A fishy story

Thirty one days...yes I am counting ... until I will be splashing in the Gulf waters. Can't wait to snorkel, feel the sand between my toes, the salt air on my face. It renews me. One year we went to Mexico with another couple. The guys were more adventurous than we women. While we clung to our snorkel masks and flippers and begged for a sturdy flotation device, the guys were convinced they didn't even need one. The captain told everyone on the snorkel tour to line up to board the small watercraft. The guys got ahead of us somehow, and the captain slammed the gate and zoomed off with our husbands, the last passengers crammed onto the boat, everyone waving good-bye and smiling. My friend and I stood on the dock scared witless waiting for a second boat. Our captain took us to the general vicinity, but not close enough that we could find our guys. We swam a bit with our super-duper life jackets, inhaled salt water, fogged up our masks, got fed up and called it a day. We headed back to the boat, pulled ourselves up and plopped onto a seat to wait for the tour group.

We planned a big fat adventure story to tell the guys. But they beat us to the punch. Obviously something had actually happened to them. They'd had an up close encounter with a school of fish that kept getting closer and closer, circling and circling. The guys swam as fast as they could and the four foot-long fish closed in. My ( sometimes not too) bright husband remembered his pocket was stuffed with fish food from one of those 25 cent machines on shore.

He left a trail of pellets as he and his buddy made their great escape.

Any story my friend and I concocted wouldn't have compared to their whopper of an adventure.
I am one month away from a new tale. I am getting anxious.