Fort Randall - A Swimmer's Tale

After my birth in 1979 in Nairobi, Kenya and a two-year stay, my parents and I moved to the United States to soon welcome another member of our family into our ranks, my sister Sylvia, and to lay the foundation for an alliance that should finally put an end to the later storm.

We lived on Inverness Ridge Road, Potomac, Maryland, a suburb of Washington, DC, and my days consisted of “Skifting,” that is, drawing with colored pencils, following my mother as she went grocery shopping and I imitated her, shaking her head and looking at the price tag—“Too expensive, Mommy”—and playing with my friends in the huge woods behind the house where there was a large white boulder, a climbing teepee, a playground, and somewhere outside the older boys’ legendary tree house.

I was in the Boy Scouts, went to an American kindergarten and later to the German school in Washington.

Jackie, the lifelike photobook driver with flowing bright red hair behind the wheel of the yellow American school bus always greeted me warmly and gave me joy and security and so I had a childhood of Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwiches, Macaroni & Cheese (tm) and experiences with American culture and the treatment of children for which I still feel blessed today.

In the winter the snow was so deep I could walk through it and it was still a bit above me, we rode down the slopes of the forest in bright orange and blue plastic tubs and squeaked happily, then warmed up at home with cocoa and small marshmallows.

In the summer, however, I was a proud member of the Inverness Swim Team, with Nessie as my guardian animal and the colours white and green. I still keep the hooded jumper from that time as one of my greatest treasures.

I was not a very good swimmer and preferred to enjoy the pleasures of the swimming pool and tennis court in the city centre, where my father played.

Splashing around a bit, playing with the other kids. And when the ice cream truck came, with the latest products from the ice cream industry, we asked our parents for money and walked barefoot over the red-hot asphalt.

There was also a vending machine with Grape Soda, Root Beer and Cream Soda. Drinks that, according to my own tests, usually make Europeans stand on end - but which to me will always taste of Inverness and love.

One summer it happened that I was completely crazy about a Playmobil Fort. Fort Randall.

It was great, with palisades and soldiers to rest and position.

I wanted nothing more than Fort Randall, it was just Fort Randall from morning till night.

But it was way too expensive for me.

My father felt sorry for me, or rather, he took the chance and made me an offer.

If I took home a blue ribbon from the next swim meet, I'd get Fort Randall.

There were four to one places in the different basic colours.

I looked sadly at the floor and told him I would never make it.

He replied, “When you swim” – and my discipline was crawling – “you think about every movement you make.”

“Fort Randall, Fort Randall” and do it the best you can.

We shook hands.

The day of the race the sun was shining and I vaguely remember the general party atmosphere. But not much more, because I had something new in me, something I didn't have before.

No soda, no ice cream, no splashing around could satisfy this hunger.

It was something my father had planted in my head and something that was very important in my child's heart.

The gun rose up to the Maryland sky, "On your mark...get set...go!" and I threw myself into the floodwaters of the train. Go...Go!" and I threw myself into the floodwaters of the pool. As the crowd cheered us all on,

All I really heard was this voice in my head: “Fort Randall, Fort Randall.”

The next thing I remember is standing in front of my dad, still dripping wet, with four ribbons in my hand, after our traditional French fries dinner at Roy Roger's (tm).

There were two blue ones. And two black ones. The blue ones meant "first". The black ones were added: First by far. It was time to collect the reward, and I asked my father for my two Fort Randalls. I wasn't greedy, just logical. But my father gave me a "Well, you know..." lesson, that of the humble conqueror.

Many years later I found parts of Fort Randall in our garage in Germany and had to smile. How happy I was with something like that, making small piles with the respective equipment, lining up the horses, and covering the soldiers as honestly as possible. Then everything is back on the poles, and all over again, all day long. The ribbons and the fort were lost in the move. The lesson remains. Even if it is often lost in the depths of everyday life.

If I really want something in life, I know, thanks to my parents, how to at least try, as long as everything stays on schedule. On the launch pad. The inner gun aimed at the Maryland sky. The inner desire beating in the chest and behind the temples. On Your Mark. Get set. Go.