Tubing. A cheaper alternative to a micro-dermabrasion.

I am continuing the summer of fun by challenging myself to pursuits I would normally leave to others. Remember the fishing escapade of last week, where my brilliance and talent surprised even myself?

Yesterday, the challenge was tubing. Tubing is where a giant inflatable with special handles is dragged about the bay and a cracking pace, while you hang on for dear life and scream your head off. None of this sounded like fun to me. I watching with interest as my Dad, WSM (wicked step-mother) and young son all had a go and thought to myself, how hard can it be.

I had stern words with the boat’s captain and told him in no uncertain terms that if he tried playing silly buggers, there would be no sweet-sweet romance for the month of January. The Captain (aka Mr Woog) takes his sweet-sweet romancing very seriously, so I knew that I would be in responsible hands.

I did have once concern however. My swimmers that I bought online last week had not arrived, so I was still getting about in the cossie that elastic forgot. I had visions of my ample bust spraining forth from the pathetic confines of said cossie, but once I was ensconced in a very unsexy life vest, my fears quickly subsided. No one was getting out of that sucker.

I took my place on the tube thing, that is not really a tube, more of a disc. I had my sister, the equally terrified Mrs Ryan on one side, and my mate Wendy, who never lets anything phase her.

We took off from the shore. It was perfectly fine. Bit boring, if I can be honest….

As the pace picked up a bit, Mrs Ryan started mumbling…

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this….” over and over again.

She began to slip back off the tube. I told her to hang on. We were in the middle of the bay. The water was black, such was it’s depth and I could not get out of my head the endless shark reports that had been so prolific in the news of late.

Mrs Ryan shut her eyes and began to meditate. Like one does when terrified. I saw her do it when she was in labor. This lasted for about 30 seconds before she sprang off the back of that tube like a newly released champagne cork.


Her husband, Mr Ryan, informed the captain of the situation at hand. Mr Woog began the slow process of coming back to pick her up.


Not because I was laughing at my poor sister, whose fate was hanging in the balance and was in mid-panic attack screaming the most foul obscenities one could imagine. 

It was because I had felt something brush up against my leg.

Mrs Ryan was (not so) elegantly hauled up into the boat before we were off again. But I was starting to have my own little freak show going on. I crawled to the top on the tube so my legs were not anywhere near the water. When Mr Woog revved up the boat, the top of the tube immediately went under the water and got dragged along for some time, using my face as a resistance device.

Again, Mr Woog was alerted to the fact that there was trouble, and I was unceremoniously dragged over to the boat like a giant octopus that had been caught in the net.

And that why I can cancel all my micro-dermabrasion appointments for 2013.