Swimming with George Washington
The Creek that is a 10-minute walk from my grandma’s house in rural Maryland is the same one in which General George Washington and his soldiers skinny-dipped.
I know this for a fact about George and his boys stopping at Wills Creek because they are mentioned in The Biography of Benjamin Franklin. I actually read the book and am probably one of the 23 people on the planet who have.
It is also the same creek I took a swim in one day when I was 10 years old and almost died.
So, there they were that day: a half dozen of America’s finest lads all around my age, bronzed, muscled country boys. They were naked in the creek, competing to see who could send their pee stream the farthest, who could stand on their hands in the water the longest, and who could go the most distance on the rope swing before letting go and plunging into the clear, cold creek.
And there I was: a hefty, unathletic fellow with sallow skin and a sallower penis, a big city boy, resting in the shadows of the water’s edge, swatting flies, wanting to disappear into a book, but without a book around.
Unfortunately, one of the boys (probably a cousin) noticed me and called out: “Hey, fat boy!” or “city slicker!” or “momma’s boy!” or one of the countless expressions I was used to.
“Grab the rope, fatso!”
They laughed.
That was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Grab it, or else!”
I grabbed the rope and started to swing, but I didn’t get far before it broke, and I crashed onto the mud and rocks.
“Queer boy does it again!” said one of the boys.
“City boy, go home!” said another.
All my life, I had heard things like this said to me. And I was tired of it. I would show them! But what?
Without thinking, I plunged into George Washington’s bathtub and started to swim to the other side. I had forgotten that I was a very poor swimmer and that the creek churned. And I had forgotten all those hot dogs I had eaten 20 minutes before. And that big bottle of cola I had drunk.
Nevertheless, I was okay for the first minute. But then my stomach acted up. And then my legs cramped up. And then I wanted to throw up. And then I figured I would have a meet up—with Jesus. At that point I thought the smart thing to do was to turn back. After all, wasn’t I only a few yards from shore?
But no! I would keep going. I was angry! Not just at those boys but at all boys, all the straight, smooth-talking boys like my older brother who put my “type” of boy down.
Yet things got rougher. And in the middle of the creek, I decided to die. I figured it would be okay because I would have a sort of revenge on those boys who had taunted me. Wouldn’t they burn in hell for being bullies, while I would be lifted up by angels’ wings, and transformed into a drop-dead gorgeous angel myself, living happily ever after, eating hot dog after hot dog, drinking all the cola I wanted and never gaining weight? Yes, I thought, there could be worse things than running away into the arms of Jesus.
I only thought this briefly before I realized that dying was no fun. It hurt! So, I started to swim harder. And to my amazement, I heard the boys shouting, encouraging me to reach the other shore.
But I didn’t need their cheering to make it. Nor did I need a naked George Washington suddenly swimming next to me, matching my every stroke and telling me to “Go for it!” Because deep inside me, somewhere lodged between the hot dogs and the cola, was this little voice telling me that I would reach the other shore.
And somehow, I did.
And somehow, I do every day.
NOTE: Don Beaudreau came out as a cisgender gay man at the age of 50. He is no longer 50 but daily discovers what being gay means for him. For one thing: telling the truth as he sees it.
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