I am glancing over at my PADI card (from the Professional Association of Diving Instructors) as I compose this column. I need to go scuba diving again. I really do. It has been far too long since I have taken the time to do so. Nonetheless, I am proud of that open-water diver card; it takes some very hard work to earn one of those.
I am also thinking back to the horrible memory that almost kept me from even trying.
The wetsuit seemed like such a good idea at the time. My family and I were on our annual vacation, and that particular year it was to one of my very favorite places: St. Augustine, Florida.
As anyone going there should, we went to all of the right places: The Castillo de San Marcos, the oldest standing masonry fort in America; Spanish in origin; never defeated in battle. Fort Matanzas, which successfully guarded the back door to St. Augustine against all attacks. The Old Jail, Columbia's Restaurant (Cuban food to die for), Pizza Alley Pizza (wood-fired pizza to come back from the dead for) and much, much more.
But then there was the yard sale, and the aforementioned wetsuit.
For many years, it had been my desire to go scuba diving. I had always planned on buying the necessary equipment, taking some classes and going. So I guess it stood to reason that, when I saw the used wetsuit at the yard sale, I should buy it. It seemed to be about the right size, and the nice gentleman in the driveway told me that "it was owned by a guy about your size." Voila!
Ten dollars later, I had a wetsuit. I had seen people out surfing, and I figured that, until I got my scuba gear, I could go out and rent a surfboard and have some fun on our vacation. So, arriving back at the hotel a few hours later, I began to attempt to get myself into the wetsuit. That was an experience I will never forget.
I pulled. I tugged. I grunted. I turned red in the face. All to no avail. My wife, Dana, ever helpful, then told me that she once overheard some people talking about using some form of lubrication to get into those things, because they are, in fact, supposed to be skin-tight.
And that is how I found myself at the local grocery store buying a can of generic cooking spray.
A little while later, I was back at the hotel and ready for a second attempt at getting into the wetsuit. I still remember the comforting "pssssssssst!" sound as I used probably half a can of the cooking spray, covering myself very, very well. Then, satisfied that I was sufficiently slippery, the wetsuit and I went round and round (and up and down and under and over) once again.
I met both with greater success and far more hideous failure in this second attempt. By that I mean that I managed to get myself about 85 percent of the way into the suit - 85 percent, period. Then I realized in horror that I could neither finish getting into it, nor could I even begin to get out of it!
I was beginning to panic. The claustrophobia that I did not even know I had began to well up inside of me, and fear began to heat me up all the way into my throat. So in such grave danger, I did what any self-respecting husband would do: I frantically shouted for my wife to come and get me out.
It really does something to a man to see his wife turning red, shaking, crying and laughing hysterically at his plight.
"This isn't funny, Babe!" I said to her with a fear induced semi-soprano voice.
That just made it worse. I did not know who would pass out first, me from being squeezed in the Hulk-like grip of the wetsuit or her from her hyperventilation-level laughter.
Finally, though, she composed herself enough to extricate me from the suit. It took a "Her"culean effort, but finally I was free.
Once again, in my troubles, I had managed to prove the biblical phrase true, "Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing and obtaineth favor of the Lord." (Proverbs 18:22)
Funny, how we often do not realize just how greatly God has blessed us in the spouse he gave us until a disaster strikes. Why in the world is that? It would seem like we would be much more cognizant each and every day of how very much they mean to us and then take time to communicate that to them.
That would, my dear readers, be an excellent thing for you to put on your "to do" list for today. And tomorrow. And every day after that as well.
As to the ill-fated wetsuit, the good news is, even though I wasted $10 on a wetsuit that I could not fit into, to this day I will not stick to a pan.
Bo Wagner is pastor of Cornerstone Baptist Church of Mooresboro, N.C., a widely traveled evangelist and the author of several books available on Amazon and at www.wordofhismouth.com. Email him at 2knowhim@cbc-web.org.