Now for a Spitz Sequel

We should probably start this column off with a little theme music from the movie, “Jaws.” Throom-throom-throom-throom.

It’s about the return of the great white shark to the local waters after an absence of 17 years.

When last seen cutting through the waves, he was an awesome sight. He struck terror in the hearts of swimmers everywhere.

Like all sharks, he was perfectly formed for his role in nature. Swift, streamlined, single-minded--some say coldblooded--he roamed the waters of the world at will. He was one of the most magnificent of God’s creatures.

And now, he’s back. Throom-throom.

It’s time for the swimmers of the world to get out of the water. Man the harpoons. Launch the longboats. See that the Coast Guard is notified.

You have to conclude that Mark Spitz is the nearest thing in human form to the great white. Nothing human could keep up with him in the water. Like all sharks, he appears to be half-fish, half-mammal.

The world remembers him as the aquatic marvel who won a gold medal and set a world record every time he hit the water at the Munich Olympics in 1972. He had seven gold medals and seven records in less than a week.

It was such an astonishing feat that when a German coach was asked to comment, he observed wryly, “Very nice. But tell me, when did they cut the fins off? And does it attack small boats?”

But that was a generation ago. Swimmers are supposed to be as perishable as any other fish, over the hill by 19. But here is this predator surfacing again, cutting menacingly through the sea lanes.

Mark Spitz proposes to return to Olympic competition. He intends to be ready for the Barcelona Games in ‘92, by which time he will be 42, an age when it’s dangerous enough to take a tub bath.

Olympians are supposed to rest on their laurels. Swimmers go on to become Tarzan or Flash Gordon or join the Aquacade or market a line of swimwear.

Mark Spitz went on to become a broadcaster, a realtor, a husband, a father, a 9-to-5 type with a BMW, a briefcase, car phone and fax machine. In 1972, all he had was a pair of trunks and ear plugs. He had been in the water more than most dolphins.

The notion is, Mark Spitz is deluding himself. Either that or he really thinks he’s pelagic, that the water will renew him.

Sharks, you see, are ageless. In fact, there is a body of scientific thought that thinks they might live forever. Unless, of course, they get hit by an aircraft carrier. But the doctors say they have found evidence of cell regeneration in sharks, leading to the chilling possibility that some of these monsters of the deep have been around since the Flood. The species itself predates the dinosaur.

Mark Spitz is not going to live forever. But he thinks his aging process has been delayed. Like the great white he resembles, Spitz spent most of his young life on or under water. He estimates that he swam 26,000 miles getting ready for the Munich Olympics. You don’t age in the sea.

Also, this is not the first time he has heard the scoff, “You’re too old.” He heard it before Munich, too, after he’d had such a disastrous Games at Mexico City in 1968, when the best he could do in the individual events was a bronze and a silver and a last place in the butterfly.

He was supposed to be too old, at 22, at Munich. You would have to say he wasn’t. No one was even close to him.

A real shark may be just a baby at 42, but a pool shark like Spitz may be ready for a condo in Florida and a hot water bottle.

I decided to find out if our shark was really going on the attack. Again. I half-expected to have to do it by launch, that I would find him cruising around Santa Monica Bay, biting seals. But he was in a lunchroom.

“You’re kidding!” I accused him. “It’s a stunt. You’re not going to get back in the water with all those young kids!”

“Why not?” he shot back. “Look, do you know that my time in the 100 butterfly in 1972 was only 1.7 seconds behind the winner at Seoul last year? In fact, my 54.27 would have won the next two Olympics--’76 and ’80.”

“So, what makes you think, at 42, you can still swim a 100 butterfly in 54.27?” I pressed.

“I can swim it faster!” exclaimed Spitz. “I am swimming it faster! After the ’84 Games, I swam with Rowdy Gaines, who medaled in those Games. Call him and ask him who won three out of four!

“Look!” Spitz added. “I swam in seven events at Munich in ’72. They were totally different events, called for different techniques, different preparations. With practice and heats and qualifying, I was in the water for years.

“This time, I’m not going for seven gold medals, just one. I’m only getting ready for one event, the 100(-meter butter)fly. I used to swim 12,000 meters a week. Here, I’ll only do 6,000 meters. I needed all the stamina I could get for seven different disciplines. I just have to concentrate on one here.

“The state of the art in anything improves. We have senior swimmers in masters events swimming seconds faster than they did in their prime.”

I said accusingly: “The supposition is, you’re doing this for the publicity, but as soon as you start to get cramps or water in the ears again, you’ll climb out of the pool and back to the office.”

Spitz looked at me with that dead-eyed look of a mako circling a rubber raft in mid-ocean. I was suddenly glad we weren’t in five fathoms of ocean.

“I don’t do anything for publicity, I do it for medals,” he said. “I’ve got the ego for it. I held the world record for five years--that’s a long time in swimming--and I was never pushed or pressed at Munich. I’m a pioneer. We shouldn’t be tyrannized by the calendar. I’m like a windup toy that’s been in a closet for 17 years and never used.”

I would say he’s more like a sleek relic from prehistory. If you see him in the shore break, get out quick.

If he pulls it off, he’s not going to the Hall of Fame, he’s going to Sea World. Or the waters off Amityville. Throom-throom.