The Big Swing

Being the tag-a-long can have its up side.

Growing up by the Golden Gate Park, with its miles of trees, lawns, lakes, secret gardens, playgrounds -- even a polo field accessed through a tunnel -- a de facto city boy becomes a country kid. Country kids don't have to dodge auto traffic to play games.  People don't yell out windows at them.  You have fields and trees. Especially trees.

One day a group of older boys passed by my house carrying a long, large rope. When I inquired, the one who was clearly the leader said simply, "Come along.”

So I  trailed along intoThe Park (the one mile by four mile chunk of raw dunes turned into "the eleventh Wonder of the World" by John McClaren).

The eastern half of The Park is carefully nurtured, mowed, paved, invested in myriad niceties: courts, museums, playground equipment, exotic flowers, a casting pool, and benches -- lots of benches.  But my end was basically au naturale.  Stuff just grew.

The small cluster of boys I'd been invited to trail after had their own schtick.  I certainly wanted to learn what prompted several high school age boys to tote a marine hawse half a mile into The Park.

Eventually they stopped at the edge of a large depression, one about twenty feet deep and smoothly bowl shaped. The leader turned to one of the others who, I suddenly realized, had been carrying a coiled clothesline. The clothesline was being attached to the hawse. The free end of the clothesline was then wound over a softball sized stone.

We had stopped here because a great oak tree grew on the far lip of the depression, its largest  branch extending directly above the bowl's deepest spot. The group was about to enjoy some giant swinging a la Tarzan.

To my delight, after each of the older boys had had at least one turn "Tarzaning" over the depression, I was invited to join.

       

Suddenly the swing looked scary. The drop was immense. I'd become very small.

But, of course, fear of embarrassment outweighed fear of harm.  I accepted. And I had the time of my life. I'd been inducted. They even let me help recoil the hawse.

And that wasn't even the best part.
    

Instead of merely walking out of the park, they stopped behind the hedge wall at the street where the trolley car parallels the park on its roll  to the beach.

Using a trick knot, the leader tossed the clothes line over a trolley stay wire.  Hiding in the shrubbery, they tugged rhythmically on the rope. The trolley wire began dancing. When the street car approached....  OOOPS, no power!

The oldest boy yanked the clothesline free and we all fled. I was the youngest, but I led them all into the artificial forest.

         

At home that evening, my father asked what I'd done that Saturday. Casually, I said I'd gone to The Park, which was true. I'd done that hundreds of times. 

Dad didn't need to know everything.