I heard a voice  behind me: "Hey man!" I turned to face a Balinese Guy in maybe his early thirties, taking a drag on his cigarette. Instead of blowing the smoke from his lungs, he let it rise slowly from his slightly open mouth. It passed over his top lip, then around both sides of his nose. I watched it climb his face, captivated for the five or so seconds that this "pregnant pause" took to play out. He kept eye contact for the whole time before finally letting me know why he had stopped me in the first place. 

I found myself sitting in a "line-up" amidst a group of men all resembling "The Gimp" from Pulp Fiction. Within minutes feeling in my feet and hands ceased, my testicles ascended far into my gut and were now mixing with my breakfast. My penis took a look about, then decided this was no place for him either (it would be three days before I saw him again). Self-preservation was urging me to vacate the water, my survival instinct calling me names that I've only ever heard from my ex-wife: on a weekend when it’s been my turn for the kids and I'd made other plans.