Pools

There are four swimming pools in my life: the ‘Fred’, the ‘Harry’, the ‘Jock’ and the ‘Albert’ each with its own unique ambience.

The daggy old Fred was originally called the Fred Dwerryhouse Swimming Pool but now has the far less interesting name, Ringwood Aquatic Centre. I swim here to avoid the peak-hour traffic on my long trip home. The Fred has truly bizarre showers - the water is on a timer and each cubicle is different. The most generous allows you a minute but the one I was in earlier this week gave me only 7 seconds.

Visiting the Harry, the ironically named Harold Holt Memorial Swim Centre (it turned out he couldn’t) is like taking a trip to Lourdes. There are lots of very elderly and infirm folk drifting along hoping for a miracle. The lanes aren’t labeled Fast, Medium and Slow but ‘Visible Signs of Life’, ‘Float Like a Lotus Blossom’ and ‘I’m Not Waving, I’m Drowning!’

The Jock is the pool at Melbourne High School and it’s for serious swimmers. You rarely have to share a lane here and can swim unimpeded. I occasionally get to swim beside budding young AFL players, usually from Richmond so I’m keeping a lookout for Ben Cousins. There are one or two things I’d like to say to him.

The Albert, aka Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Centre, in Albert Park, in an unpredictable place. Ordinary mortals are regularly excluded because of competitions or even if Leisel, Libby or Eamon feel like training that day. But if I do get in I’m treated to a cacophony of sound and light, waves, water slides, fountains, music, aerobics and sometimes the hilarious sight of synchronized swimmers practicing their routine on the side of the pool. If you think it looks funny in the water, wait ‘til you see them doing it on dry land. Great entertainment.