Summers, swimming and S&H Green Stamps
My family spent a lot of time at our cabin on Bankhead Lake, on the Warrior River upstream from Lock 17, when I was a kid. My brother and I were excellent swimmers and numerous happy hours were spent entertaining ourselves out in the water. Times were different then and we were allowed to enjoy it at will.
At that time most all housewives shopped at stores that offered S&H Green Stamps as a reward. Mother would collect the stamps and dutifully paste them in the free booklets provided. Once a number of completed booklets were accumulated, we would make a trip to the S&H Green Stamp Store to redeem them. Mother always allowed my brother, sister, and I to get something we wanted first, and then she would get something she wanted with any that were left over.
On one trip I saw a new item on the shelf. It was a big blue diving mask with double built-in snorkels rising from each side. The snorkels were 18 inches long and crooked like a candy cane. On the tip of the snorkels was the coolest thing I had ever laid eyes on; a big red square with quarter size holes cut into the five sides not attached to the tube. Inside this square was a ping pong (table tennis) ball. It was pure genius! Whenever you would dive beneath the surface the ball would float up and plug the down turned snorkel tube. This was High Tech and I had to have it. My brother followed my lead and Mother got one for each of us.
I felt like Lloyd Bridges on the Sea Hunt television show. My new semi-scuba technology would allow me to explore the secrets below the surface of the Warrior River. On our first trip to the river after the purchase I was on pins and needles waiting to give it a try. I grabbed my mask, kicked off my shoes and headed for the pier. I sat on the edge of the pier with my feet dangling in the water as I prepared my mask. I adjusted the strap to achieve a tight water tight fit. I worked up a mouthful of saliva and spit into the mask (I learned that on Sea Hunt.) I rubbed it around the inside of the lens then dipped the mask in the water to rinse it clean. I was pretty sure that I was the only kid that knew that this trick would keep my EQUIPMENT from fogging up. Satisfied that all systems were GO I pushed off the pier and entered the water.
I wanted to do like Lloyd Bridges and fall backwards into the water as if I were sitting on the side of a boat, but, given my skepticism of the ping pong balls actually keeping the water out of the mask, and my wariness of splinters on the edge of the wooden pier, I opted not to. I put my face into the water and checked for leaks. So far so good. Now to check out the ping pong ball snorkels. I put my head down, pulled with my arms and stuck my legs up in the air and headed for the bottom.
In seconds I was gliding along the moss covered mud bottom of Bankhead Lake. I surfaced, but kept my face in the water and took a deep breath through my nose. The snorkels worked perfectly. Not a drop of water entered my mask and I could float for hours without taking my face out of the water to breathe. I swam to the pier and told Mother that it worked and thanked her for getting it
for me.
From the time that I began swimming, I could float forever from my waist up, but my lower half was a problem. I weighed in at 98 lbs and most of that were long skinny legs that sank like a rock. So, I devised a solution. If I lay face down and placed a ski belt beneath my ankles, I would float like a needle, barely break the water's surface. (To you young folk: A ski belt is what we used before ski vest came along. It was basically a long thick piece of foam with a belt run through it.) Now, I was ready to explore the under water secrets of the Warrior River.
I floated face down along the river bank to the right of the pier and a few feet from the green weed beds that lined the shore. I could see the reeds clearly rooted in the muddy bottom, and the sunlight mirrored each ripple on the surface with a refracted shadow on the moss below. I was awed by my new found ability and floated for 10 or 15 minutes just relaxing and enjoying the dreamlike view.
I noticed a small area of the bottom that was clear of moss. In that clearing was a small bream (sun fish) relaxing in the water just as I was. It was no more than three inches long. When I am fishing I use artificial lures that are larger that that. Three feet below me, the fish seemed to be ignoring me. As I drifted overhead I noticed its eyes rotate upward and it began to stare at me. I smiled as I imagined the fish’s thoughts as he looked me over; “Holy Carp," (no I spelled it correctly), "I don’t know what that is but I’m going to keep an eye on it.” In the blink of an eye, and before I could react, the fish swam toward me and in an effort far greater than his size, bit me on the right nipple.
It hurt.
It also startled me as you might imagine. That was one under water secret of the Warrior River that I never expected to uncover. I abandoned my relaxed prone position and like a nuclear submarine breaching the surface, my bow raised high into the air, then rolled slightly to the starboard side and crashed back into the water. I ripped the mask off of my head and covered my chest expecting another attack.
My mother called from the pier, “Dennis what are you doing? Is something wrong?” Quickly I regained my composure and replied calmly, “no, nothing is wrong. I was just goofing around.” At thirteen years old I was too embarrassed to tell my Mother that I had been bitten on the nipple, for the first time ever, by a vicious little bait fish.
I continued swimming, but I kept a lookout for my attacker.
*That, alone, is a story worth telling, but believe it or not it gets better.*
Everywhere else in the world my dad was a man’s man, He was a forty year old steel worker, former sailor in the US Navy, and a “raised in the woods” country boy. He was strong and assertive and not much for leisure or play. The second day of our trip we were in the river swimming, as usual, when my Dad decided to join us, which is unusual.
Folks, you must try to see this through the eyes of the thirteen year old boy that I was at the time. At this age, I was very critical of my parents, as are most teenagers. I felt that standard swimwear for a man was a pair of old cutoff jeans.
My Dad was walking toward the pier wearing a pair of store bought swim trunks. They were faded, baggy, and the ugliest color of orange that I had ever seen. In contrast, except for his face, neck and forearms, my Dad was White. I’m not saying caucasian WHITE, or “need a tan WHITE.” I’m talking, “FISH BELLY WHITE”. On top of that was the way he was walking. Dad never went barefoot except when inside the house, and even then it was seldom. His feet were as tender as a baby’s. Almost tip toeing, he strolled gingerly along the graveled path holding his ever present, plastic, sweet tea glass out to the side as if to balance himself. To me, it looked like a Bizarro World fashion show with a prissy male model showing the latest in what NOT to wear. Thank God none of my friends were around.
Dad then shocked all of us by actually getting in the water. I was further astonished, when he asked if he could borrow my twin snorkel face mask. My Dad is actually doing something that is a sports and leisure activity? Unbelievable! He donned the mask and proceeded to float along the bank looking at the underwater scape. The thought crossed my mind to tell him about the attack fish I had encountered, but I thought it over and decided that it was a freak occurrence. The fish saw a small dark object against a tanned body in dark jeans that blended with the dark water and thought it was a bug on the water’s surface. With my Dads white body blocking out the blue sky, along with the baggy orange swim trunks full of trapped air bubbles, billowing around him, any fish with any notion of self preservation would leave the area. I was sure that an attack like the one I experienced would never happen again.
I was wrong. Five minutes later my Dad started thrashing the water in a way similar to the way one fights the air after walking into an orb spider web at night. He stood up in the waist deep water and pushed the snorkel mask up on his forehead and with a shocked look on his face said “ a fish just zoomed up from the bottom and bit me on the nipple."
As he stood there rubbing his bitten chest, we all looked at him in silence. His orange swim trunks billowed around his waist. The mask on his forehead resembled a huge cycloptic eye and the curved snorkels looked like two red tipped antlers growing askew. (Thinking back on it, he looked like one of the space aliens in the bar scene from the Star Wars movie.) Then we all cracked up laughing.
Mother said, "Oh, James, quit making stuff up.” To which he replied, “I tell you it’s the truth. A little fish., no larger than two of my fingers just bit me on the nipple.” Mother said “Stop telling tales, and stop saying nipple.”
Still laughing out loud, I had to let the banter between them go on for a while before I admitted that the same thing had happened to me the day before. Dad said “Why didn’t you warn me?” I tried to explain that I did not think that anyone would believe me.
After the laughter settled down, I daydreamed about inventing and selling a new fishing lure that looks like a small nipple floating on the surface. It would be new, fresh, and guaranteed to get a bite. I could get rich!
But no, it wouldn’t work. The 1966 TV censors would never let me do the advertizing needed to sell it.
(Good thing I wasn't skinny dipping!)