Why We Swim in Quarries

There was a place in Iowa in 1995, tucked away in the dark-green fields of soybeans and corn, where a flooded rock quarry shimmered aquamarine. I stood on its edge one hot summer day with two friends. Like most teenagers, we were drawn to the rebelliousness of the act. To reach the quarry, we had to trespass on private farmland and ignore the “swimming forbidden by law” signs. But really, we wanted to experience something that we had only seen on postcards. “It was a beautiful oasis,” remembers one friend. “Like lagoons in Hawaii,” recalls another.

We removed our shoes and chose a low point of entry.