'So where do the drains on the pool deck go?' Tristan asks as we sit alongside the pool in a Days Inn in Sudbury, Canada.
'There's a surge tank below the deck with a pump in it. The water drains into the surge tank and the pump replenishes the water into the pool.'
'So if 30 fat guys jump into the pool, the water goes into the surge tank until they get out. This way the water level remains the same.'
Our conversation drifts off and four college-age couples giggle and mill around the changing rooms and sauna.
I turn to Tristan, 'You going to swim?'
'No, it's too cold.'
I suspect that he's concealing a smile.
'Cannonball.' I say smiling at him, looking from him to the water in the small kidney bean shaped pool.
He frowns his dissent.
A college-age girl peeks into the men's changing room to yell at a boy in the shower. She lets the door slam and heads to the sauna.
'Oh, c'mon. Cannonball!' I push Tristan harder. He's a big boy. A cannonball would be funny!
He frowns again.
The men's dressing door room opens and a shaggy, blond college age kid emerges and mills around the pool deck.
'C'mon. Cannonball. Or are you waiting for an audience?'
I smirk at him.
He jumps up and runs toward the pool, jumping, rotating, and plunging his large body into the water.
A column of water shoots up and sprays the ceiling. Waves roll over the pool edge onto the deck.
I start laughing and Tristan bobs up for air, laughing.
The shaggy, blond Canadian boy laughs too and ask simply, 'Where did the water go, eh?'
Tristan pulls himself out of the water onto the flooded deck, water swirling into the surge tank drains.
The sauna door opens and a girl comes out to ask what happened. The shaggy blond boy talks quietly to her and I nudge Tristan.
'You got an audience, do it again!'
Four steps, he launches toward the pool, rotates perfectly again.
The water sprays the ceiling again in front of an even bigger audience.
Soon the entire sauna empties as Tristan emerges, dripping from the pool. A couple and their young son are trying to get into the pool house.
The girls interest peaks and they urge Tristan to do another cannonball. I up the ante and appeal to his sense of responsibility, 'Quick before you influence the kid trying to get in here. Someone hold the door!'
Laughing, giggling, Tristan once again darts towards the pool, jumps, and rotates perfectly.
Water again sprays the ceiling, waves churning violently in the pool, and I dart over to rescue his clothes on the increasingly wet pool deck.
I look at Tristan as he sits again. We're both laughing until we double over and tears well in our eyes.