Caffiend III

Today's runner up:

Snorkeling.

Again, you say, such a sissy sport. To which I must reply, HA, just try it. And no, not in your backyard pool, fool. I mean out there, in the deep blue yonder. The big, blue wobbly thing. The real ocean. The one with the sharks and rays and jellyfish.

Hawaii, in fact. Home of the 30 foot skull-crushing killer wave, the guardian of the sea. To get past it takes a certain amount of bravery (stupidity) and sheer physical ability. Even balmy day, teensy little seven foot waves are strong enough to knock you off your feet and drag you under, roll you around like a mean-ass swamp gator, slam you into the sand and the rocks, saltwater invading all your orifices. Then the roaring in your ears hypnotizes you and your petrified brain starts to hallucinate from the lack of oxygen, tells you to relax, just breathe in...you want to, right? You want to just close your eyes and breathe... you can, yes, you can, breathe...underwater. The ocean says so. And you feel so drowsy and just want to breathe in the pretty ocean. And you want to take a nice long nap. Hahaha! No wonder men believe in mermaids :) Hell, yeah, the ocean is a she, and she will Do You In if you trust her, do you in and suck you under and make you hers, oh hell yeah, in a New York minute. But I digress.

Once past the waves (and the accompanying undertow strong enough to light an entire village for a year, if only such raw power could be harnessed and diverted to Hydro Quebec so we could sell it right back to the States and make a killing...so to speak) it's pretty easy from there. We managed to find, with some local help, a nice, sandy, safe bay in which to snorkle without fearing that the next wave would drag our waterlogged, hallucinating bodies a thousand miles south to Fiji. In this wonderfully protected lagoon the lifeguards only had to worry about the little old ladies falling off their little old floating foam boards and getting stranded on the slippery rocks, their gargled squawks for help competing with the childrens happy laughter on the shore as they search out seashell treasures. And the blub-glubbing of snorkelers paddling about, distracted by the pretty porites and not paying attention...

So into this idyllic, picturesque day go I and the girls, all fitted out in our snorkeling gear. Off we swim into the crystalline blueness. We paddle joyously about in 10'-25' deep, crystal clear water, diving occasional to the bottom to check out interesting coral formations (damn them porites) that resemble giant scoops of glistening pink ice cream. Sea turtles swim by lazily, safe in the knowledge that it is illegal to pester them.

I see Rockmover wrasses flipping rocks over on the bottom of a particularly nice porites formation, searching out goodies to eat. So I dive down to check them out. A flash of color catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I turn my tunnel-vision mask, intrigued, only to find myself staring straight into the demonic eyes of a Picasso triggerfish. A mere six inches long, with the regal bearing of Hawai'is State Fish, and every majestic inch of her is quivering with righteous indignation and smouldering anger at my trespassing upon her breeding ground. I freeze instantly. The part of my brain that still functions tells me that I cannot outswim this angry, torpedo shaped creature with a jaw strong enough to crack open clams as though they are made of eggshells.

Thus petrified, I stare stupidly at her like a deer caught in the headlights. Freshly released urine warms my legs. I blink, then flinch, and the action moves me closer to her. Undertandably, she takes this as a sign of aggression on my part, and starts swimming menacingly towards me. Suddenly my feeble brain kicks in (survival! thank you, ancestors, for giving me sheer gut instinct!) and I turn my back on her in an attempt to mollify her by showing her that I am now taking my leave of her royal court, as she is way too much fish for me, thank you very much.

I glance back only once, hoping that she will be satisfied and will not rip my left asscheek apart with her pitbull Jaws of Death, Doom, and Dismemberment. But she does indeed seem to be mollified by my retreat. Perhaps my size helps...5 foot open ocean predators are not exactly notorious for stealing the castles of triggerfish, and she heads back down towards her kingdom. Err, pile of rocks.

I honestly did not know, until that moment, that I could sweat underwater.

Caffiend II

After some serious pondering and deep, methodical thinking, I have decided upon my Extreme Sport of choice. But beforehand, I would like to list the runners-up, and my reasons for disqualifying them.

Todays Runner-Up:

Tobogganning.
Sure, you say. What a totally sissy sport. But notice that kids toboggan, and adults do NOT. I discovered why the hard way. Picture this: A bright blue sky, a lovely snowy white hill, laughing children. A nice, long, steep, snowy white hill. Beautiful sunshiney day. Children laughing! and sliding! Tumbling and falling, running back up to slide again...wheee! Looks like fun!
However, few people stop to consider the math. The average tobogganing child weighs approximately 80 pounds. Multiply this by the surface area of the toboggan, and then the slip speed. Slip speed varies from vehicle to vehicle...a wooden toboggan has a much slower slip speed than a piece of convex plastic sprayed with Pam. If you double the weight of the rider and factor in the surface area and slip speed, you go from having a cute photo op to watching a potentially lethal weapon wipe out everything in its path.
In my case, in my path loomed a solid wall of hay piled neatly along the edge of the park. Some city-slicker park employee must have decided that a wall of nice, soft hay would prevent people from sliding out onto the street. What city slickers do not know about baled hay is that, once wet, it will freeze solid into a two-foot thick wall of unassailable, bulletproof granite. Obviously, no one was ever meant to get anywhere near these deadly bales of hay. Because hitting one would be bad. It would be really, really bad. It felt, in fact, almost like I was hitting a solid, unassailable, bulletproof granite wall.
So. Factor in my weight, my daughters weight (95 pounds) and the slip speed of an over-inflated three foot inner tube. I saw it coming in plenty of time to turn us around so that I hit the wall instead of her. She bounced harmlessy off of me. I, between her weight, our speed, and the frozen wall, was popped straight upwards at the speed of an unladen swallow. I flipped in midair like the most delicate ballerina, then belly flopped onto the sidewalk with the same splatting sound that pigeon crap would make after falling from the height of a 50 story building.
Thank God for the Poop-n-Scoop laws. Seriously. Thank you, God, that I did not land face down in a nice, steamy-on-the-inside, frosty-on-the-outside, winter pile of Great Dane crap. Might have softened the blow, mind you. But then I wouldn't be able to do this neat trick where I can see my vertebrae where my belly button used to be.