Playing Marco Polo in the swimming pool of love
ArtisHENDERSON sandydays@florida-weekly.com

Was there ever so great an aquatic game as Marco Polo? The eyes-closed thrill of swimming blind, the opportunities for inadvertent-on-purpose groping, stridently calling into the dark, hoping for a whispered response?

At a Labor Day cookout-pool-party, my friends resurrected the childhood favorite, taking turns counting underwater while everyone scattered to the four corners of the pool. When my turn came to play the pursuer, I dutifully closed my eyes, counted to 10, and swam blindly, chasing after barely audible Polos.

It was as much fun as I remembered: urgently calling out "Marco!" while trying to gauge distances over the wet splash of friends, losing my legs and my breath in the deep end, and a very memorable - and quite accidental - double handful of bosom from a friend's slow-moving sister.

The night was fun but mostly forgettable. Recently, though, I've been thinking back to that chlorine-soaked evening, wondering if we're not all playing a sort of Marco Polo in the adult swim of life.

At a friend's wedding last week - a three-day event along the beaches of India's western coast - the bride wanted to introduce me to one of her husband's flatmates from London. She pointed him out across the room and my heart fluttered in my chest.

My inner shyness flared and I hesitated, unsure if the handsome, well-dressed urbanite would be interested in my laidback Florida ways. My friend laughed. "Don't worry, he's already seen you, and he asked

me to introduce you." Marco?

I grabbed a glass of champagne and let her drag me across the floor to where he

was chatting with friends. Polo.

We launched into standard party chitchat, sipping cocktails and comparing notes on our families, universities, and favorite books. Five minutes turned into two hours, and we traded conversation for a spin on the dance floor. As the night wound down around us, he asked if I had seen the beach yet. Marco?

I smiled and said I hadn't. But would

love to. Polo.

We wound through the gardens of the sprawling hotel, making our way in the cloud-covered night. I slipped out of my shoes and he took my hand. On the beach, the first drops from the heavy clouds overhead mingled with the sand between our toes, and we found a dry spot under a palmthatched cabana.

We talked for hours, the sort of earlystage romance, secret-sharing that cements the foundations first laid by flirtation. When words became superfluous and the heaviness of the night transformed into a lighter dawn, he leaned his head close to mine and placed his warm, soft lips at the corner of

my mouth. Marco?

I stiffened. Where would we go after the first irretractable kiss? Would it spoil the magic of this perfect night? The swells from the Arabian Sea sounded at our feet and the air was warm and languorously humid. I felt my inhibitions relax and leaned into

him, mouthing a hushed Polo.

The next two days passed in a whir of wedding activities and clandestine kisses. On the last night, the full moon clear and bright above us, we exchanged personal information and promised to keep in touch. My heart pounded as we said goodbye the

next morning and beat a furious Marco?

Marco? Marco? during the transcontinental flight home.

I checked my e-mail Monday morning, my heart in my throat, but there was nothing. And, again that afternoon. Still, nothing. By Monday evening, I felt the fog of dejection settle in my chest and nearly choked on the unuttered Polos in my throat.

Tuesday arrived hazy and jet-lagged, and I was at the office before the sun came up. I opened my e-mail disconsolately, not daring to hope for a message. But, there it was anyway, the words I had been longing to read: Hello from rainy London.

He had hailed blindly across the sea, a Marco? from the other side of the Atlantic, and my hands shook as I typed my Polo.