Swimming with sharks…

I Dated Captain Ron for Three Years

Yesterday I went for one of my marathon beach hikes in the world’s best secret place: Guana State Park.  I feel I can tell you, because this Blog is new and not many people are reading it yet…  I take pepper spray with me, by the way, and I know you’re supposed to spray it down-wind, so don’t get any ideas.

The photo above is my hand (old hitch-hiking methods die hard) with a cache of shark’s teeth I’ve collected from the beach.  Now, this is a stretch of ocean, where Pucci-clad, young moms sit on Izod towels and  wave to their children, dressed like seals, as they take surfing lessons.  I feel like I should tell somebody – there are SHARKS IN THE WATER!

The problem is: no one thinks a shark is going to get them – today.

When I was drinking, I swam with sharks all the time (you knew it was going to come back to ME, right?).

I lived in the Bahamas, and it was nothing to jump off a boat into deep water DRUNK, and snorkel face-to-face into a small lemon shark or hammerhead.   There was always a rogue bull shark biting a small boat,  or snagging  a fish off your line as you reeled it in.  I once watched a boyfriend beat a shark to death with a wine bottle.  Now, that’s not something you see every day people, and if you’ve never seen someone kill a shark with Chardonnay, I can tell you it makes you think twice about that person…
Which brings me to the other kind of shark.  When I was drinking, I was a prime target for the brand of man who senses vulnerability – smells it like blood in the water –   and takes advantage.  Some may say I asked for it.  Like a child in a wet suit – splashing like a seal in the ocean…


Today I’m not drinking because: THERE ARE SHARKS IN THE WATER!

How come you’re not drinking?