By mid-afternoon the desert winds are so strong that the pool is filled with cups, plastic bags, and debris from the many palm trees. Sometimes it's so windy that the chairs are blown around and they have to close the pool. It's crowded, filled with already-drinking college students and families with kids.
At ten a.m. it's tranquil and nearly empty, a few committed sun-worshippers oiling up and a handful of regulars reading newspapers and racing forms. It's hot but not yet unbearable, and the cloudless sky is a trippy cerulean hue. The water temperature is surprisingly, almost shockingly cold. I never swim laps the rest of the year, but find the exercise oddly calming. Instead of counting laps, I imagine the various blind levels, thus "25-50" is the first round trip, "50-100" the second, and so on.
After banging out a mile, I am enjoying myself so much that I violate one of my rules and spend a whole hour in the enervating sun.
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