I love jetskiing. The wind in my face, the salt on my lips, the thrill of zipping over water- I look forward to the shore just for that. I always go to the same place-- the owners are Claudio and Claudia and they are both from Argentina, accents and all. They make a big fuss over me because of my name and we always speak in Spanish, which was my problem today, but I'll get to that.
So today I took my oldest daughter and her BFF with me. They screamed and hollered and my daughter's arms were squashing me through my life jacket as we bumped and flew over giant wakes caused by the other six skis that were with us. The water was choppy as a result and a few times I had to fight to get control of the ski to get back on course and stay within the designated area. Several times a giant wake or two completely doused us with foam, which was all part of the fun.
What I did not count on, however, was having problems docking. I cut the motor as directed so I would drift over to the dock. But, instead of drifting forward, I drifted backwards. I started the motor again and turned around and cut it, this time drifting toward the patrol boat not far from the dock. I started the motor again to get away from the boat and turned to the left, hard. In doing so, I flipped the ski over, sending two teenage girls flying into the water. But while I was doing this, Claudio was on the dock yelling to me in Spanish while using gestures. I couldn't hear or understand him and as I opened my mouth to say "Como?" I flipped right over the ski with the girls, unplugging the kill switch attached to my jacket and, mouth open, swallowing a whole lot of the Atlantic's saltiest. I popped up and instinctively reached for the girls, grabbing one with each hand while I tried to get back to the ski and tread water-- impossible to do. The patrol boat guy told me he'd take one of them. Well, neither wanted to get back on the ski with me, so I dragged them over to the boat and they hopped on, and I figured I'd just swim to the dock. "Uh, you have the key," the guy said. "Oh, yeah, guess I have to get back on." And that, I'm sure was a sight, as I mounted the triple ski from the back, throwing myself onto it like a sick fish and crawling up onto the seat. Claudio was ready again to get me to the dock, yelling for me to give it gas and swing it around. I'm thinking to myself- WHY IS THIS SO HARD? I never had problems before! Same marina, same dock, what gives? I docked it, much to Claudio's relief, and still sputtering from drinking a cup of sea water, I went to the shop and got my keys (that's shah-vays in Argentine Spanish) from Claudia who felt bad that I was soaking wet and tried not to laugh.
My daughter and her friend actually enjoyed it, as now they have a story to tell when they get home. I reminded them that we went over huge wakes, got cut off by a rule-breaker who almost tipped us over, and I was flooring it much of the ride and nobody fell over until I tried not to hit the patrol boat, and that was the story I wanted them to tell. My perfect record is ruined. And on top of that, my arms are really sore from driving.