by Dom Harvey
GO POOL CRASHING
Admit it, you have probably wanted to do this yourself at some stage.
I do not have my own pool. The people across the road from me do.
Every summer, when the days get hot, I get pool envy. I can hear my neighbours laughing, screaming and splashing in their pool. It always sounds like whatever is happening in that pool behind their big brick fence is the most fun ever.
Every summer I kick myself for not laying down the relationship groundwork and befriending them in winter. And every summer I vow to make friends with them next winter so I can use their pool next summer. But I never get round to doing it.
So for folks like us who like to swim but do not have access to a pool, there are only three options: the beach, a public pool, or pool crashing. Of these three options, pool crashing is the most exhilarating by a country mile.
The premise is very straightforward—find a house with a pool and go for a swim without permission. Ideally, the occupants will be out. Should they arrive home mid-swim, you can just attempt to laugh it off as a hilarious misunderstanding, like this:
Angry pool owner: Hey! What the hell are you doing in my pool?
You: You must be Steve’s dad. He told us we could jump the fence and use his pool.
Angry pool owner: No, I don’t have any kids called Steve and you don’t have any right to be using my pool, so get out!
You: Ha ha, that Steve is such a prankster. He must have given us the wrong address. That is such a Steve thing to do. I’ll slap him for you when I see him.
See? Easy! Will the pool owner believe you? Probably not. But they will have to give you the benefit of the doubt.
Is it legal? Well, no. But as far as illegal activity goes, this is hardly the crime of the century. Worst-case scenario would be the pool owner detains you and calls the police. But then, what are they going to do about it? I watch a lot of Police Ten 7 and I can assure you the cops have far bigger problems to worry about than someone doing their best to stay cool on a warm summer’s day. Best-case scenario? The pool owner will be a good bastard who gives you permission to stay and even provides some liquid refreshments.
‘Pool Crashers’ is a segment we used to run on our radio show and we got to experience both the best-and worse-case scenarios. We decided to put the idea into radio retirement on the recommendation of our legal department after we experienced the worst-case scenario.
But let’s start with a positive. Let me tell you how awesome pool crashing can be when it goes right. This took place in Christchurch on a colder-than-desirable Friday morning in January. We had put the call out over the airwaves for anyone who wished to join us on a pool crashing mission to meet at the radio station at 7 am. Then we would travel in convoy to a selection of pools we had earmarked. With a group of around thirty Cantabrians all dressed down in togs with towels draped over their shoulders, the numbers were higher than we’d anticipated but we turned nobody away—safety in numbers, the more the merrier, etc.
Some of these properties with pools had been suggested to us by neighbours. Others we had located through the fabulously handy Google Earth website.
One property was a house in a leafy suburb that could be best described as a mansion. At the street front were giant steel gates and a keypad for access. The house and pool were positioned well back on the section. The well-manicured front lawn which ran along the side of the driveway was the size of about two tennis courts.
Access through the front gate was not going to be possible so we quietly snuck (well, as quietly as thirty people can sneak) onto the section next door which, as luck would have it, was a building site. And because it was not yet 7.30 there was not a tradesman in sight. From there it was an easy trample through some shrubs and then a short walk to the edge of the pool. When everyone was in position I grabbed the megaphone: ‘Pool crashers—are you ready?’ All thirty screamed back that they were.
If the wealthy home owner was asleep, he surely would not be now.
Then came the countdown, again through the megaphone: ‘5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . JUMP!’
The morning stillness was broken by what sounded like a pool party in full swing. And this pool was heated! Not just a little bit heated with some pathetic solar panels on a shed somewhere, either. This was a comfortably warm pool. It was like a giant bath that had been run and left to sit for twenty minutes.
I kept my eyes on the house and noticed some curtains moving upstairs. I was braced for the fallout. Any minute now we would be confronted by either a pissed-off rich guy or the police. Moments later a door swung open and a middle-aged man marched out of the house. He had a T-shirt and shorts on; he looked as if he’d thrown on whatever he had next to his bed so that he could come and check out what all the commotion was.
He stood on the side of his pool with his hands on his hips and a look of disbelief on his face. After maintaining this pose for a couple of seconds he surprised everyone by tucking his legs up and bombing into his own pool. Fully clothed! Everyone erupted into applause and cheers. He then got out of the pool and walked back into the house dripping water everywhere and reappeared with cold beers. They were fancy imported beers, too—the sort of beers you have in your fridge if you have a mansion, a heated in-ground swimming pool and a front lawn the size of two tennis courts.
Blown away by his hospitality, we had no problem overstaying our welcome. Thirty minutes later we were still enjoying his heated pool and chilled beers when he reappeared, dressed in dry clothes, to tell us he was going to work. He informed us that he would leave the gate open so we could see ourselves out when we were done. He got a hearty round of applause. Most of us left soon after. We did lose a couple of our group so it’s possible some of the pool crashers are still in this rich bloke’s pool.
The wealthy Christchurch bloke’s pool. That’s him in the T-shirt, front right.
Now, the worst-case scenario. This happened in the very fancy Central Auckland suburb of Herne Bay. It was a property I saw on the cover of the Property Press. That gives you an idea about the calibre of the property. If it is a shitty three-bedroom brick and tile place with one of those round Para pools sitting above the ground, it ain’t going to make it onto the cover of the Property Press.
This place was stunning. The sort of house where someone like me would not even bother going to the open home because both the real estate agent and I would know there was no way in hell I could buy it.
Again, we put the call out on the airwaves and on Friday morning at 7 am were joined by about a dozen brave listeners who were keen to have a crack at pool crashing.
The property had a waist-high fence and gate at the front which meant it was going to be easy for everybody to scale and access the pool, which was at the rear of the property.
The house was an old villa that had been completely renovated and was now a stunning modern property. From the street it looked like the front rooms were the bedrooms. The curtains were open and there was furniture inside. Given the time of day, we drew the conclusion that the house was probably not occupied and the furniture was home staging. These assumptions turned out to be accurate. Did that mean we got to enjoy a pleasant early morning swim without interruption? Not exactly.
As soon as we arrived in a convoy of four cars the neighbours across the road came out onto their balcony to look. This was not a good start but, then again, if four cars rolled into your leafy street just after 7 am and a bunch of people gathered on the footpath with togs, towels, old tyre tubes and a giant inflatable banana, you would probably be slightly curious too.
We all clambered over the gate without incident, making our way to the back of the house and then through the glass fence and gate that surrounded the stunning in-ground pool and spa.
On my cell phone, I negotiated the rules of this pool crash with Mike and Jay-Jay, who were talking to me live on air.
‘How long do you think we should stay for? Because the couple across the road were out on t
heir balcony so I’d say they’re probably calling the cops right now.’
‘It’s five minutes’ replied Jay-Jay.
‘Really? Do you think that’s wise?’ I said.
‘Yep. Definitely. It’s five minutes starting from the splash-in and the longer you stand there and argue, the longer you’re going to be there!’
My courageous co-hosts, from the comfort of their climate-controlled studio, were adamant that the pre-agreed swim time should remain unchanged. I continued to argue.
‘It’s not really prudent for a bank robber to hang around in the bank after he has robbed it.’
But my pleas for a splash’n’dash fell on deaf ears.
I picked up the megaphone, started the countdown and everybody jumped in.
Then, after no more than twenty seconds in the water, I noticed three more people entering the property. These people did not have their swimming attire on and did not look like they were in the mood for an early morning pool crash.
Unlike us, this trio entered the property the orthodox way, via the automatic gate, and then came marching round the back, where our impromptu pool party was in full swing.
It turned out these three men were builders who had been employed by a property developer to renovate the house. He had purchased it for a cheap price and painstakingly transformed it into the immaculate property that stood in front of us today. We didn’t know this at the time but they had arrived, by sheer coincidence, to make sure the property was looking flawless, because a serious buyer had an appointment to view the place later that morning. So when these guys turned up and saw soaking wet tiles and a dozen idiots doing bombs and throwing beachballs around they were unable to see the funny side of it.
This is how the broadcast went live to air:
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get out of the pool! Now!’
That was one of the three builders, yelling at nobody in particular. I whispered down the phone to Jay-Jay and Mike as the live broadcast continued:
‘Can you hear this dude? He’s furious.’
Bear in mind, we had no delay or dump button and no way of censoring any of the swear words, so this all went to air uncensored.
I walked towards him, separated by the chest-high glass fence surrounding the pool, and asked him why he was so mad.
‘It’s a four-million-dollar fucking home, mate. Who the fuck do you think you are?’
My reply only inflamed the situation further:
‘We’re just here for the pool party.’
He pointed his finger at me and spat:
‘Yeah, well it’s not a pool party, mate. It’s a fucking expensive home. You’re in the shit! I know who you are, pal!’
As this tirade was taking place, being broadcast to homes and cars around New Zealand, the swimmers got their things and started to scurry down the side of the house towards the front of the property with a real sense of urgency. The way you would leave a building that was on fire.
Our friend wasn’t happy about that:
‘None of you are leaving! You’re all fucking idiots! You’re not even funny. We’ve got an open home today. Is this your house?’
‘No. But we might buy it.’
I was lying.
‘No you fucking won’t. Have you got four mill?’
Dammit, he’d seen right through my lie about purchasing the property.
‘You’re not leaving until the cops get here, mate!’
By this stage we had all evacuated the pool area and were on the driveway. Some of the swimmers had made it to their cars and were almost home free, their escape aided by these angry gentlemen, who had left the electric gate open when they arrived. A schoolboy error on their part.
I was torn. I knew this man’s anger was providing us with some compelling radio but I really wasn’t so keen on me or any of our listeners who were present being punched in the throat, so I dropped the smart-arse act and tried to defuse the situation.
‘Come on, mate, chill out. We were just having a quick swim.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not a swim, mate. Seriously. And you can turn your fucking radio station off. You’re all just a bunch of fucking idiots!’
Back in the studio my co-host Mike Puru made the decision to cut off the live broadcast. But off the air, the ear-bashing continued. This guy was relentless. If Gordon Ramsay had been there, he probably would have asked him to ease up on the swear words.
Fortunately, the bark of this builder and his two sidekicks was far worse than their bite and we all made it safely away from the property. One of the builders or the nosy neighbours may very well have called the police as threatened, but we did not see any sirens or flashing lights travelling to the scene of the ‘crime’ as we drove away.
Realistically, can you imagine how stupid it would all sound to the person logging the complaint at the 111 emergency call centre? This builder didn’t need the police—what he needed was some sunshine to dry out the tiles and maybe someone who could give him a deep tissue shoulder massage.
I am happy to report that this whole heated incident over a cold dip had a happy ending. After a tense few hours behind the scenes and threats of legal action between the property developer and my employers, the house in question ended up selling. So all of a sudden the anger of the property developer and his foul-mouthed builders was replaced by relief and joy.
To this day I struggle to see how it would have been our fault if the house did not sell. The mess we created that morning was no different to the mess that would be created by a downpour of rain. Surely someone with $4 million to spend on a house would have the common sense to understand that tiles around a pool will get wet and will also eventually dry out.
All the threats of legal action were called off. The builder had to endure a day of friends and acquaintances asking if it was him they’d heard nutting off on the radio. He was embarrassed, but that was fixed with an apology and a delivery of two dozen beers dropped off to his building site that afternoon.
So that is pool crashing: the very-best-case scenario and the very-worst-case scenario. Coincidentally, both incidents had happy endings.
I would recommend pool crashing for the exhilaration of it.
But if it is just a relaxed swim on a hot summer’s day you are after?
Maybe the beach is a better option.
My mate Griff performs a bomb at the rich bloke’s place in Christchurch
while a skinny white swimmer looks on in terror.
HAVE A MIDLIFE CRISIS (GET BOTOX)
Getting old sucks. The only bonus of ageing is that it’s tangible proof that you are still alive, which is better than the alternative, I suppose.
But apart from that small perk, ageing is crap. Physically you are slower and you injure more easily. If you are planning on having a big night, you’d best make it a Friday, so you have two days to recover before work again—and, if you are a man with a similar mindset to me, while you get older the women you like to admire generally stay the same age, which can start to become a tad creepy.
Some mornings I look in the mirror and cannot believe the old bloke staring back at me. I still feel like that twenty-year-old who thinks he can take on the world and kick its arse, except now the reality is I have the face of a middle-aged man looking back at me. I like the outdoors and am pretty slack with applying the old SPF 30—this has given me a weathered complexion. A face that looks like a cross between a sailor and an old leather belt.
I’d probably be more at peace with my old man face if I had successfully taken on the world and won in my twenties, because immense wealth seems to make people a lot less physically unattractive than they actually are. But sadly that was not the path my pathetic life took, so here I am, thirty-eight, huge mortgage, four weeks’ annual leave a year and no parental inheritance on the horizon. FML.
But if there is one tragedy greater than getting old it would have to be people who try to defy it by getting ‘work’ done. And for men I reckon this
is a lot worse than women—society has accepted that women want to take pride in their appearance and hold onto their youthful looks. Us blokes are supposed to age gracefully and be happy about it. The magazines inform us that we get better looking the older we get. Bullshit! It might be the case for George Clooney and Brad Pitt, but it is not the case for most of us.
The funny thing is, when I see a man who has obviously had Botox injections my first thought is never ‘Wow, that fresh-faced cool kid has old man hands.’ It’s always something along the lines of ‘Shame! Look at that ridiculous old guy who wants everyone to think he’s not a ridiculous old guy.’
Yep, I’m against ageing as much as the next person, but I believe accepting it is a more dignified way to deal with it than putting up a fight you are never going to win.
For my next tick on my bucket list I would have my very own mini midlife crisis—I would go against my better judgement and get Botox (or Brotox, as it should be named to make it sound slightly more masculine). It would potentially make me feel younger and would be a whole lot cheaper and safer than getting a Harley.
Right across the road from my work is a place called ‘The Skin Institute’.
Every day from the window of my radio studio I get to see people, mostly women, mostly in their forties, walk through these doors in an effort to make themselves feel better about how they look. All these customers seem to wear very fancy clothes and drive nice cars. This would suggest they are all very materialistic and wealthy (or heavily in debt). Alternatively, they could all be supported by very wealthy older husbands. But if that was the case, why would they be bothered by their fading looks? If you are forty and your husband is seventy, surely it is enough to look thirty years younger?