Number one, I don't fit in a child's wheelchair.
Number two, don't hope that I might.
Number three, thanks a lot, bastards!
My electric wheelchair, at 400 pounds, plus my 165 pound carcass, was too heavy for the ramp to the transport ferry at Grand Caymans. My math must not be Common Core approved as I witnessed four 200+++ fatties holding hands aboard the bridge.
So, I was sardined into my loaner baby stroller and pushed onto the ferry. Understand my pain. It squeezed the piss out of my bladder and into my..... Thank God I'm both shy and a control freak. It would be two hours before I would even see a toilet.
We were going on an excursion whereby my limp body would lounge in a pontooned, three wheeled, off road Lazy Boy recliner, sea ready and none too comfortable as Amy tugged me to the depths of the Gulf of Mexico by a ten foot tether designed to be skewered in the sand on shore. We dodged the wave runners and ducked beneath the fishing hooks adorned with mackerel bait cast by the nearby trawler. We were too far out for any whale watching. Those lucky enough to have perfect vision might have seen us as a Tom Hanksesque dot on the horizon. The fishermen saw us, but I imagine they didn't speak English and didn't understand what they were looking at.
Sea water tastes bad. I couldn't reach with my tongue to lick my sweaty arms. Amy was frolicking along until we couldn't see the beach. Only her uncanny sense of direction could steer us back.
Along the way, I built a portable desalinization plant, spoke with Mr. Limpett and netted Flipper while snagging tuna. We had to skirt several BP oil deposits designed for wildlife control.
When we discovered landfall later that year, Amy had to keelhaul my ship to scrape barnacles. I ate some sand before I peed.
The ride back to the cruise ship was painful and uneventful except for the ruckus Amy caused when she discovered the critters that had camped out in her swimsuit. I got a kick out of that. Literally.
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