The year was 2012, the location Nassau, Bahamas, and the motto was YOLO. #SENIORWEEK had arrived and this 18–year–old Catholic high school grad, suppressed by years of tartan skirts and perfect attendance, was on the loose.
My ticking time bomb of a teenage self hit the resort at 9 a.m. and was intoxicated in an hour. I recall recruiting three friends, stumbling upon a dilapidated watersports shack, and inquiring about the activities included in the “Student Friendly Package.”
When the attendant asked me if I had sailing experience, I told him that my grandfather once worked on a ship. Thankfully, due to lax Bahamian water traffic laws, this lie convinced him to trust four drunken teens with a 30–foot mast, 800–pound, Hobie Cat sailboat.
After receiving lifejackets and a two minute briefing on steering, we were off. My friends sat laughing with joy as I, their self–appointed shit–faced captain, stood clutching the steering rope for dear life, hiding my fear with a smile as the boat sped 30 mph offshore.
When the wind died down, I used my best judgment and advised everyone to remove their lifejackets to avoid getting tan lines. And in the spirit of doing something unforgivably dumb for a laugh, I jumped off the boat—about 500 feet offshore—and drunkenly waded in the blue.
I was floating on my back with my eyes shut, at one with the tranquil Caribbean, when a sudden gust of wind sent my friends zooming away from me. I had one decision to make: I could backstroke violently after that boat (I don’t freestyle) and risk losing my D&G shades or drown. In a fit of panic, I hurled the glasses and cut through the waves like an adrenaline–powered retrograde David Hasselhoff.
After a few minutes, the salt water, dashing up my nostrils and into my eyes, began to produce a burning sensation. I felt as though the devil had swabbed my nasal passages and corneas with hot sauce. Just as I was ready to give up, I spotted something extraordinary. A rogue nude—possibly hallucination of a—jet skier was approaching from the opposite direction of the beach. The naked man was coming right for me!
Once he was close enough, he scooped me out of the water. I was delighted to find that the man was both of material existence and wearing a Speedo. He heroically offered to tug my friends ashore and, together, we tied the sailboat to the back of his jet ski.
As we sped to safety, I recall realizing two very distinct things; one, being a drunken sailor is by no means easy occupation and two, YOLO should be used less to encourage spontaneity, and more to inspire intelligent choices, i.e. it’s not worth getting lost at sea to prove that you’re a good time.
ALEXA FECCA
(CLASSLESS & BLOOMERS)
