I went waterskiing once, a few years back. Now, I'm not known to enjoy
water sports. In fact, I'm rather famous 'round these parts for not enjoying
water at all, except to drink. However, for the record, my distaste for
being dirty does overcome my dislike of water. In other words, I'm not
adverse to bathing or taking showers. I just don't like to be to be wet.
Or, really, it's not even that I don't like to be wet. There have been
times that I've enjoyed being submerged in a hot tub before, so there
must be more to it. I think it's that I don't like to be cold and wet.
The cold part is what sucks. I'm one of those people who have to wade
slowly into a cold lake or pool when what I really should do is jump in
cannonball style and just get it over with. I guess I'm something of a
masochist, at times, which might explain why I went waterskiing once.
Just because I hate being cold and wet doesn't mean that I don't go in
the water at all. I sometimes go into the water. I mean, I occasionally
go into the water. Okay, I barely go into the water. I don't particularly
care for it. Well, it's not like I don't particularly care for it. I mean,
I only went into the water once last summer, but that was with my girlfriend,
and it was pretty fun, and I don't know why I didn't go more often. I'll
try to go more often next year. It was a rather crappy summer, weatherwise,
anyways. Plus, the water is really cold. I took a long time to get used
to the water, and I'm sure my girlfriend just wished I would jump in cannonball
style and get it over with. But I usually don't. When I went waterskiing
once I went into the water all at once, but that wasn't cannonball style.
It sure was cold, though.
Even though I don't care for water sports, I was with my friends down
at the lake and one of them had a jet-ski that was three-person so you
could waterski off of it. There were like five or six of us out there
in the water, including me because even though the water was cold and
wet, it was hot out and I decided cold was better than hot and the rest
of us were in the water, and every once in awhile I have to go in the
water so I can look in the mirror and say that I'm not an old fuddy duddy
type who never does anything slightly uncomfortable every once in awhile.
I guess the day I went waterskiing once I was feeling especially fuddy
duddy-esque because when I was extended the offer to go waterskiing I
said, "Well, sure. I'll try it. I'll try things, once. I'm no fuddy
duddy." I think they were surprised that didn't really argue about
waterskiing once. Or maybe not. I guess I was hoping they were surprised
I didn't argue about waterskiing once. Maybe they would only be surprised
if I waterskiied twice.
So I put on the life preserver and tired to put on the skis. I tried
to put the first ski on, but I fell backwards. I tried putting the other
ski on, but I fell forwards. I eventually got the left ski on, but it
fell off when I put the right ski on. I got the right ski on, and the
left ski fell off and then was when I first thought that perhaps waterskiing
once was going to be one time too many. Still, I'm no fuddy duddy, although
I must've sounded like one as I was imploring the jet-ski driver to not
go too fast, because I've never done this before. He said, sure. I asked
the other five or six of us for advice, and they said that to waterski
once when the engine goes off I'll need to pull myself up and then I'll
be waterskiing once. I remember the only other advice was the always-popular
"don't fall". Of course I thought about "throwing the match"
if you will, but I couldn't bring myself to fake attempting to waterski
once. I guess it's some form of pride, possibly not the good kind. It's
the kind of pride that usually leads to me being cold and wet. Like the
time when I was I kid and I was proud of that huge water balloon I filled
using the garden hose.
So I grabbed the rope and waited for the jet-ski to get into position,
and I thought about the time I went tubing once, where behind the same
jet-ski I had to make a split-second decision to either remain holding
on to the inner tube or to be very comfortable with my body and lose my
swimming trunks. Even though my swimming trunks were bright teal and probably
easy to spot and recover, I decided the prudent thing to do was to let
go. Besides my arms were tired by that time, and my nose kinda hurt from
banging against the tube, the memory of which was unfortunately absent
from my head when I went waterskiing once.
The jet-ski roared to full power and I found myself rising out of the
water. Seemingly unused to the notion of success at water sports, my hands
responded buy releasing their grip on the rope handle. I soon returned
to the embrace of the cold, wet water, but it wasn't a nice cozy embrace
like when I hugged my girlfriend when we were in the water once last summer,
but in the kind of embrace that pile drivers were invented to perform.
Some masochists like this kind of pain, but I usually don't. Despite this
learning experience, I was still somehow determined to waterski once.
The five or six of us came over and said that I let go of the rope and
I shouldn't let go of the rope. "The secret to waterskiing once,"
they said, "was to hold on to the rope." I wanted another shot,
and taking their advice, this time I was going to hold on to the rope.
As the jet-ski started to move back into position, I kept repeating to
myself, "Hold on to the rope. I gotta hold on to the rope..."
over an over again. I wanted to waterski once. To show that I wasn't a
fuddy duddy. To let everyone know that it's just that I don't like the
water, that it's cold and wet and I don't like to be cold and wet. I can
do this. I just have to hold on to the rope. Hold on to the rope. Hold
on to the rope. Hold on to the rope...
The jet-ski roared again to life and I was off. I rose out of the water,
holding the rope, and was able to defeat my hands natural and correct
instincts by concentrating over and over again on holding the rope. And
for what was only really a fraction of a second, there I was, holding
the rope, and all the way out of the water. I was actually waterskiing
once! Perhaps if I wasn't so focused on holding on to the rope, I may
have possibly even enjoyed it. It's conceivable, even, that I could even
have savored it. Oh, what a site it must've been, to see me waterski once.
It's not like I waterski once every day, you know. I may have even started
to give a yelp of success to the five or six of us.
However, quicker than that moment came, it was gone. The cold, wet, water
would have none of this levity and decided to trip me with a tiny little
wave. The ski tips caught, and I did a face-plant right into the water.
However, despite the pain I felt from the sudden plunge, I didn't let
go of the rope. I was determined to waterski once. I was told the secret
was not letting go of the rope. I'm not going to let go of the rope. Hold
on to the rope. Hold on to the rope. My hands, downright pissed at me
for overruling their earlier decision, decided that I got us into this
situation, and I could get us out. My mouth, too slow to complete retract
my yelp of success, remained partially opened and rather porous to the
onslaught of cold, wet water. And all the while, I could hear the driver
of the jet-ski yell back to me, "Let go of the rope! Let go of the
rope! Let go of the rope!"
I did eventually let go of the rope. After some contemplation regarding
whether or not my shoulder sockets were dislocated, I concluded that I
should end my waterskiing once career at 1/2 second. Besides, by the time
we found both skis, it was almost dark anyways. And that was it. I went
waterskiing once. And I didn't let go of the rope. And although I only
fought fuddy duddy to a draw, I'm okay with it. And although I still don't
like being cold and wet, I'm okay with it. And although five or six of
us are trying to get me to take up waterskiing twice, I'm okay with it.
Although my swim trunks are bright teal in color, I'm okay with it. Sometimes
it takes waterskiing once to know that waterskiing once is all the waterskiing
once you need.
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