No, that wasn't Michael Phelps

I’ve taken to the pool. It was a reluctant embrace. I’m a runner, not a swimmer. But, an assortment of back and hamstring ills drove me to do whatever I could to fulfill my need for exercise in the morning. The problem is I am very slow. I imagine a visit by the folks from the Guinness Book of World Records informing me that I am the third slowest swimmer on the planet, faster only than a 96 year old woman in Brooklyn and an Argentine amputee. There are leaves floating in the pool that, shockingly, seem to keep up with my less than torrid pace.

The thing about swimming laps is that there may be almost no other human endeavor that forces you to be alone with your thoughts for so long. There is truly nothing to distract you unless you consider watching the black tile line on the bottom of the pool a “distraction.” Running is a solitary sport, but at least then your eyes can scan the scenery or, if on the treadmill, you can lose yourself in sports highlights, the news, or the latest culinary concoction from the Food Network. No, the closest things to this experience are those sleepless nights when you lay in bed in the dark and let your brain do somersaults making you crazy with irrational thoughts. So - I’m learning that to be a successful lap swimmer you need to be comfortable in your own skin and okay to be alone with your thoughts. So far, so good.

To keep track of where I am in this monotonous wet universe, I have strangely adopted a system of remembering my lap count by labeling them with a uniform number of a Yankee of ages gone by. Thus, lap 3 is Babe Ruth; lap 7, Mickey Mantle; lap 14, “Moose” Skowren; lap 25, Joe Pepitone, and so on. Yes, I know it’s a bit embarrassing, but it is effective, if juvenile.

I started out doing 10 laps (Tony Kubek). Then got to 19 (“Bullet” Bob Turley), and last week, the much sought after lap 33 (David Wells) which denotes 66 times up and back -- a full mile! Of course, it took me almost an hour and a half to do it. That’s enough time for some empires to rise and fall. But, I was stoked hitting that magical mark. Now, I’m thinking of going for two miles, but the folks here had better turn on the flood lights for that adventure.

It could take me that long.

Corkie and Frank

Corkie and Frank are sweet guys, really. They may seem like they’re 109, but they’re not. Retired military guys: a bit salty but, as they say, true as the day is long. These guys meet every morning at 7 a.m. sharp, and I mean every morning like since the Coolidge Adminstration where they proceed to stroll to the beach figuratively arm in arm (although they’d be embarrassed by that notion). not only can you set your watch by these guys, but they always wear the same thing: Corkie is in his khaki shorts, white polo and green cap while Frank is partial to his faded U.S. Open t-shirt and blue swim trunks. every day. Corkie and Frank are notable for a number of reasons, but in my world, they are noteworthy because of their love for Mojo. They take great delight in seeing my somewhat unruly pup, maybe because as former dog owners they miss their own companions, or maybe because they are just smitten with Mojo.

It has become a ritual, this daily early morning meeting. Mojo knows they’re lurking about because his sense of anticipation is acute. This may be because Mojo likes these guys as they like him, or (as is more likely) it is because Corkie and Frank bring dog treats every day which Mojo looks forward to the way you and I look forward to breathing. If the guys have reached the beach before us, I spend all my efforts in trying to keep my arm from being torn out of its socket as Mojo urges us forward to the beach in much the same way you and I would run if free $100 bills were being given away fifty feet in front of us. To avoid unnecessary surgery, I simply let Mojo off the leash and watch him tear off like the proverbial bat out of hell as he heads for the sand in search of what apparently is the world’s most heavenly and delicious tasty tidbits available to canines. I mean, how good can they be? When Mojo reaches the guys, he sits dutifully -- closer than a shadow -- and waits in frantic anticipation of what comes out of the old guys’ pockets. I hear their laughter as I slowly catch up to this truly comical and endearing scene, and then -- once his dog treat habit has been satisfied -- brace myself for Mojo’s totally predictable fixation on the tennis balls I bring that will exercise his virtually endless desire to chase moving objects.

Not a bad way to start the morning.

Lost and Found

All in all, it lasted only about an hour, but I swear in my heart it lasted much, much longer. I left Mojo on the deck, walled in (or so I thought) eliminating the possibility of escape. Lily was inside no more than 15 feet away. I ran off to hit some golf balls content that Mojo would be pleased to stay on the deck with a full bowl of water and lots of sunshine. Life is good, right? I returned to find the deck empty and then, to my horror, discovered he was not in the house either. Lily and I went to red alert (more frequently known as panic mode) as we frantically decided to scan the neighborhood and beach, she on foot, me in the car. And, here’s where the stress really ramps up. Is he safe? Has he been taken? Has he left the area? Will he walk into oncoming traffic? Is he suffering in this heat without water? Has an alligator gotten to him -- not an idle worry in these parts. Then the thoughts turn to: Will we ever see him again? He’s such a great dog. How can we lose him so quickly, just as he’s hitting his stride as a member of our family and as part of the larger community here. Can he just disappear into thin air?

After driving the neighborhoods and asking every living soul if they’ve seen a wayward black lab, I head back to the house certain he must be there. It has to be a mistake. There’s no logical explanation for his escape. Nothing but empty, quiet space. He is truly gone. I head to the Community Association which alerts the area security and the local police. I am aware that my mind is working much faster than my consciousness can keep up with it. I am reacting, not really thinking, at least not analytically.

Then the break comes. Lily picks up a phone message from a voice belonging to a young girl who asks that we pick up Mojo as quickly as possible. The problem is the call is from a cell phone and is so garbled we really can’t decipher the words to make out an address or phone number. Infuriating! So frustrating! As I head back to the Community Association for a look at the Directory, Lily calls me and thinks she has figured out the name and address of our rescuers. I call them and a young girl tells me her sister is working her way on foot toward our house. I don’t wait. I get in the car and head in their direction only to spot the rogue Mojo and his ever so young rescuer. She apologizes for allowing him to follow her dogs (an Irish setter and a golden retriever) and for allowing Mojo to roll in the mud. She has cleaned him up the best she can. I spend the next minute falling all over myself to assure her there’s nothing for her to apologize about; that we are very, very grateful for her efforts. I ask her for her name and in an instant forget it. Maybe we will see her again, maybe not. Mojo jumps into the car. I believe he looks guilty, but I might have been reading a bit too much into it.

And Mojo? He’s in the dog house. Big time.