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When I moved to Arlington in 1976, I was puzzled by everyone talking about trips to “the beach.” It took an entire season to understand that they meant the edge of an actual ocean.

In landlocked Middle America, “the beach” had meant something else entirely: Rainbow Beach, our town swimming pool. It was my summer destination from my earliest days splashing in the baby pool through the years when I dared to dive from the tower.

Rainbow Beach was laid out in concentric circles, almost like an enormous dartboard. The broad outer sidewalk served as a promenade where visitors strolled and showed off their newest swimwear. One summer, my sister and I wore matching two-piece suits—a daring choice at the time.

A ring of sand came next, attracting children armed with buckets and shovels. Some families laid their blankets there, though my friends and I preferred the grass beyond the sidewalk.

Inside the sandy area, the water gradually deepened to chest height. During grade school, my friends and I spent hours there attempting underwater somersaults and handstands and generally fooling around.

At the center was the deep-water circle. It featured a large round structure illuminated at night, with diving boards set at several heights for swimmers bold enough to use them.

By our teenage years, Rainbow Beach was the place to be all summer. Some teens worked as lifeguards, bathhouse attendants, or snack sellers. My friends and I concentrated on socializing.

I would pile friends into my old car, collecting them along the way, and we would spend the day trying to achieve the perfect tan. We even mixed pungent iodine with baby oil in hopes of browning faster, roasting ourselves like meat beneath a broiler.

We seldom entered the pool by then because getting wet would spoil our hairstyles. Instead, we traded gossip, played a handheld card game we called “beach solitaire,” and repeatedly visited the snack bar. My favorite indulgence was a frozen Snickers bar served on a stick.

The ultimate status symbol was hearing your name announced over the public-address system. We persuaded friends to telephone the pool just so an announcement would echo across the grounds: “Carol Edwards, you have a phone call.”

After one supposedly grueling day at Rainbow Beach, I arrived at the dinner table red from the sun and completely wilted. My father looked at my mother and observed that if he took me to his job and worked me that hard, he would be arrested.