Blog #8: 1 Stranger Project

The swim-a-thon is total chaos when my daughter and I arrive.  The swimmers from the earlier time slot are finishing up and Natalie’s group is scrambling to get registered and dressed down.  Coaches, parents, and volunteers are lined up three of four deep at the perimeter of the pool.  Each parent is responsible for counting their swimmer’s lengths, so the parents of the incoming shift are jockeying for position at the end of the lanes.

Her coach puts Natalie in lane three.  I squeeze through the crowd to find a spot to count laps.  Before I can identify her with any certainty amongst the bodies face-down in the water wearing matching swim caps and identical black Speedos, one of the dads asks if I have a child in that lane.

“Yes, she’s the first in line on the right of the lane.” I cheerfully announce.

“No, that’s my daughter.” He says clearly unsure about my fitness as a parent.

I look again and laugh, “Oh, she’s third in that row.  I swear once they’re in the water I can never tell who’s who.”

He smiles; apparently satisfied I’m not totally insane.  His daughter Claire, he explains, is a 5^th grader and it’s her first year on the swim team.  He isn't much taller than me at 5’2” and he’s round, clearly softening into middle age.  He’s dressed in jeans and a raincoat both for the gray clouds and the splashing from the pool.  He has on burgundy Converse shoes and a poor boy cap more suited for downtown Portland than poolside in the suburbs.  His goatee is 3 or 4 inches longer than his chin and he has a tendency to stroke it when he talks.   

Counting pool lengths for two hours is mind numbing, so having someone to chat with is a necessity.  I would have worked to keep a conversation going with anyone, but thankfully he’s incredibly easy to talk to.  In no time I've learned his vital statistics; married, four kids (boy, girl, girl, boy) aged first grade to middle school, grew up in East Portland, lived in Milwaukie for years, recently moved to Hillsboro.

“What do you do?” I ask.

He hesitates.  I worry he’s been laid off or something.  “I’m a pastor” he says, sounding shy for the first time.  I don’t know what reaction he expects or may have gotten in the past.

“That’s great, which church?” I ask.

We chat about his church and the challenges of an aging congregation and trying to appeal to a younger generation, our kids and their activities, his wife’s scrapbooking, applied theater, and even philosophy.  Friends now, he volunteers to count Natalie’s laps for me when I go to get her another bottle of water.   

An hour or so into the swim-a-thon, my friend Anne comes by to say hi and when I turn to introduce him, I realize I don’t know his name.  I touch his arm and ask.

“Jeremiah.”

“I’m Karla and this is my friend, Anne.”  I say and we all shake hands.  

After Anne leaves we pick up where we left off and talk until the end.

The two hours fly by.