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For several years of my childhood I wanted to be a scuba diver.
You know, just like Mike Nelson on "Sea Hunt" the half-hour TV staple of the 1950's. I imagined that Mike's life of playing tag with fish and catching a bad guy or two all within the confines of a thirty-minute work day sounded like the ideal executive gig for me. A day at the beach with a paycheck!

Naturally, being from the Midwest, I managed to find inland employment that did not involve getting wet or even going outdoors. For nearly forty years I cracked wise on the radio while polluting the minds of the nation's youth with pre-pubescent pap pop music that was once called: The Top Forty. (We would have played the Top Fifty had there been enough payola to go around, but that's a story for another time.) Anyway, suffice it to say, I was distracted from my salt water calling for all of those years and it wasn't until 2005 that I was afforded the opportunity to don a wetsuit to see what I had missed.

Apparently...not much. Never had I looked forward to something as much as I did taking scuba lessons in Hawaii. I just knew that I would shimmy into that wetsuit, slap the air tank on my back, kick my swim fins and be home for the very first time with my friends Shamu and Sponge Bob.

I HATED IT. God it was awful! The wetsuit was icky and sticky. I can't stand breathing through my mouth. I kept floating to the surface. My ears hurt. As I said, I hated it. Forty years of thinking I had missed my calling. I was crestfallen. To make matters worse, the damn wetsuit made me look fat. I swear those stupid bastards who gave me the lessons at the hotel purposely put that inflatable vest on me just to make me look like a freaking weeble! Sonsabitches!

Oh yeah...Did you notice that some Grouper ate my hair?
Never Again!