Poop in the glamour pool

            A friend of mine, Annabelle, was on a romantic weekend staycation with her hubby at a local five-star resort when she decided to take a swim in the giant warm acquamarine oval pool overlooking the pacific.  She was paddling around in the sun in her gold macramé bikini, messy updo, and big black sunglasses when she spied a piece of brown matter floating and bobbing beside her.  She looked at it, curious at first, then repulsed, then annoyed, and then she swam to the nearest exit. 

            As her long tan legs carried her up the elegant stairway and out of the pool, a young man in crisp white slacks, vest and tie approached, holding out the softest white Egyptian cotton bath sheet.  The sun was yellow and the sky was blue.  My friend thanked him for the towel and added in a low voice, pointing discreetly, “I should let you know there seems to be a poop in the pool.”  And then she left the area to take a long, hot, soapy shower, and a bath.

            That afternoon she and her husband noticed that the glamour pool was encircled with unsightly yellow “caution do not cross” tape along with a series of tall red orange traffic cones dotted along the perimeter.  The grand pool stairway was blocked by an extra dose of yellow caution tape woven haphazardly between its bannisters like an unfortunate holiday craft fair scarf, as if a simple single or even double tape missive would be insufficient to dissuade persistent bathers. 

            Silent men in tan jumpsuits, goggles, and gloves worked a wide pipeline tube that extended from the pool to a tanker truck marked biohazard.  The pool was being drained.  It would not be usable until well past Sunday.  

            My friend was upset, but in time became reconciled to having a different weekend than the one she had planned to have poolside.  She was surprised the hotel offered her no more than a voucher for one continental breakfast in exchange for her troubles, particularly as she explained the voucher was of no use to her as she drank her own blend of herbal tea in the morning and avoided white flour, even in the form of free croissants and pastries.  Her husband enjoyed the American Breakfast with sausage and eggs while vacationing and his morning drink involved something green Annabelle had converted him to which aided his overall wellbeing and chi flow.

            When I heard her story, I expressed my condolences and then promptly called my pool guy, Ken, a guy I trust, who’s been building and maintaining pools since before the drought.  As lucky pool owners and parents of a youngster with many youngster friends and their even younger siblings, for us the pool poop question is not as theoretical as one might wish.  It’s against the rules, but still. 

            “What do we do,” I asked Ken, pointedly, “if someone poops in the pool?” 

             “If someone poops in the pool, scoop it out and don’t worry about it,” he said.  I was unsatisfied.  There were many scenarios to anticipate. “But Ken,” I said trying not to be too gross, but then again, Ken does have at least two grown kids I know about, and a dog, and horses, and a goat. “Ken, what if it’s a situation where we can’t scoop it all out?” 

            “Well,” he began, and he paused, thinking, “in that case, scoop up as much as you can, let the filter run overnight, and don’t worry about it.”  I was skeptical, and still felt unprepared.  Then, perhaps sensing my discomfort, he added, “If it happens give me a call and we’ll deal with it.”  “Great,” I said.  There are some things we should not do alone.   

For Annabelle.