On your mark, get set, go!

Immediately after hearing the instructional phrase yelled out across the makeshift training facility, this mild-mannered sixth grader plunged – headfirst – into the water flapping his arms and legs as fast as he possibly could to be the first competitor to reach the finish line on the opposite side of the Olympic-size swimming pool.

Look out Mark Spitz, I’m coming for your gold medals!

For all intents and purposes, you might think I was preparing to pick up the legendary swimmer’s mantle to become the next aquatic sensation, thereby making a big splash onto the world stage.

Unfortunately, you would be sadly mistaken.

Instead, my siblings and I were taking part in beginner swimming lessons at Veteran’s Memorial Swimming Pool in Ewing Park which were offered to elementary school-age children each year.

Of course, my big brother John was on the threshold of becoming a rising eighth grader; but I promise to keep my big mouth shut if you’ll do the same.

Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

After moving to Ellwood City, Pennsylvania in the spring of 1978, this excited stripling was pleasantly surprised to discover the kid-friendly splash zone smack dab in the middle of the city park that was within walking distance from the church parsonage.

When Mom handed me a brand new bathing suit with a season pass – a metal octagon-shaped plate securely fastened by a needle and thread – for the public swimming pool Memorial Day weekend, I was jumping for joy at the thought of spending many a lazy summer afternoon with all my new friends at the community hot spot soaking up the sun’s rays.

Upon getting our very own backyard water paradise a short four years earlier, my lifelong roommate and I had taken swimming classes at the Mon Valley Y.M.C.A. on the outskirts of Monongahela, Pa.; but the dark-haired brunette insisted that her offspring take a refresher course since we were going to be splashing around in a ginormous cement pond.

In other words, we were getting our feet wet before jumping into the deep end; because on the last day of swimming lessons – a six-hour instructional period over two consecutive Saturdays – each participant would be given an opportunity to jump off one of three diving boards – the high dive or two regular ones on either side.

“Everyone did an excellent job,” assessed Mr. Paul Cartwright as he wrapped up the day’s lesson with a few words of encouragement. “This is probably the most advanced beginner’s class I’ve ever had the privilege of teaching at this particular recreational complex; and I’m expecting each one of you to pass with flying colors next Saturday morning.”

Once the swimming instructor dismissed class for the day, these talkative youngsters expeditiously scampered around the kid-friendly splash zone toward the building covered in stone cladding veneer to change out of their swimwear.

Which diving board are you going to jump from?

“Is that even a question,” queried the freckle-faced athlete before removing his swimming trunks to take a quick shower. “Considering I’m a would-be Evel Knievel on a bicycle, I’m definitely going to be jumping off the high dive next week; and I’ll most likely add a flip to my routine so it stands out.”

“You’re a lot braver than me,” I admitted upon grabbing the towel from our locker to wrap around my slender frame. “Since I’m deathly afraid of heights, I’ll be satisfied to take a flying leap off one of the regular diving boards; but since I’m not an Olympic diving expert like Greg Louganis, I’ll probably end up doing a belly flop.”

It’s no different than diving off the side wall like you just did for our highly competitive contest except that you’ll be standing at the end of a diving board.

You just had to mention the race where you beat me by a breaststroke.

Shortly after washing away all the pool chemicals with a warm shower, we exited the men’s locker room near the front entrance to the building where our seven-year-old sister Kathleen was patiently waiting for us.

Dad just pulled into the parking lot across the street.

Due to the federal holiday, the last week of the school year flew by in the blink of an eye; and before we could say “supercali-fragilistic-expialidocious,” the three oldest Price siblings were sitting along the water’s edge of the Olympic-size swimming pool to close out their beginner swimming lessons with a spectacular grand finale.

With a plethora of lifeguards – juniors and seniors from both Lincoln and Riverside high schools – stretched out across the deep end of the humongous man-made pond, the youngest participants in our group of accomplished swimmers had the unique privilege to be the first to strut their stuff like a proud peacock.

However, our blonde-haired sister chose to sit this one out.

But who could blame her!

Kathleen has been deathly afraid of water ever since she nearly drowned as a three-year-old toddler when this Neanderthal had the “ingenious” idea to use her baby pool as a makeshift boat inside our 36-inch-deep artificial swimming hole; so, the fact she was even taking part in the class was progress.

I was the next one to chicken out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Why aren’t you jumping off the diving board?

“My legs don’t cooperate when I’m nervous,” I responded when attempting to explain the situation. “If I get in line with the others, all eyes are going to be on me; whereupon my legs will immediately turn to lead, and I probably won’t be able to walk out to the end of the diving board.”

Plus, you’ll sink like a rock.

Hardy har har!

Nevertheless, nothing was going to stop the adrenaline junkie from doing a reverse dive – rotating 360 degrees in midair – into twelve feet of water; after which my younger sister and I each put up ten fingers for our highest approval rating.

It was undoubtedly the greatest feat of the day!

Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.