VOLCANIC ASH

David Shapiro can be reached by e-mail at dave@volcanicash.net.

I loved the line in the movie "Rain Man" where Dustin Hoffman's character kept saying, "I'm an excellent driver." Of course, when he got a chance to prove it, he could barely steer the car.

I've always boasted that way about my water skills and was delighted when Jennifer, the physical therapist who treats my multiple sclerosis, suggested I try aquatherapy.

"I'm an excellent swimmer," I said.

Her concern was getting me in and out of the pool at the Honolulu Club, which has no lift for disabled people. She wasn't sure I could climb the steep ladder out of the water.

Jennifer suggested I make a dry run, so to speak, at a public pool with a hydraulic lift. If I couldn't climb out myself, the lifeguard could lift me to safety.

Challenging myself, I parked my wheelchair at a poolside ladder 50 meters opposite the security of the lifeguard and lift. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I took my first step down and lost balance as my weak leg buckled.

I thought, "What's the worst that could happen if I just let go and fall into the water?"

The worst that could happen, it turned out, was that I could darn near drown.

It had been five years since I last swam, and I'd lost a lot of function in my left arm and leg. As I floundered on the bottom in four feet of water, I realized that two working arms are vital to staying afloat.

I finally got my good foot under me and kicked up for air. I rolled onto my back to see if I would float. Thankfully, I did, and ultimately drifted back to the side, where I could hold on and stand.

By now, I'd attracted the nervous attention of the lifeguard and fellow swimmers, so I decided to try a dignified climb out of the pool and declare the experiment a qualified success.

Climbing up the ladder proved even more of a challenge than climbing down. My bad leg kept giving out, sending me flopping back into the water. Several swimmers offered to help, but I stubbornly insisted that I had it under control.

After a half-dozen failures, I made it up two of the four rungs and was starting to sense victory.

Then I got a sinking feeling — literally. I'd lost some weight since I last wore my swim trunks and could feel them slipping down. The top of my butt crack was surely on display.

This was a concern only because my wife had sensitized me to the issue about a million times over the course of our marriage. It left me a tough choice: let go of the rail to pull up my shorts and risk losing my hard-earned progress, or hang on and risk grossing out my pool mates.

From my low vantage point on the ladder, I had a view of the bottom of my wheelchair that I didn't normally see. My 6-year-old grandson, Corwin, had attached a sticker with my scribbled name and phone number in case I got lost and somebody found me.

With the comfort of knowing that Corwin had my backside covered, I found the will to let the shorts fall where they may and ascend the last two steps to my wheelchair.

Home, sweet home.

A kindly lady who had watched my struggle offered encouragement. "Everybody needs help sometimes," she said. "Never be ashamed to ask."

"I'm an excellent swimmer," I replied.