Residents are closing up their backyard pools, and lakeside cabin owners are bringing in the docks. With a chill in the air, tubers no longer pack the Chippewa River clumped like floating lumber. Autumn, for all its merits, brings on the serious temperature drop that makes water lose its fun side. For my slapstick humor money, it’s hard to beat watching someone – especially a friend or relative – fall unexpectedly into water on a hot summer day. 

    A friend told me about his neighbor who stopped by, in his work clothes, and got to talkin’ on the deck by the pool. A problem with the pool’s heating system came up in conversation, and the neighbor wanted to have a look. As he was bending over poolside tinkering around with the heater, he leaned too far, slipped, and splashed ass-over-tea-kettle into the drink. 

    When telling me this story, my friend had a hard time getting it out, repeatedly breaking out into laughter before he could make it to the punch line. And even though I knew what was coming, and I was experiencing the event second hand, I was laughing just as hard. It’s the kind of pratfall that one sees in bad sitcoms and low-budget comedies but rarely presents itself in real life.           

    It’s why a dunk tank always draws a crowd of grinning onlookers. Even so, people don’t revel about such things afterwards because the victim is expecting to fall eventually. And once soaked the first time, the tension is lost.

    Along those lines, I’ve seen people spontaneously jump into hotel pools fully clothed, but since the action is completely voluntary, the reaction of the crowd is more of a perplexed curiosity. No one shouted, “Wow, that was Krazy!” Rather, the onlookers pondered, “Are you crazy?”

     Humor-wise, aquatic blunders are a seasonal thing. Come winter, mishaps around the water stop being hilarious and become dangerous. I got a hint of this on a frigid January day when I was 12 years old. While staying with Grandma, my brother and I were horsing around at the city park. I was jumping around on the ice of the park creek when I hit a thin patch, broke through and dropped thigh deep into the current. My brother helped me out, but it really was no laughing matter. Vaguely aware of “catching my death” through pneumonia and frostbite, we solemnly and quickly walked the half-mile back to Grandma’s – my soaked boot liners, pants, socks, and long-johns turning into ice by the second.