There was a summer my friend Felicia was determined to learn to water ski. She hired a boat and instructors to take her out numerous mornings in Sag Harbor. While she had many fancy friends who would go in on this, the 8 AM time frame did not fit their post Bibloquet hangover. Although I am in no way a morning person, I was happy to enjoy the outing any time I was invited. We had two incredibly cute guys who were the instructors. While a little rough around the edges, they were actually incredibly patient and kind with Felica and her struggles to rise gracefully out of the water to glide on the two skis. In a caring way, which I hoped came across as more motherly than cougar, I lectured them on their breakfast of champions, Red Bull and Doritos. I began baking fresh muffins and bringing green juice to our morning sessions.
I am not a great water skier like those postcards with those long-legged aqua Rockettes, but I could hold my own without embarrassing face plants and only one serious wardrobe malfunction (my left breast is always the exhibitionist). Felicia, however, struggled. In water skiing, there is a moment when you are in the water and have gotten both of the skis on and have a hold of the bar at the edge of the rope and have gotten yourself out of an ungraceful, tangled mess with your hand between your legs, being turned over like a capsized turtle. This is when you raise a hand to give a thumbs-up to have them hit the engine.
The perfect balance comes from the patience of letting the boat pull you up, instead of you pulling yourself up. You arise out of the water and are trying to get your bearings, where it feels like each of your limbs is on a mission independent of each other. You feel the breeze on your wet skin, the whoop of the instructor, hear the slapping of the skis on water, and then, glushhhh! Defeat and you have to sit in the float of shame until the boat pulls around for you to try again.
As Felicia and I got to know our guys, they loosened up and started regaling us with their drinking and sex stories. Who knew a woman with a cough could be attractive in a sort of Kegel exercise way, or that guys would put ketchup in a buddy’s shoe as a joke? As they started treating us as part of their tribe, they finally just spoke frankly to Felicia.
As she sat defeated in the water after another failed attempt to get up, one said, “Felicia. Hips up, tits up!” And lo and behold, she got it. She rose out of the water like a phoenix rising from the ashes and enjoyed a whole spin around the harbor. I took a picture for her so she could always remember the moment she got it, her triumph. I printed and framed the picture as a thank-you gift.
While I would not expect water skiing to be a place for life lessons, this one struck. You just need one right instruction to unlock success. I often think of that summer whenever I remember Felicia. She had a life more sinking into the depths than rising above the surface. I would say fondly, “Bye, Felicia,” but in the same way you might have greeted someone, “Hi Karen,” it doesn’t have the same ring.
Even though Felicia’s last chapter seemed to be a happy one with a new husband, home, and her trusty Pomeranian, clearly, all was not well. I wish I could have seen her struggling to get up and had the magic phrase that would lead her to rise up and glide through her life. Alas, I did not have the “hips up, tits up” perfect advice. But when I get out on the water, I do remember: don’t try to pull yourself up, let the boat (hopefully with some cute, fun instructor driving) do the work.
Heather Buchanan is an award-winning writer recognized for “Best Column” and “Best Humor Column” from both the National Association of Newspaper Columnists and the Press Club of Long Island. She recently took home the 2025 first-place humor column from the National Association of Newspaper Columnists.
