Twenty-One Mile Swim Read online

  The only swimmer Joey thought he would know competing in the breaststroke event was Ross Cato. Even while he looked over the swimmers to identify Ross, Paula’s voice broke in beside him. “That’s Ross — in the yellow trunks. See where he is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Joey. “In front.”

  “By two lengths, at least,” added Cindy, sit ting on the edge of her seat and clasping white-knuckled hands against her chest. “C’mon, Ross! C’mon, Ross! Isn’t he fantastic!”

  Joey’s attention switched from one swimmer to another, but most of the time it was focused on the leader, Ross. Ross swam with no periods of rest, his elbows pulling down to his sides, hands cupped to pull himself through the water, then extending forward again for the next stroke. Power and strength surged with each forward thrust.

  The guy could swim. No doubt about it.

  Joey watched closely as Ross, and then the others, made the turn. Both hands touching the wall at the same time, then touching the gutter with both hands. Grab it with one, let go with the other. Pull up close to the wall, tuck knees up, twist, take a breath, throw the arms over, push off, glide, pull through the water with one arm, kick to get back on the surface. Swim again.

  Ross won the event, almost two and a half lengths ahead of the second-place finisher. And he probably could’ve done better if he wanted to, thought Joey.

  They watched the butterfly event — which Ross did not compete in — and the backstroke in which he did, and won.

  But it was the crawl — the overhand stroke — that Joey was particularly interested in and that he watched with close scrutiny.

  He had not paid much attention to his own swimming style; all he’d been interested in was staying close to the surface of the water and pulling himself forward in it. But now he paid strict attention to the swimmers’ actions and movements, particularly to the angle at which their elbows, arms, and legs moved. From the speed that the swimmers were attaining, he realized how vitally important those details were. Bring elbow high out of the water, reach out above the surface of it for the next stroke while taking a short vigorous stroke with the other hand. Repeat the same moves on the other side.

  But maybe this style was best for sprints. Long-distance swimming might demand a different style. Joey had to check it out.

  Ross won this race too.

  4

  JOEY thought the tejfeles sült ponty was extra-delicious. Along with the fish, his mother had cooked potatoes and zeller saláta, celery-root boiled in salted water and served as a salad seasoned with salt, pepper, and mayonnaise. Joey loved that, too. She had also made up a bowl of sliced cucumbers dipped in vinegar and, for dessert, a Hungarian walnut roll she called diós tekercs.

  When the meal was over, everything was gone except some of the walnut roll, not because it wasn’t enjoyed, but because Joey’s mother always made more than enough so there would be leftovers for an evening snack or for the next day.

  After dinner Joey’s father went fishing in his boat, and the kids went swimming. Joey tried to swim the crawl as he had remembered Ross and the other swimmers do it, feeling awkward at first, but gradually believing that he was getting the hang of it. He tried the breaststroke, too, and then the back crawl, neither of which appealed to him as much as the regular freestyle, overhand swimming stroke.

  On Monday he brought home three books from the school library, all devoted to swimming. Along with the books he also took out a brochure about the lakes of New York State. That night, after dark, he read up on Oshawna Lake and made a copy of the map of the lake in pencil on an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper. He indicated the direction it lay by drawing an arrow that pointed north, wrote its length (twenty-one miles), its width at its widest part (two and a quarter miles), and its depth at its deepest part near its center (six hundred and ninety-three feet).

  He held the drawing up and looked again at the shape of the lake. About halfway up, about ten miles from the south end, the lake curved slightly to the right. It looked to be the narrowest at that juncture. It was perhaps a mile wide there, or a mile and a half.

  Joey didn’t have any doubt that at least one person had swum the width of the lake, perhaps even at its widest part. But had anyone ever swum the length of it? The whole twenty-one miles?

  Had a kid ever swum it? A kid, say, his age — fourteen.

  It would be something if a kid had. Maybe he could find out.

  A soft rap on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Joey, it’s me. You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m okay.”

  It was Yolanda. “May I come in?”

  Why not? He couldn’t keep his dream a secret forever.

  “Sure,” he said.

  She came in, closed the door softly behind her, and looked at the paper he was holding.

  “You’ve been in here for almost an hour,” she said. “Quiet as a mouse.”

  “I know.”

  “You drew that? What is it?”

  He held it up so she could see it. “Oh. It’s Oshawna Lake,” she said, recognizing it. “What are those figures for?”

  “The length, width — and so on.”

  “What’re you doing it for? Social studies?”

  “No. For myself.”

  “For yourself?” She frowned at him. “I don’t get it.”

  He smiled. “I don’t know whether to tell you this or not. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “How do you know unless you tell me?”

  He lay the drawing on the desk. “Have you wondered why I’ve been out in the lake so much? Trying to learn to be a good swimmer?”

  She shrugged. “Not particularly. Except that I did think you seemed pretty anxious.” She went to his bed and sat on it. “Where does the part come in where I might think you’re crazy? Oh-oh. I think I can guess.”

  “One guess.”

  “You’re going to swim across the lake.”

  “Wrong.”

  She stared at him. She didn’t move. “You’re going to swim the length of it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  He nodded. “Right. At least, I’m going to try. Okay. Think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t know. How long is it?”

  “Twenty-one miles.”

  “Twenty-one miles? Oh, wow! Has it ever been done?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I was thinking about when you knocked on the door. But it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m still going to try it, whether anybody has ever done it before or not.”

  “Joey.” Her eyes lighted up.

  “Yes?”

  “I think you’re crazy. But I’m for you — one hundred percent.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Yo.”

  She got off the bed and headed for the door. “Have you told anybody else?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  “Thanks, again. I keep getting remarks now about my size. I don’t need any more about that swim until I’m good and ready.”

  “Ross Cato say something to you?”

  “Nothing much. Called me Peewee and another time Shorty. I really didn’t mind that so much except for the way he said them.”

  “Yeah.” She opened the door, looked back at him. “When do you plan on swimming the lake?”

  “In another year. Maybe two.”

  “You’ll do it,” she said. “You’ve got what it takes, Joey. You’ll do it.”

  She went out and closed the door gently behind her.

  He glanced through the books on competitive swimming, skimming through the pages rapidly to get an idea how the various authors handled the subject. Only one of the three books included chapters on diving, something he didn’t want to spend any time on until he mastered long-distance swimming.

  He discovered that one of the most important requirements for a competitive swimmer was exercise. Isotonic and isometric were indoor exercises that helped to increase streng
th, muscle tone, and endurance, he read.

  He came across another item he hadn’t thought about: the importance of rest periods. Well, that was good. He could certainly use a lot of them.

  He needed weights. Barbells, definitely. That meant he needed money, which, in turn, meant that he had to approach his father. Dad, can I ask you a favor? I need some cash fast. I need to build up my strength so I can accomplish probably the greatest feat I’ve ever tried. To do that, Dad, I need a set of barbells.That’s not bad, is it, for wanting to achieve the next to impossible? Just a set of barbells?

  It all sounded pretty simple as he rehearsed the scene mentally. But he was sure that its reality would be much tougher.

  Yes, he’d have to build up his nerve first — get psyched for the moment — and make sure his father was in the right mood. That job as a stone-crusher operator at the quarry was no picnic. He had come home many times from work seething with resentment. The man who was his boss seemed to have little respect for some of the people who worked for him, especially people who lacked at least a high school education, as he seemed to presume Gabor Vass did. Joey had never seen his father’s boss, but his father had given him a brief description of the man, enough to paint an indelible picture of him in his mind. Six-foot three, broad and fat bellied, with thick black hair on his arms and chest. Bunko he was called.

  “He did it again today,” he would come home and say. “Called me a Hungarian runt. Someday I’m going to kill that man.”

  “You want to go to jail and leave me with all the children?” Joey’s mother would say to him in a half-serious tone. “And who would catch all the fish? None of the children likes to fish except you.”

  It took a comment like that to melt the anger in him.

  And when he was in a mood like that, it was best not to talk money to him.

  Joey started his indoor exercises the next morning, right after getting out of bed and before breakfast. He lay on his back, raised his legs, and did a running exercise until his thighs began to ache. He rested a while, then did twenty sit-ups, and rested again. He wished he had the barbells.

  The next afternoon gray clouds gathered in the sky, and by evening a slow rain began that lasted through the night and the next day. The air had cooled, too, making swimming undesirable.

  In the J.C. Penney catalog, he saw barbells listed with a starting price of $13.99. A hydraulic piston muscle exerciser sold for almost twice that amount, and he wished he could have that, too. But for now barbells would do, if he could talk his father into lending him the money.

  It was still raining Thursday evening, but Gabor Vass went fishing just the same. “Fish bite better when it rains,” he prophesied. “Anybody want to go with me?”

  “I’ll go!” shouted Gabor, Jr.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Count me in,” said Joey.

  “Fine. Make sure there’s plenty of room in the freezer, Mama,” said her husband cheerfully. “We just might be bringing home a mess of fish.”

  “When I see it, I will believe it,” she said, smiling.

  The three of them — father and two sons — put on raincoats and rubbers, gathered up their tackle box and two rods — the only equipment they had so far — and took off in the boat. Joey had an ulterior motive for going. He hadn’t had a chance to ask his father yet for money to buy barbells. This might turn out to be the time.

  He volunteered to row while his father and Gabor trolled. Gabor got a hit within five minutes.

  “I got one!” he yelled. “I got one!”

  “Reel it in, Gabor!” cried his father. “Not too fast! Easy . . . easy.”

  The boy reeled it in and soon had the fish close to the boat, where his father was able to grab it.

  “It’s a bass,” observed his father. “A large-mouth. Good work, Gabor! I knew this was a good time to fish!”

  Gabor’s face shone with pride as he watched his father remove the hook and lure from the fish’s mouth.

  Joey smiled. “Must be at least fourteen inches long,” he guessed.

  “About that, yes,” agreed his father, putting the fish on the metal stringer. Then he secured one end of the stringer on a cleat and let the other end of it, to which the fish was attached, dangle freely in the water.

  Joey continued to row, feeling the muscles in his arms, legs, and chest tighten each time he pulled on the oars. Right now developing his muscles was more important than catching fish.

  At last they reached a spot his father had found to be good fishing on a few occasions. “Stop here, Joey,” he said.

  “About how deep is it here, Dad?” Joey asked as he lowered the anchor.

  “Twelve to fifteen feet,” said his father.

  They used lures instead of live bait, and Joey’s father cast out his line even before the anchor had settled on the bottom. So far the only fish caught was the one by Gabor.

  “Can I fish for a while longer?” he asked his father hopefully.

  “Can you cast without getting a hook caught in somebody’s head?” his father said.

  “Sure, I can.”

  His father grinned. “Okay. For a while.”

  “Dad, can I ask you something?” Joey said.

  His father looked at him. “You think I should buy Gabor a rod and reel. I know.”

  “No, it isn’t that. It’s . . . well, I need some money.”

  “Oh? How much and for what?”

  “About fourteen dollars. For barbells. I’ll try to find a job and pay you back.”

  “That’s nice of you. Two questions: Why do you want barbells, and what kind of job do you think you can find?”

  “I want to work out,” said Joey. “And I’m sure I can find a job. Cutting people’s lawns, washing windows. I know kids from school who do jobs like that all the time.”

  “Okay, fine. But what is this about exercise? You want to be Mr. America?”

  Joey smiled. “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Joey hesitated.

  “Wait a minute, I got something,” said his father, and reeled in a fifteen-inch speckled trout. “Ain’t that a beauty!” he cried happily. “There you go, Gabor! The old man caught one, too!”

  Gabor laughed.

  Joey’s father strung up the trout. “There,” he said, putting the stringer back into the water. “The bass needed company. Now,” he addressed Joey as he cast the line out over the water again, “back to — what were we talking about?”

  “Barbells,” said Joey.

  “Oh, yes. You were going to tell me why you wanted to work out.”

  Joey looked thoughtfully out over the lake. It stretched out for miles like a slightly rippled mirror. “I’m planning on swimming this lake, Dad,” he said. “From one end of it to the other.”

  His father stared at him. Just for a moment, the hand that was reeling in the line slowly had stopped. Presently it started turning again.

  “You know how long this lake is?”

  “Twenty-one miles,” replied Joey.

  “Twenty-one miles,” his father echoed. “And you think you can swim it.”

  “I want to try it.”

  “Why?” asked his father. “Why would you want to do that, my boy?”

  “To prove that I can do it,” said Joey.

  His father nodded. “To prove that you can do it,” he echoed thoughtfully. “To prove it to whom? Yourself?”

  “Myself. And maybe others, too.”

  “You must have learned to swim pretty good already.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a lot to learn yet. But what I’ve got to do now is develop my body. I need to exercise every day, and barbells will be a big help.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read it in books I got from the library.”

  “Oh. So you have studied up on it?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, that much is good.”

  “It’ll be another year — maybe two — before I’ll be ready to swim it,” Joey ex
plained. “Twenty-one miles is a long way.”

  Something warm lay deep in his father’s eyes. “It sure is,” he agreed. “Okay. Get the barbells. You might as well start working on that body of yours right away. I’m small, too. Too damn small. I’ve got muscles, but most of them are in my head. My brains are muscle-bound, Joey. That’s why I’m a stone crusher. You don’t need brains to be a stone crusher.”

  “Come on, Dad. I don’t think —”

  “Oh-oh, I think I’ve got a fish, Daddy!” Gabor cried enthusiastically.

  His rod was bending like a rainbow, the line tautening.

  “You sure have, Gabor,” observed his father. “Reel it in. Easy, now. Easy. Don’t lose him.”

  It was another speckled trout. A fourteen incher.

  5

  JOEY BOUGHT a set of barbells the next day after school from the J.C. Penney store in town. He used his mother’s credit card to buy it, promising he’d pay her back as soon as he got a job. His father and mother had decided this was simpler than giving him cash, which they seldom had in the house anyway. Joey and his father had told her last night after they had returned from fishing what he intended to do. But her sentiments had been different from his father’s.

  “What? Swim that lake?” she had said, her voice almost an octave higher than normal as she stared at him. “You are just a boy! It is too much for a man even! You will drown before you get five miles!”

  “I’ll have someone go alongside me with a boat,” explained Joey. “If I get real tired, or get sick, I’ll stop. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not that dumb.”

  “You are dumb if you think you’re going to swim that lake,” she told him.

  But she let him have the credit card, and he bought the barbells. That night he started using them, following the instructions in the books to make sure he was doing everything right. Lifting the barbells straight over his head, extending them horizontally, bending over and touching them to the floor, then repeating the routine over and over again until his body, naked except for the swim trunks, was aching and drenched with sweat.