They make it look so easy, but I promise you, it’s not.

My feet brush up against the sides of the boat, my flabby vacation abs are as tight as I can make them, and my fingers wrap around the circumference of a cumbersome wooden pole.  I vow to not let us tip…

A few minutes ago, peals of laughter roused me from the stuffy tent where I had flopped onto my down sleeping bag to nap off the after effects of three helpings of Cape Malay style chicken curry (what can I say, I lose all willpower on vacation). As I heard shouts of excitement, a twinge of envy somersaulted through my full-to-the-brim stomach.

When two of my new friends had strapped on their bathing suits and pushed off from the shore with our guide in an attempt to learn the art of poling, I had opted out. Decided to stay safe, dry, and fully clothed on the shore.

Now, as I breathe in the smell of hot canvas, envy morphs into self-reproach. Why didn’t I go? For as long as I can remember, I have opted out of opportunities that involve any risk of death or dismemberment or, much as I hate to admit it, any chance I will make a fool of myself.

Even since I arrived in Africa, I have used my tight budget as an excuse to skip hot air balloon rides, zip lining, bungee jumping, sky diving, and shark cage diving. I almost had myself convinced I gave these activities a miss because in the crass words of a friend from New Jersey, they didn’t “tickle my balls”. While other people sand-boarded down the dunes of the Kalahari and swam with great white sharks, I sipped a Savannah and edited my blog posts.  (more…)