The Old Swimming Hole

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 786, 5 October 1929, Page 22

The Old Swimming Hole

■ S the modern girl robbing boyhood of one of its most cherished and lingering memories? Gone is the traditional swimming hole—t he country seat of tile disobedient; that ancient foe of discipline, bugbear of schoolmasters and parents, attd chief originator of the birch. To the country lad this particular pool Is nature’s treasured gift for summer. The one glorified spot where he can fling off his only summgr complaint—the burden of hot, uncomfortable clothes, and revel In the cool water in the freedom of his nakedness. The utter sanctity of the place has belonged to the male traditionally for generations, writes Derek Viking. The modern girl’s keen love for athletics leaves no sport untried or ground untrod—and this love of games is a splendid thing for her; but her enthusiasm for sports reaches its highest point with this rights-for-women intrusion of boyhood’s place of places. She comes from anywhere within a radius of two miles, sometimes more, by motor or on foot, but usually under parental or brotherly escort. She then selects a removed and secluded clump of bushes and dons her swimming suit in equal status with the boys, while mother sits on the bank and paddles her bare feet and plays lifeguard. Occasionally mother is frightened by a venturesome frog hopping beside her, and losing her balance, falls in, drowning immediately in the two feet of water at the edge. As the old swimming hole is not the Lido nor the proving waters of a marathon swim, this female invasion has forced the boys from their water paradise into the conventional bathing suit also. Nowadays, ye old swimming hole, resembles, on a diminutive scale, the popular’ city bathing beaches. Except for an increase in woollen production, devotees of their favourite swimming hole need have no fear of commercialisation until they hear the plaintive whistle of the peanut man. or see the sign of the ice-cream vendor. The lure and excitement of the swimming hole have never been mechanical. The only aerial swings, as yet, have been the flying leaps of youthful bodies from the bank through the air into the gleaming water, the only rol-ler-coaster has been little Johnny’s slippery slide. At the old-fashioned swimming hole the picturesque charm of God’s own scenery, dominated by the rhythmic lines of the human forms in the unaffected poses of grace and strength given their leaps and plunges, have been the inspiration of poets and writers.' The new situation would irk the poetic mind of Rupert Brooke, if he were alive, and make him cry out in vigorous protest. The boys do not complain over tlio loss of this particular heritage—this certain privilege of the place where they first learned, or are learning, to swim dog-fashion. He realises his female friends suffer with the heat also, and, after all, have as much right to the water as he. Though down in his heart, he feels that this friendly movement to share in his pleasure is just a bit inconsiderate of her, especially when she appears on the scene and docs not care whether she is accepted socially by the exclusive superiority of the male rulers or not. But secretly he is going to find a new pool where he can delight in bodily freedom, get his sun-tan, and develop that much fancied Indian-blue skin. He knows his summer heritage —his traditions will not be outdone. His boyhood memories must linger on.