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Don't forget to bring a towel, sunblock, and a Tetanus shot.
Last week, you went to a waterpark in Florida. You’re not really sure why you thought this was a good idea. Maybe you hoped that wandering around in 95% humidity would help you sweat out some toxins. Maybe you just wanted to shut your kids up. Either way, you’re now suffering from PTSD and possibly a Staph infection.
Despite what your friends tell you, you’re not a stuck-up Connecticut yuppie that can only have fun at a country club. You have nothing against ruffian water activities. In fact, you believe that a jet ski is one of the better times you can have without taking your clothes off. Shoutout Panic at the Disco.
But as refreshing as a nice dip in the pool can be, an afternoon at a Pinellas County waterpark is the complete opposite.
If you’re going in the lazy river, buckle up. There’s nothing meandering about this tributary. The first tube that goes by contains an adult male humanoid, splayed out with his gym socks on. Before you even have time to process the questionable wardrobe choice, a woman walking without a tube pushes him aside, carefully avoiding the approaching waterfall so as to not interrupt her FaceTime conversation.
“Are you having fun?” you hesitantly ask your children.
“I’m not,” mutters the waterpark’s lone lifeguard. He’s spent the last three hours monotonously scolding several dozen unsupervised children for running on the pool deck. One kid, no more than six years old, defiantly flips him the bird and sprints up one of the kiddie chutes in the wrong direction, narrowly escaping a violent slide tackle from a descending patron. Chaos!
Your frayed nerves can’t tolerate another partial drowning, so you decide to take a break at the snack bar, which features an extensive cocktail list curated by Cruzan Rum. This seems like a positive development until a woman next to you with a broken arm orders something called a Voodoo Bucket, which apparently is a 32-ounce receptacle containing three different kinds of rum, banana liqueur, passion fruit purée, cranberry cocktail, and pineapple juice. You’re not sure what hurts worse after reading the description, your head or your stomach. Both begin to spin wildly when the woman decides to remove the giant plastic straw and use it to scratch at the skin beneath the cast on her wrist.
You end up getting a jalapeño marg and a pepperoni pizza. Both are shockingly decent.
After lunch, a strange child who you’ve definitely never met before asks if you’ll take her in the wave pool because her dad went outside to smoke. She is disappointed when you refuse, but you’re confident she’ll turn out okay. After all, her dad is one of the only adults in the entire facility that is considerate enough to exit the splash pad before ashing his Camel Light.
Another downside of this interaction is that now the kids that actually are your responsibility want to go in the wave pool too. So you have to figure out how to dodge the multiple loose turds and tampons littering the pedestrian bridge that leads to it. When you finally arrive, things are actually pleasant for a few minutes. Sure, the water smells like asparagus pee, but at least there is nothing floating in it. It also seems to be the one place in the park where concealed carry is not permitted. Your kids are having fun floating around and aren’t emulating the barbaric behavior of the other guests.
However, your brief moment of zen is interrupted when Lazy River Socks Guy migrates to the more tidal setting. Initially, you’re pleased to see that he’s in the process of removing his footwear. Unfortunately, he is wielding a toenail clipper in one hand and a Zippo lighter in the other, so it’s time to get the fuck out of the wave pool.
Thankfully, the scorching heat and oppressive humidity have summoned a late afternoon thunderstorm. As tropical rain begins to fall, Lonesome Lifeguard begins the unenviable task of shepherding a couple hundred unruly park guests towards the exit. You look on in horror as intoxicated parents return from their smoke breaks, ranting about liberal climate hoaxes and woke left regulations that are unfairly preventing their children from standing on protruding steel structures beneath flickering heat lightning. Such victims!
About halfway to your car, a seagull succumbs to the treacherous conditions and takes a deadly nosedive onto the parking lot pavement. Your children are spared from the gruesome scene of scattered feathers and gore by Broken Arm Lady, who plops her empty Voodoo Bucket on top of the avian corpse to shield it from view. Without missing a beat, she hops behind the wheel of her Kia Carnival and swerves away.
“Can we come back tomorrow?” asks your daughter as she soaks the backseat of your rental car with chlorinated pool water.
“Maybe,” you say. “The pizza was pretty good, wasn’t it?”