Page 6 of Calamity Rayne Over the Moon

Hale sniffed the rubbery material. “Mine smells fine.”

I held up my mismatched flippers. “Why?”

“They probably just lost one.”

I frowned. Were swimmers returning one fin short? What happened to the other flipper? Was the foot okay? “Are there sharks here?”

“You’ll be fine, Rayne. As soon as we’re in the water you won’t be able to smell anything and you’ll be so captivated by the beauty your worries will wash away.”

That didn’t sound like me. How did one launder a rubber wetsuit?

Hale pulled on his gear and looked like a model in a watersports catalog. I looked like a short, chubby porpoise who would only get cast as the comic relief in a Pixar movie.

“Oh, this is not flattering.”

Hale laughed in an aren’t-you-cute-and-clueless way. I pursed my lips and scowled. This was not going as I’d imagined.

“The water’s warm, Rayne. If you want, skip the wetsuit and go in your suit.”

But I wanted to look cool like him. Plus, Hale would be watching me through goggles so I preferred to keep my buoyant parts covered.

“I just need you to zip me up. My string’s broken.”

Hale had gotten the Mercedes of snorkel gear and I was rocking a 1970’s jalopy with rusted parts. I pulled on my mismatched flippers and waddled forward then stilled, looking around.

What was that?

I took another few steps along the deck, each one making a squishy fart sound. When I turned back to look at Hale I knew he heard it too.

“My wetsuit’s farting!”

“Are you sure it’s the suit?”

“That’s not me!”

“Of course not. Come on.” He walked past me, not a bit of waddle to his steps and no embarrassing sounds coming from his gear.

I thought things would improve underwater, but I was wrong. I couldn’t get my mask to seal tightly around my hair, so water continuously leaked into my eyes. I had a limp snorkel which caused me to choke on unwanted drops of water.

“Let me see it,” Hale said, stopping his majestic underwater tour to investigate the problem. “Everything looks fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. “My snorkel has erectile dysfunction.”

“We’ll switch.”

Once I had Hale’s mask on there was no more leaking or limp snorkel business, but my mask kept fogging up. Losing vision underwater made me panic, which made the fog worse. Maybe I was claustrophobic.

“Go,” I garbled at Hale, who floated majestically about like King Freaking Triton.

I knew he wanted to explore and I was holding him up. Obviously, snorkeling wasn’t for me. I found the entire experience rather fatiguing and humiliating.

A school of fish rushed past me and I panicked, bubbles shooting out of my wet suit. I must have made a sound of distress because Hale turned. He pointed the underwater camera in my direction, capturing video. That’s when I saw a huge fucking jellyfish and was pretty sure I pissed myself.

Something to look forward to on the home movies.

When we returned to land, I was beyond relieved. Hale looked rejuvenated and happy with his gift. How could two people experience one thing so differently?

I waddled back to the dock, my suit farting with every step. I was more than ready to return to the tiki bar on the beach and file snorkeling away as shit I never wanted to do again.

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