On Blood And Guts And The Ultimate Fragility And Vanity Of Man.

The title has nothing to do with this entry.  Or maybe it does. 

I think the point of sibling teasing is to get ready for other people.  I think in order to realistically deal with people, we need to have cracks, to already be a little bit damaged.   Like, “These are the people who are supposed to love me.  And they keep harassing me.  If I can put up with this, I can definitely put up with strangers making fun of me.”  I don’t mean bullying, which is conscious maliciousness, but just the every day grim, slow soul staining meanness that some people don’t even know they’re being a part of.

Anyway, the sibling teasing shouldn’t be wholly malicious, something a few minutes of alone time and the promise of pizza, can shake off.  Anything more than that isn't teasing, and falls more in the painful realm of bullying.

Daniel graduated from sixth grade today, the end of grade school.  It’s a metaphorical change, and a physical change.  To help him get ready, I’ve been incorporating the words penis, testicles and vagina into my daily speak, so often he doesn’t even blush anymore.  We’ve been trying to get him to swear, but so far he’s resisted.  Pubic hair is mentioned to him with curiosity and regularity.  (So, buddy.  Any of those pubes coming in yet?)  And on a more fatalistic note, Daniel is our last chance at getting a childhood right.

But sometimes I worry.  Have I taken it too far?  Has threatening to steal his eyebrows while he sleeps and fashion fashionable eyebrow wigs out of them, too much?  Will he have a fear of small furry caterpillars, as he ages?  Will he look back at his childhood and only see torment and misery?  Does he know that we never did anything out of pure meanness, and that it was just light-hearted, and if we were ever too mean, that it was careless and we regret it?

Children are pliable and resilient.  But, weird things set people off.  Example, I can speak Ilocano fairly well, but I rarely ever do, since I was told by Brother 1 and 2 (Daniel being brother 3), that when I spoke Ilocano, I sounded funny.   Of course I sound funny.  It’s a different language and I barely have anyone to speak with.  It wasn't spiteful, just a casual observation, but it was big enough to make me stop speaking it, all together. 

I’d like to hope that Daniel will fondly remember the shrill shouts and whistles every time he went on stage.  I hope he doesn’t resent all the frantic waving and gesturing every time he performed, or the orgy of cameras flashing for his attention.  That he never has to tell a therapist of the burning shame of being the only sixth grader with a giant portrait of himself, grinning to greet him as he received his certificate, or that instead of leis he was adorned with Mardi Gras beads, a pool floatie and an inflatable crown.  I hope he was a little bit proud that he was the only one whose family wore shirts and stickers proclaiming themselves to be #TeamDaniel.

That when the sea of mad hormones comes rushing into the city of his brain, the deluge of teenage-hood rears its ugly head, that he doesn’t hate us too much.  That my overenthusiastic affection didn’t hurt him.  That it didn’t make his scared of life.  And that maybe he had a little bit of fun.  

Parasailing and Sharks. Shark-sailing.

I wish horoscopes were more specific.  Something along the lines of “Don’t go parasailing today.  You will board the ferry-zodiac wrong, slicing your leg off on the propeller.  Mothers will clutch their children to their chests and men will vomit at the sight of the frothy red water.”  That’s some speculative fortune-telling I could really get behind.  However, if that had been my horoscope today, it would have been wrong. 

Today I went parasailing.  I won’t go into how beautiful Maui is, because everyone knows this, and it gets tiresome describing deep greens and blues.  Also, it makes people hate you. 

Anyway, this isn’t about Maui.  This is about parasailing and sharks.

I didn’t see any sharks, but it would have been awesome if I had.  I like sharks.  I know they’re potentially dangerous, but lots of things are potentially dangerous.   Life is dangerous.  Being in the water, at all, is dangerous.  

Anyway, my mental image of sharks is usually one of dopey gloominess.  Yes, I’ve got sharp teeth, but so do those fucking orcas everyone loves so much.  Why doesn’t anybody love me?!

So, while I was treated like a human kite, I imagined all sorts of sharks.  Giddy sharks, impersonating dolphins, leaping out of the water.  Lazy doe-eyed sharks, circling my shadow.  Parasailing is a lot quieter than you would think, and in this space sharks yelled for my attention. 

Those jet-skis slicing through sapphire water, leaving bubbling foam in their wake?  Super sharks speeding around, frenzied by the anticipation of fresh meat.  Those were sharks that woke up early, drank black coffee and were constantly checking their smartphones. 

I had to pee and the harness was digging into the fleshiest part of my thigh.  The boat pulling me along jolted, causing my harness to swing.  The sharks paused, waiting to see what would happen.

I imagined a new species of polka-dotted sharks with beady eyes.  I thought about baby whale sharks, pink and happy-faced.  A tiger shark was swimming sheepishly back to Kihei, a little embarrassed she had gotten lost. 

The parasail made a false descent, letting me dip my legs in the chilly water, the sharks snapped and snarled, frustrated and confused, as I ascended back into the air. 

Covered by an overcast sky, surrounded by heavy grey clouds and warm air filling my lungs, I imagined my descent and my final shark encounter.   It would mean certain pain and doom for me, but what an image!  A tourist, on his honeymoon (before the experience he had been playfully teasing his new wife about dumping her into the water, she laughed as she slapped at his arm, the physical contact left them feeling mutually electric), would describe it to reporters as such:  I went to Maui for my honeymoon, and I saw a gigantic (fucking gigantic, bigger than a car!) great white leap out of the air and devour a lady while she descended from parasailing.  My wife sobbed into my chest as I watched the woman’s twisted body crumple and listened to her gargled screams.  The boat jerked as the enormous shark tugged at her still harnessed body.  It wrenched off her remains and dragged them into the deep, dark grey-blue water.  Afterwards, the water was so still, so flat, so clear, you could hardly believe it had happened at all.