There are two types of people in this world. Those who look majestic on water skis, and me. I look less like an athlete and more like a panicked, sunburned spider being dragged out of a bathtub. But in my 20's, I achieved a new level of aquatic humiliation. I managed to commit hit-and-run on a dead farm animal. In the middle of a lake.
Let me backtrack.Thanks to the torrential downpours, our local lake was experiencing what the news called "historic flooding." Normal people see high water and think, Wow, structural damage. My friends saw high water and thought, Sweet, now we can launch the boat directly from the Walmart parking lot!
Against my better judgment at the time, I agreed to go tubing. Now, tubing is supposed to be the easy water sport. You don’t need balance. You just sit your butt in a giant rubber donut, hold on for dear life, and let a 200-horsepower engine tear your rotator cuffs to shreds.
We got out on the water, which looked less like a pristine lake and more like a giant bowl of miso soup. It was thick, brown, and carrying half the debris of the tri county area. As the boat accelerated, I was feeling surprisingly good. I managed to stay upright. I was catching air. I was even doing that cool one handed wave to the boat crew.
Then, the driver decided to hit the throttle and whip me outside the wake. As I barreled across the water at Mach 3, I noticed a large, dark object bobbing directly in my path. From a distance, I assumed it was a standard piece of flood debris. A waterlogged couch? A dumpster? A really aggressive pile of logs? The boat swerved left. My tube, bound by the cruel laws of physics, swung violently to the right.
As the distance closed, the object took shape. It wasn’t a log. It had legs. Bloated, stiff legs pointing straight up at the heavens like a terrible modern art sculpture. It was a horse. A fully grown, deceased, floating horse, presumably swept away from a nearby pasture by the floodwaters and now enjoying an eternal, buoyant cruise.
Time slowed down. I had two options: roll off the tube into the liquid chocolate water and risk a head-on collision with a submerged Buick, or brace for impact. I chose the latter. I tucked my chin, squeezed my eyes shut, and prayed to whatever deity protects idiots on pool floats.
THUMP WOOSH.
My tube launched directly over the torso of the aquatic stallion. For one glorious, horrifying second, I achieved maximum airborne flight, propelled entirely by the momentum of hitting a dead mammal. The smell that hit my nostrils in that split second is something that no amount of therapy will ever erase. It was a delicate bouquet of swamp water, sunscreen, and sheer existential dread. Miraculously, I didn’t flip. I landed back on the water with a violent splash, screaming at a pitch only audible to dogs.
When the boat finally circled back to pick up my trembling, traumatized self, my friends weren’t checking to see if I had whiplash. They were crying tears of laughter. Apparently, from the boat's perspective, it looked like I was attempting an extreme, redneck version of the equestrian hurdle events at the Olympics.
So, that was it. I’m done. If anyone needs me, I will be spending summer indoors, on dry land, far away from any body of water that could potentially hold a floating barnyard!
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