God damn it, I'm really pissed off now! It's bad enough that the Air Force recruiter won't let me rejoin and go pay a visit to the "land of Stan," but, now the damn terrorists have totally ruined my second favorite pass time: fishing (the first one is, of course, anything having to do with horses, especially my feeble attempts at endurance riding). They (these terrorist assholes) have ruined it (fishing) completely, and I almost got arrested, by a minimum wage "gate keeper" while discussing this friggen new policy, enacted right after 9/11, that I was not aware of, till today. I want revenge on these terrorists for taking away my access to some of the best fishing holes in America and I want it now! It gets darn hot down here in Central Florida; so hot that there's only one place to go in June, July and August, if you want to spend some time outdoors, without sweating like a well exercised racehorse. And, that one place is out on the water, preferably the ocean, but if it's too windy, the Intercostal Waterway system, just on the inside of that thin strip of land called "beachside," will do just fine. The brackish water usually has enough salt in it to keep out the gators and moccasins. This isn't entirely foolproof, I have seen gators and snakes in salt water before down here, but it's still safer than trying to swim in any Florida lake. You will need a power boat, a sail boat is OK, but a power boat can create that much needed breeze and make 95 degrees feel like it's in the lower 80's if you cruise down the waterway system like I do (throttle wide open). I happen to own an incredible powerboat and it can create breezes up to 48 knots, which is enough to be considered a Tropical Storm, down here in the land of water and sand. The name of my boat is "Horsing Around," and, besides being my number one passion, it also kind of describes how I've lived most of my life since I turned 15. If I didn't love the horse as much as I do, I would have named my boat "Just Kidding," or "Never Serious." Anyway, Jennifer, my 13 year old daughter and I were out on the boat, along with my cinnamon colored chow, Taffy, cruising the waterways, planning on getting, or making the attempt of getting Jennifer to walk on water. (Now you Jesus freaks, please, take a chill pill cause I'm only joking around with that phrase and I know that only Jesus can really walk on water; Buddha is too fat and Mohammed is weighted down with all those heavy explosives taped to his chest). The way that we mortal humans are able to accomplish such a task is by holding onto a rope, attached to the back of a speedboat possessing the power of hundreds of horses, and having a few beers before you attempt such a thing doesn't hurt none either. Since my kid is too young to drink beer, I just tried to convince her there's nothing to it, all her brothers and sisters, prior to Jen, had successfully completed this endeavor, and only one of them got seriously injured when I mistakenly took him too close to that channel marker. For months after his run in with Green Buoy #7, members of my family had quite a bit of fun reliving the day her brother, Justin, attacked this marker full tilt at 45 miles per hour. Justin still has the nickname "Lucky Seven." That's cause he's darn lucky to be alive, but I left that out of the version I told Jennifer. I went through the entire process of what a successful water ski adventure entails, explaining to my daughter, in detail, the art of putting on those long, skinny, flat fiberglass boards on one's feet while trying to stay afloat and balanced wearing that oversized life jacket. A water skier must, also, know when, and when not, to breathe cause of those darn big waves rolling in from other large boats whose Captains decide not to slow down just because you happen to be treading water. A water skier must lean back, but not too far, put those tips up, but not too high, put the ski rope between your legs, say a quick prayer, and yell at the top of your lungs, "GOOOOOO!" I was trying to explain this to my kid, as we were scampering down the waterway full board at 50 MPH. I found myself screaming out the details, one by one, of how to pull your body out of the water to get, and stay, on top. I was yelling because of the incredible noise from our inboard/outboard engine and the loud music coming out of the CD player, which happened to be playing one of my favorites, AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." Somehow, I thought this selection to be appropriate for the task at hand. My kid is brave; she has survived living with me the last 13 years and I've treated her like I would any male child, preparing her for the rigors of life, and not holding back at all unless the wife yells at me and tells me to pull in the reins some. I truly believe if you, as a parent, don't make your kid as tough and rough (but not a bully to others) as they possibly can be, you're making a big mistake; there are just too many bad people out and running about in this world and I don't want any of what I tell my daughter to be sugar coated; my kid knows about the boogie man, and she knows how to fire a gun. If some whacko pedophile crazy crawls into my daughter's window planning on taking her away from me he's in for a very big surprise! KABOOOOMMMM, die you pedophile whacko! Pedophiles and terrorists, they all must die; there is no room for compromise here, no rehabilitation. Something has gone terribly wrong with their circuits, their wiring has an unfixable short, and the only solution, for these people, is for us to pull the friggen plug. Ah, but I digress, thinking such happy thoughts, back to the water skiing. We find a relatively safe spot (no other boats), Jen puts on her life jacket and jumps in the warm 81 degree water. I throw out the rope, she puts on the water skis (not an easy task, especially when you're doing it for the very first time), I tell her to put her tips up and lean back, and then throw the throttle fully forward, hold on to the steering wheel to prevent myself being ejected from the boat, and look back to see if she was able to rise up and above from the depths below. And, sorry to say, she never did accomplish the task successfully. She tried like heck, three times, but was not successful. Strong arms and upper body strength are required to be able to water ski, and it just wasn't in the cards, for Jen, on this particular day. So, we decided to give up on the ski instruction for today, and headed for our favorite bridge to do some serious fishing. As every good local fisherman knows, the really big ones are in that deep, dark murky waters underneath the Main Street Bridge in Daytona Beach. And, the only way to get to this spot is by boat. As we were making our journey southward, with the strong breeze in our faces, my humorous daughter, wrapped a multi colored towel around her head, looked up at me, and said, "Don't I make a colorful terrorist?" And, she really did! Looking at Jen, with the towel wrapped around her head, in spite of my laughter, made me think, "My God, what is to become of her generation?" I truly think a nuclear attack from one of these terrorist whackos is gonna happen sooner than later, and if it doesn't happen in my lifetime, it will happen in Jennifer's. Life has changed since 9/11, and if we ever get too complacent and let our guard down, again, we are all in for a repeat situation, or worse; and it's difficult to imagine anything that could be worse. To Be Continued
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