Water Ran Through Our Veins
It was the core of who we were and the foundation in which we were raised.
As far back as I can remember summers were destined for swim team; early mornings, long, hot days and lingering warm sunlit nights. The tune of four letters sings in my heart and repeats in my mind; R.M.S.T. Rudgear Meadows Swim Team. The Seals.
Summers were dedicated to swim team; morning practice, afternoon swim lessons (oh, the countless lessons with big brother, aimed to perfect my stroke, flip turn and dive!), endless days spent at the pool, swim meets, social gatherings and neighborhood soirees. The permanent mark of goggles around my eyes, brittle, bleached blond hair, the smell of chlorine upon my sun-kissed body, and the inevitable racerback tan that exemplified summer; never to fade, only to return the following year.
I grew up in a small neighbor developed in the late 70’s; a neighborhood filled with young families and life. Around every corner was a friend to play tag, a parent to guard, discipline, and nurture. Courts and cul-de-sacs filled with familiar faces and hellos, big wheels and bikes. A community where homes and streets were known by who lived vs. a number. Each year, to return to our quaint four-lane pool we called home.
Most mornings we kids would ride our bikes to the pool, towels around our necks and goggles dangling from our handlebars. Sleep in our eyes and hair unkempt, we made our way to the pool deck; eager to get to practice, only to stall as we talked among ourselves and joked with the coaches. We slowly removed layers of warmth, as we took turns putting on each other's caps, securing every last piece of hair. On the rare occasion a few of us would run across the tarps before practice, a past-time strictly forbidden. For the next hour and a half, we would complete drills and sets shouted by our coaches, as we perfected our stroke and laughed with our teammates. Sometimes, a tribe of rivals, kids and coaches alike and water balloons in hand, raided the pool deck; it was always a welcome distraction.
Swim meets (Wednesday nights or early Saturday mornings) were an opportunity to put our skills and lessons to test and for parents and kids to gather and socialize. The smell of coffee brewing and scent of the charcoal BBQ lofted through the air, as the busyness and hustle of parents, coaches, and swimmers prepared for competition. Adrenaline and nerves filled the air. The lasting echo of the gun sound when it was time for the race to begin…“ swimmers, take your mark”... beep! The splash that followed as the swimmers dived off the blocks and into the water and the thrill of cheers and shrieks from teammates, coaches, and family. On occasion, team victory would be determined by the last event, the impressive 15-18 free relay. Both teams would crowd around the edge of the pool, as the young men and women approached the blocks.
RMST was known for our infamous kick-board cheer; we outlined the edge of the pool, kick-board in hand (I, secretly hoping to get the kick-board etched “Jimbo” a nickname of my older brother developed), as our coaches stood tall upon the blocks and shouted the lyrics. Excitement and energy rose as we banged the boards alongside the pool repeating the words...“ R. M. S. T” as loud as we could.The snack shack – filled with sweet, sugary pastimes and enough sugar to fly us across the pool. The food and sacred traditions – burnt hot-dogs and BBQ hamburger patties, Louie-Bloo Raspberry otter, pops that turned your tongue a shade of blue, the nachos (a must between heats) served in checkered red and white paper bowls with a mound of tortilla chips topped with warm, gooey orange cheese. Post-Wednesday night congregation at The Pizza Machine where we indulged in pizza, video games and air hockey, the donuts topped with rainbow colored sprinkles and chocolate frosting served in over-sized pink bakery boxes, delivered fresh to the pool deck Thursday mornings.
The Walnut Creek City Meet – held mid-way through the year at Heather Farms was always a site to be seen. A two-day competition where neighborhood teams would gather on what always seemed to be the HOTTEST days of the year…record highs of 100+ degrees. Shade structures, umbrellas, towels, and chairs covered the lawn and surrounded the pool deck. Sunblock and tinted zinc branded our bodies; noses, cheeks, arms, backs, and bellies.
Conference – the meet to conclude the end of the season and anticipated rivalry held at Acalanes High School (and later at Diablo Valley College); where the fruits of our labor and dedication blossomed and our stroke immaculate. Swimmers determined to better their individual time and place in finals. In the early days, RMST consistently held Second Place; which, in our hearts felt more like First Place against the unstoppable Indian Valley.
The rituals leading up to Conference were festive and fun. The spaghetti feed used to fuel up on pasta and garlic bread. Shave night consisting of bottles of shaving cream, bags of yellow and pink disposable Bic razors, as we shaved every inch of hair from our bodies. Poster night, a time to design and color images of seals and “swim fast” on large poster boards with the intention to have them strategically placed by our coaches the night before the big meet on street poles throughout the neighborhood and along Rudgear Road. Excitement would build with each passing image, as we made our way to the pool the following morning. The most memorable, the letters RMST branded into the hillside above the 680 freeway and 24 interchange.
Rewards night and ceremonies were always bittersweet; a time of celebration and a successful swim season only to signify the close of summer. Families gathered on the lawn with their blankets, folding chairs, and buckets of KFC and food alike. Coaches and teammates told tales of joy and congratulatory speeches. Each age group and a team member would receive a trophy, a symbolism of another successful year and perhaps recognition of improvement from the year before. As the last light of dusk descended, we settled in for the annual slide show, reliving the season one last time. A photo reel timed perfectly to reminiscent tunes and complete with magical moments. Images of warm smiles and familiar faces, memorable races, and cheers from coaches and parents, as Van Halen sang, “It's your tomorrow (right now) come on, it's everything, (right now) catch your magic moment, do it right here” or the notorious tear-jerker, “Highway run, into the midnight sun, wheels go round and round” (Faithfully, by Journey). Afterward, we said our good-byes and went it for one final hug, already anticipating next year.
The water held us, supported our hopes and dreams. It witnessed our success and joy, our growing pains, as well as our defeat and sorrow; it was our livelihood, our blood, sweat, and tears. To this day, when I sit at the end of a lane at Heather Farms, I close my eyes and hear the echo of the cheer and allow the memory and thrill of excitement to wash over me. How fortunate; how privileged I was, we all were, to be part of such a wonderful community and neighborhood. Though grown-up and some moved away, the connections remain and hold strong. Thank you for the memories, my RMST family.