Coupeville Sports

I didn’t want to get in the water, but my banana made me.

Penn Cove is never going to be mistaken for a jacuzzi.

And yet I keep going back, twice-a-day most days. 167 days in 2011 and tomorrow, Monday, Sept. 24 will mark 100 days in the salty, sorta-coolish water — all of them in only a swimsuit, because wet suits are for tourists and wusses.

Not that I see much of either one during my sojourns. I’ve had a few people come walking by on the rocky, mussel-and-barnacle-encrusted beaches, a handful of kayaks slide by in the water over the last two years and a couple of ever-present seals that sometimes shadow me.

Not once have I seen another person in the water in more than 500 trips down the Hill O’ Death in front of my house.

Sunny August afternoons or fog-enshrouded November mornings, it doesn’t matter. Either everyone is swimming in a different part of Penn Cove than me or I’m just an irrational idiot.

Yeah, probably the latter of the two.

But, at least I don’t have to worry about sharks, because, if my life-long obsession with movies has taught me anything, it’s that sharks only lurk where there’s a crowd of available people-sized snacks bobbing in the water.

Oh yeah, and they usually reserve their attacks for warm water, cause sharks ain’t idiots. Unlike some of us.

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Milla is not impressed.

I freaked a guy out today.

Very few people walk on the section of barnacle-encrusted, mussel ‘n rock strewn beach that sits in front of my duplex at the corner of Sherman and Madrona. But, in that once every 60 days kind of way, there was a guy picking his way carefully across the minefields when I burst out of the bushes at the bottom of the Hill O’ Death, headed for the water for my afternoon encounter with Penn Cove.

His reaction to suddenly having a companion was akin to seeing a Sasquatch loom up out of the mist while trying to take a morning whiz out in the back country. Surprise didn’t seem to completely cover the look that shot across his face.

Once he had calmed down, and discovered, that yes, I was planning to go into the cold clutches of Penn Cove — willingly — he slowly backed away, surprise turned to a look of what-the-heck-is-wrong-with-you-and-don’t-let-it-get-on-me.

At this point, I am long past thinking about my twice daily attacks on Penn Cove as being anything out of the ordinary. It’s there. I do it. No, I don’t wear a wet suit — not even in October and November when there’s frost on the ground and icicles shooting up my crotch when I’m in the water.

Wet suits are for wusses, and I’m not a wuss. Plus, I can’t afford one.

But, I guess, if you don’t do what I do — and just about no one else seems to be willing to join the club — it may seem a little odd.

And, when I think about it, if I’ve been in the water 90 days in 2012 and, before that, I nailed 167 days in ’11, with most days being twice-a-day, then that’s more than 500 trips into the icy waters.

So, if I lost, say, three brain cells each trip (as many people seem to think), that would mean I had lost somewhere in the region of 1,500 plus brain cells.

Which might explain why I drove to Oak Harbor today and put down eight dollars to see Milla Jovovich, clad in skintight spandex, run around in slo-mo, thrashing zombies and the occasional 200-foot-tall big ‘n ugly, for an hour and a half of good-time brain cell-killing. And it might explain why I enjoyed myself, which I did.

No, of course not, there is absolutely no reason for there ever to have been a fifth movie in the “Resident Evil” series.

But then again, there’s probably no reason for me to plunge into Penn Cove twice a day, either. But I do.

Some things you just can’t explain. You just have to accept them for what they are. Then shake your head sadly and start backing away slowly.

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