Even by 1956, when the boomer generation was 10 years old, pool filtration remained a luxury. In those days, kids who claimed a targeted object from the murky waters were already headed for a career as deep sea naval divers. Once every six weeks the pool was closed, drained and cleaned.
It is hard to know how many of these children could actually swim. In such conditions, the strong dominated the meek, literally, by swimming over them. But another of the hierarchies of the era was the Royal Lifesaving Society certificate. From dogpaddle to freestyle over 26 lengths, as a kid's swimming matured they received a new seal on their certificate for the greater distance covered.
We could also practise for Life Saving Society awards by demonstrating rising proficiency in swimming, rescue and resuscitation. Until mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was introduced in 1959, the Holgier-Neilsen technique was still deployed. This required the rescued to lie flat on the ground while revival was attempted through a rhythmic pattern of drawing the arms to the chest and pressing down, then extending them behind the head. We proceed all the way through certificates to medals of bronze, silver and gold. By age 18, I had vindicated my gongs a couple of times with modest rescues.
There was also the swimming club, for which we trained before breakfast, starting on chilly October mornings. I had the former war artist - the beloved Ted Lewis - who taught at a local college, as my coach. Thursday was club night, and better swimmers competed regularly around the district against other clubs. These carnivals were faithfully reported by the Chronicle and Herald. A few made it to the nationals. Devoted parents, the men in blue blazers, their lapels bedecked in badges and ribbons, ran the outfit with starting guns and stopwatch precision. Women worked in the donko where, once events were completed, we could show up at the counter in our liniment and tracksuits for a hot cocoa and Griffins Round Wine.
Once a year we had an away club trip, usually to Napier, or they came to us. But the highlight was at the end of the season when the club's annual dance was held in the old Gonville Town Hall, two doors along from the baths. A band, in which usually a piano accordion figured in the line-up, belted out all the old favourites from gay gordons, foxtrots to maxina with spot prizes and, of course, the supper waltz. This was while rock 'n' roll was transforming the Western world. At the end of the evening, prizes were presented. Sovereign Woodworkers down the road were the dutiful donors of their beautiful inlaid native timbered rulers, ashtrays (yes!) and trinket boxes.
For all this, after one hot day in 1958 as everyone was heading home, the caretaker approached Bruce Foster, a good diver, to penetrate the pool's opacity. A child was missing. Sure enough, after a few tries, he located a body. Only then were the police called. So much for standard operating procedures. We were all shocked. Next season, the council finally installed filtration - lifesavers came much later.
David Young grew up in Wanganui and is author of nine books, including Woven by Water: Histories from the Whanganui; Rivers, New Zealand's shared legacy; and Coast, a novel, all of which draw on Whanganui history.
