Neither hot nor cold, but more refreshing than anything I had experienced in the preceding 4 months. The salt content was so high, I didn’t even have to work in order to float in it.
At 10 second intervals another sailor would hit the water. Each turn on the rope was an opportunity to perfect your technique…or out-do the person who had gone in front of you. The straight swing, the swing and flip, the swing and flop, and of course the endurance swing that brought you dangerously close to striking the large metal beams from which you launched.
For 30 minutes I wasn’t in a war zone. I wasn’t miles off the shores of a country whose people meant to do us harm. I wasn’t worried about tactics, reports, rank, logistics, or much of anything for that matter. I emerged from the water barnacle-scraped, slightly tar covered (think crude oil), and itchy from a combination of saltwater and jellyfish encounters…but I’m guessing the most notable thing would have been the broad grin on my face. Had someone asked me at that moment what time it was, I’m pretty sure my response would have been, “It’s summertime.”