Swimming is for a select few

Little Olive is an absolute water nymph. Whether in her baby bath or in her bright blue plastic shell under the tree in the garden, she loves to splash.

With summer now in full swing, “swimming” has become a daily pastime. Watching her slap the water and then squeal at the top of her voice, gasping as a stream cascades down her face, and then repeating the exercise over and over, reminded me of my childhood days.

We were a gang of four primary school inmates – me, the two boys who lived across the road and their cousin. Back then, we would spend almost every afternoon at the local public pool.

With only one dikwiel bicycle between us, it was quite a mission getting there. One would sit on the handlebars, another riding side-saddle on the crossbar, our gang leader did the pedalling and the last of the foursome would sit on the carrier. The leader of our pack did the pedalling. He was the strongest and it was his bicycle.

Towels and shirts were dropped in a heap and we dived in, the last one to hit the water being taunted a sissy for the rest of the day.

The lifeguard’s skin was like leather, both in colour and texture, and every year we made a pact to be just as tanned by the end of the season. Building human pyramids in the pool or having chicken fights were our favourites.

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The lawns were always pristine, offering us a lush, soft mattress on which to catch our breath before the next round of fun.

But all the while, we were very aware of the envious little eyes peeping at us through the gaps in the precast wall. Our pool was for whites only – forbidden terrain for little ones living in back rooms with their mothers who worked as maids.

Then, the boys across the road got a pool of their own. They were the envy of the street. Every afternoon I’d hear them. The laughter, the joy. But I was never invited for a dip. Their parents made it abundantly clear that it was for their family’s use only. The closest I ever got to that pool was peeping through a gap in the precast wall.