Do you subscribe, as I do, to one million discount sites that offer bowling deals you will never use and online scrapbook coupons you will never redeem? I don’t know why I do this. I must promise myself not to buy another one until I have bowled the old ones, laser tagged myself out, and bought the cool new forks I just got a deal for. If I buy the forks first, I can take them bowling with me. That would be fun for everyone. And the forks bowl free.
In a world that doesn’t always protect us from the ugly stuff, do I really want to pay $147 for two days (16 hours) of scuba diving classes? Do I? I’m looking at the deal and wondering: Can they guarantee my safety?
I love the water. Love it. I grew up spending my summers at a private beach where there were no obnoxious college parties, not that many flailing, over-tanned body parts that I didn’t want to see, and a bunch of friends and family that were always there when I was. I loved water skiing, fishing, swimming, and splashing around. ABOVE the surface of the water and in water that was less than 6 feet deep. I distinctly remember being out in the Gulf with my friend one afternoon with those old canvas rafts that had rope strings attached. We were sharing a raft and drifting along in a relaxed manner. When we looked back to shore, we were so far out you could hardly see it. We were 13. So we both grabbed the rope and went under to see if we could go down and touch bottom. Nope. No bottom touching there. We were in over our heads. And we didn’t like it.The water wasn’t the clear blue-green of Panama City fame. It was dark brown, due to a natural reef out a couple of miles. You couldn’t see anything. Anything could have been lurking there. So we got on one side of the raft together and we kicked until we could kick no more. Until we were back in water we recognized. Until our toes skimmed a sandy bottom.
I didn’t often do that. I didn’t often allow myself to drift beyond the point of safety. I don’t prefer dark and murky places. So when I opened my email this morning to find that Eversave had offered my 16 hours of scuba diving classes for $147, I thought that over for a moment. They say, “Come, explore an underwater frontier. Adventure with us! Bring your own equipment or rent ours! We’ll teach you. We’ll certify you. At the end of this, you’ll have fins and gills and grins and thrills.”
I say: Can you guarantee my safety?
A REAL offer would include an armored wet suit. A wet suit that when touched by a tooth’s enamel immediately springs forth with sharp killing spikes. My Safety Guarantee Suit would be triggered by tooth enamel, with several panic buttons strategically placed, and would automatically kill anything in the shark, whale, or giant squid family.
Why hasn’t anyone thought this up? My blog is my patent. Don’t you dare try to develop the Safety Suit. It’s trademarked already.
In a world where there are no guarantees, my suit is an extra layer of Stay Out of My Face.
But if you dive with me, don’t get cutesie and try to bite my arm. That’s instant death, my friends. The suit does not discriminate.
I cannot guarantee your safety.