Parasailing
For a fat person, I have always wanted to do things that defy gravity.
This is exactly why I chose to parasail when I visited the colorful beaches of Goa on a holiday.
Before I start, let me give you the clear picture of who I am — I am a thirty year old, not at all healthy female who just encapsulated a baby boy, and subsequently, a lot of belly fat. I am, what people call, classically rotund.
Ok, no one calls anyone that.
But they should.
Despite the chunky goodness of my frame, I love monkeying around — trying to climb over rocks (and get bruised), jumping into rapidly gushing rivers (and get facial paralysis), and ziplining across the fine line between sanity and self-induced mental drama (and get enquired about PMS). I want to scuba dive, but I don’t know how to swim. I want to bungee jump, but I don’t have the money to visit a place where it’s actually worth experiencing.
So, when I saw the decently maintained parasailing equipment and boats, I thought, why not? Something is better than nothing.
As I informed the trip sponsor (aka the husband) of my decision and the monetary dents it may cause in his wallet, my tummy did a tiny jiggle on the inside (or was it really strong winds jiggling the outside? We will never know). You see, the Spawn was tired and on the verge of a full blown tantrum; waiting for the boat to arrive and actually doing the deed would take at least thirty minutes. Plus I was apprehensive about not knowing how to even float in the water (though they assured me, again and again, that there was no need for this qualification). Plus the above mentioned Spawn was firmly against it (“Do you see any other Aunties going on a parachute? Nooooo. You don’t go. You sit with me.”)
Excuses. Excuses.
If I had 50p for every excuse I’ve made in my life, I’d be living in a Mansion, manufacturing candy bars like Richie Rich.
I guess there was something in the air that day (second hand marijuana smoke?). No more excuses, I thought to myself.
I am here.
I have the opportunity.
I will do it.
And when I’m done, I will take this attitude back home with me, and approach everything in life the same way. I will find my Ikigai, have a kick-ass career and be the best darn parent one can be (Some really strong stuff wafting through the air, I tell you).
Off we went in the boat. There was me- feeling like Indiana Jones embarking on a mission. There was the husband — nervously praying to our multiple Gods that I don’t float away into the sky, leaving him alone with the mutual minion. Then, there was the Spawn — comfortably numb and probably seeing colorful lights spinning around at this stage. There was also the newly married couple accompanying us — the seemingly calm bride and the anxious husband, who firmly stated that he still had a lot to see and do in this lifetime and will not try mimicking a human kite.
It is to be noted here that the men in charge of the whole thing were not the nurturing motherly types, who gently nudge you out of your comfort zone. They are businessmen who see each boat ride as a means to make money on the side (“You want us to take video and send it to you on Whatsapp, madam? 200 rupees. You want to fly higher, madam? 500 rupees. You want to sit on the back of a blue whale and do a somersault, madam? 1000 rupees.”) I do not think they were very impressed by us, since we refused to cough up anything besides the parasailing charge.
I went first, because I was a mother (Ha ha!). The guy fastened the harness and let it hang awkwardly around my palazzo pants and heavy t-shirt (Cuz that’s how I roll in the beach, y’all).
“Is there something I should know? Any instructions?” I asked, tasting a strange mix of feelings along with the salty air.
“Nothing, madam. You do nothing.”
Umm… that didn’t sound quite right. It did, however, appeal to my innate laziness, so I chose not to protest.
And it began. The boat picked up speed. I bounced along the water till the laws of physics set in, and WEEEEEEEE. I was starting to rise in the air.
What a thrill!
What a magnificent view gradually building around me!
The glorious blue sky, merging with the bewitching blue sea — the blip of my husband’s horrified face, getting tinier and tinier.
“I’M FLYI… “
I didn’t even get to finish that sentence. I was going back down again.
What the heck.
That’s it? I looked up and saw a bird hovering above me, looking as though it was going to shit on me, just to mock me about the heights I’d reached. I felt like pudgy dough that didn’t have quite enough yeast to raise (Yes, I really did think about bread at that moment in time)
Gravity, thou art a heartless bitch.
I wish I could say it was a smooth landing. It probably had to do with the extra dough we refused to shell out. Very gracefully (as I’d like to think), I managed to go under the water and drag the chute in with me.
After the three men collectively pulled me inside (if Captain Ahab had tried to drag Moby Dick into his boat, he would have had lesser difficulty) and the husband calmed down, he asked, “So? Was it life changing?”
Let’s just say that I’m back from the holiday, and I am still a chronic procrastinator, still have a well-below-average career path, and yesterday, the progeny — all of 2.5 years old- asked me to ‘be quiet and drive the car’.
Oh, well.
C’est la vie!
