7:30AM circle the parking lot, under the influence of too little coffee, for a spot among the already cram of cars … shuffle in my Uggs to the beach … gear up … help lug a 400 pound canoe down to the water (and another, and then another) … wade along the slimy-bottomed bay to my seat … hop in, Ho'omakaukau, Huki, and we’re gone.
The sky is a matte blue promising warmth, but the ocean breeze still cool. I try to erase all other thoughts, save my stroke, but my seat is itchy; my pace is off. It’s cold, and windy, and my muscles complain stiffly.
Why am I here? I mumble to myself, as our canoe of novices (Chris, Soybean, Alan, Big Chris, me and Scott) lurch toward the jetty, but Big Chris hears.
Because you’re an athlete, he replies.
Whoa! I don’t think I’ve even been called an athlete before: I’ve had a hard enough time calling myself a sportswriter. But the thought settles in: ‘What is an athlete?’
I don't ponder long. Today’s paddle kicks my a**. We practice for hours, with breaks barely long enough to gasp your breath, and I’m moved from boat to boat, seat to seat, trying (I suppose) to find a spot for me. I try to do each job the best I can (as far as I know) and be positive. A few weeks ago I was in Ray’s boat. He soothed us with a steady stream of comments: Every stroke you get better, every minute you get stronger. We come here to improve. We are one body, one canoe.
Ommmmmmmm. He is a constant flow of so much positivity he should have been a Spice Girl (if not for his stoic expression and sprinkle of chest hair). I attempt to summon his mantra.
Home from practice I look up “athlete” (after a stop at the grocery store because I’m so hungry I can eat my visor, but I think cotton is a carb so … I buy some yogurt and a tri-tip instead). According to the Cambridge dictionary (those $%*&#! British are always right) it’s, “a person who is trained or skilled in a sport and especially one who regularly competes with others in organized events.”
Wow. I guess I am: if you consider my sailing and now outrigger canoeing. So I go for a run. Gracie (the dog) isn’t home so I have none of my normal excuses for stopping and starting, but still I walk, and jog, and walk, and jog: so many things aching I cannot list them all; along the beach where pale, bikini-clad teenagers push the envelope to get a jumpstart on summer tans; dodging erratic, poorly trained dogs on too-long leashes; squeezing past proliferation after prickly proliferation of fragrant rosebushes. This athlete. That I am.
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