Splash pads? Those seemingly innocent havens of summer joy where the little ones run and squeal and do their best impersonations of wetsuited penguins tackling a sprinkler system. Isn’t it curious how quickly things go south—or maybe I should say “down the drain”—when we invite Dr. Science and their buddy, Mr. Fact, to the party?
So imagine my delight (splash-induced sarcasm fully intended) when I stumbled upon a riveting piece published in the CDC’s Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Straight out of the archives, we have 25 years’ worth of gut-churning data on splash-pad-related gastrointestinal outbreaks. These aren’t just grandiose anecdotes about unfortunate underpants; we’re talking about an unsettling 10,611 illnesses served up with a side of 152 hospitalizations and 99 emergency department visits. In terms of stats, it’s a real-life computing equivalent of hearing the infamous Windows XP startup chime, over and over again. Mainly children falling victim, all courtesy of good ol’ pathogens like Cryptosporidium, Campylobacter jejuni, whatever way you say ‘disconcerting debris.’
Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to wonder if putting ‘public’ and ‘water basin for children’ in the same sentence should’ve rung some alarm bells earlier. As it turns out, splash pads just popped up like mushrooms in the ’90s—right about the time when Friends premiered, eggs became villains, and everyone’s brain was getting dial-up-induced knots. Fast forward to today, with splash pads creating outrageously entertaining (if you’re an unwelcome pathogen) summer fountains: industrious plumbing de Soto threads spraying unmanageable volumes of attacker-for-yeasts here, there, and everywhere.
What’s the deal with these aquatic scoundrels, right? The whole chlorination defense apparently doesn’t armor-up as one might have hoped when dealing with many splash pads. Why? Because the twinkly jets and environment make it more like we’ve set things to ‘easy mode’ for the reformation of, say, norovirus levels keen to masquerade into decorative fountains rather than chlorine-ville. Hints from our wise CDC friends now shpate with sounds as hopeful as broccoli during recess—there’s potential in slaying Crypto-dragons using warrior-like ozone or ultraviolet lights. (Who would’ve thought lights on a splash pad could maybe save the day?)
Among them, single-pass splash pads whirl out a promising solution—cut the cesspool-esque redundancy by breaking free from uncle gas pedal and just run fresh water through. Picture this: jets of cool water minus the H20-de philosophie of “you’ve met me before!”
Here’s the splash pad plot twist no one fingering the past saw coming: some new-school rules and shiny tricks, they say, some piper diviners. But, as with most inchoate tales, fixes get tangled like strands of spaghetti on trying dinner forks and clang—here’s wishing for smoother slipstreams in humidity.
So, my friend, next time you’re shoeless, laughing gaily near a jet of water—that bit of ju-esoteric knowledge in meta-happy amicability—engage in some splash-thought reflectionary practice on cleaning feats anon with thine hoses. Be sure you’re not just putting your feet beneath water bugs assembling session. And remember: ‘tis not just real-life Super Mario; let us journey on wiser, looking out for salmonella-suspecting toesies every Monday (or all days).
Got your splash-ing hat on? Thoughts or creative riparian musings are welcomed, ol’ buddy!
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