One Swimmin’ Son of a ...

Author © Scott D. Zachary

No, sirree, there wouldn’t be any more twenty-hour work days for me after my two-week vacation in the Arkansas State Hospital. Despite that caveat, I continued to envision sparkles and shoot for the stars.

Shortly after returning to the job of running my little custom software corporation, I sent my assistant Mark to one of my clients to perform a simple hardware task on their computer system. Kathy, Kenner Boats’ office manager, called and tersely told me to never, ever send Mark to their premises again. She stated that Mark had made himself a complete nuisance and would not be welcome back on the property. She was not happy! I had worked with Kathy designing and maintaining their custom manufacturing/accounting system at Kenner Boats for well over a year (today, well over 23 years), and this was the only time that I’ve ever heard her speak bluntly.

       I fired Mark.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Have you seen the circus act where the clown spins more and more plates on top of poles while running back and forth to re-spin those that are wobbling? That was my job. I pivoted from the President to Salesman to Systems Architect to Lead Software Analyst and Programmer to Hardware and Networks Technician to Office Manager to Accountant to Personnel Manager to Customer Service Rep to Purchasing Manager to Trainer. I emptied the trash, too. I was doing my best to train plate spinners so I could focus on juggling more clients into my one-ring circus, which I called Eloquent Systems.

I couldn’t afford to hire an already-trained office manager; hence, I needed to hire someone with potential and tutor him/her myself. I also didn’t have time to go through the process of interviewing for another trainee. That left me one option—to steal a top performer from one of my clients. While taking a smoke break with Danielle Otto, a telesales girl at Nite Lite, I realized that I was talking with the solution to my problem. A bright young lady, Danielle worked hard, learned eagerly, and transitioned well into the job of helping me manage Eloquent Systems. And she was cute, too!

A few days after Danielle started working for me, she mentioned that she and a girlfriend were going skinny dipping at Piney Bay State Park that evening. “May I join you?” I asked.

“Sure!” she enthused. “How about eight o’clock at the park swim area on Lake Dardanelle?”

“Great! See ya there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Four beers and thirty minutes past the hour, the girls hadn’t shown up. I figured since I was here I might as well go swimming by myself. A buoyant orange tube cordoned off the swim area allowing roughly thirty yards to the farthest point from where I stood in the shallows.

       That’s not very far.

       I waded up to my waist and swam full speed ahead. About two-thirds of the way there, my arms felt like stiff rubber, wimpy and powerless, leading me to question whether I could make it. I started to panic! I struggled one stroke at a time. I did make it, but just barely. Nearly drowning prompted me to work on my swimming. I decided to go to Piney Bay every evening for the next few weeks and swim laps.

I had hired a fellow whose name was also Mark to help with installing and maintaining my clients’ computer hardware and networks. He joined me for one of my evening swims at Piney Bay. I could barely see Mark in the darkness as we swam along the orange tubing. We’d been swimming a while when a Park Ranger pulled into the parking lot and walked out to the beach. We had seen the sign that read “SWIMMING IS PROHIBITED AFTER DARK,” so we swam beyond the tubing and hid behind the buoys.

       The Ranger orated into the darkness. “I wouldn’t have a problem with you fellows swimming after dark except for the fact that the fecal count from all the ducks in this area is three times higher than the maximum recommended level for swimming.”

We terminated our little hide-and-seek game, pronto!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I had begun to relish my nightly swims. Instead of paddling through duck poop, I started swimming at Flat Rock State Park. Both Flat Rock and Piney Bay State Parks are on the same channel of Lake Dardanelle which the U.S. Corps of Army Engineers created by damming the Arkansas River. Flat Rock is much closer to the original Arkansas River course with more current passing through, and no ducks.

At five o’clock every evening, I shut down my computer and drove the back road to Flat Rock while listening to the sexy, jazzy voice of Sade. Of course, I epitomized her “Smooth Operator.” Parking in a spot that overlooked the lake, I sat in my pickup truck preparing myself by swilling seven or eight wine coolers. Initially, that was seven or eight beers until I realized that agitated beer generates lots of suds in my belly, and it’s awkward to belch while swimming horizontally. Once I achieved a good buzz, I dove off a ten-foot cliff and swam for longer and longer intervals.

Three weeks of fortifying my endurance resulted in my being able to swim hundreds of yards at a go. I’d sprint ten times farther than my inaugural swim to the orange tube, roll onto my back, rest for a bit, and then do it again, and again, and again. I progressed to where I loathed getting out of the water. I came to love swimming even more than I did as a young boy. Then it blossomed into a sparkle, inciting me to ramp up my training all the way. One evening after my swim, I was chatting with some folks on the bluff at Flat Rock and flippantly mentioned the ludicrous idea of swimming all the way to Piney Bay. They laughed.

I wasn’t sure if they were laughing at me or with me; nevertheless, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted it. I decided to swim non-stop from Flat Rock to Piney Bay at the end of August, only two months away. I didn’t know the distance between the two parks by water, but the winding country road between them spanned nearly four miles. And to think that eight weeks earlier, I was admitted to the Arkansas State Hospital for complete physical and mental exhaustion. “Stop me, please!”

My planned marathon swim became the buzz among all the regular visitors at Flat Rock. Everyone watched as I swam more and more quarter-mile laps. I started my circuit at the small cliff where I dove in, swam about 50 yards across that channel to a fifty-foot cliff (we’ll get back to this cliff in a later story), followed by 100 yards along that shore out into the main channel which flows from Flat Rock to Piney Bay, another 150 yards across the mouth of this connecting channel, around the buoys by the boat ramp, and 100 yards back to my starting point.

I was able to swim eight of these laps continuously by the end of July.

How did I know I could do that?

Because I did it every day! Toot-Toot!

That was the fruit of only two months of hyper-intensive training. I began to feel more and more like a fish, and I loved it!

I alternated between freestyle, breast-stroke, side-stroke, backstroke, and an occasional butterfly while teaching myself how to become increasingly efficient in my swimming styles. Swimming became so instilled in me that I even invented a new swim stroke that I appropriately named “the corkscrew.” Its contorted motion entails continuous rotation of my body while alternating between a freestyle stroke and a backstroke. My invention is a bit quirky, but it’s a great training technique.

Once in a while, I’d have company when one or another youngster would volunteer to swim along with me for some part of a lap. And, periodically after a sprint, I’d roll onto my back and rest for a moment. Every so often, a colorful dragonfly would stop by and relax his wings as he perched on my sunburned nose.

During one of my early training sessions at Flat Rock, I swam across the broad mouth of the connecting channel. The wind and the speedboats zipping up and down the main channel had whipped up menacing whitecaps that frequently enveloped me. When I swiveled to take a breath between every other stroke, the waves walloped over my head, robbing my chance to breathe. I panicked!

       If I stop swimming, I’ll die!

“Next thought, Scott!” I hollered.

Speedboats would zoom toward me as I swam across the mouth of the channel. I learned to cup my hand and splash kerplunk to get their attention. If that didn’t work, I’d suck in a big breath and plunge deep an instant before their bow cracked my skull. A few times, I could feel the turbulence of the prop as it cut through the water above my feet. When the buzzing of their engine faded away, I’d resurface. When the boaters realized they had zoomed directly over me, they’d return and ask if I was alright. “Nothing a cold beer wouldn’t fix,” I pandered.

       Those boaters readily contributed to my mastery of drinking a beer while swimming. It’s a lot more difficult than you might imagine. To enable swallowing, you have to let most of the air out of your lungs, which triggers significant loss of buoyancy, which necessitates high-speed one-handed dog-paddling to stay afloat. One observer likened me to a seahorse battling for first-place in the Kentucky Derby. Nonetheless, I gallantly perfected the technique of chugalugging a beer while convulsing in the water. Try it—you’ll see.

Numerous remarkable events occurred during my myriad of hours swimming at Flat Rock. On several occasions, I spotted a nearby snake gliding through the water. I didn’t bother it, and it didn’t bother me. And somehow, I nearly forgot to tell you about the time when a voluptuous young woman sitting on the boat dock flashed her prodigious titties at me every time I swam past her. Thanks to that lady’s generous inspiration, I swam a couple of extra laps that evening. After I completed my training for the day, I casually swam over to her for a closer inspection. Sharon and I became well acquainted that night.

I experienced a curious situation during the first Saturday afternoon in August. Just as I dove off the 10-foot cliff to begin my laps, I realized that I still had my sunglasses on! In midair, I quickly grabbed them from my face and cupped them in both hands at my waist before smacking the water with the top of my head. OUCH! I do not recommend diving from that height without first breaking the surface of the water with your hands. Boy, did that smart!

I recovered as I swam a few laps. Deciding to take a break, I climbed the vertical cliff where I sat down on the rock bluff surrounded by about a dozen runty, toe-headed boys. Every one of them sat there perfectly imitating either Beavis or Butt-Head. One of the boys remarked, “That was cool the way you grabbed your sunglasses and smacked your head on the water, huh-huh, huh-huh, huh-huh.”

“Is this a Beavis and Butt-Head convention?” I heckled.

They all cackled, “Huh-huh, huh-huh, huh-huh,” in unison.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ten weeks into my training, I went out to Flat Rock early one August Sunday afternoon. As I swam my laps, I watched various groups of people come and go at the picnic area up on the bluff from where I usually began my swim with a swan dive. Folks would barbecue their meals, eat, recreate, and leave while I continued to swim. On this particular afternoon, I’d been freestyling for a while when I noticed two couples beginning to barbecue by one of the picnic tables. I swam another two hours or so non-stop around and around my quarter-mile circuit. As I crossed the mouth of the channel, the whitecaps washed over my head as they had back in June when I panicked. I now scoffed at how wimpy I’d been.

Time for a few wine coolers.

Instead of lazily sauntering onto the beach, I climbed the vertical cliff and brassily swaggered toward my truck. Strutting past the two couples, one of the cute young ladies waltzed up to me, declaring, “You’re one swimmin’ son of a bitch! You know that?”

I grinned. “Really.” I continued to my source of refreshment. I could never tire of recollecting that lady’s rousing ovation, which galvanized my determination to swim however far it was to Piney Bay. It’s that kind of expression that instigates the fulmination of my sparkles—a gaping jaw, no less.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The date of my colossal swim was now days away instead of months. I didn’t mind swimming alone up the channel from Flat Rock to Piney Bay, but I disfavored the idea of dodging speedboats for several hours. I asked around at my clients to see if someone might have a party barge I could borrow. Sure enough, one of the gals at Mid South Roller loaned me her pontoon party boat. Now I’m ready!

The Saturday before my big swim, my girlfriend Annie and I drove down to the marina in Russellville to pick up the party barge. We loaded our gear and supplies onto the boat, puttered out into the middle of Lake Dardanelle, and dropped anchor. A perfect day: sunny, the mid-80s, and a soft breeze. Annie and I enjoyed this gorgeous day on the lake, fishing and partying. Whenever we got a little too warm, we jumped into the lake to refresh. The fish weren’t biting much, but I didn’t care because I had an incapacitating case of the lazies. After drinking uncountable beers, we lashed the boat to a tree for the night about a quarter-mile from the marina and passed out on the deck. The next morning when I tried to start the motor, the battery was dead—nary a sputter. We discovered that we had left the running lights on all night.

Oh well, no matter. I was so monstrously fit that I didn’t fret for a second. I untied the mooring rope from the tree, made a noose at the end of it, pushed the boat off the shore, put the rope between my teeth like a horse’s bridle, and performed mighty breast-strokes jolting the boat along behind me. I gained about a foot against the current with each thrust; however, I was having difficulty breathing with my teeth clamped on the rope while expending such enormous effort. I put the rope around my neck instead, and that worked fine. I had tugged the boat upstream nearly halfway to the marina when two Park Rangers hollered from the shore. “Need some help?”

       Without pausing my heroic stroke, “Nah, I got it.” They stood on the shore, gawking at my audacious madness. The people in the marina matched the Rangers’ astonishment as I cruised past the boats, bouncing my neck off the rope with each herculean breast-stroke. That’s probably the only time they’ll ever see that happen.

My new employee, Mark, showed up about the time our battery finished charging in the marina’s shop. We headed up the Arkansas River toward the channel that would take us to Flat Rock and then Piney Bay. Along the way, Annie told Mark about how I had swum for a quarter-mile while pulling the boat behind me. He didn’t believe it. I killed the engine, grabbed the rope, wrapped it around my neck, and I dove into the river. I towed the party barge upstream about 200 yards against the brisk current. I hoisted myself out of the water onto the front of the party barge. “Believe it now?”

“That doesn’t look too tough,” Mark surmised. “Let me try.” He tried, and the boat pulled him backward about the same distance I gained in the same amount of time. To rub it in, I dove in and dragged the boat another 200 yards upstream.

I love it when I make people gawk.

The sign at the entrance of the channel leading to the parks read:

              FLAT ROCK — 1.0 Miles

               PINEY BAY — 4.0 Miles

Mystery solved—I would swim 3.0 miles on Thursday, August 28^th, 1997. I’d swum continuously for at least three hours toward the end of my training with some energy to spare—I reckoned it was doable.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I offered my employees Thursday off with pay if they would escort me in the party barge throughout my three-mile swim; otherwise, they would have to work. That was motivation enough for them to want to be my audience for the day.

Thursday morning dawned a beautiful day for a swim. Danielle and I brought the boat up the channel from Piney Bay to Flat Rock. We loaded the boat with all of the essential ingredients for a party: a cooler full of steaks and ribs, corn on the cob to grill, charcoal, cooking and eating utensils, a stereo and my favorite rock music tapes (stimulates my adrenaline), coolers full of watermelons, sodas, water, wine coolers, and of course, lots of beer. Everybody would party for several hours while I swam; then it would be my turn to celebrate!

Trim and fit, cocky, bronze and oiled down, I strutted down the boat ramp into the water. I inaugurated my megalomaniacal swim with a smooth breast-stroke. Danielle, my cousin Eric, Mark, John, and a few others cheered me onward. I pledged not to touch the boat nor land until I completed my quest on the other side of the orange tubing that surrounds the swim area at Piney Bay—three miles away. Yes, the same orange tubing that I nearly drowned struggling to reach on a moonless night three months earlier.

Danielle volunteered to toss me a bottle of water whenever I got thirsty. Mark had agreed to hook up the stereo so I’d have music. After several hundred yards of swimming, I hollered, “Mark! Turn on the stereo—put on some Bachman Turner Overdrive!”

“I couldn’t figure out how to get the stereo wired into the boat’s wiring,” Mark whined.

“What?! That was the only thing I asked you to do, and you accepted that responsibility. I need that music to keep me revved up! You’re the electronics wizard—fix it, or you’re fired!”

“Yes, sir!” A short time later, I swam to You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet. I thanked Mark for saving the day.

Along the way, I lapsed into a meditative state—dreamy. The long stretches of tree-lined water seemed endless. I couldn’t even guess how many times I swam around a bend to be greeted by yet another faraway watery destination. I never became weary, though, and I never stopped. I rolled onto my back a few times and slowly backstroked to conserve my stamina.

Eric studied extensively for his college exams—and I swam.

Danielle grilled steaks and ribs—and I swam.

Everyone on the boat ate dinner—and I swam.

People danced—and I swam.

The gang played charades—and I swam.

Sensing that I was coming up on the final bend in the channel, I told Danielle to throw me a wine cooler instead of water. I chugged it and sprinted around the bend only to behold the longest stretch of water yet. And then another. And another. Finally, I came around a bend and spotted the orange tubing of Piney Bay’s swim area about 250 yards away. I broke into a hard freestyle sprint.

“Come on!” Danielle yelled. “Let’s swim along with Scott and escort him down the homestretch!” Several splashes followed her beckon. None of them, sad to say, made it to the tubing with me.

After I touched the orange tube, everyone cheered as I swam back to the boat. Instead of using the ladder to climb aboard, I bobbed up out of the water, grabbed the front end of the party barge, and did a pull-up onto the deck. Superman!

       Danielle showed me the stopwatch—three hours and forty-one minutes.

That’s how I spent the summer of ‘97—that’s how I launched my 41^st year of this incredibly wonderful life that we’ve been regaled with its infinite sparkling possibilities. I can see why fifteen years later, my cousin Eric said, “Anything you ever did wouldn’t surprise me, Scott.”