So. Let me explain.
We’re adapting to a slower pace of life. Trying not to worry about the small stuff and just taking each day as it comes.
As it happened, where we are at present was warm and sunny when I eventually opened the caravan door and peered outside.
“Be a nice day to go to the beach,” I informed Mrs P, who enthusiastically agreed.
Now, I don’t know about you but I’m not a big beach person.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind it and on a nice, warm, sunny day it will be on the higher end of my possibilities list. But I can take it or leave it.
Mrs P, on the other hand, would spend every waking hour – and a good deal of those involving slumber – on the sand if she could. She maintains the environment is good for the body and soul.
So when I suggested it out of the blue, she leapt at the opportunity before I could change my mind and suggest instead Option B – a sedate walk around Bunnings. Not to be scoffed at.
We are on the road with a picnic and all manner of items designed to make our experience all the more memorable. Among the inventory are two wetsuits.
“We could go snorkelling,” said Mrs P hopefully as I pulled the two suits from the back of the ute, obviously with an expression which suggested I’d forgotten we had them.
I have to say the notion held some appeal.
We’d first snorkelled in Rarotonga many years ago before we both contracted GHAG – grey hairs and gravity – the ravages of which are plain to see upon many of our maturity. Ahem.
Anyway.
Back then we’d been trim, taut and terrific in our stylish swimmers. Obviously, it helped that the water was luxuriously warm and the marine life was more colourful than a bag of mixed veges from Pak’nSave.
Back in good old New Zealand, we’d eagerly taken to the water the first chance we got on our return, only to discover the water was, well, bloody freezing by comparison and the aquatic life tucked up at home, presumably with the heat pump on.
In a bid to keep the fun-loving holiday spirit going, we’d bought a pair of wetsuits so we could at least be a little toastier out in the waves but eventually they found themselves being pushed further and further into the back of the storage cupboard as we found other warmer, things to occupy our time.
In fact, they only emerged from many years in the darkness relatively recently as we prepared for a life on the road. Mrs P threw them in “just in case”. As you do.
And so, there we were the other day on this pristine, deserted beach. Water gently lapping the shore. Sun beating down. We just had to do it. Again.
For the next 20 or so minutes we busied ourselves getting into wetsuits that had obviously shrunk over the years since we’d last used them. I’m guessing something happens to the rubber or something. Note to self: write complaint letter to manufacturer.
But then, miraculously, we were both fully encased and zipped up.
It has to be said, I felt good. Everything was held snugly in the place it should be and I didn’t need to suck my gut in. The wetsuit did that for me.
But if I looked a million bucks, Mrs P looked double that plus GST.
There’s definitely something about a clingy, rubbery outfit on a lady that gets the pulse racing, that’s for sure.
And if I came across there as some kind of kinky weirdo, I apologise.
Anyway.
We gather up our flippers, masks and snorkels and, hand in hand, like a scene from some romantic movie or an advertisement for older persons’ anti-inflammatory medication, depending on your vintage, wade into the water.
For the next half an hour or so, we swim up and down the quiet beach together.
It’s not “Rarotonga warm” but it’s pleasant. The wetsuits are definitely helping. Except in one regard. Their bouyancy is making it a bit hard for Mrs P.
“My bum won’t stay down,” she laughs as we stand in the chest-deep water, mask and snorkels still attached.
Naturally, this is too good an opportunity for me to pass up so I offer to help.
Perhaps if she swims up and down in front of me a bit I can make a better assessment.
She agrees and dutifully goes through her paces. Up and down. Up and down.
I’m standing there watching and hoping she can’t feel the vibrations I’m making in the water from my laughter. Akin to washing machine turbulence I’m positive.
It is, truly, a magnificent sight. One I had never seen before because I’ve always had my head down, swimming alongside my beloved. I’ll try to explain what I was seeing.
Somehow, she’s managing to swim along like a staple with a bend in the middle.
Her top and bottom halves are essentially vertical, or close to it, under water. And her lovely bum is happily floating along, enjoying the sun, between them.
As I say, talk about laugh.
By now she’s worked out there’s something not right so she’s laughing too when she resurfaces, which is funny in itself when you have a snorkel in your mouth.
But she’s game to try any remedial action and happily gets in position as I push her along the top of the water with one hand holding up her tummy and the other, you guessed it, pushing down on her bum.
I don’t know how many times we tried it but by the end of the exercise we were both knackered from the physical exertion and laughing.
As we packed up later and headed home, I had to come clean and tell her I’d stopped trying to work out what she was doing wrong after the third or fourth of her 20 or more up-and-downs in the water.
Her response, I thought, was brilliant.
She said she’d known all along I was admiring the view more than offering assistance.
But rather than call a halt to such a fun time, she’d just decided to turn the other cheek.
