The Privilege Of Swimming In Dave Portnoy's Pool

I've spent a lot of great days and nights in Miami with Dave over the years. You may recall the time we went nightclubbing together on South Beach:

While that may be the only other time we've ever been in the same place in Miami, the experience was so memorable that we've often joked about reuniting down there for a boys' weekend. It's that classic, fantastical idea guys volley back and forth over text, knowing it will likely never happen, but letting the faint promise of a far-off plan stand as the glue that binds our friendship.

Turns out, we were both wrong. For just yesterday, I visited Dave at his shimmering palace on the shores of Miami-Dade county. Dana and I were there to shoot a video with Dave as the guest, but that was merely the Trojan Horse upon which we rode through the mechanized gates of Dave's estate. 

I'd been preparing for our visit with a dogged discipline. The night prior was election night in America, but the woke overlords of our Wynwood Arlo refused to show election coverage for fear that it might upset the hotel patrons. A neutral, soothing alternative was instead played across the four televisions of the lobby bar—Road Wars on A&E. It's an endless loop of motorcyclists in full face helmets hopping off their bikes to headbutt Camry drivers for angling them off the road; of young women on mopeds in Cambodia ramming into milk trucks and skittering across an intersection before tumbling headfirst into an open drain beneath the sidewalk. We found ourselves drinking hard to numb our brains to the deeply upsetting frequency of vehicular manslaughter in our world. 

At some point, Dana produced a tin of tobacco products intended to lever up our buzz. Never one to sit out, I tucked the innocent white pouch in my upper lip and waited for the gentle euphoria of nicotine to send me tumbling through space and time. Alas, this serving was double the strength of any I'd ever tried, and within minutes my head and stomach were reeling. I settled our tab and headed to my room where I folded a bath towel at the base of the toilet like Gus Fring after poisoning the cartel. Holding my now-long hair with one hand like a proud, independent woman, I used my other hand to induce a torrent of vomit through a beaming smile. For after upending five margaritas, one Peroni, and 3,000 calories of Turkish tapas, I knew that this act would restore my shredded physique the next day at Dave's pool. 

Thank goodness, too, for I had brought only my most European-cut swim trunks. This is Miami, people; where you don't wear your mid-shin Billabong boardshorts to bathe. It's mid-thigh or die. 

I awoke refreshed and alert, albeit sore from a scorched esophagus. The team was hell-bent on getting a pump in, so we congregated in decent hotel gym for a session of circuits: four sets each of incline shoulder presses with the heaviest dumbells available (50s, pathetic) // seated rows at 160 // close grip pullups x 10 with a final burnout set to failure for a whipped cream topping. Dana "jogged" on the treadmill amid three octogenarian women in golf visors conducting their daily physical therapy. We then retired to our rooms to pound hog before meeting for a light lunch, again, in the lobby bar. 

I ate an avocado salad with chicken:

Dana ate a bacon sandwich on a hamburger bun:

Then it was off to Dave Portnoy's Miami home. I believe that we were the very first Barstool employees ever to visit Dave's Miami house. You see, he's quite private and usually he prefers to meet at some neutral site to shoot content. But given the bond that Dana built with Dave over their Zillion Beers initiative, and given the ironclad friendship Dave and I have fostered over the years, there is a trust between us that does not exist between Dave and, say, Tommy Smokes. Tommy believes there is a bond between them because ages ago, Tommy was part of Team Portnoy. But the truth is, Dave would never let Tommy within 100 miles of his home because Tommy wants it too badly. His nervous energy betrays a deep desire to win Dave's approval at all costs, and he presents as a wobbly, wimpy simp whose eyes dart frantically away from contact whenever Dave is mentioned. But make no mistake: he's keeping a record, and if there are any juicy tidbits worth sharing with the boss man, he'll relay it straight to the top. He's a walking wire worn beneath the shirt of an FBI informant, with zero risk of being discovered because his chest is so concave that you'd never see the outline of the device. 

This according to Dave, mind you. I could tell he was thinking it. 

Inside Dave's refreshingly air-conditioned home, we waited on a gigantic couch while Dave wrapped up a podcast. His two famous dogs wagged their tails and Miss Peaches in particular sought scratches in the most endearing way. I've had my struggles with pitbulls over the years but she taught me the error of my assumptions and melted my heart as she napped on my lap:

Shortly, Dave emerged and greeted us heartily. It was amazing to see him in his own home. Like visiting Louis XIV at Versailles, or touring the living quarters of the White House with a sitting president. So off-hand, so casual, so comfortable. We were all immediately friendly with each other. In fact, it was this happy, welcoming atmosphere that prompted me to ask the daring question I'd been gearing up to ask for 24 hours: 

"Dave, any chance we can go for a swim in your pool after we film?" 

"Sure, knock yourself out," he replied warmly. 

Put yourself in my sandals for a second: you're in the home of your boss, who just so happens to be one of the most famous figures the internet has ever produced. He's built a media empire, has interviewed a sitting president, owns the most expensive home ever purchased in Massachusetts, flies on private jets, and is probably on the fast-track to owning a goddamn NFL team in this lifetime. He can form lines outside an unknown pizza shop in Des Moines with a thirty-second video or raise the GDP of Tuvalu for small business in a pandemic. 

Would you have the balls to ask if you can swim in his pool? 

Not a fucking chance. Which is why you're reading word 1099 of a blog I wrote about daring to be wet. 

Usually I plunge headfirst into a body of water, which is how I nearly paralyzed myself 15 years ago. But not knowing the depth of Dave's pool, I dipped a toe to check the temperature. You guessed it: bathtub. The perfect antidote to a blustery day in south Florida. We jumped in and I immediately set the record for most underwater lengths ever achieved in Dave's pool at FIVE. That mark should stand forever, or at least until he gets that dude who piped the octopus on Netflix over for lunch. 

Also, I opened my eyes underwater and it was totally fine. My guess is that he's using a bromide cleaning solution instead of heavy chlorine that might fray the roots of one's hair. Plus, I believe it's a saltwater pool from the taste test I performed. Very clean. Lovely water. Perfect pH. You could easily bottle it for use in brining a partridge shot down on a rousing November bird hunt. 

I toweled off and changed for the flight home, but not before Dave asked us what we thought of the pool. I mentioned the perfect temp and he said he keeps it that way for summer swims. I thought about asking for an estimate on his monthly electrical bills but I held my tongue because people of means don't discuss such meaningless infrastructure costs; we know better. 

It was the visit of a lifetime, and one that I know will not be replicated by any of my coworkers perhaps ever. But in the unlikely event that any of my weak-lunged colleagues do find themselves floundering in Dave's Miami pool, I highly recommend they keep a spotter handy if they intend to break my underwater record. The last thing we need is the bad press that comes from fishing a lifeless loser from an 88-degree infinity pool on the Bay of Biscayne.