Parasailing

Parasailing is a painful topic in the Mosiman home.  Once it was determined that we were, indeed, making tracks for a May trip to Mexico, Savannah and I began planning our airborne adventure.  My mountain-climbing, kayak-paddling, scuba-diving husband immediately began to fuss and fret.  The man who voluntarily leaped from airplanes, scrambled up greased poles in Panama, dashed across a piranha-filled river, and consumed raw rabbit during military winter survival training expressed great concern for my safety.  I immediately translated this concern to mean that he had serious doubts regarding my judgment and overall common sense.  Ridiculous!  I have a staunch history of sound decision-making.  The tone of our conversations escalated and some of us said words that will inevitably be thrown back in his face for the rest of his life.  Two of those words were "foolish" and "floppy."  Excuse me...?  Despite Brad's efforts to keep me safely grounded in an unrealistic world of pre-planning, research, and regimented physical therapy to build up the atrophied muscles in my left shoulder, this Bird of Paradise was destined to fly.

In response to our parasailing inquiries, Savannah and I were directed to a stretch of beach in search of a man named Israel.  A strong biblical name...a sure sign.  Israel happily accepted our sixty dollars each, handed us two sketchy-looking life jackets and pointed us to a jet ski manned by a twelve-year-old boy.  I waded into the ocean to gracefully board this flimsy vessel using what is now referred to in the local lingo as suplicando camello or the supplicating camel position. Soon, I was screaming over the crystal blue water, leaping from one five foot wave to the next to approach the waiting boat.  Savannah and I waved good-bye to our now-deaf driver who could once again breath as soon as my arms were wrestled from about his collapsed chest cavity.  Our boat immediately raced off, forcing my already-nervous stomach to drop forty fathoms.  I revisited Brad's now fateful words when I realized that the crew's English was limited to "How much do you weigh?"  After initially being offended (and embarrassed), I more-or-less answered and then, became alarmed as I realized I couldn't make the necessary metric conversion.  Bright side...if my stomach was any indication, I could soon deduct a few lbs from my original answer.

With a lot of enthusiastic gesturing, I was soon wrestled into a harness and hooked onto a steel arm.  Savannah and I took one look at the industrial-sized carabiners and searched our brains for the Spanish translation of "We appreciate your impressive equipment but we'd prefer you use locking carabiners as the man in our life won't even let our car keys dangle from a carabiner without a locking mechanism."  Before we were able to adequately voice these valid concerns, I felt myself suddenly lift off, as gently as a dandelion spore.  Wait!  Where was my safety lecture?  I haven't signed a disclaimer yet.  

Amy Mosiman, human kite, floated gracefully over the ocean, the occasional tug of the tether rope reminding me of my earth-bound connections.  Were it not for my sagging seat and the building muscle spasms threatening my upper upper thighs, I would have been utterly euphoric.  Savannah slightly diminished my excitement as she explained how I was the hypotenuse created by the boat to human triangle.  Truly, math is everywhere. 

We were reeled in, brought back to earth.  The boat ride brought me back to a belly-ache.  Nausea was my new companion and I feared our new friend would cause an uncomfortable riff in my relationship with my daughter.  I dug my toes into the worn, indoor/outdoor carpet, gritted my teeth, and kept an unwavering eye on the horizon. Finally,  I  flopped from the boat onto the waiting jet ski.  I noticed our driver was also gritting his teeth.  Maybe he was suffering from motion sickness as well.  Savannah and my stomach successfully made it to shore.  As our adventure came to its inevitable end, I thought with a great deal of satisfaction that, as usual, Brad was wrong.  Foolish and floppy?  Ridiculous!