St Andrews State Park: Learning to Swim

The Button, The Card, and the Bus Ride

If you’ve read my earlier story about a lifetime at St. Andrews State Park, you already know this place didn’t just shape my childhood — it anchored it My History in St Andrews State …. I mentioned learning to swim in the old “kiddie pool” tucked behind the rock jetty. What I didn’t fully explain then is what it took to get there.

I still have the proof.

Tucked away in a drawer is a small American National Red Cross card with my name on it. “Beginner in Swimming.” Panama City, Fla. Signed and dated by the instructor. Alongside it is a little round Red Cross swimmer button — the kind you pinned on a towel or shirt and wore like a badge of honor.

This piece of cardboard and metal have followed me for more than fifty years.

Because they represent something bigger than swimming.

Counting the Signs

My mom would drop me off at Callaway Elementary, and we’d pile onto a school bus headed for St. Andrews State Park for Bay County Red Cross swim lessons Swim Lesson Story.

I was seven. I couldn’t swim.

As we crossed the Hathaway Bridge, the bus would pass the Navy base. Along the fence were those large “Warning – No Trespassing” signs, spaced every hundred yards. With the precision of the military. I can still see them clearly. To keep from thinking about the water waiting for me, I counted the signs.

One.
Two.
Three.

If I focused on the numbers, I didn’t have to focus on the fear.

It’s funny how a child’s mind works. The signs weren’t about swimming. They weren’t about me at all. But they became a rhythm. A distraction. A way to steady myself before stepping into something I wasn’t sure I could handle.

That first year, the kiddie pool behind the jetty felt enormous. The water felt deeper than it probably was. The instructors seemed serious. The other kids seemed braver.

But somewhere between the first awkward kicks and the first time my face went under without panic, something shifted.

The fear didn’t disappear. It just lost control.

When the Bus Meant Opportunity

In later years, lessons moved to the Open Sands swimming pool Swim Lesson Story — an Olympic-sized pool with a real deep end and high and low diving boards. Back then, that place felt like the big leagues.

But getting there wasn’t guaranteed.

The bus only held so many kids. The youngest had priority. If it filled up, the older kids were left behind. I remember riding my bike to school hoping — really hoping — I’d make the cut.

When my name was called and I climbed onto that bus, it felt like winning something. That excitement replaced the old fear. Same bridge. Same Navy fence. Same warning signs.

But I wasn’t counting them anymore.

Now I was looking forward to the water.

What That Card Really Means

The little Red Cross card says I qualified as a “Beginner in Swimming.” It lists the required tests: jumping into deep water, floating, swimming fifteen yards, treading water. Simple skills on paper.

But that card represents the first time I proved to myself that I could step into something uncertain — and come out stronger.

It represents independence in a different era. Parents who put their kids on a bus and trusted they’d figure it out. Instructors who expected you to try, not complain. A park that quietly became a classroom.

And it represents place.

The same St. Andrews State Park where I fished the jetties with my dad.
The same shoreline where I now photograph ospreys and sunsets.
The same dunes I walk with Sharon today.

That kiddie pool wasn’t just a swimming hole. It was a proving ground.

Why I Kept the Button

I’ve kept that small swimmer button and that Red Cross card for more than half a century. Not because they’re rare. Not because they’re valuable.

But because they remind me of a skinny seven-year-old boy on a bus, counting warning signs and trying to steady his nerves.

They remind me that growth usually begins with discomfort.

And they remind me that St. Andrews State Park has been there for every stage of my life — from nervous beginner to confident swimmer, from barefoot kid to senior citizen, from counting signs to counting sunsets.

The park has changed. I’ve changed.

But every time I drive through the gate, I know exactly where I learned not to sink.

And that’s something worth keeping.