Saturday, January 21, 2006


Inspired by the current post at Matt's blog Cerulean Blue at, I resubmit this brief story from my first week of blogging, dated 7/18/04, with a few slight changes in the writing. This story is not nearly as funny as Matt's wonderful piece, but this describes a disgusting moment I will never forget:

During our recent Florida trip I found myself snorkeling in beautiful, clear 4-5-foot-deep water alongside Fort Jefferson at Dry Tortugas National Park. I knew our family would end up with a collective case of severe sunburn, but this was a fantastic adventure. I won't easily forget the colorful fish I saw along the base of the old fort's moat wall, nor will my kids forget the small barracuda that swam near them. Our family made up only four people out of a hundred or so that had taken the two-hour boat trip from Key West to this paradise, but it seemed as if everybody there experienced a sense of magic surrounding this place: a stunning mixture of beauty, history and wildlife.

Snorkeling was new to me, and I had not yet figured out how to keep my mask from filling with saltwater. As I stood in chest-high water to empty my mask, I noticed something floating nearby. It was roughly the size of a 2-inch cube, and it looked like a piece of dark brown wood bark. Maybe a bark chip? Being from the Pacific Northwest, I have seen millions of bark chips during my lifetime.

I lifted the object from the water, between the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand, and realized the surface was smooth; the object had some weight to it, and almost seemed claylike. At that point, the theme from "Caddyshack" began blaring in my head. I let the foul, waterlogged object go, and watched it float slowly away as I sniffed my hand just to make sure. The "Caddyshack" theme increased in volume. I wanted to shout "Everyone out of the pool!" but I refrained, knowing that in such places as the Gulf of Mexico, that kind of warning would be reserved for something more serious, like the presence of sharks.

My battles were twofold: controlling my laughter, and keeping the vomit down. One of my daughters was nearby, and she had been watching.

"Daddy, was that a... eeeeeeeew!!!"

This was a watershed moment in my scatological life. I did not have to tell you this story, but as my close friends can attest, I am one to forever provide "too much information". Thus, I will never live down my adventure of that day: Turd Snorkeling in the Dry Tortugas.


Blogger Matt said...

It's an amazing coincidence, but the church camp I was at when the "turd boy" story happened was located in none other than Dry Tortugas National Park! How weird is that?

Wait a minute...

12:38 PM  
Blogger Sheryl said...

A church camp in a national park? I thought we used to have separation of church and state before Bush.

Your story sounded a bit fantastic, but now I'm really suspicious, Matt. You wouldn't be feeding us a tall turd tale, would you?

1:48 PM  
Blogger J. Marquis said...

I was thinking of writing a detective novel. The gimmick would be that the hero is handicapped because he's never able to have a bowel movement. I was thinking of calling it "No Shit Sherlock"...what do you think?

9:50 AM  
Blogger Snave said...

JM, that is a FANTASTIC idea! Can we co-author that one? You might need someone as attuned to bowels as I am, for a reference, at least.

8:30 PM  

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