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The Smashed Swimmer in Scarborough |
by Kevin Risner
Not a bastion of drunken revelries every single night of the week, I decided to abstain from alcohol one particular Sunday afternoon, the day right before fall term would begin for me in Scarborough. As if to lure in those who imbibe upon beer and liquor frequently, this low-key music festival was to take place at Peasholm Park that Sunday with various stands serving refreshments and attendees carrying their own coolers to the event.
Peasholm Park—an assortment of trees and ponds bubbling up from the ground in the northern regions of Scarborough—proved to be quite a hefty walk from the university. It took around 25 minutes on average to get into town on a good day, so this trek would prove even longer. My friend Gareth and I were up to the challenge; neither of us had been to the park yet, and that evening was as good an evening as any to take in some new scenery and listen to a few bands. We even decided against the bus, as it was such a glorious day.
After paying the meager entrance fee with the only money we had, we plopped ourselves on one of the many green, wooden benches facing the big pond in the center of the park. This pond held olive-skinned paddleboat dragons and white swans intermingling with one another in what would normally seem a horrific tableau. They drifted next to an archaic dock as if guarding the pagoda where the bands were to perform. This pagoda floated on the surface of the still pond as well, facing the amphitheater of benches that hugged the coastline.
One of the major players that night was Radio Theatre—they had had a gig at the university during Fresher's Week. Radio Theatre boasted a mixture of funk, jazz, and rap; were quite upbeat; and had the charming gift of being able to get stuck in your head. I particularly enjoyed the very talented saxophonist and the solos by the lead guitarist. I knew I'd become entranced by the riffs as I sat there, listening to the lyrics and bobbing my head to the different beats. There's this aura at concerts that always gets to me; I feel as if I'm in another world, transported like aliens back to their own planet. Cares become nonexistent and life just is.
On that Sunday at Peaseholm Park I began to focus (or de-focus might be the better word), mesmerized by the saxophone that began to swirl in the early evening air. And then something striped caught my eye: a woman in a very unfashionable one-piece bathing suit, horizontal black-and-white stripes just like a prisoner's uniform. She unsteadily stepped into the pond far to the right of where Radio Theatre were performing. The band continued to play, the sound cutting through the park like a fog, each beat creeping into the ears of the tipsy onlookers—and this woman knee-deep in water wobbled for a second before taking the plunge. Her head bobbed like an offshore buoy for a second; then, she began to cleave through the water and the unknowable contents of the pond. Each stroke came fast, and soon she was halfway across.
I nudged Gareth and pointed at the woman. It wasn't as if it was something huge, something horribly exciting. It was just odd. No one else was taking a dip into the pond, so my wonder at whether or not the water was the best to do a bit of light dipping felt justified. Plus, her outfit was something straight out of an old 1920s reel where women had those very same swimsuits and those head-coverings, waving at the camera in merriment as they frolicked right along the shore of a beach along the Atlantic Ocean.
A few people pointed, but most of the crowd didn't pay attention. They were gazing at the lead singer rapping, and listening to the saxophone trilling passionately in the background.
The swimmer attempted to crawl out of the water onto an island on the other side, and I wondered how much booze she had before this spontaneous swim, what exactly she had drunk, did the vendors give her the booze, was it her own, or was it someone else's? We sat there, awaiting her progress at getting out of the water, almost enchanted by her like we'd be from music. Needless to say, many more around us on the shore began to notice after the woman's flailing arms shot in the air in triumph as she realized she had been successful in reaching the island.
Soon enough, one of the security personnel (or a park official) emerged in a boat from amidst the orgy of dragons and swans on the pond. He rowed over to snatch the woman and take her back to the mainland, snatch her like an escapee from Alcatraz, snatch her like he would catch a fish. I expected one of those butterfly nets to brush out from beneath the dinghy and fall down on the woman's lager-clogged head, pulling her back into the water. I expected one of those giant hooks to wrap around her neck and pull her offstage, so that Radio Theatre could return to grabbing the entire crowd's attention, instead of only around 60% of it.
It would have been beautiful if the official had taken one of the dragon paddleboats. Then it would have crept in the water behind the pagoda stage surrounded by pale violet lanterns strung on a makeshift clothesline; it would have been on the hunt, ready to cause havoc on some unsuspecting village. There'd be Radio Theatre playing all the while, the soundtrack for this little scene a bit out-of-the-ordinary, but nonetheless workable. Smooth jazzy beats as the security guy negotiates with the woman to come back, come back with the rest of us, come back and not run away from us all, come back with us where everything would be okay and fine!
I guess it wouldn't work. Shouldn't there be some more intense music, a few humming cellos, large timpani thumps to make hearts thump along with them? Maybe it's a more comedic scene this way. It's zanier to have a little ditty whistling in the background as someone comes to pull the drunken woman away from the public's eye.
The woman stood there on the muddy shore a few feet from the water. Idling near the shore was the security guy, his outstretched hand the only means of coaxing her onto the bobbing boat. It took a few minutes of the pre-stated coaxing, but the woman acquiesced and attempted to board, slowly and shakily. Slooooowly and shakily. It was like rescuing someone from the roof of a high-rise apartment pre-leap, just after the "you-have-so-much-to-live-for!" monologue and the half-hearted, helpless nod by the jumper.
However, she slipped on the ground and almost smacked her face against the side of the dinghy. I knew it would be trouble after that. The woman tried to compose herself, she teetered forward with the security guy leading her on board, attempting to keep balance on the boat. She lugged her body over the edge and into the interior.
But—as all inebriated people cannot keep very good balance—she lost hers as she took another step in the unsteady boat. In slow-motion, she fell back into the water. Not a forward-facing topple, but one of those slapstick backward-falling tumbles.
Laughter rang throughout the stands, the bathing suit clearly visible from that distance in the pre-dusk of the evening. I felt bad as this continued to steal the show from Radio Theatre, but soon the pair of them meandered back to shore. Halfway across, the woman dove back in and swam with faint cheers of the crowd in the background, mingling with the keyboard and the guitar. Wet and swaying from the alcohol still in her system, she made it back to her group of friends, who continued to cheer her on.
I kept slipping sidelong glances at her as she staggered to one of the benches not far from us. After drying her hair with a towel, she pulled down both straps of her one-piece prisoner bathing suit as if she were in a locker room. The suit fell all the way down to her waist.
My eyes grew wide at this, shocked a bit at the nonchalance of it all. This was a public park, and there were kids below the age of eight or nine around, giggling and playing and having a grand old time. I did not expect this brave foray into exhibitionism; I didn't know how liberal Englanders were to such displays of nudity. But then, I realized that there were no breasts visible, at least female ones. It was a man, a man who was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and who looked vaguely feminine from a distance. But it was a man. And I was the one who didn't drink any alcohol that night or take anything that would allow me to have such hallucinations.
You see more of these crazy pranks, the drunken dares and what-can-you-dos done by those of the male persuasion. There aren't as many recorded moments in history where the woman decides to do the publicly insane thing. Maybe that's why I had a faint twinge of disappoint just then. Because it was a guy, the typical drunk one set upon swimming across the pond and to the uninhabited isle as a dare, or maybe just for the hell of it.
I shook my head and returned my attention to Radio Theatre, whose set was almost finished.
As Gareth and I were both sober, and I did not have money on my person to buy something to drink, and as deejays were the main staple after Radio Theatre (and who really wants to watch someone standing there scratching records and mixing different beats together while it's getting dark and no more smashed swimmers are practicing for next week's triathlon?), we decided to depart and head back toward the university, sad to see our five quid spent on a sub-par event, but still pleased we could be entertained by someone so smashed, able to witness a scene one would find a goofball comedy starring Will Ferrell or maybe Seth Rogen, or something directed by Mel Brooks. It was almost worth the money to have witnessed the one-pieced man tip over the side of the idling boat. Almost.
Kevin Risner graduated from Baldwin-Wallace College in Berea, Ohio, where he wrote articles for both of his college newspapers. Starting in 2007, he spent a year teaching English in Istanbul, Turkey and has recently headed back there to do more of the same, along with other writing projects yet to be determined.
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