I anticipated that aging would turn my hair gray, etch lines across my face, and bring about random joint pain, but I wasn't prepared for the surge of fear it would introduce. This wasn't an abstract fear of the unknown but rather an acute awareness of what I already knew. This mindset, born from experience and an increasing skepticism, is, unfortunately, rather common.

I still engage in competitive soccer with enthusiasm, relying on my skills while hoping younger teammates will compensate for my shortcomings. Recently, after an awkward collision during a game, I went for an x-ray, convinced I had fractured my collarbone. Thankfully, it turned out to be just a serious bruise, but I was left feeling disheartened that I had endured such pain without any tangible result, aside from the ability to complain about it.

Fast forward a few months, and I'm now entertaining my nephew and his friend from the UK. These two energetic, 6-foot tall 20-year-olds were ready to explore the U.S.

After their adventures in NYC, we made our way to the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. We played tennis, swam in a lake, and hiked to a waterfall—all while keeping an eye out for a local bear that could weigh 500 pounds. While bears aren't known for causing trouble on tennis courts, they can be quite aggressive over a disputed line call. It's also unlikely a bear would attack while you're in a lake, but the sight of one casually paddleboarding toward you might induce a rather unfortunate reaction.

That’s when I foolishly decided to spend a day at the local outdoor waterpark, Camelbeach, a clever name that ties back to the Camelback Ski Resort during winter. Just to clarify, camels do not inhabit Pennsylvania, nor do they ski or fit on waterslides, though I would pay to see that.

As the "dad" of the group, I arrived at the waterpark a mere ten minutes before opening. To my surprise, the parking lot was nearly empty. With a $20 fee for prime parking within a mile of the entrance, we opted for the free lot that felt like a trek across state lines. This desolate patch was managed by a sunburned man resembling a weary desert dweller. In my usual dad humor, I jokingly asked if he could let us park closer. The attendant, clearly unimpressed and looking like he had seen better days, could only manage a grunt in response.

So where was everyone? Was there a tiger on the loose? An active shooter? (Probably, but luckily he was still working on his manifesto.) Or were they filming a new season of "The Real Housewives of Pennsylvania"? The real reason for the absence of crowds was the forecast for rain later that day, and no one wanted to spend $42 for a partial experience.

After making the trek to the entrance, my son, daughter, the two British visitors, and I—looking like a Shetland pony next to them—were thrilled to walk right in.

Our first order of business was to rent a locker. Of course, the prices were outrageous: $25 for a small locker barely big enough for a car key or $30 for a larger one. I opted for the larger option, which turned out to be at the bottom of a stack. It was only a foot high and wide but three feet deep, forcing me to crawl on my hands and knees to reach the back. If this were "Alice in Wonderland," the "Drink me" label would have been replaced with a "Screw you," as the spring-loaded door felt like wrestling with a metal pit bull just to gain access.

With our belongings safely stowed away, we set off for the most popular rides, hoping to beat any potential crowds.

The rides mostly involved "hauling your own inflatable tube up a concrete hill" or "leaning back, hands behind your head, and hoping for the best." I found the tube rides to be less traumatic, although one shot you down a dark tunnel. Occasionally, I could see a pinprick of light as if the creator of this watery coffin had mislaid a few screws. I couldn't even see my own white knuckles, let alone where the next turn was. The disorientation and sharp curves made me feel vulnerable, especially with