Water Sports

Around the time of my 9th birthday I went on holiday with my mum and step-dad to Thailand. It is a truly beautiful place, and I feel so lucky that I had the opportunity to go there. We had a wonderful time - drinking in the sunshine-shocked warmth, eating the exotic, seeing the spectacular, navigating the wild and enjoying the luxurious.

There was, however, an incident. I think there is always some kind of incident wherever I am concerned. It involved me, the beach, a quiet afternoon, my mother and a large inflatable object attached to a 15 year old speed boat. We should have known it would end badly.

It seems my 9 year old soul was going through an adrenalin-junkie phase. I wanted to go on a jet-ski, but mother-dearest wouldn't hear of it. I wanted to go para-gliding, but mother-dearest wouldn't allow it. I wanted to go water skiing, but mother-dearest shook her head. I wanted to go abseiling, but mother-dearest stamped her foot down. And rightly so - I was 9 for heaven's sake!

Eventually, after my 9 year old attention span had flitted between various heart-attack inducing adventures for a day or so, it finally settled on something slightly more sedate. Slightly.

The hotel had it's own private beach, and this beach had it's own offering of water sport activities (see jet skiing and water skiing above). Now, I'm not sure whether my mum was actually interested in partaking in this particular activity, or whether my constant outlandish demands were making her soul whither away and die somewhere deep within her, but she actually said those magic words every kid wants to hear: "Oh alright then!"

So we walked through the pool area one beautiful sunny day to reach the idyllic crystal-clear Pacific ocean. Well, I say walked...actually it was only mum that walked. I ran around her in circles, pleading with her to hurry up. We reached the water sports section where all the jet skis (sigh!) and motor boats were tied up, and spoke to the pleasant looking but bi-lingually challenged beach attendant. Mum slowly explained to him what we were looking for.

After a few confused looks and apologetic smiles, he suddenly understood what we were asking. He looked us up and down - my mum in her swimming costume and a beach sarong, and me with my tiny scrawny 9 year old frame clad in a bikini. "Two?!" he practically shrieked. Mum looked non-plussed (looking back, my constant whining and nagging may have prompted her to have a lunch-time glass of wine), and replied, "Yes please, just the two of us."

He muttered to himself as he backed off the make the arrangements.

After a couple of minutes (well, it seemed like hours to my impatient mind) he motioned for us to follow him down the wooden ramp towards the boat. The way I remember it is this: There was a gleaming speedboat tied to the dock, with a powerful engine at it's rear waiting to roar into life. Attached to the end of the boat by a thick length of rope was a long yellow inflatable shaped like a banana, that had five separate seating areas with wide black straps to hold on to.

The way my mother remembers it is this: There was an ancient looking pile of rust floating in the water with a leaking engine attached to the end of it by some sticky tape and glue. On the end of a frayed piece of nylon string attached to the back of the boat was a large inflatable object shaped like a soggy sausage. There were five separate faded areas where people had straddled the object over the last decade or so, which were further marked out by damaged and almost-missing straps which she presumed she was supposed to hold on to.

Anyway, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. So, I instantly proclaimed that I wanted to be right up front and, ignoring my mother's protests to the contrary, happily launched myself on to the banana-boat. Mum carefully negotiated her seat right behind me, and wrapped one protective arm around me whilst desperately searching for purchase on a practically non-existent "safety" strap with the other hand.

The huge excited grin on my face soon faded into abject horror as the speed boat kicked into life and sped out across the water. I didn't realise the sea was this bouncy. I didn't realise we would be going this far out to sea. I didn't realise we would be going this fast. And I sure as hell didn't realise that two people (and one of them being a 9 year old skinny wretch) going on a banana boat ride intended for the weight of five people was Not. A. Good. Idea.

Oh, we bounced and flew all over the ocean. Literally. Every time we hit a wave, I would go flying off the banana. Mum didn't know whether to laugh or cry as she watched her tiny daughter swim back towards the inflatable banana after being launched several feet into the air for the 10th time. At one point I was flung forward, and was clinging on to the rope that kept the inflatable banana attached to the boat. I distinctly remember mum holding onto my twiggy ankle at the point (and laughing hysterically, I might add).

After what seemed an eternity of lack of gravity and wild G-force mood swings, the speed boat pulled back into the shoreline, and we both jumped off and ran/swam/jumped/crawled back to dry land. Out of a British sense of politeness, Mum managed to mutter some words of gratitude to the boat driver, whilst I made a silent promise to myself to never again engage in any activities that involve speed, the sea and inflatable objects.

I have always kept this promise.