A special place for many of us who grew up on the Westside is now a car lot behind the Union 76 gas station at Alaska and Fauntleroy. That place was the old YMCA pool. Built in 1955, it gave us nearly 30 years of memories. Here's one of them.

Standing on the wet cement floor I strip, then put my clothes in a mesh bag. On go the trunks and I get in line. When my turn comes I hand over the bag. It's hung behind the counter and I'm given a large metal pin in exchange, the number 65 stamped on its head. I open the pin, stick the sharp point through the side of my trunks and close the clasp tight.

I exit the bustle of the dressing room and step into the chaos of the pool deck. It's public swim time, the pool is crowded and I'm immediately assaulted by the strong smell of chlorine and the raucous sounds bouncing off the walls. I turn to the right to walk towards the deep end. Once there I look up to palm prints on the ceiling above the diving board. Like the footprints recently left on the moon, these prints mark some extraordinary accomplishments. Today I hope to touch the ceiling myself.

I plunge into the pool. Though warm, the sudden shock of the water takes a few seconds of getting used to. I dog-paddle for a few minutes until warmed up, then climb out of the pool to get in line for the diving board. Unlike those who've managed to leave their prints high above, I've not gone to the effort to smear my hand with black shoe polish. So if I touch the ceiling today, I'll be the only one who'll know.

When my turn comes I feel like every eye's upon me. In reality, none are. I run along the board, make a jump timed to land me at its end then, pushing hard against the rebounding board, leap high. I extend my right hand as far as I can, but don't even come close to touching the ceiling. I do, however, manage to touch the other extremity of the dive. For as the water engulfs me I open my eyes. Through the myriad bubbles boiling to the surface I see the drain hole at the bottom of the pool. In the deep water silence I soar inches above the pool-floor to touch it, and then ascend to the surface, letting starved lungs breath deep.

The next challenge is the 70-foot marathon, one deep breath at the start, followed by an underwater swim the length of the pool. I start at the deep end. That's a mistake. For as I near the shallows I have to weave around dozens of little ones jumping and bobbing in the water. I barely make it to the end and, touching the smooth lip of the pool, raise my head to gasp for air. Above me is the viewing gallery. It can seat more than a hundred and is packed with parents; their heads moving back and forth, as if watching a tennis match, as they keep track of their kids in the water.

An hour of much the same follows, including a half dozen failed attempts to touch the ceiling. When it's time to go I un-pin number 65 from my trunks and give it to the clerk. He hands over my bag of clothes and I try to dress without letting anything fall onto the sloppy wet floor. I leave the dressing room, the echoes of my steps following me as I dash down the dungeon-like hall to the entrance lobby. Once outside I stand alongside busy Fauntleroy waiting for my parents to pick me up. Another treat is in store. We're not cookin' tonight, we're callin' Chicken Delight.

The old Y and its pool were demolished in 1984. The new Y sits a block away on 36th. After my first swim there I was chewed out for dripping water on the dressing room floor. I was directed to a mop to dry the floor, and shown a mini-centrifuge I was supposed to put my trunks in to spin-dry so I wouldn't drip on future visits. I missed the chaos. I missed the sloppy dressing room. Most of all I missed the hand prints on the ceiling. I never did manage to get mine up there.

Marc Calhoun writes regularly about his West Seattle and can be reached at wseditor@robinsonnews.com