"Oh, I never ski on these waters."
"Why?" Yul asked.
"You can get gator et," she said firmly.
With dawning horror I looked at Yul, and the expression in his eyes told me that he, too, had seen the floating driftwood that wasn't driftwood at all.
As we bade the Lecontes goodby and thanked them for extending themselves, Dick said quietly, "About those alligators, they only bother strangers. As long as you were with me, I don't reckon they'd go for you."
On our recent visits to the various ski clubs, we saw examples of the new methods employed to start the beginner that made our own earlier efforts, book-learned and bumbling as they were, seem unbelievably rugged.
At a water skiing lodge in Portland, Oregon, for example, the instructor, by simply tying the skis together in front, eliminated immediately the beginner's most serious problem of control. Later, on a lake in Michigan, Yul had the opportunity to use this method of teaching in a situation that could have ended disastrously.
A pair of honeymooners had been pointed out to us by the hotel manager, and the next morning we saw them on the lake. The bride was teaching her husband how to ski. Five times he got up, only to fall into that ludicrous position called "beginner's splits." Filled with grim determination to display his athletic prowess, he refused his bride's entreaties to give it up. By the time we offered help, he was desperately frustrated and she was near tears.
Yul tied the skis together, gave him some simple instructions and the young husband was off and away, happy as could be, on his first ride. We like to believe that we saved, if not a marriage, at least a honeymoon.