The very lazy river 🪵 💦

For months, my wife, daughters, and I had been looking forward to our family trip to Orlando, Florida. We’d planned it meticulously, booked our stay early, researched all the best attractions, and at the top of our list — even above the theme parks — was this one water resort. It had rave reviews, wild water slides, an enormous wave pool, a lazy river that circled the entire park, and enough tropical decor to make you forget you were still in Florida and not on some Polynesian island getaway.

This wasn’t just a water park. It was the water park. And we had built it up in our minds like it was the crown jewel of family vacations.

The kids were ecstatic. My wife had even bought matching family swimsuits — a bold move in hindsight. And when the day finally arrived, it started off great. The sun was out, the lines weren’t too long, and the place was everything the brochures promised: palm trees swaying, music playing, lifeguards looking like extras from Baywatch.

We hit a few slides, braved the wave pool, and after all the splashing and climbing and chlorine-soaked chaos, we all agreed it was time for something more relaxing. That’s when we headed to the lazy river — that winding, slow-moving stream that gently carries sunburnt guests past waterfalls, faux rock formations, and screaming toddlers on inflatable tubes.

It was the perfect way to unwind. Or so we thought.

We grabbed our tubes and hopped in, the warm water gently pulling us along as we floated together in a family cluster. My daughters, ages 9 and 12, were giggling and splashing each other. My wife leaned back with a blissful sigh, soaking in the sun. I was just happy to be in a body of water where I wasn’t actively dodging elbows or drowning under 300-gallon surges from a wave pool machine.

And then… it happened.

At first, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Just a little something floating along in the water, maybe twenty feet ahead. I assumed it was a lost piece of pool toy, or maybe a soggy leaf. You know how water parks are — stuff ends up in the lazy river all the time. But as we slowly drifted closer, the shape became clearer. And more… sinister.

It wasn’t a toy. It wasn’t a leaf. It was… a turd.

Not a baby turd, either. This was a full-grown, adult-sized, brazenly confident piece of human waste. Floating like a log of doom. Brown. Solid. Unapologetic.

There it was, gliding casually down the lazy river like it had paid admission just like the rest of us.

I stared at it for a moment, paralyzed. My brain couldn’t quite compute the scene in front of me. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were at a high-end resort. There were lifeguards, filters, chlorinated jets, rules. Surely someone — anyone — should have noticed this biological torpedo by now.

But there it was, slowly closing the gap between itself and my unsuspecting family.

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a panicked sputter: “No. No-no-no. Oh my god…”

My wife saw it next.

The look on her face went from serene to repulsed in 0.3 seconds. Her whole body snapped upright in her tube like she’d been electrocuted. She didn’t even say anything at first — just made this sharp, disgusted gasp like someone had thrown a bucket of sewage at her. Then she locked eyes with me and said, “IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?”

I nodded grimly. “It’s real. It’s happening.”

By now, the girls were aware. My older daughter screamed — a genuine, high-pitched, horror-movie scream — and tried to leap off her tube and run, which of course doesn’t work in waist-deep water. My younger one just looked frozen, eyes wide, whispering “Ew-ew-ew-ew-ew” on a loop, her little hands paddling frantically to get away from the poo without ever actually touching the water.

And me? I was trying to steer all of us away from the approaching turd like some desperate sea captain navigating around a rogue iceberg. “Go left! Paddle left! Don’t touch the sides! DON’T. TOUCH. THE. WATER!”

We were like a scene from Titanic — but grosser. Tubes bumping into each other, kids shrieking, my wife shouting “THIS IS DISGUSTING” over and over like a mantra. Every attempt to avoid the thing just caused more panic, more water sloshing, and more likelihood that someone was going to fall in.

And of course, because fate is cruel, the turd somehow gained speed. It caught a current or jet stream or divine propulsion, and before we knew it, it was right there, bobbing along like it was just another guest enjoying the lazy river. I swear it even bumped my wife’s tube.

That was the final straw.

She screamed — a sound I will never forget — and bailed. Just jumped right out of her tube and stormed toward the exit, water sloshing at her legs, yelling something like “WE’RE LEAVING. I’M DONE. I’M TAKING A SCALDING SHOWER.”

My daughters followed close behind, one crying, the other gagging. I brought up the rear, dragging our stupid matching tubes behind me like we’d just survived a natural disaster.

We didn’t even go to the locker rooms. We bee-lined for the hotel, rode the elevator in soaking wet silence, and took turns taking the longest, hottest showers we’ve ever had in our lives. I think we used an entire bottle of body wash.

Nobody spoke much that afternoon. My wife lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My daughters huddled in their towels, visibly trying to forget the morning, like survivors of a crime. I tried to lighten the mood with a “Well, at least it wasn’t a floater and a sinker,” but no one laughed. Not even a smile. Only eye rolls.

The next day, we canceled our return visit to the park. The girls refused to even look at the bathing suits we had worn. My wife threatened to burn hers.

Since then, our family has developed what I can only call an “aversion” to public pools and water parks. Even the idea of a lazy river is enough to elicit groans and haunted expressions. When friends ask if we’re planning any water park vacations, we just shake our heads and say, “Not after what happened in Orlando.”

Because once you’ve seen a rogue river turd… you never truly float again.