Cubs

When I was a kid, I used to watch those wildlife shows... The ones where they'd show a family of lions or something with new borns. The babies would be climbing on the father, biting his ears and making a general nuisance of themselves while he was trying to sleep. The narrator would say something like this wasn't just play, the babies were learning how to hunt through this aggressive play. After a few minutes, the father would open one eye, and the babies would continue. Eventually, he would give the babies a good swat and they'd tumble away and go rough house with each other, just long enough for the father to get comfortable and then be back.

A part of me was always surprised at that. Until this week.

We were snorkeling, all four of us. Again, my daughter was snorkeling with me. (Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the constant soundtrack I now have with every snorkel. (“I love fishes” sung three thousand times can be very catchy, even if it is grammatically inaccurate.) My daughter is able to practice her ballet dancing, sing, point out fish, and generally go in the opposite direction I am trying to swim at the same time. So, every trip with her in an adventure.) We all headed for the small artificial reef to look for the lobsters she and I had seen the evening before.

“Look daddy, I'm dancing.”

“You can't dance in the water.” That was her brother, the realist.

“Yes I can.” To her credit, she did prove she could. The only problem was I was still trying to get my second fin on. (Recapping here... Holding a bobbing five-year old from being washed out to sea, trying to balance on one leg (with a flipper already on) and get the second flipper on and not pull all my middle-aged muscles (yes, I've finally admitted it, but I do not have gout!) is not the best way to start a morning.)

“Sit still!” Maybe I growled it louder than I intended. I'm pretty sure I caught my wife smirking (I'm pretty sure it was a full-blown smirk if I could see it through a scuba mask.).

“I lost my fin.” Actually it came out more as “I wost by bin.” (When she's snorkeling, she can enunciate clearly with her snorkel in her mouth. Any other time, like when I'm half-off balance, she's impossible to understand.

“Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

I caught a glimpse of blue a few feet away. Keeping one hand on her, my fins and mask in my other hand, I lunged and grabbed it (spontaneous evolution, look it up.) before the next wave pushed it further away.

This time both fins were strapped tighter. Rather than chance anything else coming off, I pushed off with one fin and started towing her to the reef. (Towing is an understatement. My wife took my daughter out one snorkel. I'm not sure how it happened. I had to go back up on the beach and get my stuff, and amazingly, that took much much much longer than I expected. After they were done, my daughter and son were fighting the waves and each other, as usual, and my wife was panting on the beach. “Your... daughter... is... heavy. Did you... know that?” “Really? I hadn't noticed.” I don't think she caught the sarcasm.) Halfway to the reef, I put the other fin on and got a better grip.

“Where are the lobsters?” My wife asked as we approached the reef. Now, she's been diving for over fifteen years. One of our hobbies while we dive is to learn the behavior of what we're watching. So, I have no idea what possessed her to lead our two impressionable children to think that the lobsters, which we'd never seen there, and this is not a big reef, would still be there.

This is about the same time my daughter swam right in front of me. I know because of the two blue fins that hit me in the face. (At least they were still both on her feet.)

“Under the water.” I probably muttered.

Both kids proceeded to dive in search of the lobsters. My son dives very well and was able to make it down the ten feet and look inside the old tires that make up the artificial reef. My daughter's version of diving is... describable. It's a several step process. First, her head goes straight down. (From everything I've read, this is the normal process for diving.) Almost at the same time, her butt goes up (think of a dolphin breaching). So, this would be great. However, she does both so well that she doesn't stop and this is where it gets interesting. Her head ends up too close to her knees, but since her butt's already in full dive mode, her knees, much to her head's frustration, disappear. Now, the only way for her head to catch up to her knees is to take a shortcut by spinning 180 degrees. This usually works for a second, before another 180 degree turn in the opposite direction is needed. While all this is happening underwater, her flippers are flailing around above the water. Anyone within five feet is sure to get kicked in the face at least once per dive. The final part of the dive is the snorkel clearing. By now, it's completely filled with sea water. (But somehow, none of the water is in her mouth. One theory is she does not stop talking/singing during the diving, but no one has had to courage to get close enough to verify this.) Clearing the snorkel involves a quick scamper up my back, and a few minutes of readjusting. Then back into the water for another dive.

After about ten minutes of blue and yellow flippers (my son) zipping around me and kicking me in the face and body, I remembered the father lion and his cubs. In case you are wondering, no I didn't swat them... barely.