Once Upon a Jetski

If you ask the man in my life what his favorite part of our adventure to Key West was, you'll get an enthusiastic response regarding jet skis. If you then turn my way and ask how it was, you'll get a half-hearted chuckle and a quick admission that I nearly died. So, a little more about that.

First, I'd like to thank my past self for her vanity problem. Since there was bound to be a swimsuit involved (what's that walrus doing in a bikini?), I spent that month leading up to the trip working out (didn't want to try too hard, ya know). Without building that upper body strength to get those "sexy shoulders," I'd never have been able to hold onto that bucking water-horse.

Going to the Island, jet skiing was ones of a few "for sure" items on the list. The beau had gone prior and loved it; and, since I'd dragged him out four-wheeling (in the rain) a month into us dating, I really couldn't protest. (Hemingway lived on the island just fine without ever jet skiing, but whatever.) So, day two, donning the sportiest looking swimwear I own, we headed to the jet ski place. It was 75 degrees and sunny, and this porcelain goddess was slathered in approximately four layers of SPF infinity. It was go time.

Only, jokes. It turns out, if you were born in a certain set of years, you will forever need to take an exam and be certified to board a mechanical water bull. Thank goodness I hadn't hit the sauce to hard yet on Duval that day! After an oddly stressful 20 minutes, luckily, I passed. They even gave me an official slip of paper - a license to kill in my battle royale on the high seas. Now it was go time.

Just getting ready for my voyage!
(aka thankfully there are no photos of this tale) 

Our tour was to be a follow-the-leader-esque marine adventure around the Island. I opted to have my own machine, so I could be in control of my own demise (and so I wouldn't deter my beau from his fun). There was a brief explanation about signals and three vague rules were given:

1. Stay x distance away from the person in front of you, so if they fall off or stop suddenly, you don't ram into them and kill them - jet skis don't have brakes, just a killswitch and a prayer
2. Follow the bubble trail of the person in front of you - don't go rogue because the trail left by the leader is specifically avoiding reefs, obstacles, and other things that could kill you
3. Stay alert and give way to anything bigger than you on the water - because if you hit a boat, again, it'll kill you

And so our merry band set sail. Making a snarky comment to the dock guy about how it was probably just like four-wheeling, I floated my way out of port and into the ocean. My sunglasses firmly in place, I looked about for boats (hyper-alert, I was SO ready). Our instructor let us get in order and we began our island chase. 

It was easily the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life. 

Hurtling over the waves, I was immediately half blind due to the salt water on my sunglasses (when removed, I was entirely blind due to the sun, so they remained on). With jet skis in particular, if you go TOO slow, it only makes the ride choppier. If you feel like you're going to fall off, to counter that, you have to go faster. Completely counter-intuitive, but totally necessary; you hit ridiculous speeds with nothing to protect you but a flimsy "life" vest. As panic set in, I found myself with two fundamental goals: don't fall into the water and don't lose the bubble trail.

It was just about then that I realized the bubble trail was gone. There I was, flying on my floating metal stead, blind, completely alone and surrounded by water. Mostly hysterical (and throwing caution to the wind about reefs), I bee-lined in the most logical direction. My death grip tightened. Desperate to regain the bubbles, naturally, I sped up. Mercifully, the group came into view and we all then stopped for some island trivia from the guide. 

Bobbing about aimlessly while he talked, I mustered an enthusiastic fake smile for my jovial man, happily perched on his favorite toy, ensuring him that this was the best time. We were on the Gulf side and the water was fairly smooth and shallow. Stopped, I had a chance to look around and absorb the beauty of the island we were circling. It was a magical moment, and a brief one. 

The guide advised that we were about to move to the ocean side of the island, for the hard part of the journey, and needed to maintain a higher speed. If we'd wanted to lazy about and sight-see, we should've taken the canoeing adventure, he chuckled. My aching arms let out a little cry. My brain called out for a canoe.

Funny thing about the ocean, it's windier. And that means it's wavier. 

The struggle had been very real on the Gulf side, but the ocean side... let's just say, if you ever want to have your ass handed to you by mother nature, this is your chance. White knuckled, my attack on the six foot waves (the height of the waves will get bigger with each retelling of this, I assure you) started very strategic. If you followed the crest and stayed atop from wave to wave, you could make it. The second you ended up in a trough, you were screwed. Waves would hit you from the side or you would nose right into them, causing you to get completely engulfed in water, as you shot forward at 40 MPH in a floating limbo, not sure which way was up, down or over. Bubble trail damned to hell, it was a groping attempt to not crash into the island and not be carried out in Davy Jones's locker.

In a frenzy, my nervous laugh began bubbling up in me. There was no way I could hold on. My entire body was shaking as I used my thighs and knees to desperately cling to the seat (note: when too rigid, it doesn't go well for slamming on waves - just ask the jet ski shaped bruise that was on my legs for a month after). My left contact slipped after a wave to the face and I knew true blindness was almost upon me. The delirium finally hit the surface and what came out wasn't my nervous laugh at all. I began whooping and yelling loudly. If this was the end, if I was going to fly off into the ocean and die, I was going out fucking Rufio-style. 

Full speed ahead, I hit every wave with a vengeance. Ocean spray flew around me, the taste of salt on my tongue; my war cry dead on the wind, barely reaching even my ears. My muscles screamed as loudly as my voice. It was uncertain whether the blindness was caused by the sea or the tears of a desperate woman on kamikaze mission against the gods. It was an epic frickin' poem. I was basically Ishmael.

And then it was over. We came into port. My hair was a tangled mess of wind and water and the sun beamed on my hinged smile. I'd made it, I had stayed atop my beast the entire time. Despite my very best efforts, I hadn't flipped over, drowned, or died. Best of all, I'd managed not to make a total ass of myself. Floating into the dock, there was my man: lit up, happy as a clam about the experience. After a shaky dismount and stumbling onto the pier, it was over. At that point, I got hit by the final wave: relief.