"Man is fond of counting his troubles,
but he does not count his joys. If he
counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough
happiness provided for it." (Fyodor Dostoevsky, Russian writer)
I
ran onto the subway car as if chased by some monster. My brothers, just behind
me, less energized at the thought of this ride. Although I had lived in Toronto my entire 10
years, I had never experienced the subway. I jumped on the seat and kicked my
legs beneath me, they dangled and banged on the board near my feet. The glass and
doors closed behind us and the cabin slowly started to move. I was thrilled. An alternate route may have been more direct, the Woodbine bus would have a shorter option, but I wanted
this more than anything that summer. My world was full of superheroes and comic
books, all centering on New York City.
The kind of metro featured in the lives of Spiderman, the Fantastic Four, X-Men and
other American icons was something I needed to see for myself. I begged for them to take me on the system,
to take me downtown so I could see. They agreed that it would shut me up, so
off we went. I am still surprised my mother let me go.
Toronto was a different
place in 1975. It was safer and cleaner.
Mom was right, it was okay for me to venture out with my brothers, one 13, the
other 14. Children had greater freedom when I was growing up, things were much
more innocent. The city was a playground to explore, not some fucked up maze of
trying to get home alive. These were the days before Apple and Microsoft, before video
games and computers. Kids were still kids at 10 or 11, and you had better make
sure to get home when the street lights come on. In
1975, the CN Tower had not yet been completed, nor Skydome built, and you could
still see the waters of Lake
Ontario, not just condominiums rising together like some hive from hell. The Eaton Centre still had an Eatons
and Yonge Street was still the destination of
choice on a Saturday night. You could still buy candy for a penny and comic
books were a quarter. The day went on forever and the night was a time of
wonder. A heat wave was just another reason for swimming and fireflies were
meant for catching. Time would go by so slowly and summer became an endless
escape. All was well with the world.
The
Yonge Street subway line extension had just been completed and allowed pilgrims from
the outskirts of Canada's
largest city to directly venture into the heart of the Big Smoke. We had walked from
home on this hot sun-filled day, to travel from Don Mills, across to Sheppard Ave, and then by subway to Union Station. Toronto was still
expanding and you could feel the pangs of a flourishing urban sprawl. Walking
down into the tunnels, I felt like the Batman, stalking the Joker or some
vampire, so using the caverns of an underground world. Nothing could have
invaded my pleasure. From
Union Station, we grabbed an eastbound streetcar at Lakeshore
Boulevard and got off when it crossed Woodbine
Avenue, close to the Beaches. You could see the massive layering
of concrete from quite a distance on the trolley, and the 5-story diving
platforms and viewing stands rose to attention in the blistering glare of an August
afternoon. The idea of UV warnings and smog alerts had yet to infect the
consciousness of our summertime and the threat of lurking strangers was only a
bad dream, lost to time. We had come so far to stand before this cement
monolith, shaped with a brutal outward appearance. The first thing I thought
was how much this human construction looked like something from Ape City, a
popular destination for space travelers and a highlight on a tour of the
Planet of the Apes. I couldn't wait to get inside.
Donald
Dean (D.D.) Summerville-Woodbine Beach Pool was designed and built in the early 1960s. In 1963, then Mayor of
Toronto Summerville suffered a fatal heart attack during a charity hockey event,
only a short time after taking office. The pool was dedicated in his name and
became an architectural landmark for the Beaches, a long-standing neighborhood
developed on the east side of what had been Old Toronto. The shoreline is a single uninterrupted
blanket of sand, with a wooden boardwalk running parallel, built in 1932. The
pool sits close to the shore and the beach acts like a backdrop of sun and sky
and water. The area known as "The Beaches" still stands as one of Toronto's more prestigious
communities and plays host to many attractions throughout the year. One of the
main attractions is the public swimming compound.
The
complex itself contains a 50-metre Olympic-sized lap pool and 25-metre training
pool for less experienced swimmers. The diving pool area features both 5 and 10-metre
diving platforms. Aged cement, barren and quite void, abounds. The trio of
pools interlock in manmade stone, and each one becomes deeper with the
strength of the swimmer. The Olympic diving boards looked quite alien to me
as we waited in line. There
were kids everywhere. The 2000 person capacity had already been reached, so we
waited in the sunshine watching Lake
Ontario and many people
pass us by. I can imagine all the sun seekers as they walked about, hand in
hand, basking in the glory of a good day and a pleasant place. I cannot,
however, recall any faces from that day in the sun. I can hear the joy of
children playing and smell the air so sweet with August. I can see gulls
dancing in and out of the body of blue and boats on the horizon, too far to
make out clearly. It was a perfect summer day.
Once
we got into the place, the fun really began. We changed in an outdoor area and
took to the concrete surrounding the pools. I had been taking swimming lessons
every summer since I was 5 years old, so the sheer size of the Olympic pool did
nothing but beckon me even more. We
played and splashed and relaxed for what seemed the entire afternoon. When my
brothers told me that they were going to the diving pool, I had to have me
some. I took the little test they do to confirm how well one can swim and
passed with flying colors. We all headed over to face our destinies and
challenge our fear.
The
bottom of the diving pool reached down into dark and the platform boards
reached high into heaven. My brother Phillip had introduced me to the deep end
one summer many years before, pushing me into an area uncharted even for my local
pool. Since then, water held no power over me. I had conquered it once and
could do so again. I was Aquaman, King of the Ocean, and this was but an
ancient loch, deep but of no concern. Our bravado urged the three of us to abandon the shallow. Instead, we decided to test the deep.
The water hit me hard and cold, and
my swan dive produced a shock to the system. I dug deep into the water, reaching
farther and farther with all my might.
The water kept getting colder and colder and I found no end in sight. I just could not find the bottom. Quickly,
not enough to panic, I flipped in the water like a dolphin and kicked hard
toward the light. The air rushed into me, and for a moment I felt as if life
was just beginning. It was all so sweet and funny and thrilling and I loved every
single moment of it. I have never forgotten.
The
journey home that day is not important, although it lingers like a cobweb with
the rest of the things that once were. Just before we left for the way home, we
all laid out on the hot slabs around the pool and bathed in the last moments of
our getaway. I remember looking about me. I remember feeling the sun. I
remember recognizing that this was a good day. This
would be one of the last times that my brothers and I spent together in this
manner. They were already teenagers and had little use for a fledgling
pubescent. I can't recall another time since when it was like this. This day
was no extraordinary outing, no monumental occurrence or event. It holds
nothing, but what it was and what it remains. It was just an
ordinary day, but we seized it.
40 plus years later, and I can still hear the seagulls and still feel the warm
breeze flowing off the lake. What a grand day! If only all my memories were
this pure, this succinct. If only all the days of my life were this rewarding.
Sometimes when I feel low and sad and I need something to pick me up, I picture
myself standing, edging my voyage to the bottom of the sea. Sometimes I
forget that these memories represent what childhood should be. Sometimes I forget how
lucky I am to have had the childhood that I did. Sometimes, but not often. Most
times, I realize that instances like these are what life is all about and, more
often than not, what my life has been filled with.
A few months ago I went exploring old landmarks from when I was a boy. Authoring your life may occasionally require a boost, a self-imposed doze of what used to be. I was on a fact finding mission. Toronto is my familiar, the city were I grew up, so it was more a navigation than a chance to recapture my youth. With little choice, I parked at a distance from the Summerville pools and then I walked around for awhile. I even sat down and pondered my visions on the very same bench I sat on when I was 10 years old. Not much had changed, the structure looked the same. The area itself was busy, littered with travelers. Most people followed Covid-19 protocol for their for protection although social distancing did not appear to be of great concern. It was surreal, as flashes of the past mixed with discarded masks, vaccines and the reality of this modern world. The pool still sits there. Like with Covid, from below you cannot see the blue. It was comforting to be there, any observation that day I thought complete. I did not leave right away. I lingered there, holding my breath again, pushing through the depth of it reaching. I should have brought a towel.
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