Himalayan Love Stories

Splash Mountain

To me, watersports is one of the most erotic things I can think of.

Think about it.

Whether you’re a voluptuous woman or hardbodied man, there’s nothing quite like the liquid sheen of water to bring out the Hellman’s no matter if you’re relaxing poolside and catching some rays with a tropical beverage, engaging in a sweaty game of Marco’s Polo, or hitting the shower with the golden glow only a day of dipping into this most hallowed of human traditions can provide.

It’s gotten to the point with me where I can’t even see a thatched bamboo roof without hoisting sail and going full mast.

Hey, is that a pool noodle or are you just happy to see me?

All joking aside, I had to start taking medication to de-escalate the situation. Normally I wouldn’t turn to meds—there’s a reason why they call it the pharma-con, amirite?—but sometimes a guy’s got investments, you know? And the way I look at it, a little extra lettuce never hurt anybody, especially a guy as nuts about herbs and spices as I am. Guess I’m just the Ben Button of cold water and good boners, though strong faith in Lucifer and a healthy diet don’t hurt either. Heck, I eat so much turmeric I’m starting to look more and more like the old golden boy himself with each passing day. And if my urine is any indication, it doesn’t get much better than this!

Like so many other things in my life however, when it comes to water and the sports that attend it, let’s just say that it wasn’t love at first splash.

In the same way that it took me going up high into the mountains of the Himalayan ranges with Girth Brooks to get perspective on my thentofore sadsack life as a professional T.V. junkie and human drug trial, I needed to get a birdseye view on my fear of the wet and wild world of water before I was able to dive in with the confidence, aplomb and dick-shattering good looks which are now a part and parcel of my complete swimming package.

It all started astride the lofty peak of a place I like to call Splash Mountain.

It’s not actually called Splash Mountain, that’s just what I like to call it.  It’s a name that I invented to commemorate the unique place it holds in my heart and the cherished memories I made there that I still treasure to this day. The real name of the mountain is hard to pronounce and therefore I cannot remember it. All I know is that it’s deep in the heart of Europe and cold as all shit in the winter months, which are practically all year long and which should make the fact that I refer to it as Splash Mountain a pretty big tipoff as to why I’m into it right off the Bat.

What made me want to freeze my sump off in a backwater like Europe when I could easily have been living it up in New York, Paris, Berlin or Atlanta?

Two words, friendo:

Sundolphins.

I had first heard of the concept of Sundolphins while listening to the radio program Coast to Coast late one night after having feasted a bit too lustily on some Buffalo Benzedrine Mini-Pizzas I had had Alfred prepare me a couple of days before. Don’t get me wrong, Buffalo Benzedrine Mini-Pizzas (or BBMPs) are a great meal and more healthy than you might think. Essentially, each Mini-Pizza is actually just a hunk of Buffalo mozzarella with some Benzedrine tablets mushed in. It makes the tablets easier and more fun to eat and the mozzarella helps your body absorb the Benzedrine faster. That way you get the cool, smooth taste of real, Italian Buffalo cheez and the zippy rush of Benzedrine, all while staying cocaine free.  If you want, you can add some Buffalo-style hot sauce as well but to me it’s unnecessary and has the added tendency of giving me diarrhea. It’s kind of my own personal version of Caprese, and you can only get it at my house. I have them all the time now—and they’re totally great—but in this particular instance we’re talking early days and Alfred hadn’t refined the recipe completely, so I had been up for about seventy two hours and, still showing no signs of flagging, I had tuned in to the show on my c crane emergency wind up radio in a desperate effort to calm myself down. Something about the combination of listening to Alfred wind the radio, Art Bell’s melodious voice and the enormous amount of Benzedrine and high-quality cheese still coursing through my system caused me to fall into a state of both deep relaxation and heightened awareness; a kind of meditative fugue if you will, or waking trance that I like to call “Buffalo Space”. The cool thing about Buffalo-Space, apart from the obvious, is that it really is like you have tapped into the wisdom and senses of the Buffalo. You can see sights, hear sounds, smell smells and feel feelings that your regular run of the mill jagoff has literally no idea how to access and even if they could they probably wouldn’t get anything out of because they’re too concerned about conquering  their experiences than letting them wash over them as the Buffalo would as it lumbers impassively and badassedly across the plains of eternity like a living Abrams tank, laying waste to everything unlucky enough to tread across its path but in, like, a spiritual sense.

It was then, as Art played grabass with some survivalist in the background, that I first glimpsed the dolphins.

Big, gleaming dolphins, glinting in the sun.

My room, Alfred, Art Bell, Coast to Coast, the wind up radio—they all dropped away like some cosmic gym towel of the soul, allowing me to see for the very first time the naked truth that lay beneath.

The dolphins were all that was left.

Sundolphins! I cried. So fucking nice!

How do I describe what is perfect and sublime? To start off with, the dolphins were having an absolute ball. Just jumping, playing and fucking dancing over the water. A couple of ‘em were squirting water at each other through the weird openings on their dolphin faces and just cracking the fuck up over it and another three or four were racing and wrestling each other in a fun, flirty, sportsmanlike way. There was another dolphin who was just super fucking cool who was sort of floating over in the corner just taking it all in through a pair of nice-ass Oakleys. Just soaking up the atmosphere, and the rays, while protecting his eyes at the same time—just smart is what it was. The craziest thing about it all was they were high in what looked to be snow-capped mountains, the whole sundolphin shindig happening in what was essentially some kind of mountain reservoir, complete with a waterfall, I shit you not. The water, which looked fucking nice to say the least, must have been fed by some kind of thermal spring, because it was as wet as shit and completely unfrozen despite the elevation and what looked to be a dick-slaughtering local temp. The dolphins truly did not care though and went about their business, which apparently consisted purely of having a baller time, as though they were unfazed. They just had this glow about them, this radiant, sun-kissed glow that made them look somewhat golden—hence the sundolphin name that had immediately sprung to mind when I saw them. It was, far and away, easily the most Luciferic display I had ever encountered, and buddy, in that moment I knew that whatever it took, whatever mountains, metaphorical and otherwise I would have to climb in order to find those puppies and crash their party, I was going to do it.

“Alfred” I boomed, in what felt like slow motion through the thick cosmic gloop separating me from my holy perch atop sundolphin peak within Buffalo-space from my manservant’s banal existence in my Westchester home, “get me on the next plane to the mountains!”

Getting to said mountains, though I had no idea where, or even if they were out there—perhaps existing only within the hallowed realm of Buffalo Space—was the easy part (perk of having your own private plane). The hard part was the fact that in those days I was essentially something of a pussy-bitch when it came to the water.

That’s right… I’m not proud to admit it, but at the same time I no longer have anything to hide.

I was scart.

Scart of the water and scart of swimming.

I’m not 100% on where this strange fear came from, but I’m pretty sure it’s the result of childhood trauma, at least that’s what my teller at the Memory Recovery Bank told me after my consultation. It’s a cool place if you haven’t heard of it, by the way. Pretty much the same as a regular bank of money, only instead of mad cash, they’ve got like mad memories – shit you yourself didn’t even know was in there. Basically, you pay like five to ten K in order to make a “withdrawal” and then boom unlimited access to repressed memories and shit. Turns out at one point my father threw me into the outdoor pool when I was like, I don’t know, ten or fifteen years old or something—like a serious baby—in an attempt to teach me how to swim via the age-old method of “sink or swim”. I was doing fine until I felt something funny and did a routine check, only to discover that my hog was missing—just completely gone. Pretty sure I passed out after that from the horror, certain that it had fallen off or dissolved, but when I awoke the reality was even worse–it was there alright, but buddy, you wouldn’t have recognized from what it had been. Just a complete 180. At that point the teller said he was going to need an additional payment to cover the buffering fees and I was just like “seen enough.”

So yeah, I don’t know how relevant it was ultimately, but I never did go swimming again after that, or drink water.

That is, until I met Splash.

Splash…. Splash, Splash, Splash…

What can you say about a guy like Splash except that he’s everything you never knew you wanted from a swimming buddy. Smart. Coordinated. Loyal. Not to mention a serious stud-muffin. Picture Matt Mcconaughey. Basically just that, you know? Just a Matt Mcconaughey type-guy, only instead of wearing a loose-fitting suit with difficult cufflinks he’s decked out in a fire-truck red pair of swim trunks, some teal size 10 water shoes, a party-whistle, and a big smear of zinc oxide chilling out on his nose like a roman helmet. Basically Matt Mcconaughey as a lifeguard because essentially that’s what he is, someone who will guard your life and look out for you in the event that you find yourself trying to swim with sundolphins somewhere in the mountains of Europe. Which is exactly what happened. Pretty much. From what I can recall.

See, it gets sort of fuzzy because in order to keep on the scent of the sundolphins it was pretty much a given that I had to stay in Buffalo-Space and that means more Buffalo mozzarella and, more importantly, more Benzedrine, which is non-habit forming but can lead to hives, rash and a lack of sleep, so in order to stay balanced I was chugging down G&T by the pitcher-full. G&T, or Gin and Tronic, is a drink of my own creation that combines the cool, botanical taste of Gin with the fun, fruity flavor of cherry robitussin for a drink that says sophisticated at the same time as allowing you to catch some much needed Zs while at the same time staying ambulatory (when taken with a side of BBMP). I never did find the sundolphins, but I did cut my foot on a rock in a spring-fed mountain reservoir. Luckily for me, Splash was there. He leapt into action, pulled me out of the water and quickly urinated on the foot in question in order to prevent infection. What can I say except that it worked! I may not have found the dolphins, but I made a life-long friend, and working with Splash over the subsequent weeks, months, whatever, I overcame my fear of the water and all the sports that lie therein.

Not too shabby for a city slicker. Plus, I learned that dicks do not just fall off in the water. They just make like the Tortuga and retract themselves into their carapace.

I may not have found the sundolphins of my dreams, but I sure as shit had a whale of a time. And someday, maybe when my old charter pilot stops ghosting me, I’ll make it back to Splash Mountain where the water is warm, the sports are wet, and swim season is 24/7, 365.

Anchors Aweigh!

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.