The Lost Art of Wasting an Afternoon at the Pond

A buddy of mine owns a cabin in the woods in Washington County. For years, he told me I should write a story about swimming in the pond at The Property, as we all call it. He kept insisting people love swimming there, you have to try it.

Just being honest, I thought he was overselling it. There’s so much to do at The Property. You can go for nature walks and zip around for hours on ATVs. You can see the Milky Way at night. Plus, this friend has been on many of my adventure assignments. We’ve gone deer hunting, goose hunting, fishing, and more. And all he wants to do is pester me to write about taking a dip in the little pond?

Then I jumped in one blazing hot day, and you couldn’t get me out. Another time, I drifted lazily on a raft and watched a dad throw kids off a floating dock because he was the king of that thing. Another time (well, actually, I do this every time), I flipped a bunch of kids off their rafts and pushed their heads under water because, well, I don’t need a reason to do that — not now, not next time, not the time after that, not ever.

I can’t help but contrast that with the public pool near my house, where they insist you use an inner tube on the lazy river, as if there’s danger in being in waist-deep water with a dozen lifeguards around. The rules are as long as War and Peace, and more complicated, and appear designed to guarantee nobody ever accidentally has fun or laughs or smiles.

The pond, on the other hand, is governed by the dads who are present, and we forgot to make rules except that any kid who looks at us funny, mouths off, or breathes gets dunked and/or thrown off the dock.

 

Swimming there feels like a shoutout to the 1930s, or something my grandparents would have done, except for the fact I used a friend’s phone to take video of my daughter jumping off the dock and he texted it to me right then and there.

The pond is one way I thumb my nose at the urge to endlessly optimize. I measure my runs to the step and my every heartbeat. I try to time when I eat protein after a workout. I’m forever barraged with bromides that if I don’t measure it, I can’t manage it — and people say that like it’s a bad thing. I don’t know how the hell I got this way, but I hope to be a lot less so.

At the pond, I have “wasted” hours floating, swimming, jumping off the dock, and watching others do the same. And by wasted, I mean those are among the best hours of every summer, and I can’t wait to do it again.

I want you to experience the lost joy of pond swimming, too.

Seemingly half the subdivisions in the region have ponds in them. Pick one (with a good escape route) and wade right the heck in! Swim across! Dunk your kids! Or somebody else’s!

You might get arrested, but it’d be worth it.

No, it won’t, please don’t get arrested.

But seriously: Find your metaphorical pond. Do something simple and throwback-y for no reason. Ride no-handed and master the pogo stick and grab the rope swing of life, take it for a whirl, then let go and flop onto your back to make a giant splash.

Author: Matt Crossman writes the Finish Line column for Terrain. To sign up for his free newsletter, go here.

Top image: The pond at The Property. (Matt Crossman)