Looking for all the extra runway he can find, he leans back, arms straight, glistening hands gripping the rails. He hangs momentarily, his body hovering over the concrete ten feet down — certain death if his wet hands lose their grip — before he jerks his whole body forward as he begins his takeoff. As he bolts toward the end of the board, a fine mist of water blooming from is wet hair with each step, those of us still with feet planted firmly on the pool deck watch, mouths slightly agape in wonder of what mastery Chad is going to display. Approaching the end of the board, Chad leaps upward, somehow transferring his forward momentum into an upward launch while still miraculously maintaining much of his forward motion so that when he springs from the end of the board, he soars impossibly high and impossibly far. We all watch him as his legs pump in the air and his arms extend from his sides like wings gliding. He leans slightly forward, legs still turning as he approaches the water. Just when it seems he’s going to fold into the water face-first, he throws one arm forward, one arm backward, instantaneously rotating his body 180 degrees. […] Finally, the back of his head pops the water with a loud crack. Countless shards of glass — or even diamonds — explode upward accompanied by a single cannon shot, an explosive pop!, all of which arc and fall back back, showering the water in flashes of sunlight. Chad, the best diver in the pool, has performed yet another perfect twister.
I am next, a scrawny thirteen-year-old who cannot do a twister at all. My slider is also non-existent. And a flying squirrel? No way. But I do have a trick that produces a moderately high and voluminous splash: my watermelon.
I reach the top of the high dive and begin may approach. Like the twister, the watermelon is a trick of delay. The key, what makes it look dangerous and thus gives it panache, is to look like you’re about to do a simple belly flop. At the last minute, you assume a fetal position and throw your ass over your feet, essentially completing a half flip just as you enter the water. If your timing is right, your feet will hit last and produce an eruption of water. You can always tell how succesful you were by the depth of the pop you hear underwater. If your rotation is wrong or improperly timed, you make no splash or, at worst, complete a belly-flop.
This one, though, is as good as I’ve ever done. I surface feeling certain I’ve held my own in the informal, unspoken daily contest at the high dive of Spring Lakes Swim Club. Confirmation comes when I hear Chad, who is sitting on the edge of the pool chatting with a bikini-clad goddess whom I would never approach, say, “Sweet watermelon, man.”
The king has spoken; the king approves.