I’m on vacation with some friends who berated me for quitting the blog. They were just making conversation, but I am easily riled so here is a post.

I’ve been snorkeling while on vacation. I’ve become convinced that the term “school of fish” is planted by grammar saboteurs. There is nothing school-like about fish traveling together. They dart and shoot around like meth-addled rainbows, completely lacking in discipline or academic focus. Furthermore, they sidle up and stare at me, which is completely at odds with my experience with schools; in junior high, everyone just ignored me.

One fish in particular was startling. He had a huge, rage-filled purple head and bulging eyes, like the fish version of John Boehner. I wondered if all of these fish were really safe for humans to be around--and then he made a move like he was going to lunge at me, and I suddenly thought that my death scene wasn’t going to be like the movies, where flesh-eating fish only devour gorgeous women with big breasts. At least as far as the woman thing went. The breast thing, well, I have been letting myself go lately.

I am still alive so clearly he wasn’t lunging at me in order to eat me. Nonetheless, tomorrow I am going snorkeling again to try to find my Republican friend and scare the gills off of him. 

Something else I did on vacation was try to find a nude beach. A member of our party is a lifestyle nudist, a fact only recently disclosed to us. It also turns out that social media has severe dangers for his community. This individual hates Facebook, but signed on in order to join a nudist community on the site. So he put up a nude profile picture, not realizing that his picture would be displayed to members of his girlfriend’s family ("You may also know Jeremy!") His girlfriend’s sister shot her an email, saying “Thanks for that revealing look at Jeremy. To make us even, I’d be happy to send you nude pictures of my husband.” As far as a subtle, staged plan for coming out to one’s girlfriend’s family, I’d have to grade that one an “F.”

Jeremy wanted to go to a nude beach here in Kona that he had heard about, and I told him I’d come along since his girlfriend is a little tired of the constant search for public nudity. The irony is, I’m the exact opposite of a nudist: I’m a clothes-ist. There’s almost no situation that I feel isn’t improved by wearing clothes. I’ve ruined the mood of many a third date by offering to keep on an extra-large T-shirt.

Still, I was game. I have already been scorched lobster-red by an accidental nap in the sun, so I covered myself head to foot in sunscreen. Then I borrowed an umbrella from the hotel for extra protection. So this story could have had a really funny ending--a partially sunburned guy with Irish skin, cautiously traipsing through nude beach with a rain umbrella, like a bad Monty Python skit--but we never found the beach. We’re pretty sure the park rangers shut it down ("Come out with your hands and trousers up"), and that Jeremy’s Internet intel was out-of-date.

Jeremy was disappointed, but of course I was fairly relieved. My nudity will remain where it belongs--in my anxiety dreams where I show up the office and realize I completely forgot to dress before I left the house.