Devil's Pool
Bored girls on a summer day.
There is no going back once you cross over the stone bridge and push through the thick bramble obscuring the narrow trail. It’s not just narrow but increasingly steep as it climbs the side of the hill with tree roots and sharp rocks to mind. You and Jean and Clare grew bored of sunbathing on the creek’s grassy shore. You had no money between you to do anything else. You didn’t want to go home, especially Clare with her disapproving mother. Jean said, let’s go to Devil’s Pool and there was no reason not to.
With each tricky step the voices in the park-like side of the bridge dim. Women are arranging tubs of potato salad and cole slaw, hot dog buns, and chips over splintered picnic tables. Men drink bottles of beer while tending to the park’s old charcoal grills. Children splash screaming on the shoals of the creek. Music from a dozen or so radios begin to fade.
Up you go and now around boulders and falling trees. Your shirt clings to your bathing suit. Clare stops for a second to wind her long black hair into a knot and tuck her T-shirt under the band of her bathing suit top. If you were a boy you’d be spellbound by the sight of her beautiful breasts. As it is, you’re jealous. Jean insists she is not roasting in her jeans and halter top. She’s not going to swim, anyway.
Here is the tricky part: a straight climb up and then a slide down. One is a trip trap, the other is a tumble risk. The thing is, though, you’ve all been this way many times before and know the dangers. That, of course, makes the terrain even more precarious.
Laughter echos above you now. Hollering and mocking. Splashes. And Devil’s Pool comes into view. It’s not as crowded as it usually is. Mainly there are taunting boys perched along its jagged edges. There are a few couples, though, attached as close as Siamese twins. The girls don’t even bother to glance over as you appear along the pool’s ridge.
There are two ways to do this. The stream that feeds the pool pours down one side of a smooth boulder, a natural slide, or climb to the highest ledge and jump. The slide is safer: it propels you naturally and safely into the deep middle. The jump takes calculations: the right leap plunges you straight into the pool’s abyss; the wrong one bounces you off a jagged ledge below the surface. The jump is the only legitimate way to go. It instantly makes you a boastful celebrity or a cautionary tale.
Jean has known a few of the boys since forever and they greet her like a fond sister, even the ones she hope will love her someday.
Clare peels her shirt from the thin white jersey bra of her two piece.
“Woooooo,” cheers a boy, followed by others. She ignores them and leaves on her cutoff jeans.
One of the boys calls Jean over and she and Clare settle beside him. You remain standing, wishing you could be easy friends with them the way Jean is, or act as dismissively as Clare.
A boy falls straight down, crashes through, and comes up yelping. Another is climbing out, back muscles slick, his shorts perch drenched on the edge of his hips.
You look up to the ledge above the pool. You’re not stupid. This was not something you ever desired to do. But you always berate yourself for being too cautious and strip down to your tank suit.
One hand over the other you ascend.
“Patty!” Jean cries.
Clare catches your eye and snaps, “don’t!”
“Ohhhh mannnnnn,” some boy heckles.
And you step forward into air.
Stay cool! Take a plunge! Heart this story! And come back next time! ~ love your writer
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Fabulous!