Gators and Water and a Jet Ski, Oh My!

Michael Phelps is an athlete. So is Shawn Johnson. The Manning brothers are athletes. Kobe and Shaq are athletes. Andy Roddick is one, too.

I, on the other hand, am not an athlete.

Before we got engaged, my husband-to-be announced he had always wanted to marry an athletic girl. I carefully explained that in school I was always the one chosen last for the team. I couldn’t hit a softball if somebody gave me a bat six feet wide. I wasn’t particularly gifted at badminton, and somehow I had managed to reach adulthood without learning to swim. And, I swiftly told him before he could offer to teach me, I didn’t want to learn to swim. I was and still am terrified of the water.

So naturally, the guy who wanted an athletic girl fell in love with and married the most un-athletic woman possible. Before the flowers from my bouquet turned brown, he convinced me to go wilderness canoeing in the Okefenokee Swamp. Wilderness canoeing means just what it sounds like. You are in the wilderness; you are the only canoe on your extremely narrow and very poorly marked trail. The Army drops rangers-in-training into this swamp as part of their survival skills course.

I was somewhat concerned about snakes hanging off the branches. The park ranger assured me I wouldn’t run into snakes.

“The gators eat them all,” he explained.

Oh, good.

It took us eight hours to row to our camp spot. Branches scratched our faces, and alligators bumped their heads on the bottom of the canoe. Alligators will eat you. Once, we got stuck in lily pads. My husband had to get out and push the canoe through the lily pads. I was certainly expecting a gator to bite off at least one of his legs.

By the time we got to the camp spot, my right arm was about to fall off after all that rowing. I had packed a tube of Ben-Gay at the last minute, and it saved my marriage. The next day, guess what! We had to row eight more hours to get out of that God-forsaken place. I never want to see another alligator.

And, just as naturally as canoeing through the swamp, when our twins were in middle school, we bought a houseboat, a ski boat and two jet skis. Suddenly we were spending every weekend on the water. My husband has made a six-year effort of getting me to like riding on a jet ski. No matter what I’ve said, he remained convinced I would find it “exhilarating.” At least, he promised he would go slowly with me on the thing. Our twins have two speeds: off and as fast as it will go.

Well, we just sold the houseboat. No more jet ski. Labor Day was our last weekend there, and I thought I had successfully dodged the jet ski bullet. But he’s not a man to give up.
Somehow he convinced me to mount the damn thing. He would drive, he said, and he would definitely do slow.

He didn’t go slow. And then, in an effort to placate me, he said we would get closer to the shore so we could admire all the vacation homes. But before we got there, the jet ski died. My husband said it was clogged with grass. He jumped in the water to pull the stuff out, causing the craft to sway dangerously from side to side.

“If you turn this thing over with me on it, I will never forgive you.” I enunciated each word slowly between clenched teeth.

“You can’t drown; you have on a life jacket.”

I didn’t bother to reply. The athletic chasm between us was so great I realized it would take three lifetimes to get it filled.

He finally got it going, and then got back on it – but behind me this time. I needed to drive, he said. It would be a confidence builder. I first refused, but since it appeared we might sit out there in the middle of the lake all day, I started it up, slowly.

And I drove us back to the houseboat. I didn’t go super fast, but I didn’t drive super slow, either. I was terrified, but I did it.

So what’s the point of all this revelation into my cowardly character? Well, I know I need to increase my confidence level. I have a lot of fears, and it’s about time I let go of some of them. After captaining that jet ski for a few minutes, I realized I was doing something that scared me, and I was winning. It was a tiny victory, but my victory all the same. If I could do that, then perhaps I can do other things that frighten me.

Just one little step on my reinvention campaign!