Both Da Goddess and My Life As A Fischer have tickled my nostalgia bone with posts about their trip to Sea World.
I used to live within walking distance of Sea World there in San Diego. It was the place that I could see from the freeway on the way home from work and know the worst part of the day was over. It was a glow on the skyline at night, reminding me that if I were good and didn't fake any more sick days, I would have enough spare change saved up for a visit there. Once I scraped up the dough and got there, it was the same familiar damp smell, the reassuring worn concrete, the subtle shrubbery that kept you just disoriented and lost enough that whatever you found around the corner was a lovely surprise.
The GM1 used to drag me over to the children's play area, and we'd toss out our adult dignity and climb all over whatever equipment the rules allowed (and sometimes it was damn the rules, full speed ahead, if attendance was sparse). We had water cannon fights and bought silly pirate hats. We'd squish the rest of the day. We recharged the hidden ten year old we'd left in the emotional closet. It was worth the wet shoes.
I had a good friend who work in the Jumbotron, the big screen at the Shamu show. He coaxed and prodded and wheedled me out of the house and down to Sea World the summer I had the bad operation, the GM1 was out on deployment and I wanted nothing more than to stay in the house and hate the world. He fussed over me, bought me sticky treats, silly t-shirts, and arranged for me to be the audience member chosen to "help" the trainers with part of the Shamu show. I did just as they told me, standing on a platform over the huge killer whale tank. I tried not to think about the million and two sharp teeth just inches from my hand as I scooped fish into Shamu's gaping grin. And when I gestured just as the trainers told me to, I was rewarded with a soaking from Shamu.
Nothing consoles like twenty-plus gallons of killer whale spit.
It was the day that made it easier to get up the next day... and the next...and the next.
On most evenings, though, I had to be content with Sea World from afar. I'd hear the first few pops and bangs and run out onto the sidewalk in front of my crappy apartment, and everyone out walking would stand still, watching the fireworks in the sky past the Jack-In-The-Box and Roberto's Taco Shop. For a few minutes, everyone- the panhandlers and the street kids and the skateboard punks, the Jerry Garcia disciples and the old brokedown drunks,- everyone stood with their faces turned up to the sky, quietly ooohing and aaahhing at the faux stars and novas.
Then the fireworks would end, we'd all shake outselves back to present, and maybe smile at someone we normally wouldn't look at.
It was a nice way to end a summer's day.
So thank you, Joanie and Greg, for reminding me how much I miss Sea World and all the flippery, squirmy, wet wonders.
I wonder if the walrus will remember me?
(previously posted on Blogspot)