I hear him sigh and he slings his cannon. The stern of the Watersport settles alarmingly as he seats himself gingerly on the back of the seat. "There should be handgrips on either side of the seat at the stern," I tell him without turning around. While he’s trying to find them, I’m scanning the control panel. Very different from my old WaveRunner, let me tell you. This thing’s got gauges, for frag’s sake—a speedo, oil pressure, temperature, and fuel. On my old toy the only way to judge speed was by how hard the thing jounced when you hit a wave, and the only way to tell you were running out of gas was when the engine started to sputter. At least the steering and throttle arrangements are the same. All I’ve got to remember is to keep my fingers off the triggers for the firmpoint-mounted weapons—medium machine guns, they look like—until I’m ready to rock.