My stepfather was afraid of water, so in 1980 he installed a swimming pool at our West Houston home that was only five feet deep. Great for an eleven-year-old and yet shallow enough for the dolt to stand up in so he wouldn’t drown—that is if smart enough to do so.
Before this, my home-pool experience had been limited to my father’s pool in the backyard of his Albuquerque home. If you had a pool as a child, I’m sure you can commiserate with being the official pool slave. It was our lot in life, as members of the pool elite, to be the ones who checked the chemical balance of the water. I achieved admiral-like status by mastering the art of dunking the plastic testing kit and adding colored drops to ensure that the chlorine and pH levels were sufficient to prevent what would surely have been a horrific death caused by frolicking in unsafe water. Do laboratory scientists hold ranks other than “Mad”? I might qualify.
Houston 1968
In 2013, I began contemplating a move from California back to Houston, my home since 1968. I never thought I’d return to Houston after leaving in 1995 to make Annapolis, Maryland, my home. As much as I loved Houston and the Lone Star State, I had always abhorred the heat and humidity.
I realized I no longer wanted to live from one paycheck to the next—and that I was willing to give up the rich social life I enjoyed in the Bay Area—I began looking at Houston homes with pools. Four-bedroom houses, to be exact. My family would whine, “Why do you need four bedrooms?”
Well, one of the driving forces behind my relocation was to set myself up for when I retire and perhaps in a home that is paid for. There was also the smallest chance that I might marry. In that case, I needed a home with an office for me, a guest room for my friends to visit (ten years in, and none of my Bay Area friends have come to stay), and an extra room for my dearly beloved—either an office or simply additional space, you know, the kind that makes for a healthy marriage. (I wouldn’t know; I’ve only heard tales.)
Also, the thought of coming home from work and trips around the world—where I typically cleared customs in a uniform damp with perspiration, as if smuggling penguins or something worse—the thought of stripping naked and jumping into a pool was capital. This prompted further bleating from the fam: “Why do you need a pool? They’re so costly.” Dammit, this is my life, and I’ll do as I please. I don’t see them buying my house.
As much as I wanted a home with a pool, the market was becoming that of a seller’s, and homes with pools were moving beyond my financial reach. Ultimately, I found the home of my dreams: four bedrooms, an attached garage, and an established neighborhood with large trees—but no pool.
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| My 2025 pool |
Last summer, I realized that adding a pool was within reach, even if it had to be a small one. To test the feasibility of the idea, I bought an inflatable pool that fit on my back patio. It was twelve feet in diameter and three feet deep. I quickly discovered that floating in a pool while listening to music, watching the eight stars visible in Houston at night, and tracking satellites and airplanes crossing the sky was a superior experience.
Summer ended, so I drained the pool. When summer returned, I attempted to resurrect it, but because I had failed to store it properly—yes, it sat in my yard all winter, with the dead grass to show for its seasonal retirement—it leaked water.
I was not at all happy about going through the summer without my proclivity for floating the night away, so I ordered another pool, but the next size up. I also ordered new and improved floating devices more in keeping with the status I wished to maintain while buoyant. Oh, to watch celestial events in the skies overhead like an emperor penguin.
My oopsie was ordering a pool that was actually two sizes larger. Things looked promising as the water level increased, but I soon discovered that the pool was encroaching on my deck on one side and on my plants on the other.
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| My 2026 pool |
“To hell with it,” I thought, and kept filling it up. I could buy new plants, but I needed to float. I needed the excuse of preferring to float whenever I was invited to join friends at bars on the weekends and simply didn’t feel like getting prettied up and driving downtown.
Thank the gods that work finally secured a new contract with better pay, along with a rather substantial retroactive payment. Thank you, AFA. I am now shopping for a real pool. I grew up living in apartments with swimming pools but was never employed as their official water tester. It’s been eons since I was the water slave, but it’s coming back to me. I’m ready to upgrade.
No more late-night inflating of the ring that keeps my pool a pool. No, to my deck’s relief, I will soon be further in debt—not only financially, but also in terms of my free time—as I pay for the additional electricity required to run a pool, along with the chemicals and the kit used to test them and time keeping it clean and tidy. And fancy solar lights, and new floaty things for my wine goblets and wet ass.
But I’ll be able to float, watch the eight stars visible in the Houston skies, and spy back at the satellites spying on a naked penguin with a glass of bubbly while listening to Stevie Nicks, Steely Dan, Björk, and others at 2 a.m. And, truth be told, if you really look on a clear night while floating in a pool, you can actually see more than eight stars over Houston.
Purchase my books of poetry at www.PenguinScott.com
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