The Blue Lagoon

The Blue Lagoon

During the next few weeks of summer under the guidance of Ian Sherfield (Sherf) we had all been making various improvements to our bicycle collective, old discarded mudguards were straightened and painted, saddlebags of various sizes were sourced and fitted, lights, reflectors and I even had the forks on my old Hercules Artisan frame straightened. The objective of all this industry was to ensure that we were able to cycle around the Island during the coming weeks. The plan was, said Sherf we were to choose a different area or town per day, spend some time there and then cycle home by early evening and start afresh the next morning heading for a new venue. We would do this until we all had enough ability and fitness to undertake the round the Island tour. Requirements were to be sandwiches and drinks, mainly water, as much money as we could beg, cozzies and towels. Being Island boys, we were tousled haired and as sun kissed as the cornfields, so had no need of sun cream protection, but we all desired to wear cheap silver St Christopher chains and the aviator look by wearing the new stylish wireframed polaroid sunglasses that were being sold in Woolworths in Cowes.

A bicycle ride with my friends once took me to Sandown, a small coastal town on the eastern southern flank of the island. Sandown was always a favourite with holiday makers but not necessarily Islanders, particularly those like me from the north of the Isle. Although the beaches were miles of uninterrupted golden sand and the shimmering sea was safe for swimmers to us it could not match the sting and spray of the Solent. There was of course Punch and Judy and endless entertainment to be had at the theatre on the end of the pier not to mention the scenic views across to Culver in one direction and down and across toward Shanklin, the panorama was wonderous.

As always on a bank holiday or when the weather was fine and warm the beach was a noisy throng of garish coloured sunhats, green canvas deckchairs and wind breaks. There would also be an endless stream of braying donkeys laded with children wearily treading the water’s edge. The sounds of hundreds of excited youngsters braving the gentle breakers dressed in their rubber rings together with the sweet sticky smell of candy floss, ice cream, and a distant but distinct smell of fried onions.

We were seeking out a lido, a swimming pool known locally as the Blue Lagoon. The Blue Lagoon by scant repute had the highest diving board on the Island, or so, Mike Brinton’s father had told him. We were all used well able and competent to dive into the sea from the jetties, breakwaters, or pontoons, there was however, one very other important issue remaining to be discussed, debated, or thought through by us. The plain fact of the matter was , not one of us had, or could dive proficiently from a high springboard, it was an acrobatic skill thus far unknown and untried by any of us, however, we comforted ourselves in the fact that we were Island boys, and nothing was insurmountable.

Once we had all reached the Blue Lagoon all of us expressed surprise that it was a rooftop pool, we hurriedly paid nine pence to a plump lady at the window and ran upstairs to find tired, dirty changing stalls and then one by one we appeared at the pool’s edge shivering first looking into the murky ice cold water and then, aghast, we craned our necks up and up at the high diving board.

There followed howls of derision and expletives as the varying views of our huddled band of brothers were expressed. Scathing opinions firstly regarding the less than blue of the icy cold Blue Lagoon and latterly the dizzying 7-metre-high diving platform stretching skyward before us.

‘Bugger that for a lark’, cried Hicks defiantly, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up, ‘it doesn’t look bloody safe to me’ and pointing to the high board he whispered hoarsely, ‘look the whole bloody thing is wobbling!.’

What followed was a very loud and robust discussion regarding the merits of both the pool and the diving board. Reasoning that as Island boys we were all instinctive sons of the sea, and as such this was a foolish and unsafe enterprise built for holiday makers and the like.

The noisy debacle was suddenly interrupted by the sudden appearance of a group of laughing girls, making their entrance from the stairwell draped in large coloured bath towels and brightly coloured bathing hats. The girls sat chatting noisily one by one in a line upon the narrow wooden benching that ran down one side of the pool area. The last two to enter from the stair well were two older women both fully dressed and carrying gingham covered baskets The taller of the two women waved and called out to us if we boys had finished using the diving board, her French accent was immediately noticeable to us, we all nodded our collective agreeance back in as much a French manner as we could muster. To which, smiling broadly, she nodded back her acceptance whilst the other woman leaned forward on her seat cupping her hands to her mouth shouting,

‘Merci, merci les garcons, merci beaucoup’.

Turning she whispered briefly to the pretty girl on her immediate left, the girl stood up, facing us for a moment before turning smartly toward the diving board. She wore a black swimsuit and a bright yellow cap and woman spoke loudly to her ensuring all the girls heard and paid attention.

’Simone, nous montre à tous votre belle plongée hirondelle dans l'eau, avec deux tours et un tour. S'il vous plaît.

The girl nodded and began slowly climbing the steps until she reached the top of the board slowly like a ballet dancer she approached the end of the springing board, holding her position for a moment before bouncing gracefully up into the air she arched into her dive, her open arms coming together both of her legs were together as one as her body turned and turned again slipping almost silently into the water. Within seconds the girl bobbed up on the far side of the pool swimming for the assent steps from the pool as her small group of companions clapped her and shouted polite encouragement.

All of us stood thunderstruck as girl after girl performed a series of astonishing acrobatic dives into the pool, some diving backward from the board, we looked on astounded. Soon we found ourselves clapping and cheering and applauding the wonderful spectacle the group of girls waiting their second chance of a dive waved and bobbed bows of appreciation.

The woman who spoke English was laughing and thoroughly enjoying the extravaganza of diving skills form her charges she looked up and shouted across to us, in her pretty French accent.

‘We are so sorry for taking up so much time up on the diving board, please you have been so patient to wait. ‘Please to come… she turned and gestured to the girls, … show us girls how it should be done…’

‘… how you say, em,

how to do it properly…nest- ce’- pas’

At which point the girls as one squealed their delight, clapping their hands in loud approval and encouragement.

Her words hung over us like the glinting sword of Damocles, our eyes had widened further than our open mouths which were now hanging agape.

‘…and after, um, your diving… continued the lady searching for the right words,

you are to, um…

…join us for some… she paused, searching for the word, …how you say, refraichissements’

After a short while the group of girls began to point at us unable to control or stifle their giggles, their continued tittering hushed by the two ladies, who were began opening the picnic baskets

The excruciating sound of silent embarrassment was audible, it fell across our small group liken to stricken souls awaiting to cross the river Styx,

Suddenly the tubby figure of Mike Brinton broke ranks pushing us aside and exploding towards the pool and then jumping high into the air with his knees tucked beneath his chin shouting Geronimo! as he dive bombed into the centre of the pool disappearing into a massive plume of water and then followed a splashing wave which covered very nearly everyone present. A bobbing Brinton splashing out to the steps much to the delight of the girls who were whooping and cheering loudly.

We were not to worry, the girls and the two ladies found Mike’s aquatic antics hilarious and we were all invited by the group to share their apples, pate, and cheese.

The fact that not one of us were able to communicate and explain exactly our reticence for our lack of diving skills was due entirely to our inability to speak or understand French.

All in all it had been wonderful end of that warm summer afternoon as the sun danced happily into our faces as sat crossed legged altogether around the Blue Lagoon in Sandown, We boys, had through gesture and clumsy attempts at explanation tried our best to be understood.. For the most part, understanding of the situation was accepted by both sides and came as a blessing to us all, as we munched and nodded our appreciation for their generosity and kindness.