Freeze framing a crucial moment in last week’s episode, let me reveal the thoughts that swarmed inside my head like African bees.

Read the prior week’s piece, and you will understand the mortal danger of a rip tide that threatened to swallow me up when I jumped off of Jerry Lewis’s yacht, and swim to La Jolla Cove,  the scene of the world famed “Rough Water Swim.”.

Caught in a rip is like being in one of those back yard pools in which you swim in place against an artificial current. The difference is: In the backyard pool, you simply stand up and out..

The only remedy against a real rip tide is to swim parallel to the beach until you feel that you have run out of it, then body surf and swim ashore. My hang-up was that five thousand fans and the media expected me to swim straight to the beach, and such a chicken of the sea maneuver as the parallel swim would carry me away from the action.

A sobering  thought:  r.i.p. is an acronym for  “Rest in peace.”

Alarmed  at hearing my talk about defying the rips, renowned underwater cinematographer, Chuck Nicklin, summoned me to his wet suit factory, so he could fit me with a suit that would insulate me from the frigid waters. Chuck’s workers fashioned a wet suit, and a hood that he whimsically adorned with devil’s horns. I was making waves in the water world

Olympic gold medal swimmer, Mike Troy, requested/ordered me to show up at the beach in Coronado for a course in rough water swimming..

Mike gave me ground breaking swimming lessons. He taught me a technique that is much more efficient than the generally accepted stroke. It consists of stroking the way most swimmers do, but at the end of the stroke, instead of bringing your arms down and then back up to do the next stroke, bringing your cupped  hands down and in, to form a union with your rib cage, and complete your stroke by running your hands along the edge of your ribs. Then, give a strong  push-off at the end of the stroke with your cupped hands. You actually feel yourself lunge forward with each stroke

Now…forget everything I told you about Troy’s revolutionary swimming lesson. Chuck Nicklin knew the perils of the  San Diego waters, so he arranged to spirit two world class swimmers aboard Jerry Lewis’ yacht. Confronting me on the deck, one of the Adonis’s proclaimed, “ Hare, Chuck sent us to help you.” 

Chuck’s swimmers knew I was licensed to dive with a tank. One reached out, twirled me around, hung a tank on me, and fastened it securely in one motion... He said firmly, ”We’re going to swim underwater. That rip is too strong for surface swimming.” I submitted to the suggestion. “But, how does it work with me and you two guys?” I asked.

“We’re going to swim underwater at each side of you.“ He explained, “and if necessary, we will each grab you by an armpit and tow you in. Of course, we expect you to kick along with us. Three of us kicking against the rip will make it easier.”

What a picture. These two world class swimmers dragging me by the arm pits out of sight of the crowd who, if they saw what was happening, would laugh derisively, and chant “Hare is a sissy! Hare is a sissy.!” I wouldn’t have blamed them. I would have joined in.

They walked to other side of the boat ready to dive in out of sight of the crowd. The fog was lifting.. The plan was, I would dive in on the crowd side and wait for them to come alongside me under water, flank me and start swimming. By now, I was resigned to having big league experts conspire about what was best for me, in my own shtick.  

There was a last minute adjustment of plans. One of the swimmers walked to the bridge and said something to the captain, who nodded and gunned the engines to turn the boat about to get in closer. He pulled up about five hundred yards from shore and waved for us to dive in and launch into our six-legged underwater swim.

There is nothing more releasing than being free of gravity. Sky diving almost does it, but it’s also stressful. Underwater swimming is stress-free. The bubbling sound of the tanks is the soul of serenity.

Our swimming was so rhythmic and strong, thanks to the dynamics of three bodies swimming in unison, that I had no sense of peril.

There is a difference between a Triple A League swimmer like me and these big league guys. My strokes were strong, but somewhat labored. Theirs were much stronger, and seemingly effortless. Ordinarily, The rip was challenging, but not for our troika.

Soon, I felt one of the guys tap me, a signal that they were peeling off and that I could wade ashore while waving heroically.

When I came ashore, TV cameras were pushed in my face, along with a  KCBQ radio mic. I cracked a few jokes, then thanked my swim escorts profusely, admitting sincerely that I might not have made it without them.

My wife, Carol, was my Beach Master.  She had been an Art Major at UCLA, spending every noon hour for four years swimming laps in an Olympic sized pool. Just months before I married her, she was the Administrative Asst. to her dad, Ben Chapman, who ran the Ivan Tors Studio in Miami, where he produced “Flipper.”

A major perk of her job was to be able to swim and cavort with “Flipper”-real name Suzie- and Suzie’s stunt doubles. Her current picture appears in the recent archive piece titled, “Change Your Partner. Dough See Dough”. Not much different from the picture of her when we married 38 years ago. That will appear in next week’s piece.

She proved indispensable in the 200 pool swim across the city. She was the navigator, which sounds dispensable until I tell you that I swam the first hundred pools, then became dyslexic. San Diego is a maze of cul de sacs. During this leg of the event, I would enter one, and swim a pool in a flood of one-liners to my cheering party givers, but when I returned to the mouth of the cul, I often lost my bearings. Turn right or…. Left,  even though the map says definitely turn left…or is it  right?  The sensory overload of a ten thousand foot parachute jump, followed by long swims, all within an hour, got to me.

Bulletin!  Swimming 200 pools (a mile and three quarters) is wearing. Carol took over the map and focused me. Each pool patio was crowded with a party of listeners pledging hundreds of dollars for Muscular Dystrophy at the end of each swim .

A social highlight of that day was meeting Leroy, (Leeroy) a fresh water otter, and a pet of one of the celebrants. Otters have a reputation for being vicious, but not Leeroy. When I entered the patio of one of the  pool parties, he leaped out of the arms of his human mommy, and  greeted me with a long drawn out chirp. His gaping mouth full of oversized teeth looked like a big smile.

Then, the highlight of the day: Leeroy dived in with me when I began my swim of their pool. When I finished my swim to the other end, he joined me and, snuggled against my chest, chattering with utter…or otter… joy.  

I was so taken with him that I asked permission to bring Leeroy along with me for the rest of the swims. The proud parents happily agreed, and joined us.

 Leeroy was a free spirit who jumped into the pools with me when I arrived at the parties, chattering and chirping.

 I soon developed a format. I would baby-carry him into the pool area of each new home, and introduce him to the crowd of partiers, often a hundred or more folks. He would follow his script by chirping animatedly to his new friends. Then, I announced that I would race Leeroy to the other end of the pool. If I won, the party goers would have to ante up some more money, If he won, the money staid the same.  Of course, they figured an otter could take me. The bet was on.

As the excitement built, I would stand on the edge of the pool holding Leeroy’s squirmy body, and throw him into the water. Then I would jump in and sprint toward the end of the pool with lots of exaggerated splashing and kicking.  

Leeroy would jump in and swim every which way, like a black furry missile without a guidance system. I won the races because he would never swim to the other end. Instead he would swim in a blur to one side of the pool and execute the Olympics style somersault turn-round and swim full tilt to another side, somersault and  swim, somersault and swim  Realizing that they had been taken, everyone would laugh and pledge the extra money. Thanks to him, the rest of the 200 pools went by fast..

At the end of the marathon (Hare-athon), I went to a major TV channel with him in my arms, mindful of what W.C Field had cautioned, “Never be in a scene with either animals or children.”  No doubt, all viewers’ eyes were on Leeroy.

 I slung him on my shoulder facing away from the interviewer, so I could get a word in, but being one big muscle, he would out-muscle me and turn toward the camera, blocking my shot and chattering in an endless stream of happy otter talk.

Let’s see now. My initial plan was so simple. I would go up in the plane, jump, swim to the Cove, then navigate 200 swimming pools. Simple, yes…but all those do-gooders kept intervening..

First:  My pristine plans were countermanded by…. Hap Chandler, the C.O. of Miramar Naval Air Base who loaned me a chute, the signal orange coveralls, arranged for my plane, and commanded that I take a refresher parachute lesson.

Then, there was the big league sky diver who jumped alongside me when I made my 10,000 foot jump into La Jolla Cove, risking his life to assure mine.

Jerry Lewis who loaned me his yacht., and….

Chuck Nicklin who gave me the wet suit, and sent me two great swimmers so I could survive the swim ashore.

The truth is out. I was always saved at the last minute by a rich reservoir of experts, listeners  who on their own, jumped in and made sure I was okay, saving me from myself when I did one of these death defying stunts: climbing 10,000 foot Picacho del Diablo, walking Death Valley. Emotional  participation at its highest level,.

Looking back on it, my vulnerability was what made it work..

In fact, most of the memorable highlights of my adventures were sheer serendipity like, no one could have planned on Leeroy’s Divine Intervention.  

I am honored that Editor Larry Shannon chose to make me a Special Contributor, which means you will find my offerings in the RDN’s Special Contributor’s section under the mast head. Click onto my name and read the latest, then scroll down to the bottom of the piece and you will find my archive.