I have a confession to make. I am a pool pirate. When the forecast is 95 degrees and sunny – in other words, hotter than hell – my pool-going posse and I turn cutthroat in our search for a perfect pool to take over. As pool pirates, we have no pool of our own. Therefore, we must plunder other pools. We pillage apartment complexes, hotels and country clubs with no concern for fences, pass codes or members-only pool rules. We care only about the riches that await us: a chest full of golden, sparkling Miller High Life and a glowing tan.

Once at the pool with our beer booty, we set up camp and turn into pool nomads. We move our camp every two hours or so in order to follow the sunlight. On a good long day we will make a full rotation around the pool perimeter – moving towels, chairs and coolers like oasis-seeking desert-dwellers.

Because I spell heaven “P-O-O-L,” I consider myself a pool-people-watching expert. (I am also a shallow-end handstand champion, but that is besides the point.) On any given day at any given pool, there are interesting sun-worshippers. The professional pool-goer may be mistaken for a 1950s bomber jacket because of his or her obscenely tan, leathery-looking skin.

In stark contrast is the pool virgin who might leave you momentarily blinded by the white.

There is also the pool prima donna: You know the type — Lipstick, high heels and bikini so tiny that it’s hard to see the leopard print. Her see-through cover-up leaves nothing covered up, and you wonder how long it took her to do her hair for the occasion.

Armed with a faux designer purse stuffed with beauty magazines, an unlimited array of toenail polish, and her poodle Fee-fee, she reclines stylishly as far from the pool as possible. She is afraid of being splashed by a pool-punk-in-training. This boy is under 14, has a very loud, obnoxious voice, and is a master of the cannonball arts. His escapades are deadly to the water resistant: just one of his expert belly-flops can drench the entire poolside. He does this to impress the pool princesses: young females whose sole summer responsibility is to flip over every thirty minutes and gossip. (His efforts predictably fail miserably.) The bad news about punks in training is that they tend to travel in parentless, pubescent herds and are typically very difficult to contain, unless there is a resident pool sasquatch.

This large, very hairy, very scary man is hulky, bulky, utterly un-waxed and adept at blowing punks in training out of the water (literally). His bellowing voice, overgrown body fur and menacing looks intimidate the punk-in-training pack back to the basketball court. Beneath his bristly bewhiskeredness, he fantasizes about becoming the prima donna’s pool paramour. This ridiculously happy enamored pair is one long parade of pool public displays of affection. They float around sharing a minuscule raft, flaunting their undeniable sexiness and staring deeply into one another’s eyes. Of the Ten Pool Commandments, pool paramours are most likely to break number seven. These sacred statutes are as follows:

1. Thou shalt love the pool with all your heart.

2. Thou shalt have no other summer priorities above the pool.

3. Thou shalt not take the name of thy lifeguard in vain.

4. Thou shalt honor the Sabbath day and keep it holy by resting … at the pool.

5. Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother by inviting them to the pool.

6. Thou shalt not kill the mood by peeing in or near the pool.

7. Thou shalt not commit sexually immoral acts in the pool, especially while thy parents are present.

8. Thou shalt not steal thy neighbor’s sunlight.

9. Thou shalt not lie about thy whereabouts when actually sitting by the pool.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s chair.

And the greatest commandment is this: Thou shalt enjoy thy pooltime!

Rebecca Miller is a senior in psychology. She can be reached for comment at [email protected].