Summers fated for Rudgear Meadows Swim Team
Happiness echoed in our hearts and homes and swam through the seams of our community.
I grew up in the 80s in a modest neighborhood filled with up-and-coming young families in the heart of Walnut Creek, CA. It was a charismatic community where homes and roads were known and recognized by who and where we lived vs. street names and numbers.
It had a tiny town touch where laughter and delight crowded cul-de-sacs and collected the sound of innocence. Around every street corner stood a friend to play with, a parent to nurture and discipline, a bike or skateboard to ride, and memories to last a lifetime.
One of my favorite times of year was summer, abundant in timeless holidays and soft, youthful winds—a solstice recognition of freedom fated for fun and rich in celebration.
Summers signified Speedos, lasting racerback tans, faded goggle marks, chlorine-blemished skin, and brittle, bleached blond hair. They predicted late nights and sleepovers, sunny afternoons with no itinerary, the Price is Right, and warm evenings bathed in light.
Summers fated for Rudgear Meadows Swim Team—the home of the Seals.
We coexisted around water and social soirees at the neighborhood's charming four-lane pool. As clear as the summer's sky, happiness echoed in our hearts and homes and swam through the seams of our community. Swimming spoke to the core of our being and was the groundwork of who we would become.
We rode bikes to practice with our signature terry cloth towels behind our necks, goggles dangling from handlebars, hair unkempt, and sleep in our eyes, aiming to arrive awake on the pool deck. Delaying the inevitable, we slowly removed layers of warmth, taking turns securing one another's swim caps, capturing every last piece of hair under the tight-fighting latex, teasing teammates, and challenging our coaches.
We completed sets scribbled on the whiteboard and shouted from the concrete deck. We improved our skills and strokes and pushed each other's limits. Occasionally, we would run across the tarps, feet floating on water, a past-time prohibited or a welcomed distraction of native rivals and water balloons raided the pool excusing us from our drills.
Weekly Wednesday nights or Saturday morning swim meets were a chance to perform our talents as we posed our practice to perfection. The scent of spirit, adrenaline, freshly brewed Folgers coffee, and smoldering charcoal hung in the air as children, teens, parents, and coaches collected on the pool's edge.
Known for our infamous cheer, we bordered the water, fingers fastened around cobalt blue kickboards. Our coaches stood high on the blocks shouting lyrics signifying who and what we were - the almighty Seals. Excitement roared like thunder, and energy escalated as we beat the boards on the lip of the pool, hollering and reciting: RMST.
The repetitive alarm and echo of "swimmers, take your mark"… beep! And signature splash of contention cheering on the competition was a swimmer's delight as onlookers watched anxiously, wondering who would secure victory.
The snack shack was ripe with sacred traditions of sweet and salty aromas consisting of burnt hot dogs and sizzled beef patties sandwiched between moist white buns with Heinz ketchup oozing out the corners. Louie-Bloo Raspberry Otter Pops that turned your tongue a shade of indigo and crispy corn tortilla chips smothered in gooey orange spicy cheese served warmhearted from the crock-pot to your mouth in red and white plaid disposable trays.
Post-Wednesday meet rituals collected at The Pizza Machine in Danville, where we indulged in late-night cheesy pizza, video games, and a friendly air hockey match. Arriving to practice the following morning, greeted with a large pink box filled with donuts crowned in chocolate glaze and rainbow sprinkles fresh from the local bakery delivered to willing taste buds.
The Walnut Creek City Meet hosted at Heather Farm Park (Clarke Memorial Swim Center) was a weekend event bringing local teams together midsummer where swimmers poised their skills, and the opposition revealed their luck at securing a win at Conference. Bodies of boys and girls decorated in bright neon green, pink, or blue zinc paraded with pride, sporting team mascots. Flashy umbrellas secured a sea of shade above a stage of towels and aluminum folding chairs, inviting tired bodies to rest between heats and escape the intensity of 100°F.
The festivities preceding Conference, another weekend affair concluding the end of the season, promised a good time:
The spaghetti feed fueled our growing bodies with ceaseless casserole trays of pasta, marinara sauce, and buttery garlic bread.
Shave night exemplified the excitement of premature adolescents as we removed each inch of hair, hoping to shed seconds off our time. Empty aerosol bottles of Gillette and winter white cream foamed on the pool deck, and yellow and pink BIC razor blades tingled in our hands.
Poster night was amusing as we created confident images of seals and the lyrical praise 'swim fast' on big sheets of poster board. The intended artwork adored the neighborhood to precision and placement, highlighting the route to the pool as we made our way to the meet. With each passing picture, a shelter of excitement expanded, and anticipation swelled.
The most memorable symbol: RMST carefully carved into the golden dry hillside between the 680 freeway and highway 24 interchange.
The anticipated competition of Conference convened at Acalanes High School or Diablo Valley College. It was where our dedication and determination developed, and our stroke was spotless. For a few years, we consistently held second place, which, in our hearts, felt more like a win compared to the unstoppable first-place opponents of the Indian Valley Swim Team.
Rewards night proved a bittersweet remembrance, a ceremony to signify the end of summer. Families gathered on the lawn with sleeping bags, easy-going blankets, webbed lawn chairs, beer, and buckets of KFC. Coaches and teammates told tales of joy, and congratulatory speeches and trophies awarded to all symbolized the end of another successful season and recognition of improvement.
As the last light of dusk descended, we settled in for the annual slide show reliving a reel of memories set to care reminiscent of melodies and magical moments. The romantic voice of Van Halen resonated in space, "Hey, it's your tomorrow, (right now), c'mon, it's everything, (right now), catch a magic moment, do it right here and now. It means everything."
Sealing a season loyally to the lyrical serenade of Journey, there was never a dry eye in the crowd, "Highway run into the midnight sun… Oh, girl, you stand by me. I'm forever yours, faithfully."
The water held us. It supported our hopes and dreams and witnessed our success, sorrow, growing pains, defeat, and victory. It was our livelihood and lineage.
I am fortunate to be part of such a wonderful community and grateful for our RMST family, stories, and the remaining connections.
The water continues to embrace us. It swims through our veins and traces the air we breathe. Today, when I swim in the lanes of Heather Farm Park, I touch the resonance of bliss, stroke the spirit of the splash, receive the ring of the cheer, and consume the pureness of longing, letting the moment soak into my skin.
Faithfully, I'm still yours, forever yours, faithfully.
Prompt
You might begin by writing with one of the following:
Collected the sound of innocence
Summers signified
Grab a pen and paper or your favorite journal. Set your timer. Write for 15 minutes, pen never leaving the page. See what words flow.
Comment if you try. I would love to hear about your journey and experience with intuitive flow writing!