I was a church youth group advisor for the phenomenal class of 2010 from the time they were freshmen though their senior year. As graduation time loomed, we would meet on Sunday mornings to hang out, discuss their farewell mini-sermons for "Senior Sunday," and talk about how life was going for everyone.
One such morning, Piper was bemoaning the workload at school, most of all a major science exam coming up that she was spending every spare moment studying for.
It had been 20 years since I'd taken a high school science class, but I found it hard to believe that the coursework had become that specialized. I felt compelled to interrupt.
"I'm sorry, Piper, but why do you have such an important test on Celery Production?"
Everyone looked at me funny for a few seconds until the youth director figured out what I was asking.
"No, Kristin, not 'Celery Production,'" she said to me from across the room.
"Cell Reproduction."
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Waterskiing: Takes 1 & 2
TAKE 1
There I was, fifteen and fabulous, reclining on a chaise lounge in the sand at the beach by the ocean under the sun in The Bahamas. I was loving every minute of my week in paradise. Lying there in my new swimsuit, feeling my warm skin absorb the solar radiance, I pictured myself back home, showing off my glorious pigmentation to everyone's envy. Barely halfway through our vacation, I'd already crowned myself The Tan Queen Of Tulsa.
I turned my head to the side and cracked my eyelids open just enough to see whether my friend Monique, equally fifteen and fabulous, was bronzing as beautifully as I was. Close, I thought, but my skin was surely a shade darker than hers.
Monique looked up from her novel to check her watch. "It's almost two o'clock," she said. "We'd better get in line." She slid the book under her chair and swung her tanned legs around to stand up. I followed suit, and together we hopped several quick steps toward the water, where the wet sand was cooler on our bare feet.
"G!" I called out to my grandmother and her friend Frances, who were lounging with their paperbacks in the warm shade under a huge thatched umbrella a short distance from our chairs. The Jack Tar Village Resort on the island of Grand Bahama had been their favorite vacation spot for years, and this summer of 1988, my grandmother (I called her G) had invited me to bring a friend along for a week of tropical fun in the sun. G and Frances looked up and smiled at us from behind their enormous bifocal sunglasses. "We're going to ski," I told them. "Could you watch our stuff 'til we get back?" They both nodded and raised an arm high to wave us good-bye. Monique and I turned and made our way along the shoreline to the pier.
Making a concerted effort to appear casual, I sauntered alongside my friend in my black swimsuit with a plunging neckline, low back, and legs cut waist-high on the hips. It was as close as my mother would let me get to wearing a bikini. Monique was looking great in a navy blue-and-white striped suit that modestly complemented her curves. Friends since third grade, we had finally grown out of our pubescent awkwardness. We were both slightly taller than average, with dark blonde shoulder-length hair that took on what I considered a wild-sexy-tropical look after several days' exposure to the hot sun, humid air, and salty water. Feeling smug, I silently compared our youthful figures to the beached-whale shapes of the older women we passed on the beach. I then began to imagine cute boys checking us out as we walked by. Maybe the guy of my dreams was watching me right now, wondering how and when to introduce himself. Maybe he also had a hot friend for Monique. Maybe they they were sixteen or seventeen, and maybe they had British accents, or even Australian! Maybe they were getting up off their beach towels now, following us like sailors to the Sirens....
When we reached the pier, I glanced discreetly back the way we'd come, but saw no one fitting the young, rugged images I'd formed in my head. I set my fantasy aside for the time being as we stopped at the activity desk to sign up for waterskiing, then walked out on the pier to join a handful of like-minded fellow vacationers.
At the end of the pier, a ladder led down to a to a small floating dock covered in a synthetic grass-green carpet. The ski boat was tied to the dock, and the boat driver, a friendly local man, was preparing to take a young couple from the group ahead of us out for a ride. The woman had already put on the skis and a life vest and was seated on the edge of the dock with her legs dangling in the water. Her boyfriend passed her the handle of the ski rope and climbed into the boat as the driver unhooked the moor line. The boat drifted slowly away from the dock, taking up the slack of the ski rope. At the woman's signal, the driver hit the throttle, and the boat took off with a roar. Monique and I watched as the woman held firmly to the ski rope, letting it pull her off the dock and up onto the skis as she sped smoothly away towards the turquoise and cobalt swaths of the Caribbean waters.
"Wow!" We exclaimed. That was so cool. I wanted to be able to do that.
The boat followed an oblong route to the left of the pier and parallel to the beach so that spectators on shore could see the fun they were missing. After a second pass, the boat slowed to a stop out in the deeper water, and the couple traded places so the boyfriend could ski. The boat then took the same route, pulling the man in two long ovals before heading back to the pier. We watched from the dock as the boat sped towards us, then swerved away to open water. The skier let go of the rope and continued to race across the water in a straight line toward the dock. Then, seconds from crashing into us, he bent his knees and twisted his body sharply to the left while digging his skis in at the perfect angle to send up a magnificent spray of seawater that left his friends soaked and shrieking in protest.
Monique and I laughed at the sight. How cool. I wanted to be able to do that, too, but I had only been skiing twice before, during summer visits to my grandmother's lake house. Merely getting up on the skis was a huge accomplishment; I would need a lot more experience before I dared to attempt tricks like that.
Another couple from the group ahead of us took their turn on the ski boat. The girlfriend was not as skilled as the others. With help, she put on the skis and slid into the water, and it took her several tries and much coaching to get up, but she finally did. After two loops up and down the beach, she switched places with her boyfriend, and at the end of his turn, he pulled the same stunt as his friend, sending out an even bigger water spray that left all of us drenched and laughing.
"Monique and Kristin!" the boat driver called out. It was our turn. A more experienced skier, Monique prepared to go first while I stepped into the boat. Minutes later, she was up and skiing on the first try! I hooted and clapped for her, and the sound of encouraging cheers from the people on the dock faded as the boat zoomed away.
Watching Monique from the back of the boat, I pictured myself out there in her place, skimming effortlessly across the aquamarine water. I imagined myself cruising along behind the boat, smiling and raising a hand to wave at everyone on the beach. I was eager for my turn to ski. After about five minutes, the boat driver slowed down, and Monique sank gracefully into the water, a huge grin on her face.
"Nice job!" I called out as she swam to the boat.
"Thanks! That was awesome!" Monique replied. "You're up!" As she climbed out of the water, I strapped on a white ski jacket, fastened my skis on tight, then slid off the back of the boat into the salty sun-warmed sea. The driver tossed me the ski handle, and I got myself into starting position as the boat puttered away, taking up the slack of the rope until I felt a strong, gentle pull from the line.
Keenly aware of people watching from the pier and the beach, including my grandmother, Frances, and my fantasy boyfriend, I took a deep breath and yelled, "Okay!"
The engine roared, and the boat took off. The tremendous pull of the ski rope felt like it was going to separate my arms from my body. Resisting the instinct to let go of the handle, I tightened my grip and tensed the muscles of my shoulders and arms. The boat pulled my body forward as the waves dragged my feet backward, threatening to throw me face-first back into the sea. A moment later, I could see and feel nothing but a harsh spray of white foam shooting into my face, up my nose, and all around me. Then I felt the rush of air against my body as my legs steadied and my feet balanced on the two slender fiberglass planks skimming across the water beneath me. In the distance, I heard the cheers of the people watching from the dock, and a sense of elation washed over me. I was skiing... and I'd gotten up on the first try!
My excitement turned to nervous concentration as I spent a wobbly minute hunched over with knees bent and eyes focused on the water directly in front of me, afraid of hitting a big breaker that would send me flying wildly into the boat's foaming wake. When I felt secure enough in my balance, I straightened myself to a more upright position and raised my head to look up. Monique was smiling and waving at me from the back of the boat. I gave her a quick smile back, though letting go of the ski handle to wave was out of the question. Looking around to orient myself, I noted the beach to my left and caught a glimpse of the pier behind me when a large wave sent me wobbling again. Heeding it as a divine sign that screamed, "Pay attention, moron!" I kept my eyes on the water after that.
"Okay, Kristin," I coached myself in my head, "you're doing fine--good balance, good stance, skis parallel and close together.... Watch that posture! Okay, now, the first turn is coming up. True, you've never successfully completed a turn, but that doesn't mean you can't do it now. Bend those knees.... Whoops! Catch the balance, Kristin! Catch the balance! Kristin! The guys are watching! The guys...!!!"
I didn't fall.
With a sigh of relief and a shaky smile, I regained my composure on the skis, then looked up to see that we were heading toward the pier. The boat driver must have sensed my ineptitude and decided not to subject me to the second loop of the usual ski route. I began to prepare myself mentally for the final phase of the adventure: the boat would approach the dock, then swing to the left and zoom away, at which point I would let go of the ski rope and continue straight on, sinking smoothly into the water in front of the admiring spectators. Maybe then a cute boy would step forward and lean down with a strong, muscular arm to help me up onto the dock....
Fifty yards to go.
"But Kristin," a voice in my head countered, "that would be so boring... so expected. How about something more exciting to impress them? I know! Do that twisty-splashy move and spray 'em all with water! Yeah!"
The boat veered away to the left, and I felt a thrilling rush of speed and confidence as I released the handle of the rope and aimed for the dock, about thirty yards straight ahead.
"Wow! You're going so fast!" said the voice. "You could reach the dock at this speed! Forget the twisty-splashy move--just coast right up there and spin around to sit down on the edge! Your hair won't even get wet! Really, it'll work!" I didn't have time to talk myself out of it, and I truly had myself convinced that I could do it right up until the point where I slammed into the dock.
I don't recall the moment of impact; my next awareness was of being essentially bent in half around the edge of the floating dock, with my upper body sprawled across the Astroturf and my lower half hanging in the water, the residual current from the boat pushing my legs forward underneath the dock. A lone ski popped up on the other side.
"Oh, my god, are you okay?" I looked up to see a cluster of worried faces gathered around me. Slowly moving my arms and legs, I discovered that, except for having the breath knocked out of me, I was okay. "I think so," I replied with a sheepish grin. A couple of people stepped forward to help me out of the water, while someone else retrieved my runaway ski.
"Kristin! Oh, my god, are you okay?" Monique shouted from the boat as it returned to the dock.
"Ha! Yeah, I think so," I hollered back, grateful to see her familiar face. I had a minor reputation as a clumsy daredevil back home with my friends, but I wasn't accustomed to pulling such inane stunts in front of complete strangers. The boat came to a stop alongside the dock, and Monique hopped out.
"What were you thinking?" she voiced the question on everyone's mind, and I tried to explain myself, but Monique just shook her head. "You're such a dork."
Other than mild abrasions from the synthetic carpet on the undersides of my arms, I really was fine, I assured everyone. All the attention was embarrassing, so Monique and I left the dock and walked along the pier toward the beach.
Gone was the feeling of fabulousness; I wanted to be invisible. Scanning all the sunbathers, beachcombers, and swimmers along the shore, I wondered how many of them had witnessed my little mishap. Perhaps my distance from the beach plus the fact that I'd been wearing a ski jacket had rendered me unrecognizable to anyone who may have seen the crash. I dreaded the long trek back to our spot, and made Monique walk with me under the palm trees behind the rows of chairs, away from the water and the attention of the people on the beach.
Monique, however, wasn't nearly so concerned about being noticed. "Hey!" We were still several yards away when she called out to my grandmother and her friend, knowing full well that everyone around us could also hear. "Did you see Kristin? She hit the dock!"
More than a dozen heads turned to look at us, and my face flushed as applause broke out around us. They'd seen me, all right.
I promptly informed Monique of her imminent doom, as I planned to throttle her when we got back to our hotel room.
TAKE 2
After the sting of embarrassment had worn off, I decided I had to redeem myself. I didn't want my tale of skiing in The Bahamas to be so humiliating. "Let's go again tomorrow," I said to Monique (whom I hadn't throttled, after all).
"So we can watch you ski into the dock again?"
"Ha, ha," I deadpanned. "I'll ski like a normal person, don't worry."
"I'm still telling everyone we know what happened." Of course she would, but at least I could defend myself with a success story to follow the disaster.
The deal was sealed when we befriended a group of teenage boys at the discotheque that night. Monique didn't hesitate to tell them of my skiing misadventure, and we discovered that my reputation preceded me.
"No kidding! That was you?" The boys were impressed. I was already known as The Girl Who Skied Into The Dock.
This was not okay.
At 2pm the next day, we returned to the pier. Monique didn't want to ski again, so I signed up by myself. I was first on the list, and the boat driver was already waiting as we stepped out onto the floating dock.
"Monique! Kristin! Hey!" We turned to see the boys from the discotheque walking towards us. Somewhat on the pale-and-skinny side, they were hardly the brawny heartthrobs of the romance novels we'd left under our beach chairs, but they were nice, and they were fun, and they were guys.
We liked the attention, of course, but having the boys there to watch me ski made me self-conscious. My audience grew as a few more people joined us on the dock to wait for their turn to ski. I strengthened my resolve to reclaim my dignity as I put on the life vest and secured my feet in the skis, trying to look like an old pro.
I hopped into the water. The boat driver tossed me the ski rope and put the boat into gear. I got into position and gave a wish-me-luck smile to my friends on the dock. When the rope became taut, I yelled, "Okay!" and the boat took off. I held onto the rope, and moments later, I was skiing. My audience was cheering. The boat driver was smiling at me with an encouraging thumbs-up. I smiled back. I could do this.
I felt my confidence return as I raced across the water, the beach a blur on my left. I bent my knees and kept my balance through the first turn, then cruised in the opposite direction. The driver looked back to check on me, and I gave a nod to signal that I was good for a second loop. I had never felt so comfortable on skis before; maybe I could master this sport, after all. On the next pass, I leaned slightly to the right and ventured out of the boat's wake. Success! The waves were too choppy, though, so I guided my skis back to the smoother water behind the boat. I sailed easily through the third and final turn. The beach was now on my right as the boat headed for the dock, and I felt calm, steady, and strong when the driver veered away. There stood Monique, the boys, and a handful of others, rooting me home. I released the handle of the ski rope and honed in on the bright green surface of the dock floating on the pale blue water, still thirty yards away.
And then that cursed voice in my head started up again.
"Woooo! This is even faster than yesterday! Do the twisty-splashy move!"
No!
Twenty yards and going strong.
"Turn and sit down! It'll work this time!"
NO!
Fifteen yards and no sign of stopping.
In an instant, I took in the scene ahead: weighed down by a dozen spectators, the little dock rose only a few inches out of the water; the small crowd had parted, moving instinctively out of the path of my trajectory; and there was nothing on the other side of the dock but open water.
"Oh! Look! The low dock! The clear path! The pretty water! Going so fast! Just bend the knees, and jump...!"
...except that that's not what happened.
My skis hit the dock, and I belly-flopped with a thud onto the Astroturf. My arms splayed out in front of me, Superman-style, and my bare feet hung off the edge of the dock; I must have popped out of the skis on impact. After reassuring myself that I was not dead, I became aware of an overall feeling of ouch.
Gingerly, I rolled over to look up. A circle of heads framed the bright blue sky above me. "Oh my god, are you okay?" Monique sang my theme song.
In response, I curled up into a fetal position on the dock, eyes shut tight, clutching at my chest and gasping for breath. It took the others a few horrified moments to realize that I was not writhing in agony, but laughing hysterically. Relieved, Monique and the boys started laughing, too. I eventually managed to heave myself up onto my feet so people could see that I was still in one piece. Several others around us were also chuckling and shaking their heads at me, although a few stood back, eyeing me with wary bemusement; even if I was physically okay after a trick like that, I must not be all that okay in the head.
I didn't try to ski again that week. What would be the use? There was no chance of redeeming myself or restoring my dignity. On the bright side, however, I scored extra coolness points with the guys for walking away from the crash--both crashes--with only minor scrapes and bruises. And now Monique had an even better story to tell.
I was not The Tan Queen Of Tulsa when I got home. It would have been a fleeting title, anyway--a temporary crown passing from one girl to the next, season after season, year after year. Instead, my bruised ankles, skinned knees, scraped chin, and carpet-burned arms were unique marks of distinction that no one else could claim, ever.
I'm The Girl Who Skied Into The Dock... Twice.
There I was, fifteen and fabulous, reclining on a chaise lounge in the sand at the beach by the ocean under the sun in The Bahamas. I was loving every minute of my week in paradise. Lying there in my new swimsuit, feeling my warm skin absorb the solar radiance, I pictured myself back home, showing off my glorious pigmentation to everyone's envy. Barely halfway through our vacation, I'd already crowned myself The Tan Queen Of Tulsa.
I turned my head to the side and cracked my eyelids open just enough to see whether my friend Monique, equally fifteen and fabulous, was bronzing as beautifully as I was. Close, I thought, but my skin was surely a shade darker than hers.
Monique looked up from her novel to check her watch. "It's almost two o'clock," she said. "We'd better get in line." She slid the book under her chair and swung her tanned legs around to stand up. I followed suit, and together we hopped several quick steps toward the water, where the wet sand was cooler on our bare feet.
"G!" I called out to my grandmother and her friend Frances, who were lounging with their paperbacks in the warm shade under a huge thatched umbrella a short distance from our chairs. The Jack Tar Village Resort on the island of Grand Bahama had been their favorite vacation spot for years, and this summer of 1988, my grandmother (I called her G) had invited me to bring a friend along for a week of tropical fun in the sun. G and Frances looked up and smiled at us from behind their enormous bifocal sunglasses. "We're going to ski," I told them. "Could you watch our stuff 'til we get back?" They both nodded and raised an arm high to wave us good-bye. Monique and I turned and made our way along the shoreline to the pier.
Making a concerted effort to appear casual, I sauntered alongside my friend in my black swimsuit with a plunging neckline, low back, and legs cut waist-high on the hips. It was as close as my mother would let me get to wearing a bikini. Monique was looking great in a navy blue-and-white striped suit that modestly complemented her curves. Friends since third grade, we had finally grown out of our pubescent awkwardness. We were both slightly taller than average, with dark blonde shoulder-length hair that took on what I considered a wild-sexy-tropical look after several days' exposure to the hot sun, humid air, and salty water. Feeling smug, I silently compared our youthful figures to the beached-whale shapes of the older women we passed on the beach. I then began to imagine cute boys checking us out as we walked by. Maybe the guy of my dreams was watching me right now, wondering how and when to introduce himself. Maybe he also had a hot friend for Monique. Maybe they they were sixteen or seventeen, and maybe they had British accents, or even Australian! Maybe they were getting up off their beach towels now, following us like sailors to the Sirens....
When we reached the pier, I glanced discreetly back the way we'd come, but saw no one fitting the young, rugged images I'd formed in my head. I set my fantasy aside for the time being as we stopped at the activity desk to sign up for waterskiing, then walked out on the pier to join a handful of like-minded fellow vacationers.
At the end of the pier, a ladder led down to a to a small floating dock covered in a synthetic grass-green carpet. The ski boat was tied to the dock, and the boat driver, a friendly local man, was preparing to take a young couple from the group ahead of us out for a ride. The woman had already put on the skis and a life vest and was seated on the edge of the dock with her legs dangling in the water. Her boyfriend passed her the handle of the ski rope and climbed into the boat as the driver unhooked the moor line. The boat drifted slowly away from the dock, taking up the slack of the ski rope. At the woman's signal, the driver hit the throttle, and the boat took off with a roar. Monique and I watched as the woman held firmly to the ski rope, letting it pull her off the dock and up onto the skis as she sped smoothly away towards the turquoise and cobalt swaths of the Caribbean waters.
"Wow!" We exclaimed. That was so cool. I wanted to be able to do that.
The boat followed an oblong route to the left of the pier and parallel to the beach so that spectators on shore could see the fun they were missing. After a second pass, the boat slowed to a stop out in the deeper water, and the couple traded places so the boyfriend could ski. The boat then took the same route, pulling the man in two long ovals before heading back to the pier. We watched from the dock as the boat sped towards us, then swerved away to open water. The skier let go of the rope and continued to race across the water in a straight line toward the dock. Then, seconds from crashing into us, he bent his knees and twisted his body sharply to the left while digging his skis in at the perfect angle to send up a magnificent spray of seawater that left his friends soaked and shrieking in protest.
Monique and I laughed at the sight. How cool. I wanted to be able to do that, too, but I had only been skiing twice before, during summer visits to my grandmother's lake house. Merely getting up on the skis was a huge accomplishment; I would need a lot more experience before I dared to attempt tricks like that.
Another couple from the group ahead of us took their turn on the ski boat. The girlfriend was not as skilled as the others. With help, she put on the skis and slid into the water, and it took her several tries and much coaching to get up, but she finally did. After two loops up and down the beach, she switched places with her boyfriend, and at the end of his turn, he pulled the same stunt as his friend, sending out an even bigger water spray that left all of us drenched and laughing.
"Monique and Kristin!" the boat driver called out. It was our turn. A more experienced skier, Monique prepared to go first while I stepped into the boat. Minutes later, she was up and skiing on the first try! I hooted and clapped for her, and the sound of encouraging cheers from the people on the dock faded as the boat zoomed away.
Watching Monique from the back of the boat, I pictured myself out there in her place, skimming effortlessly across the aquamarine water. I imagined myself cruising along behind the boat, smiling and raising a hand to wave at everyone on the beach. I was eager for my turn to ski. After about five minutes, the boat driver slowed down, and Monique sank gracefully into the water, a huge grin on her face.
"Nice job!" I called out as she swam to the boat.
"Thanks! That was awesome!" Monique replied. "You're up!" As she climbed out of the water, I strapped on a white ski jacket, fastened my skis on tight, then slid off the back of the boat into the salty sun-warmed sea. The driver tossed me the ski handle, and I got myself into starting position as the boat puttered away, taking up the slack of the rope until I felt a strong, gentle pull from the line.
Keenly aware of people watching from the pier and the beach, including my grandmother, Frances, and my fantasy boyfriend, I took a deep breath and yelled, "Okay!"
The engine roared, and the boat took off. The tremendous pull of the ski rope felt like it was going to separate my arms from my body. Resisting the instinct to let go of the handle, I tightened my grip and tensed the muscles of my shoulders and arms. The boat pulled my body forward as the waves dragged my feet backward, threatening to throw me face-first back into the sea. A moment later, I could see and feel nothing but a harsh spray of white foam shooting into my face, up my nose, and all around me. Then I felt the rush of air against my body as my legs steadied and my feet balanced on the two slender fiberglass planks skimming across the water beneath me. In the distance, I heard the cheers of the people watching from the dock, and a sense of elation washed over me. I was skiing... and I'd gotten up on the first try!
My excitement turned to nervous concentration as I spent a wobbly minute hunched over with knees bent and eyes focused on the water directly in front of me, afraid of hitting a big breaker that would send me flying wildly into the boat's foaming wake. When I felt secure enough in my balance, I straightened myself to a more upright position and raised my head to look up. Monique was smiling and waving at me from the back of the boat. I gave her a quick smile back, though letting go of the ski handle to wave was out of the question. Looking around to orient myself, I noted the beach to my left and caught a glimpse of the pier behind me when a large wave sent me wobbling again. Heeding it as a divine sign that screamed, "Pay attention, moron!" I kept my eyes on the water after that.
"Okay, Kristin," I coached myself in my head, "you're doing fine--good balance, good stance, skis parallel and close together.... Watch that posture! Okay, now, the first turn is coming up. True, you've never successfully completed a turn, but that doesn't mean you can't do it now. Bend those knees.... Whoops! Catch the balance, Kristin! Catch the balance! Kristin! The guys are watching! The guys...!!!"
I didn't fall.
With a sigh of relief and a shaky smile, I regained my composure on the skis, then looked up to see that we were heading toward the pier. The boat driver must have sensed my ineptitude and decided not to subject me to the second loop of the usual ski route. I began to prepare myself mentally for the final phase of the adventure: the boat would approach the dock, then swing to the left and zoom away, at which point I would let go of the ski rope and continue straight on, sinking smoothly into the water in front of the admiring spectators. Maybe then a cute boy would step forward and lean down with a strong, muscular arm to help me up onto the dock....
Fifty yards to go.
"But Kristin," a voice in my head countered, "that would be so boring... so expected. How about something more exciting to impress them? I know! Do that twisty-splashy move and spray 'em all with water! Yeah!"
The boat veered away to the left, and I felt a thrilling rush of speed and confidence as I released the handle of the rope and aimed for the dock, about thirty yards straight ahead.
"Wow! You're going so fast!" said the voice. "You could reach the dock at this speed! Forget the twisty-splashy move--just coast right up there and spin around to sit down on the edge! Your hair won't even get wet! Really, it'll work!" I didn't have time to talk myself out of it, and I truly had myself convinced that I could do it right up until the point where I slammed into the dock.
I don't recall the moment of impact; my next awareness was of being essentially bent in half around the edge of the floating dock, with my upper body sprawled across the Astroturf and my lower half hanging in the water, the residual current from the boat pushing my legs forward underneath the dock. A lone ski popped up on the other side.
"Oh, my god, are you okay?" I looked up to see a cluster of worried faces gathered around me. Slowly moving my arms and legs, I discovered that, except for having the breath knocked out of me, I was okay. "I think so," I replied with a sheepish grin. A couple of people stepped forward to help me out of the water, while someone else retrieved my runaway ski.
"Kristin! Oh, my god, are you okay?" Monique shouted from the boat as it returned to the dock.
"Ha! Yeah, I think so," I hollered back, grateful to see her familiar face. I had a minor reputation as a clumsy daredevil back home with my friends, but I wasn't accustomed to pulling such inane stunts in front of complete strangers. The boat came to a stop alongside the dock, and Monique hopped out.
"What were you thinking?" she voiced the question on everyone's mind, and I tried to explain myself, but Monique just shook her head. "You're such a dork."
Other than mild abrasions from the synthetic carpet on the undersides of my arms, I really was fine, I assured everyone. All the attention was embarrassing, so Monique and I left the dock and walked along the pier toward the beach.
Gone was the feeling of fabulousness; I wanted to be invisible. Scanning all the sunbathers, beachcombers, and swimmers along the shore, I wondered how many of them had witnessed my little mishap. Perhaps my distance from the beach plus the fact that I'd been wearing a ski jacket had rendered me unrecognizable to anyone who may have seen the crash. I dreaded the long trek back to our spot, and made Monique walk with me under the palm trees behind the rows of chairs, away from the water and the attention of the people on the beach.
Monique, however, wasn't nearly so concerned about being noticed. "Hey!" We were still several yards away when she called out to my grandmother and her friend, knowing full well that everyone around us could also hear. "Did you see Kristin? She hit the dock!"
More than a dozen heads turned to look at us, and my face flushed as applause broke out around us. They'd seen me, all right.
I promptly informed Monique of her imminent doom, as I planned to throttle her when we got back to our hotel room.
TAKE 2
After the sting of embarrassment had worn off, I decided I had to redeem myself. I didn't want my tale of skiing in The Bahamas to be so humiliating. "Let's go again tomorrow," I said to Monique (whom I hadn't throttled, after all).
"So we can watch you ski into the dock again?"
"Ha, ha," I deadpanned. "I'll ski like a normal person, don't worry."
"I'm still telling everyone we know what happened." Of course she would, but at least I could defend myself with a success story to follow the disaster.
The deal was sealed when we befriended a group of teenage boys at the discotheque that night. Monique didn't hesitate to tell them of my skiing misadventure, and we discovered that my reputation preceded me.
"No kidding! That was you?" The boys were impressed. I was already known as The Girl Who Skied Into The Dock.
This was not okay.
At 2pm the next day, we returned to the pier. Monique didn't want to ski again, so I signed up by myself. I was first on the list, and the boat driver was already waiting as we stepped out onto the floating dock.
"Monique! Kristin! Hey!" We turned to see the boys from the discotheque walking towards us. Somewhat on the pale-and-skinny side, they were hardly the brawny heartthrobs of the romance novels we'd left under our beach chairs, but they were nice, and they were fun, and they were guys.
We liked the attention, of course, but having the boys there to watch me ski made me self-conscious. My audience grew as a few more people joined us on the dock to wait for their turn to ski. I strengthened my resolve to reclaim my dignity as I put on the life vest and secured my feet in the skis, trying to look like an old pro.
I hopped into the water. The boat driver tossed me the ski rope and put the boat into gear. I got into position and gave a wish-me-luck smile to my friends on the dock. When the rope became taut, I yelled, "Okay!" and the boat took off. I held onto the rope, and moments later, I was skiing. My audience was cheering. The boat driver was smiling at me with an encouraging thumbs-up. I smiled back. I could do this.
I felt my confidence return as I raced across the water, the beach a blur on my left. I bent my knees and kept my balance through the first turn, then cruised in the opposite direction. The driver looked back to check on me, and I gave a nod to signal that I was good for a second loop. I had never felt so comfortable on skis before; maybe I could master this sport, after all. On the next pass, I leaned slightly to the right and ventured out of the boat's wake. Success! The waves were too choppy, though, so I guided my skis back to the smoother water behind the boat. I sailed easily through the third and final turn. The beach was now on my right as the boat headed for the dock, and I felt calm, steady, and strong when the driver veered away. There stood Monique, the boys, and a handful of others, rooting me home. I released the handle of the ski rope and honed in on the bright green surface of the dock floating on the pale blue water, still thirty yards away.
And then that cursed voice in my head started up again.
"Woooo! This is even faster than yesterday! Do the twisty-splashy move!"
No!
Twenty yards and going strong.
"Turn and sit down! It'll work this time!"
NO!
Fifteen yards and no sign of stopping.
In an instant, I took in the scene ahead: weighed down by a dozen spectators, the little dock rose only a few inches out of the water; the small crowd had parted, moving instinctively out of the path of my trajectory; and there was nothing on the other side of the dock but open water.
"Oh! Look! The low dock! The clear path! The pretty water! Going so fast! Just bend the knees, and jump...!"
...except that that's not what happened.
My skis hit the dock, and I belly-flopped with a thud onto the Astroturf. My arms splayed out in front of me, Superman-style, and my bare feet hung off the edge of the dock; I must have popped out of the skis on impact. After reassuring myself that I was not dead, I became aware of an overall feeling of ouch.
Gingerly, I rolled over to look up. A circle of heads framed the bright blue sky above me. "Oh my god, are you okay?" Monique sang my theme song.
In response, I curled up into a fetal position on the dock, eyes shut tight, clutching at my chest and gasping for breath. It took the others a few horrified moments to realize that I was not writhing in agony, but laughing hysterically. Relieved, Monique and the boys started laughing, too. I eventually managed to heave myself up onto my feet so people could see that I was still in one piece. Several others around us were also chuckling and shaking their heads at me, although a few stood back, eyeing me with wary bemusement; even if I was physically okay after a trick like that, I must not be all that okay in the head.
I didn't try to ski again that week. What would be the use? There was no chance of redeeming myself or restoring my dignity. On the bright side, however, I scored extra coolness points with the guys for walking away from the crash--both crashes--with only minor scrapes and bruises. And now Monique had an even better story to tell.
I was not The Tan Queen Of Tulsa when I got home. It would have been a fleeting title, anyway--a temporary crown passing from one girl to the next, season after season, year after year. Instead, my bruised ankles, skinned knees, scraped chin, and carpet-burned arms were unique marks of distinction that no one else could claim, ever.
I'm The Girl Who Skied Into The Dock... Twice.
T-minus ten....
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