He had swum eleven miles or thereabouts.
Only ten more to go. Oh, man.
He swam on, and little by little he began to feel the telltale messages of pain in his arms, his shoulders, his thighs, and
his calves. He tried to
ignore them, knowing that thinking about them might only begin to disillusion him. He forced himself to think of other things
— of home, of his family, of Paula.
Paula.
Would she go out with him? he wondered. Would she like to be my girl? Does she have any idea how I feel about her?
Now and then the aches interfered with his thoughts, and tiredness began to take a firmer hold of him.
Hunger finally gnawed at his stomach again, and he was glad when he heard Yolanda say, “It’s six o’clock, Joey. Want something
to eat?”
Six o’clock. He’d been swimming almost exactly twelve hours.
“You kidding?” he said, stopping to tread water. “I’m starving!”
This time he ate two small glass jars of peas and tunafish, a bar of candy, drank a glass of milk, and got going again.
Later, he saw the sun beginning to lower over the western hills, the clouds in front of it looking like stretched sugar candy.
He began to glance now and then at the shore some two hundred yards to his right, at the high cliffs that separated the lower
areas where cottages and all-season homes stood only a few feet
above the lake’s edge. Steps led in some cases from a boat dock to a home up on the plateau.
When he saw the one with a wide platform midway up he knew where he was, and from a previous calculation determined that he
had gone about eighteen miles.
“Yo!” he cried, enthusiastically. “Only three more to go!”
Both girls looked wide-eyed at him.
“How do you know?” his sister asked.
“Those steps,” he said. “The one with the wide platform halfway up.”
They looked at the landscape. “I see it,” Paula said.
“I do, too,” replied Yolanda.
The boat was slightly behind him and to his left side, at a distance that had hardly varied since they had started.
“How do you feel? “ Paula wanted to know.
“Tired!”
“Hang in there,” she said.
The water was still calm. It seemed even calmer now than it was during the midday hours. The weather and the water couldn’t
be better.
The sun had dropped behind the hill, leaving a dazzling, flaming orange sky, when Joey felt a stabbing pain in the arch of
his right leg.
“Oh, no!” he yelled, stopping and letting his legs go limp.
Yolanda stopped the boat. “What happened?” she asked, staring at him. Paula rose off her seat, her eyes wide as she stared
at him too.
“I’ve got a cramp in my arch!”
“A cramp? What luck!” His sister looked beyond the bow of the boat, at the point of their destination.
Joey’s
destination. He followed her gaze, and saw the familiar peak-roofed pavilion of the park Just beyond the beach.
How much farther did he have to go? he wondered. A mile? A mile and a half?
“Can you do something about it?” Yolanda shouted to him.
“I’m going to try!”
He reached down and grasped the arch of his right leg as hard as he could. With his other hand he grabbed his toes and pulled
up on them. When he started to sink below the surface of the water he let go of his leg, pushed himself back up, and filled
his lungs with air. Again he clutched the arch of his leg and pulled up on his toes. After doing it four or five times he
tested the arch.
“It’s gone!” he cried happily. “The cramp’s gone!”
The girls let out a cheer, and Paula got back behind the wheel of the boat.
“Ready to swim on?” she asked.
“Ready!” answered Joey.
He resumed his swim: left arm up and over, right arm pushing downward, closed hand propelling him forward. Right arm up and
over, left arm pushing downward; left arm reaching up and over, feet kicking.
On and on and on.
His shoulders ached. His arms and legs felt like leaden weights. He had slowed down considerably.
“Keep going, Joey!” Yolanda encouraged him. “Keep going, brother!”
The orange sky had darkened. Night was falling fast.
A boat came shooting through the water toward him, its bow light piercing the growing darkness. Then another came, and another.
They swept around in wide circles and took places on either side of Joey and the girls’ boat. The occupants waved and smiled
and gave the “V for victory” sign.
“How about that?” said Yolanda, returning the wave and the smile. “An escort!”
Photographers were snapping pictures. One boat carried a man with a TV camera. He aimed
it at Joey, kept it on him — swung it toward the girls for a few seconds, then back on Joey.
Oh, Lord, how much farther? thought Joey.
His arms were like sticks ready to break off. His neck, shoulders, thighs, and legs ached. He wouldn’t make it. It was impossible.
He had gone his limit. He had to stop. He just had to.
“How — how much farther?” he called out.
“Not much, Joey!” his sister’s voice came to him. “Hang in there a little longer. Just hang in there, brother!”
“I can’t!”
“You’ve got to, Joey. You’ve got to. Just a little longer.”
He swam on — tiredly. Oh, so tiredly.
Then, at last —
“Joey! You did it!” he heard his sister shout. “You did it! You swam the twenty-one miles!”
He looked up at her. She was standing in the boat, her arms extending into the air, her fare beaming with joy.
“You did it, Joey!” she cried again, and jumped into the water beside him, splashing him with it. He stood then, finding the
water only up to his chest. Then Paula jumped in, too, and both girls swung their arms around him and kissed him.
Tears stung his eyes. His heart pounded from
tiredness and fatigue, but also with joy. He wanted to shout out to the world, to yell at the top of his voice and let everyone
know how thrilled and happy he was.
I did it! I swam Oshawna Lake! Do you hear me, everybody? I swam Oshawna Lake!
Cheers sprang from the crowd standing on the sandy beach. Many of them — men, women, teenagers — waded into the water, their
clothes on, shook his hand, and offered their congratulations. It was a sight he had never expected to see in his life.
They’ve come to see me, he thought. Me!
“You son-of-a-gun,” said a familiar voice. “You did it! You actually did it! Congratulations, Joey!”
Joey smiled. “Thanks, Ross,” he said. They shook hands.
He could barely make it to shore, but with Paula and Yolanda on each side of him, he managed. He was met by the rest of his
family — his mother, father, Mary, and Gabor, and even Aunt Liza, who gave him a hard, wet kiss on his cheek.
“Crazy boy!” she said, looking at him with happy, tear-filled eyes. “But look what you have done! Everybody in town has come
out to see
you! You have become a big person! A very big person!”
“She is right, Joey,” smiled his father affectionately. “You have become a very big person. Everyone will soon know of Joey
Vass, the boy who swam Oshawna Lake.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Vass,” a woman interrupted, holding a microphone in one hand and a tape recorder in the other. A Press button
was pinned to her lapel. “That was a remarkable feat you’ve accomplished.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you ever feel like stopping? Did you have any problems during the twenty-one mile swim?”
“No. Excuse me. I’m tired. I want to get home and go to sleep.” He started to go past her.
“Did you ever feel that you might not make it, Mr. Vass?” she asked, following alongside him.
“Just . . . toward the last,” he said.
“Nothing you’d like to add?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you glad you made the long swim? Do you really feel that you have made a name for yourself in the field of swimming?”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Joey. “But, yes, I’m glad I made the long swim.” He
saw Yolanda and Paula looking at him, their faces wreathed with smiles. A memory, almost like a dream now, flashed through
his mind.
“Yes,” he went on. “If I don’t ever do anything else like this again, I’m glad I made that swim. It was an experience that
I — and my sister and my friend, Paula Kantella — will never forget.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vass,” she said, pleasantly.
There was that man again with his TV camera focused on him, and other photographers were taking still pictures of him. But
he didn’t care about any of this, now. He was tired. He wanted to go home and sleep . . . and sleep.
MATT CHRISTOPHER
Joey Vass wasn’t a swimmer, but since his family bought a house on the shore of a lake, he decided he’d better learn how.
Everything is going along fine until a guy on the school swimming team starts to tease him constantly.
Angered by the teasing, Joey decides to become expert at a different kind of swimming — long distance. Joey swears that before
he leaves high school he’ll swim the length of the lake: a distance of twenty-one miles.
Not too many people believe Joey can achieve his goal, but Joey tries anyway, and in the process he learns a good deal about
the self-discipline and endurance it sometimes takes to make a dream come true.
Jacket photographs by Robert Lowe
MATT CHRISTOPHER
When Ron finds a small dirt bike at the bottom of a nearby lake, it seems a terrific piece of good luck. When he discovers
he can put it back in working order, he knows he really is a lucky guy. In fact, everything about the bike seems to work in
Ron’s favor; even the part-time job he takes to earn money for parts turns out to be the start of a friendship with an old,
rich man, who once raced bikes himself. This friendship, however, begins to make the old man’s nephew and heir angry. He doesn’t
want the old man to pay attention to anyone but him. It looks like Ron is in for trouble on the track and off.
Matt Christopher, a favorite author of many boys, now writes an exciting story about one of today’s most exciting sports,
dirt bike racing.
Illustrated by Barry Bomzer