Was in the keys last week. Rental house on Marathon with my wife's family.
Friday night was beautiful, everyone was sitting down on the dock getting ready to watch the sunset over the Gulf and looking at the parrotfish and the lobsters under the dock.
"Look," someone said, "What is that?"
I see it's about a two foot barracuda and go into a tirade about how they may look mean, but are actually so friendly and curious and about how they'll never, ever hurt you.
Ten minutes later the reds and yellows of the sunset completely wipe my memory of all existence of all barracuda completely from my mind. Because this is when I sit down and dangle, not my whole feet, just my first two toes of both feet in the water and start splashing around.
POW!!!!
A stream of obsenities flows from me.
"What happened?" my wife jumps.
"That f-ing barracuda bit me."
"How do you know?"
Well, because in that split second of surprise my brain said: dusk, barracuda nearby, you dangling a small piece of meat in the water and splashing around with it. This equals: you're a moron!
My foot is covered in the blood that is issuing quite liberally from my big toe and my only thought is, "Well, at least it's still there."
And thank god that my wife's uncle is a doctor who, on inspection of the wound, insisted that stiches weren't just a good idea, but a neccesity. Otherwise I'd be hobbling around with a sock full of cotton balls and medical tape.
So, even after paying the $25 in luggage overage (each way), I didn't get to dive once.
Stupid fish.
No.
Stupid me.
Friday night was beautiful, everyone was sitting down on the dock getting ready to watch the sunset over the Gulf and looking at the parrotfish and the lobsters under the dock.
"Look," someone said, "What is that?"
I see it's about a two foot barracuda and go into a tirade about how they may look mean, but are actually so friendly and curious and about how they'll never, ever hurt you.
Ten minutes later the reds and yellows of the sunset completely wipe my memory of all existence of all barracuda completely from my mind. Because this is when I sit down and dangle, not my whole feet, just my first two toes of both feet in the water and start splashing around.
POW!!!!
A stream of obsenities flows from me.
"What happened?" my wife jumps.
"That f-ing barracuda bit me."
"How do you know?"
Well, because in that split second of surprise my brain said: dusk, barracuda nearby, you dangling a small piece of meat in the water and splashing around with it. This equals: you're a moron!
My foot is covered in the blood that is issuing quite liberally from my big toe and my only thought is, "Well, at least it's still there."
And thank god that my wife's uncle is a doctor who, on inspection of the wound, insisted that stiches weren't just a good idea, but a neccesity. Otherwise I'd be hobbling around with a sock full of cotton balls and medical tape.
So, even after paying the $25 in luggage overage (each way), I didn't get to dive once.
Stupid fish.
No.
Stupid me.
