The dolphins could be trusted not
to move but their father couldn’t.
They had been mortared into place when the hotel was built during the Eisenhower years, well before the children were born. Those ceramic inlays marked the halfway point across the indoor pool.
With a good push-off, the kids could make it to the dolphins where their father would be waiting. But he wasn’t as dependable as most marine mammals.
He would sometimes take a step backward, tricking his kids into dog-paddling a little further each time, until finally they could make it across the pool. His daughter scolded him every time. Her younger brother had watched her and knew the drill. He blew right past the dolphins in no time.
It was often just the three of them in the water along with toys that could float, sink, or be fixed for any depth. They would run for the hot tub and, if no one was there, they made it bubble.
Both children would be enrolled for swimming lessons at a YMCA. The girl took to it and continued swimming. But her brother resented being cheated out of his Saturday mornings.
“Jack Dawson didn’t learn how to swim and Jack Dawson drowned,” his mother warned him. She hadn’t yet realized her boy was Mighty Morphin Power Ranger.
Bicycles would come next and the kids would go farther and faster. They were already well on their way to Brooklyn and Shanghai.
