Carol’s Column

So who wants to be a fish?

OTHER women have children.

I gave birth to four displaced fish.

In fact, what is worse — I married one, which makes five.

I should have realised early on — in those passionate, heady courtship days of new romance — that my husband-to-be was not the normal run-of-the-mill type of a suitor.

Not for him the bliss of rowing me around Zoo Lake. No I rowed him, while he peered over the edge of the small, warped craft, wearing goggles and spouting from a snorkle, shouting: "Good heavens, the bream are at least a metre long."

Yes, I should have been warned. But love is blind.

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It didn't matter that I was the only bride to walk down the aisle with a bouquet of seaweed.

It was only after much persuasion on the part of my grandmother, that my husband-to-be refrained from wearing a frog suit and flippers to his wedding.

He's always been an unconventional man.

My grandmother, on the other hand, a doughty lady of formidable proportions, threatened to shoot him if he didn't wear a jacket and tie.

Which caused problems.

She refrained from mentioning trousers and he refrained from wearing them.

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Most couples spend their honeymoon in bed. So did we, but not for the same reason as most other couples.

No, we spent our honeymoon in bed after a torrid day of snorkling in the turquoise-clear sea at the Wilderness.

We spent three days lying separately and rigidly on our stomachs due to the fact that our backs were so severely sunburnt that movement of any kind caused much agony.

This was not conducive to matrimonial companionship.

During the rest of the honeymoon, we fished.

That happy time — many years ago — each and every holiday has been spent in, on or under water of some description.

Our children swam before they walked.

"Don't worry," my mother always used to say, "the kids will all be able to walk by the time they're 21. And if they can't, then you'll carry them."

And, over the years, my family has taken to sailing like a duck takes to skiing.

Ducks don't ski — but they're terribly enthusiastic about it — and that's what counts. Enthusiasm.

Eventually, my hus [TEXT CUT OFF WITH SCISSORS] crewed. He commanded and I obeyed. Our enthusiasm knew no bounds and we entered every regatta there was.

In fact, we are the only couple in South Africa who has sailed an entire race with the boat turned turtle.

The kids are more at home behind the tiller of a sailing boat than they are on land.

Yes — we are what you could call an all-South African water-sporting family.

And then, last Sunday, they tried to drown me.

It happened like this.

"C'mon, Ma, come and have some fun," said my oldest son, Barry. "Come and have a go on my Dufour."

When I first heard the word Dufour, I thought it was an exotic brand of French champagne. Now I know better.

It's a windsurfer. And for those who have not yet become acquainted with a windsurfer — imagine a flat-shaped board, with a slit down the middle through which slots a thin board. Attached to this board is a long pole, and attached to the pole is a sail.

Windsurfers are expected to leap aboard this contraception, and, with the greatest of ease — sail away effortlessly, into the rising or setting sun. Whichever one's available.

Right.

My family looked at me expectantly.

"Ma's too old to windsurf," said Jamie disgustedly.

Which is why I found myself on the banks of Emmarentia Dam at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning.

The boys were helpful. "You're lucky it's a Dufour," said my oldest son. "They're the fastest and the best — you'll see, you'll skim across the water faster than the speed of sound."

Which observation made me feel ill.

All around me, windsurfers were unpacking their boards. They looked so bronzed, healthy and young — the windsurfers, not the boards.

I tucked my stomach into my two-piece and attached my crash helmet.

"Ma, nobody wears a crash helmet while windsurfing," remarked Barry. "And why have you put the visor down, you won't be able to see where you're going?"

Undaunted, I marched to the water's edge.

"Swing the wishbone around and the sail will follow," said my son. "It's simple. Just catch the breeze. Let the sail fill — and away you go. There's nothing to it."

Wishbone? This wasn't the time to ask what a wishbone was.

I clambered gracelessly on the windsurfer.

Balancing precariously on the windsurfer, my husband, with an evil glint in his eye, cast me away.

And then came a mighty puff of wind. The sail filled and I was off — an expert windsurfer in less than a minute.

I found myself sailing in the middle of the dam, along with the best of them. It was a heady feeling.

Then the wind switched. The windsurfer faltered, then flipped.

Before I could open the visor of my crash helmet, I found myself alone in the water. And sailing away in the distance, was the windsurfer.

I glanced shorewards, to see my family doubled up with hysterical laughter.

It took me 20 minutes to retrieve the windsurfer.

With an agile flip of my kneebones, I clambered triumphantly on board.

Admittedly, it took me half an hour to get the sail up again — but no matter, the means justifies the end.

So there I was, windsurfing merrily across the calm waters.

The other windsurfers were awfully jolly. They waved and whistled and grinned as I shot past.

What a nice lot they are, I thought to myself as I sailed merrily along.

When suddenly I felt a chilly breeze. On my posterior.

I glanced hurriedly down to discover the lower part of my bikini was nowhere to be seen.

It had vanished in the murky depths of Emmarentia Dam.

There was only one thing to do. I jumped off the board and waved frantically at my family.

Who waved back.

It took them two hours to realise that something was amiss and come to the rescue with a towel.

Later, I staggered ashore, exhausted and half-drowned.

"Couldn't you have done something?" I shrieked at my husband. "You could see I almost drowned."

"Well, why didn't you just climb back on to the windsurfer and sail back," he replied.

"What, expose my rear orbs to the world?" I shouted indignantly. I was a little distressed, you understand.

My husband paused. "Don't over-react," he said. "If you've seen one bottom, you've seen them all."

My son came up and banged me jocularly on the back. "Isn't it just the greatest, Ma. There's nothing quite like it, is there."

No.

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