Cascade Plunge - Cold Water Jump

 

    There I stood, a 12-year-old boy in a dripping wet bathing suit, heart in my throat, gazing out from the top of a skyscraper-sized tower that overlooked what appeared to be the biggest swimming pool on earth. I turned and saw that my buddy, the one who climbed up with me for moral support, had chickened out. He was already skulking back down the stairs. I did not need to see that show of cowardice because my own resolve was weakening. So instead of watching him retreat, I stepped to the edge of the platform and took a long look around.

    The jumping tower resembled a giant letter “A,” perhaps 25 feet tall, although it seemed much higher to a kid with shaky knees. Along the way up were smaller platforms jutting out every six feet or so, ideal for those less courageous, or perhaps wiser than I felt at that moment.

    The view was impressive. I could see the entire pool, which was roughly two-thirds the size of a football field. At the far end roared a massive stair-step fountain of clear, cascading water, thundering like mountain stream rapids. No wonder: every hour, nearly 28,000 gallons of spring water surged in from its filtration system. Covered grandstands on both sides stretched almost the whole length of the pool, filled with people who all seemed to be watching me. On the left side, a big sun deck baked under the Alabama summer sun, strewn with towels, lounge chairs, bottles of Coppertone, and pretty teenage girls in two-piece swimsuits who were far too glamorous for a kid like me.

    Cascade Plunge was, without question, a marvel. Built in 1923, it was said to be the largest swimming pool in the South, with room for 3,000 swimmers. For nearly 50 years, it was a bucket-list destination for children and adults from near and far. It even had its own stop on the Birmingham streetcar line.

    From the tower I could also see the large, adjacent ballroom pavilion, known as the Cloud Room.  It was here where generations of dancers had jitterbugged, slow-danced, and probably fallen in and out of teenage love.

    By the time I spent a summer there, Cascade was past its heyday, but hundreds of kids still poured in daily. I remember the jukebox in the lobby blasting out an unending string of Motown hits:

“I can’t help myself. I love you and nobody else…”

The smell of hot dogs drifted through the air, luring kids lucky enough to have 50 cents into the concession line. For the rest of us, the aroma alone had to suffice.

    It was go or no-go time.

My thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind me. An older kid, clearly a veteran jumper, said, “C’mon! You goin’ or what?” I took one last look around and spotted the lifeguard in his high chair, wearing sunglasses that sat on his nose, painted white with zinc oxide. Our eyes met, and he motioned to me with his hand. That was all the motivation I needed.

    I stepped off.

    My descent lasted only a couple of seconds, but it felt like slow motion. First, came the feel of gravity pulling  me quickly towards the water. The wind roared past my ears. I had just enough time to steal a quick glance around the pool and clamp one hand over my nose.

    “Skloosh!”

    I plunged deep below the surface. The shock of the cold water almost made me expel the air in my lungs. It felt like diving into the Arctic Ocean in mid-December. If you ever asked anybody to describe Cascade Plunge in two words, they would almost unanimously answer, “Cold water.”

    I looked upward at the shimmering surface and began paddle-kicking toward it with the desperation of a boy who suddenly realized he was in over his head. Ironically, the ascent took longer than the fall.

    At last, my head burst above the surface and I gulped a welcome lungful of warm summer air. I swam to the ladder and climbed out, triumphant; equal parts excitement and relief.

    Now it was my turn to look down at my cowardly companion with disdain. Because from that moment on, I was a different person.

    I had conquered the tower at Cascade Plunge.