Tuna foot

Looks like tuna
tastes like feet

We just returned from a trip to the lovely island of St. John. It was our annual trip with my parents, and we all had a great time.

Even though my dad still doesn't understand a few key concepts that help make travel a lot more fun for everyone involved:

• Tipping
• Not walking out into moving traffic
• Tipping

When Barb told him he can't walk out into moving traffic, his immediate response was, "You can't!"

Meaning, neither could she. Technically, he was correct. But Barb wasn't the one stepping in front of moving vehicles. He was.

Doesn't matter.

To begin day two, our first full day on-island, we headed to one of my favorite beaches on the planet: Cinnamon Bay. Usually, it's a tranquil beach that's a great place to swim, snorkel, or just hang out in the water.

But on this particular day, there were some nice waves breaking over the reef on the west side of the beach. I could see some three-footers, so I informed my family that anyone looking for me would know where to find me for the next few hours.

Me being me, I was all jazzed up about the waves, so I was in a hurry. I don't wear anything on my feet when I don't have to, and on this fateful day, I finally paid the price. In my haste, I stubbed the bottom of my foot on a tree branch hidden in the sand.

The force of my gait meeting the branch ripped a gigantic slab of skin off the bottom of my foot.

As I raised my injured left foot a few inches from the sand to the planks of the beach shack where I would be renting a body board, I was surprised to find out that I was actually injured. As I sat and inspected said injury, watching blood ooze and coagulate with the help of a bunch of dirt and sand, I decided that my foot was officially "f*cked up."

Luckily, the dude who worked at the rental beach hut, Christian, was an EMT. He did a little impromptu surgery right then and there, slicing a giant chunk of skin off my foot with a razor blade.

"You're good to go. Let the ocean do its thing, brau," he told me as I headed off into the waves.

I was kinda pissed at the whole deal, but my guess is that nine out of 10 people who saw that injury would have recommended stitches. And that would have meant no swimming for the whole week.

Not an option.

So, it could have been worse. Much worse. I could have had stitches.

Or, you know, ordered the tuna foot sandwich.