As I’ve mentioned before, the Sturgills were dirt poor. Luxuries like memberships to the Ward Parkway Pool were not exactly in the family budget. We were more “hose in the backyard” people than “country club and cabanas” people.
But somewhere around age eight or nine, I was invited to Mark Heinz’s birthday party at the pool. And if there was one thing young Greg never backed away from, it was a dare. Within minutes of arriving, I climbed the high dive like I was training for the Olympics or attempting to impress girls who probably didn’t even know I existed.
I jumped. Correction: I plunged. I sank like a cinder block wrapped in denim. When they finally pulled me from the bottom of the pool an eternity later, I was told I was standing there flat-footed, smiling, completely unbothered by the fact that I had nearly become part of the pool filter system. Safe? Absolutely not. Terrified? Not even close.
Apparently, I was channeling my inner Percy Jackson, although my father’s name was Darrell, not Poseidon. Oddly enough, that experience didn’t create fear. It created fascination.
Soon came float trips where I spent as much time upside down beneath the inner tube as I did floating above it. Somewhere along the line, water stopped being something I visited and became something I belonged to.
When I was ten, my grandparents took me on a trip to the “Land of 10,000 Lakes,” otherwise known as Minnesota. I remember crossing the mouth of the mighty Mississippi River on foot and staying in a cabin near Lake Minnetonka… or at least something that sounded close enough to that in my memory.
We fished constantly. From docks. From row boats. From shore. If there was water nearby, my grandparents were determined to throw a line into it.
The very first fish I ever caught was an alligator gar, which looked less like a fish and more like something Satan designed after a rough day. We tethered that prehistoric monster to the dock and gave it the respect one normally reserves for dinosaurs and tax auditors.
This fishing trip became pure slapstick comedy. Treble hooks got tangled in trees, bushes, clothing, and eventually my back when my grandfather reared back for a cast and accidentally hooked me instead of dinner. Every time one hook was removed, another found new flesh. I spent the ten-plus-hour drive home reflecting on life, pain, poor decisions, and the constant soundtrack of the Watergate hearings crackling through the radio.
By high school, I had graduated to scuba diving lessons in the deep end of the Ward Parkway Pool. That adventure came to an abrupt halt when Rick Bishop apparently could not produce legitimate certification credentials. Minor detail, really. But once again, I tackled the deep end without regret.
I also had a brief but glorious water-skiing career that lasted roughly from eighth grade through college graduation. Most of those adventures took place at the Lake of the Ozarks. I was far better at slalom skiing than two skis, although nowadays, with my titanium-quality knees and hips, I might approach that challenge with considerably more caution… and possibly a waiver form.
My first encounter with the ocean came while visiting a student from St. Mary's University. The Kappa Sigma fraternity apparently believed annual beach trips to Port Aransas should involve large quantities of alcohol and questionable decision-making. Naturally, I fit right in.
Unfortunately, television had failed to properly prepare me for one important fact: the ocean is insanely salty. On my first dive into the Gulf, I opened both my eyes and mouth underwater. Once. Exactly once. That lesson stayed with me for life and became part of my own parenting curriculum during our family pilgrimages to Gulf Shores, Destin, and nearly every beach town in between.
To this day, I can spend an entire day floating in the ocean, completely hypnotized by the rhythm of the waves. I don’t care much about jet skis, parasailing, or tourist gimmicks. Honestly, I detest the smell of jet ski fumes choking the water and disrupting what should feel sacred.
Give me waves. Give me wind. Give me silence. Nothing in my life has ever matched the peace of sailing. The sound of the sail catching wind, water slapping against the hull, sea spray cooling your face on a hot day — that was therapy long before therapy became trendy.
Fishing eventually became less about catching fish and more about solitude. Unless you count the expensive deep-sea charter where we paid a small fortune to discover fish apparently avoid me professionally, I usually just get my line wet. But standing beside my grandkids in mid-Missouri with a fishing pole in hand? That’s enough. They fish with wild expectations. I fish for peace.
These days, I swim 2,000 meters at the Shrewsbury pool three or four times a week. I am far from Olympic material. Michael Phelps has nothing to fear from me unless there is a competition for “Middle-Aged Men Avoiding Cardio Collapse.”
Still, swimming keeps the winter weight somewhat negotiable and gives me something increasingly rare in adulthood: complete mental quiet. Even with the occasional "colorful yute" trying to time a cannonball directly over my flip turn, there is peace in the repetition of breath, stroke, kick, glide. It becomes less exercise and more meditation negotiated between my body and the water.
Somewhere in the background of all these memories is Brad Paisley singing “Water,” which honestly could serve as my walk-up song for life itself. When I look back, so many of my memories, adventures, mistakes, moments of peace, and moments of wonder happened somewhere near water. That, my friends, is my lifelong love affair with water.
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