Transversing water bodies salt & fresh, my sister
and brother-in-law started his
high-speed salmon ski
boat, motor
revving,
spark

plugs
choaking
timing off;
the craft's abrupt lurch
dragged me from a crouched position
my single ski pointed skyward to an upright stance.

I straightened my back, steadied myself, and then began
to slice through Lake Shasta waters
like slalom pros who
lean on wakes
dispense
weight

'tween
both feet
stabilized...
posture vertical,
balanced, poised, single skis angling,
zig-zagging my way over the aquatic surface.

Sadly, both my feet
slipped from their
bindings
and
I fell
face first still
clinging to the line.

I thought the art of barefoot waterskiing would be
simple; I'd seen it done often
on ABC's Wild
World of Sports,
applied
my

vast
TV
knowledge and
continued to grasp
the tow rope handle-existence
depended on the difference 'tween taunt and tight line.

Pulling while floating, my yellow life jacket gave true
buoyancy, allowed me to hang
dig heels like skis in
a liquid
abyss,
to

rise
not be
bellyboard
drawn; pro support teams
kept eyes on "barefooting" skiers;
nonetheless, an engine's roar drowned out all my shouts.

Sister and husband
heard neither
cries nor
saw
my spill
till their boat
turned towards the dock.