OBSERVED: This is what it’s like to be in a dunk tank

Just before I climbed onto my perch in the torture chamber, I asked Bill Martini — aka the Dunk Tank Barker — for any advice. 

This was my first time being invited to a dunk tank. I’m almost always a willing participant, so I accepted immediately. I was even a little flattered: I was being asked to join the ranks of Windermere Mayor Jim O’Brien, Windermere Elementary Principal Janet Bittick, Windermere Police Chief David Ogden and others as we collectively celebrated the town’s 100th anniversary at the Centennial Country Fair. We were also there to raise money for the Windermere Police Department Foundation. 

How cool!

But in those seconds before my shift last Saturday, the panic started to settle in. I realized: I had no idea what I was doing.

Advice? Martini said, grinning. Yeah, don’t open your mouth!

Oh boy.

I’m sure this is obvious to some, but I hadn’t realized it until that moment: Dunk tank water is not filtered. At all. And even though I was only the third dunk-ee — following Bittick’s inspired performance that delighted all her students — that water already was turning. It wasn’t the crystal-clear oasis I had envisioned in my head. It was quickly becoming a murky, steeping stew of dirt, sweat and feet.

However, I only had a few seconds to ponder the long list of health codes this bucket of body brew surely violated. Before I could orient my rickety bones precariously on the hot seat, there already was a line forming. I pulled my oversized goggles onto my face and made eye contact with my first assailant.

Within seconds, I took my first plunge. It was colder than expected — actually welcome on this 90-degree afternoon. But I knew the longer I stayed in there, the greater the chance of that dunk funk seeping in through my skin.

That’s when I realized: I didn’t know how to get out. My feet fumbled around until they found a step. Clumsily, I made my way back onto the perch.

Fewer than 30 seconds later, another pint-sized Cy Young sent me back in.

I pulled myself up — only to see my wife, only son and youngest daughter all in line. They all dunked me. With pleasure. Only my middle child refused to take aim at her father. She’s currently my favorite.

At this point, the only thing I could do was lean into it. I got myself — quite literally — into this mess. Might as well make the most out of it.

And for the next 45 minutes, I embraced the suck. Kids reveled in their success as I was dethroned over and over, and even some adults showed off their pinpoint pitching skills. The kids who missed were allowed to come up to the button and smack it for guaranteed success. Even some of our daughter’s friends dunked me. My son stood by my side almost the entire time I was in the tank. Whenever there was a lull, he grabbed a ball and hurled it. I lost count of how many times he sent me into the deep.

You never quite get used to the bottom literally falling out beneath you. It’s a shock every time, and my wife got quite the kick out of the pathetic gasp/yelp that involuntarily escaped my mouth. Every. Single. Time. I’m also pretty sure the distinct clang of a baseball hitting the metal bull’s eye will forever trigger my fight-or-flight response. 

In the end, it was a tremendous honor to be part of Windermere’s centennial celebration. I am proud to be part of the army of volunteers, businesses, residents and community leaders who made the fair a sold-out success. And to those who are on the bicentennial committee: I’ll be 147 years old, but if I’m still around, you can count on me for the dunk tank!

I call dibs on being first, though.