|Dive right in
||[Jul. 17th, 2004|05:25 pm]
This is the story I told about my dad at his funeral.
We were at the coast at a hotel with a great pool. I was about 9, Bill was 7, Michele was a toddler, and mom was pregnant with Kristi. She was at the shallow end of the pool visiting with a British gentlemen who was smoking his pipe and attending to his own toddlers, while Dad was at the deep end of the pool with us trying to teach us to dive off the diving board.
We crept to the end of the board, bent at the waist, and then chickened out and slipped off the end of the board time and again, and we started falling off head-first, but we weren't ready to take a running state. Dad finally decided that he was going to show us what he had in mind. He climbed out of the pool and onto the board.
Dad was a big guy. 6'4", strapping, probably 270 pounds. He was also enthusiastic about doing things right and making an impression. He didn't test the board, but took three great strides and leaped high above the board.
Which was fiberglass. And soft. The end of the board dipped low, almost to the water, and then - the laws of physics stretched to its limits - he was flung like a bullet down the length of the pool. He passed over our heads, shrieking, arms and legs waving wildly. He hit the surface at the four-foot depth, sort of skipped once, and then forced a tidal wave of water out of the end of the pool, soaking my mother, the toddlers, and the British gentleman.
My mother, gasping and laughing, looked over at the gentleman, whose pipe sputtered out. He removed it from hs mouth, inspected it for a moment, and then looked back at Mom.
"Makes rather a large splash, doesn't he?"