His fingers are fluent in the language of dance. Having rhythmically twirled tireless ladies for more than 50 years, they communicate any step with a mere beckon, nudge, squeeze or lift. During his years at Mississippi State College, Arnold Duckworth swung bare-armed dames under his arms as stray hairs from their bobbed heads danced out of place, whisked across powdered foreheads and became singed from the heat of flushed cheeks.

Their eyes would gleam with pure delight as his arms tightened, cueing them of an upcoming move. Their elaborately embroidered dresses would blanket the walnut floor, brushing against his legs as the girls slid through. Twisting, they would jump, black Mary Janes clicking right back into the beat of “String of Pearls” or “Pennsylvania 65,000” to face him again.

Fingers that can tap the rhythm of any Sea-Notes song intertwine around a tall glass of icy pink lemonade dripping with a coat of condensation. Duckworth, 70, lifts the glass to his lips, the ice cubes jiggling lazily in response. The La Conner resident’s dark eyes sparkle as he flips through the yellowed pages of his mental diary, reliving the pleasure of those fast-paced nights of swing dancing.

“I can show you things you’ll never see in a studio,” Duckworth reminisces fondly. “Without formal instruction, we have our own style. You can recognize who went to what city by the way they danced.”

Leaning forward, crossing and recrossing his short legs, he brings his elbows to the table, rests his chin on the makeshift bridge of his clasped hands and cocks his head, as if listening for the boisterous strains of Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman or Woody Herman.

“There’s nothing like a live band to dance to that makes all the difference in the world,” says Duckworth, co-founder of the Island Dance Club, a group dedicated to keeping swing alive and providing its devotees with live bands.

“Live music has a realism to it,” he continues. “It motivates you psychologically, much more than canned music; you can hear every mistake; it’s loud; it has feeling.”

He nestles back into the past, snowy-white hair serving as a fluffy pillow. A grin threatens to explode across his face as he recalls the rules of dance in the late 1940s.

“You didn’t walk up to someone; someone always had to introduce you,” he says.

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