The Wet Butt Principle — A Benchmark of Service

I was feeling a little blue. Usually, I’m chipper, but this had been a rough week, and I wasn’t thrilled about Monday looming. My husband and son decided I needed to go fishing—again. It’s a running joke how much I love fishing. I don’t even have a license. I’m not squeamish (nurse here), and I think fishing can be an honorable way to catch supper—but honestly? I kind of like the little guys. They look peaceful, if a bit dim, and they fit beautifully into the world around me.

Still, my guys are right. I do love being pulled away from just one more task: the untidy entryway, another load of laundry. I love being captured and forced to relax against my will. Fishing is a valuable pastime for me. While they compare lures and debate the virtues of worms versus shrimp, I throw out a blanket, pop in one AirPod, and let a music-and-cricket symphony carry me away while I crochet or doodle.

That recent night was rainy, though. I went along but stayed in the car at the first stop, watching the moody sunset through streaked windows as I finished a large coral-and-charcoal blanket. The mosquitoes swarmed, and the park closed at sundown.

Not to be defeated, my guys tried one more pier under a bridge. The drizzle had stopped, the breeze had chased off the mosquitoes, and the whole place glowed magenta with the last yawning sunset. My husband walked over and opened my car door.

“Are you coming?” he asked. Bossy.

I chuckled, slipped on my shoes, and followed him onto the dock. He tugged my tired hand playfully, leading me past the colorful characters of the pier: serious, Cabela’s-clad fishermen, a family with nets hunting for supper, and a giggling girl nearly hooking her mother with each fearless cast.

Our son had settled near the start of the pier, baiting his hook with a feisty shrimp. I cringed at the sight of it wriggling, too cute for my comfort.

We found a big wooden bench near the end of the dock. My husband sat down first, then looked up at me with a grin and scooted over a few inches. The wood around him gleamed with leftover rain—except where he’d shifted, leaving a dry patch just big enough for me.

Part of me didn’t trust it, I wasn’t in the mood to be cold. But I couldn’t say no to that little gift. So I sat beside him, and he leaned in, warming my arm and my heart.

My heart—yeah, it was full. I texted my best friend: “This is the kind of man you want: his butt is double wet so mine can stay dry.”

At work I often hear discussions of benchmarks. That moment — that smeary dry mark on our bench — stayed with me, not just because it made me smile, but because it showed me something deeper: a benchmark of service.

A benchmark of service is a standard of care, selflessness, and responsiveness to the needs of others. It’s about what you do for someone else, often quietly, with no expectation of recognition. Service benchmarks are about:

• Willingness to sacrifice personal comfort for someone else’s benefit.

• Thoughtfulness and awareness of the other person’s needs or feelings.

• Setting an example of humility, kindness, and generosity.

What kind of culture are you trying to build? In that small, soggy moment, my husband didn’t just lead — he served. He noticed I was tired, hesitant, and could really use a dry seat. His little selfless act set a benchmark of service: this is care and love in action.

There are moments when people sacrifice for you. Maybe it doesn’t fix the whole situation, but it means everything. These little gifts—these tiny, quiet sacrifices—are where connection blooms. Slow down enough to see them. Receive them with gratitude. And when it’s your turn, be the one who makes someone else’s seat a little drier.

🎧Listen here: https://open.spotify.com/episode/2CFQEjGbaBw8uOm6liD1ti?si=TVmo8v_DQq6_gtD2z3tOdg