This is to certify that
Ian Martin
Has performed the following tasks in good style
1. Enter deep water
2. Swim one length any stroke
It is signed by the Headmaster, J Whitehead, and the Examiner, R M Crowley. There is no date, which is a pity. It was probably in 1958 or 1959 that I received it, and it proved to the world that I knew how to swim. This meant that if I were to fall or be thrown overboard, I would be at an advantage over someone who, unlike me, couldn’t swim, and, like me, wasn’t wearing a lifebelt.
The Municipal Swimming Baths in Gwelo were the first to be built in Rhodesia. I don’t know exactly when that was, but in the late 1950’s they seemed both new and modern. A long flat-roofed building faced the street, which was tree-lined and flanked by parking bays. If you weren’t going to swim you walked straight through past the supervisor’s office. The pool stretched lengthwise before you, with the diving boards at the far end. The pool lay in an artificial depression surrounded by green lawn. At the upper level to the right was an empty expanse of grass; to the left was the kiosk and patio overlooking the kiddies’ pool.
If you intended to swim you were obliged to turn left or right at the entrance, depending on your gender. Left if you were a woman or girl, and right if you were male. Beyond the door to the toilets and urinals an open passage led between two rows of booths to the communal change room and the exit. The change room was large, with a bench and clothes hook on all sides. The exit had no door and was accessed via a compulsory foot bath. This health precaution consisted of a dropped section of floor about one metre by two and a foot in depth. Bathers were required to walk through six inches of disinfectant solution the colour of Dettol. I didn’t like walking through this bath, partly because it was cold and partly because Alan said it gave you Athlete’s Foot. He developed a technique whereby we were able to hold onto the wall and swing round and out without getting our feet contaminated.
The two rows of changing cubicles did not have doors, but instead there were canvas curtains for privacy. I once noticed some boys behaving suspiciously by repeatedly passing up and down, slowing at a particular curtain and then hurrying on and sniggering. Curious, I sauntered past the booth in question and peered through the gap between canvas curtain and wall. A naked man was seated on the bench with knees spread wide and he was masturbating.
There were three diving boards. Standing a few feet off the ground, the low board was a massive wooden plank 20 feet long, six inches thick and wrapped in coir matting. The older youths liked to jump up and down on the end of it, generating more and more bounce before finally diving into the water. It was forbidden to bounce more than twice for fear of cracking the board, and when this rule was broken Mr Skinner, watching from the Supervisor’s office, would call out over the Tannoy, threatening expulsion.
The middle and high boards were new-fangled aluminium springboards mounted on a diving stand and reached by vertical ladders. It was a nerve-racking experience climbing to the highest platform and standing on the end of the board thirty feet above the pool. I never attempted a dive, preferring to hit the water feet first.
The kiosk served tea, cool drinks, confectionary and sweets. Parents sat on the patio under umbrellas, gossiping while keeping an eye on their offspring in the kiddies’ pool. I stayed away from this area because I didn’t want to have anything to do with grown-ups, and found the shrieking and bawling of the toddlers most unpleasant.
There was one incident I witnessed that slightly puzzled me at the time. Several teenage girls were at the shallow end grouped about the nozzle of a water circulation outlet located a foot below the surface. They were taking it in turns to approach the underwater jet while the others clustered around. There was a great deal of shrieking and laughing, which didn’t make much sense to me. It was several decades later that I revisited this scene in my head and I understood what they had been up to.
Naturally, swimming pools were not for Natives, and the only blacks to be seen were khaki-clad staff. I have no doubt that these men were well aware that they faced instant dismissal should their gaze rest for more than a second on any of the white female forms lying sprawled in the sun or frolicking in the water.
An enthusiastic swimmer, Alan joined the Maple Leaf Swimming Club. It was run by Buzz Palmer, a Canadian with a crew-cut hairstyle. Training sessions took place once a week between four and five thirty, and competitions were held twice a year.
On training days Alan and I would head for the pool at around 3:30, our towels and costumes rolled tightly and tucked into the lamp brackets on our bikes. We were admonished to be home in time for supper at six.
At 5:30 I found Alan and told him it was time to leave. Still having fun, he said I should go ahead and he would catch me up. At home six o’clock came and went and my mother dished up, saying we could wait no longer. At 6:20 we heard his bike skid to a halt and clatter against the wall, and he came running in, full of apologies and excuses.
“Look at the time!” my mother shouted at him. “Half past six! And I told you no later than six. If you are ever late again, it will be the last time I let you go swimming.”
When he was late again the next time my mother was doubly furious, and it took a lot of pleading and promising before she relented and gave him one more chance.
By 6:30 and there was no sign of the disobedient swine she was shaking with rage and her eyes looked demented behind her glasses. It was already dark when he finally showed up. She jumped up from the table, rushed at him, snatched the towel from his hands, found the wet costume, and with superhuman strength tore it to shreds. Later on he was able to salvage the maple leaf badge she had stitched to the hip.
His independent and contrary spirit led him to behave in ways that frequently infuriated my parents, especially my father, when he was home. The most dramatic example of how incensed he could become involved an incident that began at the lunch table and ended in the garden. An argument was underway when Alan must have said something so rash that my father’s temper snapped. He leapt to his feet, and his body language was such that his son instinctively realised that his life was in danger. When my father went out the front door onto the stoep Alan was already ten yards ahead of him.
Mick slept in an old wooden crate on the stoep. One of the heavy side planks was loose, and it was wrenched free and hurled at the fugitive. The projectile narrowly missed his head, and it was later acknowledged that if it had found its mark Alan would have been seriously hurt, if not killed outright.
It still surprises and faintly disappoints me that he chose to make a successful career in the insurance world and was able to retire in his early fifties. Who would have imagined that the fun-loving, mischievous and rebellious boy I had grown up with would mature into a diligent, hard-working member of the bourgeoisie? However, there is no denying that the cautious and prudent way he managed his affairs has paid off. By contrast, my irresponsible disregard for the future has resulted in me having to face a precarious old age.
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