Love is in the air.
At least, I imagine that’s what I was supposed to think when Greg came home with an ocean kayak from Craig’s List. Just like old times it was going to be, back when we held hands like lovebirds and a Frosty from Wendy’s counted as a hot date. Now we could sail into the sunset (except for the pesky part about being on the east coast and the fact we’d have to paddle and not sun ourselves while the sails did all the work, just go with it).
I reminded Greg that tenuous matters must be handled with care. Last month, when I was hanging off the back of a scooter going 60 m.p.h. on the left hand side of the road in a foreign country, I reminded him, “We have six kids.” You just can’t do these things.
Before we had six kids, we went whitewater rafting, and I fell out of the raft on a class IV rapid, got trapped under the boat, and then floated down the river by myself, and had to be rescued with ropes and helicopters. Actually, I’m kidding about the helicopters, but I am serious about the ropes, the almost dying part, and my adventures always turning into nightmares. Rental properties, anyone? There are only four left –getemwhiletheirhot— and they are in the black this year, and it’s not due to the graffiti.
And so I give a friendly word of advice to all the younger ladies: If you have to sign a liability waiver on the kinds of dates your future husband takes you on, like bungie jumping, get a clue, and go long on Valium early in your marriage. [Please don't take this as serious investment advice, because ya'll know I'm short on everything.] It won’t stop. Once he tastes adventure, you just can’t stop him. Now Greg doesn’t fly anymore, but it’s only because we can’t afford it with all these kids. Rest assured, he’ll find a way to walk on the wild side. You might end up with 10 kids! So maybe these wild guys aren’t all so bad… 
Back to what I was saying. Just like the President and Vice-President are never allowed to ride in the same airplane, responsible parents of a gabillion kids ought not to go joy-riding in the middle of shark infested waters, at least not in the same kayak.
So, I tossed out the kids with Greg and they hit the water.

We wisely chose to do this at low tide and when there were no waves. I told you we were responsible parents.

Charles: Mommy? My clothes are all wet.
Me: But that’s so funnnn, right? You had fun! You’re almost four, and you like cold, wet clothes, right? Do you like riding in the fun boat?
Charles: Mommy, my clothes are all wet.

Bizzy isn’t so sure about the “responsible” part. She realizes that she is in a new bulky get-up and this can’t be good.

Let’s all look at this and access the risk.

Nevermind.

I was warming myself in the house, just watching the cruise ships float by, when the boat flipped. So, basically, I have no pics of the best part.

They climbed back in, life went on, and nobody was eaten by a shark. (I just know it wouldn’t go that way for me. There’d be a rip current– or worse: cold water–and Flipper would be no where in sight for the big rescue.)

We have to work on the “Stroke, stroke” part. We are homeskooling right now, ahem.

Maybe I will have to get out there with Greg and show these kids how it’s done, after the sharks go night-night.