Respecting Water

I didn’t go snorkeling with my family in Ixtapa, Mexico or climb the Dunn’s River Falls in Jamaica. I screamed bloody murder when I was forced to go parasailing in Cancun. I had to be threatened with corporeal punishment before I tried waterskiing and, after three spectacular falls, vowed never to do it again. Summertime tubing on Lake Minnetonka – I’m pathetic, the entire time giving the thumbs down sign in a fruitless attempt to get my dad to ease up on the speed. I will look for any excuse not to get on the jet skis, which sometimes come down to lying about back pain. When my dad drove the car over the frozen lake - a foot and a half thick! - I rocked in my seat until it was over.

You might say I’m scared of water.

But I’m not! I’m cautious. There’s no rhyme or reason, and I’m not certain exactly what it is that gets to me. I can spend waste a whole afternoon just studying at how sunlight hits the facets of the water’s surface. I just skipped a comedy show to marvel at the swirling wake our cruise ship was leaving through the Caribbean. I love water parks and beaches and bath tubs.

I just know that water is powerful. The force of a wave can make you twist and bend in confusion, and the impact can leave you unconscious. The ocean houses all sorts of poisonous and tentacle-y creatures that can sting, suffocate, or sink their teeth into you. You can drown. And perhaps worst of all – you know, because of the irony – if you’re tossed overboard in the middle of the ocean, you can die of dehydration. Imagine how frustrating that would be, being surrounded by water and so parched you can’t see straight, but not being able to quench your thirst.

Despite all that, all those ways to die horrible deaths, I’m not scared of the water. I respect it. I respect the water, and the water returns the favor by letting me live.