Speedos aren’t even a good idea for teenagers, so grown men really need to rethink the practice.
The above comment is hypocritical, though, as Curacao is a land full of tan and fit people--and yet I nonetheless swam around and eventually stepped out of the water like an unsheathed Eskimo Pie. Between my 30% Irish heritage and my long hours working in an office building, I’m amazed that planes didn’t start to land, mistaking my shining shoulders for homing beacons.
Some parts of the oceans in Curacao are in a constant state of arousal; how else to explain a corral reef so phallic that it made the Washington Monument look spent? I almost asked my snorkeling guide what the local oceans were thinking about to be in such an elongated condition, but in the final analysis, some times a corral reef is just a corral reef.
During a competition to invent cocktails, I was already losing so I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a chance and just start throwing stuff together. Gin, tequila, cranberry juice, green curacao, orange juice, some stuff I had never heard of. The final result looked like a muddy brown bog and tasted even worse. I proudly told the judges, “This is my new invention, the Toxic Sludge.” They failed to be impressed, proving that truth in advertising only works in Dudley Moore movies and Dove soap commercials.
It turns out that I still have the same vague distaste for vacation-authority that I did when I was a kid. Trip organizers say, “We have great activities for you. You’ll have a great time.” Which reminded me of camp instructors who said “From 2:30-3;30 you’ll have arts and crafts, and then 3:30-4:30 you’ll do archery.” And maybe I like archery, but what if my inner essence truly desires to go swimming, or take a nap, or wrestle a bear? Don’t tell me I’ll have a great time and then tell me what to do, or I’ll make a nice God’s Eye out of sticks and yarn and plant it on your chair when you’re not looking. And then I’ll just relax near the water with a book and feel the warm wind gently beat at me.
