You're Soaking in it!
Picture this:
1:00am. 4 very drunk dykes on the dock. A case of beer. 600 feet uphill to the nearest bathroom. I think you know where I am going with this...
The Engineer made the first attempt. It worked! "Okay MJ... here's how you do it... Drop your pants, waddle over there to the ladder, step down to the first step, hold on and lean WAY back. And you're good to go!" "Uh, okay (mumble mumble stumble)" All seemed to be going according to plan. Ah, sweet relief. Whew, that felt good. Pulling up my pants, I suddenly realized that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. What have I done? Okay, it's dark. Very dark. Perhaps if I just don't say anything, no one will notice that my pants are soaking wet. Was it lake water? It had to be. I'm 36 years old, I couldn't have just peed all over myself! I swear it sounded like it was hitting the water!!
We spent the rest of the night on the dock laughing so fucking hard that I'm surprised that no one else peed their pants. Me? I had no pants on so what did it matter?
Two Dingbats in a Dingy
The sailing gene skipped right over me. Growing up I had dreams of Jimmy Buffett and Steven Stills. I wanted to be a pirate. Sail the seven seas ... a merchant marine even. Once, for my birthday several years ago, my wife chartered a very nice 32' sail boat for 8 of us on the San Francisco Bay. She knew I grew up a Great Lakes water baby, knew that I loved all things boat-like. But was unaware of a crucial factor: I get ill, violently, when I sail. Not so on power boats, just sailing. I can't explain it. Needless to say, and to no fault of the missus, I polluted the bay that day, but still managed to have a great time. She now knows that Dramamine is a required element for a day at sea.
My mother was a great sailor, racing sloops (she manned the jib) as a teenager. There are pennants and cups and other trophy-like things she earned adorning the walls in the hallway at the lake. Me? All I have to show for my sailing prowess are a harrowing story of near death at age 8 after flipping a HobieCat in a thunderstorm that I should not have been out in to begin with and losing my lunch in the SF Bay. And now this.
Me and my buddy attempting to sail a glorified dingy last week. It's ridiculous isn't it? Two grown women shoehorning themselves into a tiny little piece of fiberglass without really knowing what the fuck we were doing. I will give my good friend credit. She did indeed know how the rudder (or in this case, oar!) worked while I tried not to shred my hands on the dental floss of a sheath. Combined, we exceeded the recommended weight limit (250lbs). Add a little alcohol and you have the perfect recipe for disaster. Nothing horrible happened, other than taking on about 15 gallons of water. Ever the wise ones, we did not attempt to sail when it was windy (apparently a key element in the whole sailing process) and we did not go out beyond waist deep water. The result being that we never really got very far and when we eventually got bored (or thirsty, or ill) all we need do was jump out and walked her back to shore.
After the previous successful day of "sailing" I proudly felt that I had a pretty good handle on how the whole sail/rudder tacking thing worked. It being our last day at the lake, I decided that I would take the dingy out by myself. My Stepfather and Mother were of course ready with the camera to document this momentous occasion, where at age 36, I would finally graduate to the "minnow" category and perhaps have some sort of trophy to add to the family collection.
While this photo makes it look like I am doing a fine job, my mother keenly noted "Oh that's great honey! No one will ever know that you were actually going backwards!"
New pennant on the wall reads "2002 First Place: At least she didn't pee her pants. Or did she?"
