Invitation to a Storm

This is how the ocean looked this morning.

Small craft warnings; and we were small crafts. Or we had them. We wanted to race them here.

The only people crazy enough to be out on the beach in this 20-mph wind are the regulars who gather with their boards, our group, and some seriously mind-altered young people dancing over a fire pit.

  So we tucked our tails and moved our band of athletic water junkies south a few miles to the bay, where it was only blowing 15 mph, but with a surface less threatening for the beginners in our midst, and that would be me.

Dogs and people had to adapt to the winter rules in the park, meaning the bathrooms right next to us were closed for the winter, and dogs were not welcome in the park between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. Huh? Dogs not welcome in a public park? Through the winter days? Really? Common sense would suggest putting people to work maintaining the parks would give them jobs. It would also encourage our overweight masses to use those parks. Maybe.

Despite the hurdles, race organizer Cheance Adair masterfully rallied us all into two successful races: a short course of 4 miles (that’s me), and a long one out into the channel and back (that’s the big boys and girls). Jon Brindle and I were still smiling before getting on the water.

  Our race took off with a nice following sea that lulled us into a false sense of speed. Once we rounded the first island we were now broadside to the wind swells. It got choppy. Waves coming from the shore collided with wind waves underneath me, and the paddler just ahead went over. He adroitly remounted his surfski and in an embarrassingly brief quarter mile, passed me again.

I set my sights, when I could, on the backs of the young paddlers that train at the San Diego Canoe and Kayak Team, with coach Chris Barlow, a former Olympian who’s dedicated every spare moment to training the next generation of Olympic kayakers. These kids are fearless and tough and fast. Needless to say, I only saw their faces when they had finished the race and were doubling back in my direction to cheer for members of their team still on the course.

Paddling a borrowed boat that’s wider and therefore more stable than my own, yet slower, was a good idea.  The sloppy wind chop tossed me around a few times and I had to brace three or four times to keep from dumping myself over. I straightened up and got a better pace about the time I reached the next island and my two good lady paddler buddies were standing on rocks cheering me on. Now, who does that any more? Dedicate their morning to cheering someone else on in a race or any endeavor, for that matter?  We are a selfish society, myself included, who can rarely be pulled from a me-centric agenda. I have most-excellent friends. The kind that make me want to grow up and be just like them.

  When my race was finished, I had enough energy to do it again; which makes me wonder how I should have been using that energy during the race. Darn it, now I have a new goal. Sigh, it’s a moving target. New goals every day.

This is Veteran’s Day, and the birthday of the Marine Corps, so our race is dedicated to veterans, especially the Challenge Athletes and Wounded Warriors. We had a few competing today. They are always an inspiration.

The wind was getting stronger. I drove out to the jetty to watch the racers navigate the open ocean. A guy was zipping around the parking lot on a skateboard by holding a small parasail, having a blast. I had to lean into the wind to stay upright. But the leaders didn’t seem to feel a thing. They just plowed right through the chop like it wasn’t there.

Paddlers are good people. Strangers helped each other bring the boats up onto the grass, no one complained (very loudly) the race was moved, nor anything else for that matter (except the bathrooms being closed).

  Hopefully my muscles will recover in time for the next one. And I can possibly work towards being as skilled as some of these killer athletes! But you know, there's rarely a bad day on the water, storm or no storm.