So much water. So little skill.

The Bad News is Lake Ooze

By Rick Horowitz

I swear to you, I wanted to do it even before I heard how Ed was doing it. "Ed did it barefoot," came the word from the waterfront, and it wasn't just a rumor; Ed had it all on videotape, on the minicam in his minivan. There he was -- hanging from the boom of his very own boat, racing across the surface at 40 miles an hour -- and not a ski in sight. Incredible.

I didn't want to do it barefoot. I just wanted to do it. Water skiing, I mean. It seemed like a nice skill to have, kind of like tennis. You never know when you'll find yourself with a lake on your hands, a spare boat, a driver, a spotter and some skis -- or in Ed's case, no skis, but plenty of sole -- plus a burning desire to pull your shoulders out of their sockets and get a face full of water.

I had tried it once before, years ago -- a flock of people in a little old boat. Only the smallest kids ever made it upright -- "weak motor," we all decided. Then last year, I had another shot at it -- even the grownups were getting up -- and then just before it was my turn, the motor coughed, and coughed again, and spit up all its forward gears. There are lots of things you can do in a boat going backward at two miles an hour, but skiing isn't nearly one of them.

But this year -- there was a new boat this year, with a strong and sturdy motor, and the rain stopped and the whitecaps dropped and I was totally out of excuses. Take me to the water.

Which they did, and sent me over the side with encouragement and tons of advice: Sit back. Keep your knees tucked. Keep your skis straight. Pay your health insurance.

"Ready?" the spotter would shout, after I'd finally wrestled my way into the skis and untangled the towrope and uncrossed (and recrossed, and uncrossed) the tips. "Not yet!" I'd scream; I was supposed to be perfectly straight, but I was still bobbing around out there.

"Ready?" the spotter would shout again, and I'd make sure I had everything lined up just so, and take a deep breath and offer a jaunty little wave: Let 'er rip. Which wave sent me immediately diagonal, and likewise sent the boat roaring across the water with me bouncing along behind, trying desperately to get straight and get my hand back on the rope where it belonged, and the whole thing looking for all the world like they were hauling a small but stubborn sleep sofa.

Those were Attempts No. 1, 2 and 3. By attempt No. 4, I had scoped out the problem, and replaced my destabilizing wave with a simple "Yup." An immediate improvement: Some part of me -- my shoulders? -- actually broke the surface for a second or two before I was sucked back down where I came from.

"Stand up a little faster," the spotter advised.

"You're standing up too fast," the spotter advised after Attempt No. 5 -- another two-second ride and a nose-filling dismount.

Attempt No. 6 was the gem; not just my shoulders were out, but the rest of my body, too. No style points -- my bottom was still slapping water -- but I was up and I was moving -- skiing -- for five, six seconds, easy.

But then, on Attempt No. 7, disaster -- the price of overconfidence. I was tossed -- launched -- right onto my face, the skis yanked off somewhere behind me. I came up oozing lake from every orifice. Why not let the spotter take a turn? She'll see what I've been going through. She'll --

She was up in nothing flat, and she stayed up forever: behind the boat, alongside the boat, crossing the wake -- no problem. Then she switched places with the driver and they did it all again -- piece of cake.

I was inspired, and I'd caught my breath and stopped oozing. Time to go back over the side.

Attempt No. 8: Couldn't get up -- fell backward.

Attempt No. 9: Couldn't get up -- fell forward.

Attempt No. 10: Couldn't get up -- fell sideways. Oozing again.

Enough. Anyway, there's always next year. And it could have been worse.

Ed could have had it on videotape.

Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist, TV commentator and public speaker.