After I was back in the boat, the whole thing seemed pretty funny. In fact, it was downright hilarious. It was a total riot.
Until I realized my wife might find out.
Heather tends to try rushing me to the doctor if I so much as get a papercut, so it was my firm notion to keep this whole near-widowing incident quiet.
Since I was with a group of men from our church, including the pastor and one deacon, it seemed wrong to ask them to lie on my behalf.
“Don’t tell Heather what happened,” I said anyway.
By the end of the float what had been hee-larious just 40 minutes previous was now rather sobering. I had almost died.
A short time later Heather called.
“How’s it going? Did you have a good time?”
“Yes,” I said.
The written word can’t accurately convey what inflection my voice must have contained.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I was determined not to go into any details.
“Nothing,” I evaded.
“Did someone get hurt?”
“No.”
“Did someone almost get hurt?”
“Maybe.”
Then, the deathstroke.
“Who?”
“Um, me.”
“But you were wearing your lifejacket, weren’t you?”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“No. And I lost the hat you gave me.”
Long story short, I made it out of the conversation unscathed.
Good thing I still had the bracelet.
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