Oh, the heat has gone to our heads already! The first pang of sock-scented air and the Sparkitors were already peeling off their clothes and shaking their life-jacketed bikini bods around the office. Emily has been strolling around in her oxygen tanks for days, Josh went out and bought a personal rope swing "just in case," Melissa has been practicing dryland surf training, and Chelsea just keeps yelling "FASTER, BUTTS!" from her desk. We here provide a roundup of all the personalogical insights that your extreme summer sport of choice suggests, though we have not listed all the sports (notably absent: Slip 'n' Slide-doing, wearing tank tops, eating icepops).
You, Ariel, walk among the humans and swim with the merpeople, like the shape-shifting Hanna Montana, and wear a bodysuit like it ain't no thang. You might not have gills, but you have hair that billows in the great underwaters. Little do your friends know, you are an undernet sensation on SCUBA-diving undersite "YouScube."
You are the Miley Cyrus of the ocean.
Forget diving sticks, you are a heat-seeking missile targeting FISH STICKS. The Finnick Odair of the summer sport scene, you wield your mighty trident that there may be snapper on the menu tonight, unafraid of jellies and rays and electric eels and sea anemones and sea monkeys. Fearlessly hungry, you are a survivor, hunter and marksman. If spearfishing was an Olympic sport, all the spectators would clap their flippers at your skill.
You are the Finnick Odair of the rocky coastline.
Like Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, or those cadaverish dust storms in The Mummy, you are elemental as you gallop over the ocean on your windsurfer, with nothing holding you in but a couple of lousy footstraps and some white knuckles. You're basically a sea kite, if kites traveled at 20 mph and were rocking enough colorblocking to revive these guys. You take no criticism, because by the time anyone has said something unfortunate about your banana-colored spring suit, you're already off with the wind.
You are Gone With the Wind.
Like a tanned, hippie deity, you walk on water, and occasionally get washing-machined—you've been tumbling in animated form since before anyone knew how to tumblr. Whether you're duck diving, hanging ten, or screaming "Wheeeeeee!," you maintain a steely look that tells the ocean, "I cannot be bucked," and also, "I have sunscreen in my eyes." You don't swim with the dolphins, you shoot the curl with your mammalian friends by your side. For those late to the surfing craze, it has already been Point Breaken.
You are our blue crush.
When you give the thumbs up, it's not just that you're having a good time; it's that you're ready to UP THE REVS! Being towed behind a car is pure idiocy, but being pulled behind a speedboat is a majestic act of strength and skill. Through your sport, you have learned that sometimes in life, you may be dragged along by your dad too slow to rise out of the water, gurgling dirty lake water and giving crazy eyes at the speedboat, but eventually you will rise like the underdog of the waterways to skim backwards and forwards across the wake like an acrobat with way oversized feet. No matter how fast we run, there you are, right behind us.
You are a real wake-up call.
Nothing feels as much like summer as a rough clump of fraying rope in your calloused hands, or the gentle caress of wind as you fly through the air and flop into a pond like a poached egg. Surely nothing is quite as graceful as looping through the air on a rope swing and landing ass-first in a possibly leech-infested swim hole.
You are Tarzan, because u-duh.
Jumping Off Diving Boards
Nothing says technique like leaping off the 30-foot platform and trying not to get your underarms slapped by water as hard as concrete, or grasping your torso as you pencil drop in an attempt to keep your bathing suit intact after a 40 mph impact. My homemade bikini once disintegrated on impact, but I swam across the pool in the shreds that remained with pride, because carpe the diem! Even if you only get to seize it once before getting waterburn all the way up your thighs.
You are a gambler, because HIT ME!
Running Through the Sprinkler
A daredevil at heart, you aren't intimidated by a garden hose and sprinker; hooa no. Sometimes you're brave enough to run through the "shower of death" in a natural fiber like cotton or wool, fast becoming waterlogged but not letting it slow you down because YOLO!
You are the spirit of eternal youth.