By Carl Sampson
I have a new nickname.
It’s Bob.
That’s what I do every time I go snorkeling, which averages out to every 23 years.
That was the last time my wife, Patti, and I had gone bobbing — I mean, snorkeling.
Actually, there were a couple of pretty profound differences between the last time we snorkeled and this time.
The most major was the fact that both of us needed prescription lenses in our facemasks.
In fact, without prescription lenses, our snorkeling adventure in Hawaii would have been something else entirely.
“Did you see the blue blob swim by?”
“I sure did. And how about that orange blob?”
You can see snorkeling just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be without the benefit of corrective lenses.
Another big difference was that none of our most recent snorkeling adventures involved me getting seasick.
This is a good thing.
The last time we went snorkeling, I was sick as a dog. The ocean was flat calm, but my stomach was a-twisting and a-turning like a roller coaster had jumped the tracks.
This time, all was well in that department. We went snorkeling three times, and I’m happy to report no problems.
Maybe it was staying away from the margaritas the night before that made the difference.
But there was a problem. You may not realize this but I’m not the world’s greatest swimmer. I know what you’re thinking. Someone like me who resembles Tarzan so closely should be able to swim like Tarzan.
As it turned out, I swim a lot more like Cheetah than Tarzan. This was not a problem most of the time. Bobbing around 20 feet from the shoreline doesn’t present much of a challenge even for the flipper-impaired like me.
One day, however, we went on a quest to find the wily sea turtle — my wife’s new slogan is “I like turtles and I don’t know why.”
We found them all right.
That was the good news. They were off a rocky point down the beach from where we were staying. Two of them were cruising along, surfacing occasionally and doing their turtle thing.
As we started to head back to the beach, though, I noticed that the current had taken control of me. I swam and swam, but I didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
That was primarily because I wasn’t.
As I ran out of breath I began to consider the possibility of ending up in Guam.
I finally made a dash for some rocks, where I clung like a sea urchin until I caught my wind. After a few minutes, I pushed off and swam as close to the rocks as I could until I finally made it back to the beach.
At which point, my wife, who is a great swimmer, asked if I was OK.
“Just call me Bob,” I told her.
Next time, I think I’ll tie an outboard motor to my rear end.
Either that, or I’ll stay on the beach with the margaritas.
