I am not a fan of watermelon for the most part. It tastes bland, and the texture is like a hybrid of sponge and necco wafer. I feel like I’m eating a sand scuptor of fruit. I realize I’m in the minority on this. Less than thirty miles from me they usually celebrate an annual “Watermelon Thump” and seed spitting contest. I understand that over time, watermelons have gotten sweeter and less seedy, so maybe they’re worth giving another chance, but I’ve got other priorities in my life. If it happens it happens.
I have only wanted MORE watermelon one time in my life. On one of the last days of Outward Bound, we did a ten-plus mile run up and down the gravel-dusty roads near the base-camp. After a month of hiking 30-50 pound packs up mountains, our fitness really was transformed, and a two or three hour run, once unthinkable, was now merely horrible. Before we started, one instructor challenged us to “keep jogging” not walk up the inclines, as a test of mental strength, but I walked up almost every hill. Improved fitness or not, willingly submitting myself to unnecessary struggle wasn’t something I appreciated at that age. It came with time, though.
At the finish of the run, by far the farthest run of my then twenty years, the sweat, dust, grit, and heat had turned me into a dry-loofah version of myself. Water was appreciated. Banana necessary. The watermelon was rapturous! I suddenly understood why people raved about watermelon. Each easy chomp was rewarded with enough water to make the desert flowers inside my mouth bloom, and washed rivulets of dust off my face and neck. I stood under the hot sun by the side of that dusty road, and worshiped at the pick-up truck bed altar to the watermelon-god. I don’t remember how many slices I ate, but it probably exceeds the number I’ve had in the thirty subsequent years.