Orlando summer storms had hijacked almost an entire coveted day of pool fun. By 8 p.m., however, the last round of lightning was the safe, requisite distance away, so the gates unlocked and we tried to make the most of the last two hours of operation.
Tropical tunes crackled to clarity over the speakers as other vacationers filtered in and the still waters splashed to life. My husband and I, with our two youngest children – Noah, 12, and Olivia, 9 – brought the essentials: goggles, a football, and a beach ball.
Ryan, my husband, tossed the football with my son, and in between watching my daughter’s flips and tricks in the water, I scanned the pool and observed the pods of activity around me. I have always enjoyed people-watching; life’s unscripted moments hold a precious vulnerability and truth.
For whatever reason, the slide hadn’t reopened, so we thought some beach ball fun was in order. It’s a simple game: keep the ball in the air. The wind was slight that evening, so we set the goal for ten hits and fumbled our way through them, not realizing we had gained a small audience.
At the end of our game, a lovely, curly-haired, dark-skinned girl about Noah’s age asked if she and her two sisters could play. I was delighted at the request. She suggested we try to get to 15.
“We can do it!” she encouraged.
I detected a southern accent, Louisiana maybe.
The teacher in me instantly saw the leader in her.
We fanned out a bit and started over. Soon after, two more joined in: a father and his small son perched on his shoulders. In a thick, Hispanic accent, the dad yelled over the rushing waterfall, “What is our goal?”
Before I could answer, an onlooker from about 10 feet away answered, ”Quince!” I smiled at the man.
The game continued. In unison, we all counted off our progress. More joined in: four teenage boys, an elderly couple in matching visors, a father-daughter duo, a little girl in a unicorn floatie. Soon, upwards of thirty people had joined, and we had taken over the whole pool. The mounted boy emitted an absolute peal of laughter when the ball bounced off of his head as the 15th volley.
No one wanted it to end.
Reading the energy from the group, a 50-something man emerged from the sidelines, grabbed the beach ball, and asked the players, “Can we go even higher?”
“Yes!” smiling faces shouted.
“What’s our new goal, then?”
Everyone looked around. “30!” The crowd seemed confident; I wasn’t so sure. The practical me thought maybe we had set our sights too high. I was worried it could end in frustration.
While the volume of people had challenged and complicated the game, it had also simultaneously strengthened it. Strangers encouraged and helped one another. No one disparaged. People in the periphery ”not playing” hit the occasional stray ball, as they felt a sense of responsibility to keep it in motion. Everyone was involved.
Sitting on the pool’s edge, 40-something moms and teenage friends recorded the action on their phones. The intensity mounted as we nudged closer to our goal of 30, hitting just short several times. Then, the rhythm and flow caught on – elation ensued – 36-37-38! A white-haired man high-fived my son; a father chest-bumped a nearby teenager; children splashed in jubilation; the sisters hugged each other, and then me. It was beautiful chaos, and I was wrong to doubt it.
I’m grateful that young girl took a chance on our family; her doing so is responsible for one of my new favorite memories.
People from different generations and cultures spoke the universal language of fun as we worked toward a common goal. It’s a lot of credit to give to a simple beach ball, but what happened that summer evening felt like a utopian version of a microcosm of what the world should be.
I’m hungry for more of it in my life, and as I navigate through year 23 of teaching, I am going to look for the “beach ball game” opportunities.
They are out there.
Jennifer Henry teaches AP Language and Composition and College/Career Readiness at Dixie Heights High School in the Kenton County School District. She and her husband, Ryan, and their four children live in Independence.
