The Day We Almost Died

COLUMNIST

Priya Gohil

Last summer, my family and I flew four long hours on a plane to Cancún, Mexico, to escape the chaos of East Coast shenanigans and to indulge in Mexican Coke–that is Coca-Cola, not cocaine. Potato, patahto right? Whether it’s yesterday, today, or tomorrow, Rib Tickler Radar detects that no one is safe in their rooms. As you read this, the ceiling could crumble and cause you a concussion (if you’re lucky) or an early expiration date (if you’re not). Simply put, no one’s guaranteed tomorrow, so why wait to live life to its fullest or take risks? We quickly realized that Cancún had more to offer than its remarkable coke and guac gurus. Its pristine, out-of-a children’s-book ocean water was ready to suck us in for an adventure of a lifetime. The clouds were groggier than normal, but not enough for human worry. The winds rebelled against the parasailing gods, but it was our only chance to parasail before heading back to our resort. After 30 minutes of my brother convincing my mom and me to join him, we caved and hopped onto the jet ski, placing our lives in the hands of two complete strangers. I’d confront my fear of heights head-on, eye to eye, nose to nose, and accept fate. Off we went on the jetski, one by one, sprayed mercilessly by the waves, the salt water–nature’s acid to my eyes.

As we boarded the speedboat in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, the guy handed me papers to sign, so that if the parachute’s string snapped or lightning struck or the “seat” broke so that we’d ultimately become seafood, we wouldn’t be able to hand them papers back. The two men told us to put on rope bands, those bands would be our seats. He attached us to the parasailing rope, humans slowly turned into toy dolls, and my ego slowly turned into a well-deserved humbling. All of a sudden, I was nothing compared to the world around me. I was just a sprinkle on the cake. A crumb in the chip bag. A stubborn chin hair on an otherwise smooth face. Mom in the middle resorts to mid-air prayer. The higher we went, the higher the prayer’s pitch, the higher we were to God. I soaked in the Cancún airs, and a couple of bird hairs, letting the present dominate any worries in my world. As I divert my attention from below and to the sky, a knot twists in my stomach. It was no longer an adventure time. It was an adventure against time. Narcissistic thunder growls occupy the beach town, the clouds hurl, the sky begins to cry. It’d be a race against death–a game no one was willing to play. My brother and I fed off of my mom’s mid-air antics to push against the gravity of the situation, and within two minutes, the antics dropped, and so did we–our feet had touched the bunker of the speedboat. I steal a second to scan my surroundings and realize we were the last parachuters at sea. The crew fished us to the shoreline and cheered for the boat’s might, where all we could see now were piña coladas and saggy old-people butts. In the game of life and death, that’s what I’d rather sea–piña coladas and saggy old-people butts.

So, my friends, take a chance, don’t let fear point the finger at you–flip it right back. Double it, if you please. Because when you leave your room, great s**t can happen.

(And then you can join a club called the Rutgers Review, own your own column called The Rib-Tickler Club, and turn it all into a funny story!!!)