When I was a kid in high school I loved the music of the Beach Boys. “Surfin U.S.A.,” “I Get Around,” and “Little Deuce Coupe,” were some of the songs a surfer wannabe like me tuned to. And the drawback of living in the great, white north of Anchorage, Alaska, where nary a “cowabunga” was heard, did nothing to dampen my boogie board enthusiasm.
Portage Lake Lift Bridge
Fast forward a few years and I’m riding in the back of the Pearce’s boat in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. We were zipping up and down and all around the Portage Canal. The young girls (Erica, Ashley and Lauren) were merrily bumping up and down trying to hang on while tubing. Joe and Ryan tried knocking each other off and succeeded. Celeste hopped on and could be heard screaming across the Keweenaw Peninsula. Later in the day, Ashley grabbed a pair of water skis’ and performed perfectly.
And then it was my turn.
I was no water skier. I was a grey belly who spent more time grubbing and mullering than taking the drop.
The tube and canal were my dance partners for a couple of do-si-don’ts when Ed popped the question.
“Have you ever been belly boarding?”
Millions of thoughts and ideas have crossed my noggin over the years—“belly boarding” was not one of them.
“What’s that?” I asked, extremely afraid of the answer.
Ed then described the following as the best way to belly board:
1. I wear a life-jacket
2. I hold on to the tow rope (for dear life I later discovered)
3. The engine is floored
4. The thrust from the boat pulls me under the water where people have been
known to drown.
5. Eventually, I pop to the surface like a cork.
6. Finally reaching the surface, I arch my back and instead of hanging ten on a traditional board, I surf on the front of my life jacket.
Any endeavor with that long of a description and numbering system cannot be entertaining.
“No thanks.”
“C’mon, it’s fun.”
“How can you be so sure I’ll pop back up to the surface?”
While grabbing the towrope at the edge of the dock, I realized Ed never gave an answer.
“Be sure you hold your breath as long as you can because the boat will take you under pretty deep.”
Hold my breath? What number was that? It was a very critical detail not to be assigned an important number, like maybe 1?
My brain tapped me on the shoulder, informing me I was going to be too busy holding on to my shorts to worry about my little old breath.
The moment I had not been waiting for all of my life appeared.
“Hold on to the tow rope and take a deep breath.”
I did.
As Ed threw the hammer down on the boat, I was instantly dragged under the water.
I never even had time to chicken out.
“Oh, look. There’s Davy Jones locker.”
In a matter of seconds (although it seemed like hours) a human right whale popped to the surface and I was that whale.
“Arch your back!”
Whew. Hello, numeral six.
Ed shouted incomprehensible instructions as I arched for all I was worth. The slack in the towrope tightened as the water began slapping the three stooges out of the life jacket as we careened down the canal.
It didn’t take long to poop out from all the physical and mental exertion, forcing me to relinquish my hold on the rope.
I did it!
“You did it!”
The next morning I was sore; sore as in, my belly was killing me.
It hurt to put on a shirt.
It hurt thinking about putting on a shirt.
And then there was the subject matter of socks. Bend over to put them on? Are you kidding me?
Pants? Tightening a belt around my midriff?
Parading in front of the mirror, I couldn’t help but notice a black and purple ring around my girth. Where in the world did that come from?
The ring was swollen, puffy and hurt like one giant belly bruise.
This was one monstrous ring-around-the-Rosie and I, unfortunately, was Rosie.
I slowly comprehended that although the life jacket covered some of Kraig, it did not cover all of Kraig.
It seemed like a month, but was probably no more than three and a half weeks, until that nasty ring was finally gone.
Hang Ton.
