While I pondered the best angle to capture this moment on film, Logan silently studied the water crossing ahead. He cut the engine and announced his decision, I would wade in to test the depth of this black-bottomed African lagoon. He was so perfectly nonchalant about the suggestion that I immediately jumped out of the truck and began rolling up my pants, a natural trooper. It took approximately two steps into the murky water to realize the absurdity into which I had willingly walked.
The sand went from fine tan silt to an all-encompassing black nothingness. As my toes sank noiselessly into the muck, my mind worked furiously to invent and embellish every terrifying lagoon monster known to man. Standing there in the sweltering heat wondering if they could smell the tantalizing aroma of my human flesh, I spat out the accusation in question form: “Tell me again, how did I get nominated for this job?!”
I had to immediately check my anger when he looked at me aghast, as if the answer was pathetically obvious. “Because, I’m wearing carhartts and you’re wearing zip off pants.” I’ll admit to the surface logic of this statement and sure, the lagoon was on the small side, probably containing no fearsome creatures, maybe just a croc or two. The point is, we’re all here today to tell the story because it only took me a few seconds to stomp back to the truck muttering about African gators. And just a few minutes more for Logan to find a simple route around this mess. Ta-da! The magic of marriage.