The unthinkable has happened. There was an accident while I was using my new water jet pack, the FlyBoy Flyboard For Bored Boys V2. The V1 model was dubbed “a harbinger of doom” by a reliable tech blog, so I made the safe choice and waited for the next model. But even if you take every precaution, freak accidents happen.

Now I lay washed ashore and on the brink of death, all because of my humble aspirations to defy the limits of the human body and hover above water like a god.

I got swept up in the moment and did some regrettable things. Then I got swept up in a whirlpool of my own making. To the family and friends gathered ‘round my soggy body, I beg you to erase the following from your memory before my soul departs:

The Squealing
There’s a learning curve for everything, including hydroflight. My learning curve happened to involve squealing like a pig in grave distress. There were moments of reprieve when I was busy gurgling or catching my breath, but the squealing was—in essence—constant. This was absolutely integral to the process of learning vertical propulsion. Nevertheless, in the event of my death, it would be generous to forget the 22 minutes of squealing and hysteria. Focus on the good times, as they say. Specifically, the 14 seconds that I was in complete control. “He was the very picture of grace,” you should claim. (As a rule, tragedy cancels out any/all squealing.)

The Disparaging Remarks To My Grounded Friends
Leading up to this experience, I know I hurled some impolite words at everyone for being pitiful, grounded homo sapiens. Insults to the effect of “lily-livered landlubbers” or “terrestrial oafs” may have escaped my lips at some point. It was wrong of me to say such things. I’ve realized that—cowardice aside—most of you can’t afford the high-priced FlyBoy Flyboard For Bored Boys V2. I shouldn’t have flaunted my riches by forwarding the order confirmation to my brother with the message: “You’ll never be a valiant seaman like me, you goose!” Lord knows he can’t afford a water jet pack on his paltry, Naval officer salary.

The Admission That This Adrenaline Rush Eclipsed My Daughter’s Birth
“This is the happiest experience of my life—bar none—and I’m including the birth of my only child!” I shouted while hovering… even though I’ve been to some terrific bars that served the non-alcoholic cider I like. I also recall yelling, “This fleeting moment of bliss surpasses the lifelong joy of fatherhood!” while looking directly into the eyes of my daughter… what’s-her-face? I’m referring to the one we weren’t sure we’d be able to conceive, because my doctor told me that something ought to prevent me from procreating. Is it Dugong? Or Mollusk? My mind is all waterlogged—I got some ocean in my ears during the whirlpool. My sincerest apologies, darling Dugong. Please remember me fondly.

The Sea Turtle That Was Rocketed Into The Sky
Quite frankly, this was out of my control and the turtle should’ve been more aware of its surroundings. Sorry, anyhow.

The Rash Guard I Stole From A Pale Man
While gearing up on the beach, I spotted a very slimming rash guard worn by a bodyboarder. I had to have it. I wanted to look svelte in the photos of my water jet pack experience. After some good-natured terrorizing, the gentleman relinquished his rash guard. He was a fair-skinned redhead with freckles aplenty, and I knew the sun would beat down upon his back until he wasn’t just burned, but rather charbroiled. Worse yet, his boogie board was cheaply made and scratchy—it would surely chafe his nipples into oblivion. I figured out too late that my head couldn’t even breach the neck hole of his rash guard… a curse of being big-brained. It weighs on me that a man sacrificed his nipples for naught.

The Contract I Made With Poseidon
Upon achieving a euphoric moment of balance, I promised my soul to Poseidon if he would transform me into a Merman who can hover a little. “Make me a Merman capable of suspending my body a few feet above the water’s surface, and my soul is yours for the taking!” I pronounced to the aquatic deity, forgetting to be specific about my final Mer-form having toned abs… or at least a compression rash guard. But when the whirlpool materialized to claim my body for the metamorphosis, I changed my mind and tried to jet away. We all make false promises in moments of ecstasy. And, not for nothing, but everyone knows I’m fickle.

So here I lie… beached on the sand, half-dead and disagreeably pruny. The waves lap at my feet with the rising tide, beckoning me to the ocean to fulfill my contract. As I steel myself to accept my fate and let slip some feeble, plaintive squeals, I’m struck by a heartbreaking realization: I’ve got a wife and child who don’t know the first thing about repairing a water jet pack—I’m needed on land!!