The Swell

THE SWELL

In August of 1955 at Stanford Hospital in California, I started my journey. To say I had a perfect childhood might be an exaggeration, but I don’t think it is. In the late fifties and sixties, Palo Alto, California, was the perfect suburb of San Francisco, ,somewhat similar to the Leave it to Beaver town of Mayfield. An interesting coincidence is that when Leland Stanford created the town of Palo Alto in the late 1800s, he did so because the city leaders of the neighboring town of Mayfield, California, refused to accept the conditions Stanford placed on building Stanford University in their town. Their refusal was due to Stanford’s requirement that alcohol be prohibited within the Mayfield city limits. At that time, Mayfield was known for its many saloons. Mayfield was eventually annexed by Palo Alto, agreeing to the social requirements set forth by Mr. Stanford.3

In the early 1960s, the simplicity and relative safety of life in Palo Alto seems eons ago when compared to today’s world. At the time, we didn’t appreciate the value of leaving the house on a weekend or summer’s day after breakfast and having a standing instruction to be home by dinner; lunch just happened wherever you happened to be around noon. Play dates didn’t exist as we simply walked down to a friend’s house, knocked on the front door and played. We played whatever sport was in season, imagining ourselves to be competing alongside the stars of the local sports team, e.g., John Brodie (San Francisco 49ers football), Willie Mays (San Francisco Giants baseball), Rick Barry (San Francisco Warriors basketball). Other times we just explored the hidden corners of each other’s back yards, the numerous city parks and all of the insects, frogs and other interesting wildlife in the coves and corners of San Francisquito Creek. Wherever we were, there was always some form of game we would create to add to our entertainment. That was our world and it was fun. In the real world, the decade of the Sixties was a period of great change. From the relative innocence of the early part of the decade through the assassination of JFK, through vio-

3. The Meeting on the Corner: “The Beginning of Mayfield’s End” PaloAltoHistory.org.

lence of race riots and anti-war demonstrations, the United States and particularly Northern California was on steroids. A quick trip down memory lane: The top songs according to Billboard in the early 1960s were “A Summer Place” by Percy Faith and “The Twist” by Chubby Checker. The American taste in music evolved to “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” by Simon and Garfunkel, “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones, and “Let It Be” by the Beatles. The Nielson ratings for 1960 showed The Andy Griffith Show as the highest rated television show. By the end of the decade, shows such as Rowen and Martin’s Laugh-in, The Mod Squad, and The Flip Wilson Show, reflected both the evolution of society and expansion of self-expression within the country. 1960 started with Dwight Eisenhower as the President of the United States. He was followed by John F. Kennedy, perceived to be a young and charismatic leader who would change the direction of the nation. His assassination in 1963 not only shocked a nation but also precipitated the loss of innocence in society and a social reckoning. Racial unrest and the Vietnam War along with Richard Nixon’s election to the presidency in 1968, marked a clear end of the acceptance of what we were being told by the media, the country’s leaders, and our parents. Hence, it was the beginning of significant change in American culture. In the late 1960s we experienced quite a change to our perfect little community. Northern California and its two major universities, the University of California, Berkley, and Stanford University, were a hotbed for the demonstrations against the Vietnam War. We lived about three miles away from the Stanford University campus and our high school was across the street from Stanford Stadium. As a result, we were very much aware of the marches and sit-ins protesting the war. Our parents were liberal in their political views, yet did not participate in the civil unrest. Many of our friends and schoolmates did and as a result, what others were seeing on the evening news, we were seeing on our streets.

Along with the anti-war demonstrations were protests against the requirement for young men to register for the Selective Service, also known as the draft. Both of my brothers had received deferments from having to enlist in the military, but it was still a very sensitive issue for everyone, particularly those who did not have any education or medical deferments. It was a time of change and loss of innocence in Palo Alto and the quaint little town would never be the same. But before our sitcom culture was disrupted, life was much simpler. In the summer of 1961, our family joined Ladera Oaks Swim & Tennis Club in Portola Valley, CA. Having learned how to swim at an early age, I was excited to join the team. And while all of the change was occurring in the world, every afternoon, regardless of season, there was swim practice and my first swim practice was a harbinger of what my life would become. On the first day of practice at the summer program, the head coach George French (we’ll hear more from him later) told me and another five-year-old to swim ten laps and he would talk to us later…basically getting us busy so he could do his best to restore order to the throng of older kids going crazy with energy and excitement. My partner, Courtney Lawson, the daughter of one of my mother’s high school classmates, and I followed instructions and began swimming laps. She was ahead of me and I kept-up with her as we swam lap after lap. I assumed that she was keeping track and so I just followed her lead. A few minutes later, I was awakened from my lap coma by a hand grabbing my arm and extracting me from the pool. It was my mother. “What are you doing?!” she asked rather worriedly. “Doing what Coach George said…swimming ten laps,” I responded, wanting to make sure I wasn’t going to get in trouble. “Well, I think you can stop now—you just swam thirty-five laps,” she informed me.

After the rest of the team had finished practice, Coach George came over to see how I liked my first swim practice. As I opened my mouth to respond, out came a stream of water—no words, just water. That was almost the end of my swimming career, but after deciding against being on the team as a five-year-old, at age six I returned to the team. That decision would become a defining aspect of my life. Before swimming moved from interest to obsession, playing with my older brothers Brodie and Tom in the pool at Ladera Oaks was a huge part of my life. “Ball up!” my eldest brother Tom, eight years my senior, commanded. At seven-years-old, I complied immediately by bringing my knees to my chest and grasping my hands tightly around my shins. The technique in assuming the form of a ball in the pool was not only well-honed but executed with a willingness and excitement that indicated what was about to happen was something I was really looking forward to. Ten feet away, Brodie, six years older than me, waited to receive the human projectile. As I “assumed the position,” Tom caught me before I began to sink in the water. He proceeded to position his ‘ball’ on his shoulder with his hands expertly placed underneath it. He then threw it up in the air toward Brodie and the game of human catch would begin. Distance, height, and accuracy were the objectives of thrower and catcher as they repeated the process again and again. Regardless of their success, the wide smile on my face and my uncontrollable laughter indicated my total enjoyment was always the result. “Splat!” was the sound we all heard, and I felt, when I violated one of the cardinal rules of “Ball Up” by prematurely releasing my hold on my legs (aka “premature extenuation”) in mid-air resulting in a very loud and painful back flop on the water. “Wow! That was a good one,” laughed Tom as he gathered up his temporarily paralyzed little brother.

“Hey Jimmy, do that again,” yelled Brodie. “Tom, throw him way up there this time!” “You OK?” a widely grinning Tom asked me, with just a hint of concern. “I’m fine,” I lied as I endured the painful effects of my mistake. “Let’s go!” I said as I knew that if I told my brothers I was hurting, whether for fear of parental reprisal or genuine caring, my complaint would result in my brother pausing the game. Any pause in the action could lead to an end to the game and I was not about to be the cause of that. Pain or no pain, there was nothing more fun than being my brothers’ playmate, and I would do anything and everything in my power to continue. “C’mon, let’s go,” I demanded. “OK. Ball up!” Tom directed and into the air I flew. Oh, the things those guys did to me! But you know, they could have tortured me, and I would have asked for more. In fact, they did torture me a fair amount, and I still asked for more. Anything to be with them—to be included. I remember laughing, a lot. I’m talking total uncontrollable, hurting stomach muscles, pee-in-your-pants laughter when I was with those guys. Family legend has it that in 1960, as our family was in Paris during a summer vacation, my parents and brothers, all five of us, were packed into a cab heading down the Champs-Elysees toward the Arc de Triomphe, en route to dinner. Yours truly got the giggles in reaction to Tom’s failed attempt to speak French to our cabbie. The three of us were laughing so hard that our non-English speaking cabbie had to pull-over because he was laughing and crying so hard that he couldn’t drive. If you’ve ever tried to get your young children to stop laughing, you can imagine the challenge we presented to our parents in that cab. On the one hand, they needed to calm us down so the cabbie could perform his function, yet on the other hand, any moment that three energetic children were happy with one another during a family vacation, was a moment to be savored. After a few minutes, the laughter calmed, the eyes

dried, and our driver was able to get back on the road. And that is just one example of the spirit and fun of the Brothers Hamilton. I loved and idolized my brothers. I’m not sure that I thought of it in those terms back then. I just knew that there was nothing better than playing with them, and I would do anything to be part of whatever they were doing. They were great athletes. Tom would become a great football player, wrestler, and track athlete, while Brodie would play football, wrestle, and was a gymnast. They had all sorts of wonderful friends who would always come by the house, and as I recall, the brothers Hamilton always had very nice and pretty girlfriends. I’m not sure that I wanted to be like them when I grew up; I just know that I wanted to be around them as much as possible then. And they were pretty good about including me in the things they were doing, even beyond the regular Ball-Up game. It didn’t matter what I was doing, if I heard them calling my name, I was there. Excitement…Exploration…Exercise…the E’s of my childhood. While not unique for those times, it was a damn fine way to grow up. While academic discipline was ingrained in me at an early age, the 3 E’s characterize my most vivid memories before swimming became my obsession. Endless hours were spent with my Green Gables Elementary School sports gang playing football, basketball, and baseball hour after hour. The term “jock” had yet to be coined, but we took our obsession to a level beyond jockdom. By 5th grade we were keeping stats on our recess and after-school basketball games that included scoring and shooting and free-throw percentages. This geekdom led me to keep stats of the San Francisco Warrior basketball games, thanks to the radio broadcasting skills of Bill King and Hank Greenwald. I would record the stats, reformat them, and compare them to the San Francisco Chronicle’s Sporting Green the next morning.

Through all of this, my love of swimming was developing into an obsession, evolving from being a member of that little country club program at Ladera Oaks to what was then called AAU Swimming (changed to U.S. Swimming in the late 1970’s) through high school and national level swimming. As a young child I just knew that I could swim very well and that I really, really enjoyed it. As a country club swimmer, practices were more of a social occasion than a physical workout. You would get dropped off for practice at the club and ninety minutes later, you had swum a lot, played a lot, and worked off a lot of your energy. As time went on and my skills advanced, the seriousness, science, and focus of the work-outs advanced. Through that evolution, I continued to enjoy swimming and always really enjoyed being with my friends on the team. Hanging out—before and after practice, at swim meets, and away from the pool—was a key part of my love of swimming. By the time I was twelve, I was going to swim practice twice per day, five days per week, and we often had a practice on Saturday morning. Swim meets evolved from local dual meets to AAU Age Group meets throughout California. Life was simple. Life was fun. You could say that growing-up was like one long day at the beach and there were no indications that my time on the sand was going to get disrupted by the waves to come. As the volume of the first wave swelled, I enjoyed my family, friends, school and, of course, swimming. As waves are wont to do, they have a force well beyond what we can see or control. However, I was not yet very knowledgeable about life’s waves and had no idea that I was about to go ‘over the falls.’