Finding My Inner Fish: Learning to Snorkel at 62

I'm not going to lie: I was terrified. Not of the ocean, not of the fish, not even of looking ridiculous in a wetsuit. I was terrified of failing in front of my wife, Carol, who'd been dropping hints about snorkeling since we booked our cruise on the Margaritaville at Sea Paradise six months ago. You see, Carol's the adventurous one. She's the one who suggested parasailing in Cancun back in 2015 (I politely declined). She's the one who signed us up for that zip-lining excursion in Costa Rica (I chickened out and spent four hours at the resort bar). So when she started talking about snorkeling in the Caribbean, I felt the familiar knot forming in my stomach. At 62, I'd somehow made it through life without ever putting my face underwater and breathing through a tube. That seemed like a perfectly acceptable life achievement to me. But here's the thing about being married for 34 years—your wife knows exactly which buttons to push. "You don't have to do it," she'd say with this knowing smile. "I'll just go on the excursion with that nice couple from Phoenix. What were their names? Linda and Dale? They seemed really fun." Never mind that we'd never met these people. The implication was…