Emasculation

This morning's dive was over. We emptied the boat of the dive gear. Around here people are expected to participate, carry the gear off the boat, rinse it, hang it up. It's part of diving.

Yesterday I wanted to give my divemaster, a pretty 25 year old blonde upon whose head I could readily rest my chin, a T-shirt that says, "I'm your dive master, not your bitch. Take care of your own gear." There is no such shirt, but if there were she wouldn't wear it. Instead she borrowed my guide shirt so she could go out as Steve Irwin to a Halloween party yesterday. She never asked me she just told the woman who owns the Wet Spot that the shirt I was wearing would be ideal, Madame Wet Spot asked me if Jennifer could borrow my shirt for the night. "I'll give you a free Don't sleep on the Wet Spot T shirt." I really don't need a T shirt, thanks, all my clothes are plastic. They dry in 10 minutes in the sun.

Jennifer was very embarrassed that I was asked. Then she told me that she couldn't use it because she was going to go as Steve Irwin and would have to put a big blood spot over the heart and it might not come out. "This shirt's life is over. I have worn it over a 80 times in adverse conditions, it has been torn and patched. When I get back down to Panama I'll pick up some others that I have stashed. A blood stain over the heart would just add some character."

I switched into the T shirt and handed her my shirt, she took a whiff of it and said "I don't know." Hell, I had been wearing all day sometimes after coming out of the sea and still wet; if you don't know, sea water gives everything a funk. Madame Wet Spot assured her that this just gave it some authenticity.

This morning I strolled into the dive shop wearing my T shirt, Jennifer gave me a half smile and a bit of a laugh with a "Hi, Jim." What now? I never asked, I don't know if I want to know. My shirt was hanging up to dry, quite a bit cleaner, but with a bit of residual blood stain in the central chest. There were many more speckles of blood on the shirt from my Bolivian Jungle days, it mattered not.

Now it was time to carry the dive gear to the shop. (Nice chronology) I hefted a few weight belts, and grabbed a BCD which was secured to a now empty tank. Jennifer said, "I'll take that one, it is heavy." Shoot me now.