Driving by Wendy Rank

I’m teaching my son to drive.

This is not my favorite thing to do. Driving lessons, I mean.

I taught my daughter to drive, too. And she’s great. Truly. You may recall she spent the spring – and now the summer – driving to Adventure Aquarium and back.

But I hate being the kids’ driving instructor.

I hate it almost as much as I hate scuba diving.

Like driving, scuba is only something I do for my kid. Like driving, scuba has a clock – as soon as my daughter is at college in Florida, she’ll find a much more willing dive buddy.

Thankfully.

For both driving and scuba, the problem for me, I think, is the complete lack of control.

The water is far too big a space to dominate. So you’re stuck, just waiting for an alligator or shark or some as-yet-to-be-discovered maneater to make you the first amuse bouche of its personal little horror film.

Have you ever noticed – in movies like Jaws 2 or Lake Placid – scuba tanks never deter the creatures lurking in the brine? The tank just gets gulped down with the rest of the diver.

You know, as a kid my mom once took me to an upscale restaurant. We were seeing Cats on Broadway. She thought a fancy dinner might elevate our evening of feline theater.

Our food arrived, both dishes garnished with small black orbs. “Ooh,” my mom gasped, “maybe it’s caviar!” She popped one into her mouth.

I copied her, finding out a moment after she did those orbs were not, in fact, caviar.

They were peppercorns.

Maybe that’s how the leviathans in those man versus nature movies view scuba tanks – an upscale garnish that turns into crunchy, sharp disappointment.

Then they go see Cats.

Or whatever they do in the ocean all day.

Anyway, teaching your teen to drive is really no more controllable than scuba.

You can issue directives as much as you want, but your kid isn’t inside your head. Your version of “a little to the left” and their version of “a little to the left” are likely about as similar as The Girl on the Train movie is to the book.

And probably just as bad.

I long for a car with a steering wheel and brake on the passenger side, no matter how much it defeats the purpose of driving lessons. Just to know I have the option of taking control might make me feel better.

And as long as we’re asking for impossible things here, I’d like an underwater portal to terra firma, where air is in abundance and hungry aquatic beasts are scarce.

You know, my daughter plans to study marine science in college. With a focus on elasmobranchs.

That’s sharks, skates, and rays.

If she knew I was maligning sharks this way, I’d get a well-deserved lecture on the improbability of shark attacks. Sharks aren’t aggressive, she’d say. Attacks on humans are usually mistakes.

Most kids rebel by staying out past curfew or flunking history. Mine rebels by studying sharks.

And scuba diving.

My son has been, thus far, a conscientious driver. He asks good questions. He brakes when I tell him to brake. Our versions of “a little to the left” are surprisingly similar.

If I can hold on until January, my daughter will have a dive buddy at college. My son will have his license.

And I’ll be in control once again.

Oh no. I just thought of something.

What if he decides to take up scuba diving?

Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it.

And then we can talk about how much I detest bridges.