A friend of mine flew up from Florida and decided that he would teach me how to water ski. He’s one of those outdoorsy types with an audible tan, who feels that life is incomplete and poorly lived if everyone on the planet doesn’t experience and enjoy standing on two boards while being towed behind a boat flying over the water at 800 knots.
Wet suits donned, my friend (I’ll call him “Asshole” -- “AH” for short) plunged into the water with me to teach me how to “get up.” Mind you, I do this every morning with absolutely no instruction from anyone, but I am nothing if not a good sport, so I shrugged, and tried to pay attention.
I followed AH’s instructions to the letter, and he signaled the boat to go.
I was pulled out of my skis, my wetsuit, and my bathing suit! If I hadn’t let go of the towline when I did, I’m convinced that my skeletal system would have gone bouncing across the water.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I was maneuvered behind the boat again before I was alert enough to protest.
“GO!” AH shouted.
Off the boat sped. This time, I got up.
For 1.5 seconds.
Did you know that hitting the surface of the water at high speed feels like kissing the pavement after a jump from a two-story building?
Well, it does.
Luckily, I was in the water, so all the blood washed off almost immediately. I would have hoped for sharks, but we were in a lake.
The third time I tried, my shoulder dislocated.
The fourth time, I sprained my ankle.
The fifth time, the towline got wrapped around my neck and whipped me back and forth across the water like a twisted game of eenie-meenie-miney-moe.
By the time I got home, after a quick eight-hour stop at the Emergency Room, I went right to bed to recuperate and plan my move to Arizona.