Freckles? Freckles is not exactly a name that strikes fear into the hearts of swimmers.
I have been wary of the ocean since seeing the movie Jaws. Oh, sure, it's a fictional story, right? Two weeks after seeing the movie in a theater, a great white shark was reeled in off the coast of Newburyport ... you know ... Plum Island ... where we all used to go swimming ... until we saw the movie and the photo of the actual shark.
As recently as five years ago, I was at a local beach when officials shut it down for a shark sighting. Right here, in New England, where the ocean water is generally pretty flipping chilly. The beach is always damn crowded, too. That shark would've had a buffet.
Every so often, though, I tell myself it's all okay. I mean, surfers are in the water, and they look more like seals than I do. If the surfers are safe, it must be okay to wade out deeper, deeper, deeper until I cannot touch the bottom easily; so far out that I'm well beyond the breakers and riding the swells.
So relaxing.
And then ... somewhere in my brain I hear it. Dahh-duhh. Louder. Dahh-duhh. Again. Dahh-duhh.
Dahh-duhh. Dahh-duhh.
Suddenly, my brain is playing the entire John Williams' composition, the theme from Jaws (not as good as his score from The Cowboys, but a damned good second place). Suddenly, I cannot get out of the water fast enough.
I'll tell you this -- I'll go in the water, maybe to my knees, but I have no desire to get up close and personal with Freckles or her friends. Well, not today, anyway. Ask me again when it's 98 degrees with 98% humidity. In that case, Freckles had better move over because I'll be the one trolling the water.
