In Memoriam * Paul E. Fortoul * 1958 - 2007
Foster and I met Paul in 1982, not long after we met each other, on a pool deck at City College, where Foster had come as a veteran of collegiate swimming and I was an enthusiastic novice. I swam in the slowest of the lanes Paul coached, with will and energy but little knowledge and less skill. I often found inspiration and the drive to keep going from glancing over at the next lane where Paul's sister, Karen, took off on intervals that were only a dream for me. She had an astonishing ability to push off after resting less than the blink of an eye. "You've got four whole seconds," she would say. "Plenty of time!" The "plenty of time" mantra was also Paul's. I learned from them both - from Paul barking commands on deck and Karen plunging like a duck on the stroke of the pace clock -- how to survive and conquer a workout.
It suited me fine that Paul wasn't cut from the typical mode of coaches, and resembled a Talmudic scholar or an expatriate Bolshevik more than a hearty jock. I craved the total escape and absorption of long workouts, head submerged, lungs pounding, eyes fixed on the cross at the end of the lane. If my only goal were to reach the end of a set, attainment was pure exhilaration. Paul, in his cerebral, analytic way, seemed to appreciate that and responded to whatever I was able to give. He took in my parameters, integrated them into his software, and responded with the precisely appropriate commands.
We founded the Red Tide masters' team soon after we started swimming in City College workouts. Foster was head coach, I was co-administrator and Paul often worked with Foster on deck. Early on, we had the good fortune to recruit a number of capable and committed gay male swimmers. Paul gravitated to this group. When the second Gay Games were held in San Francisco in 1986, Paul confided in us that he wanted to attend. I assured him of my support, congratulated him on the decision, and said all the other things one says to a friend on the brink of a major life change. But the conversation didn't end there. Paul kept bringing up the topic for weeks. He wanted me to understand the particular weight of his decision in some way that was eluding me.
It took me years to grasp, but I think I finally got it. For Paul, there was no Mr. Right. Rather, there was a community of swimmers, and in that community lay the meaning of his life. For Paul, going to Gay Games was the precise equivalent of introducing one's beloved to the world. To paraphrase E.M. Forster, it was the way he connected the prose of his coaching with the passion of his core being.
In the 1990s, Paul became more involved in swimming and coaching, while I gradually drifted away from killer workouts and masters' swim meets. We stayed in touch mainly through our shared pattern of Adirondack summers. The Fortoul family traditionally took 2 weeks' vacation in a cottage on Lake George. By coincidence, Foster and I began renting a cabin about an hour north of there, near some favorite Adirondack swimming holes. We got together with Karen and Kate and Paul and Selma and Jose whenever we could make our schedules mesh.
Since I was no longer fixated on making personal records or administering a team, Paul and I had to find other subject matter. This was do-able. Paul was interested in politics. He had a curious, skeptical mind, a strong sense of social ethics, and a ready sense of humor. He read the New York Times assiduously. In fact, as anyone who visited his office knew, his collection of the Times was nearly as high as his stack of meet records.
After Karen and Kate moved to Boston, some years went by when I didn't see Paul. I heard from others that he had left his computer job at City College and taken up coaching full-time. I wasn't sure what to make of this news. For all his love of swimming, Paul struck me as too intense and bright and curious to feel fulfilled by coaching alone.
But Paul was still building a rainbow bridge. He was lucky to have an extraordinary family and he had the insight to know it. Jose Fortoul is the person whose analytic mind and computer skills Paul most respected. Selma, his mother, and Karen, his sister, are angels of our better nature. As for Karen's partner, Kate, Paul glowed so much at their commitment ceremony that when I showed my own mother the photos, she thought Paul was the one getting married.
When Jamie and Nora came into the world, Paul's joy was transcendent. With Jamie's birth, he found his calling as a proud uncle, and when Nora came along, he rose to another level. All his resistance to sentimentality went up in vapor. His pockets spilled over with photos. He twinkled and giggled and beamed. The kids returned his affection and played with him with delight. They became the most precious part of his life.
I saw Paul at Lake George one drizzly day last summer with his family. Karen, Kate and Foster played miniature golf in the rain with Jamie and Nora. Paul and I sat on a bench, eating soft ice cream and talking. I'd never seen him in such a state of peace. He was elated with his coaching job at Fieldston and deeply content to be spending a week with the family. We talked for more than an hour and I felt more connected to him than I ever had. It was a new Paul, glowing against the gray, and for this, I believe his family deserves much of the credit.
Only four months after that, I saw him in the hospital. I thought he was okay -- weak and tired but lucid and still striving to connect. Karen was trying to get him moved to a convalescent home. We talked about that and about A-Rod's new contract with the Yankees and, of course, about swimming and about the kids. The time to leave came too soon. I said I hoped to see him soon in a more comfortable place. He took a last look at my saffron colored sweater and bright pink scarf. "I like what you're wearing," he said. "It's very colorful. Thank you very much for coming."
He died a week later.