To Escape you Must continue
Pre-race calm.
The lot was already packed as I pulled in at 6:50 am—cars and trucks with long, sleek boats strapped to the top everywhere. Hulls littered the grass. I look at the other racers and feel underdressed and underprepared. Most folks are in their fancy team gear or some other athletic outfit. I’m in some busted-up jeans and an old hoodie. Maybe I could pick up my free shirt and leave. People would ask, though, how’d it go, and I couldn’t pull shit. I was stuck here.
Paddleboards and boats line to grass waiting for their heat to begin.
I get checked in and go back to my van to warm up. It’s a chilly 44 degrees; my fingertips can feel it. Inside the van, I make a couple of sandwiches, try to center myself, and prepare for this task. There’s a short course meeting at 8:50, so I’ll stay in the van and eat until then.
I end up missing the entire short course meeting. They had begun early. Hopefully, there wasn’t anything too important. We’ll find out.
My start is at 9:25 am. I check out the course info board. It’s got all the good info. How to exit the water, what to do if someone at the finish doesn’t call your number. As a prone paddler, I’ll be laying on my number so I’ll have to yell it out to the finish line people. Can’t forget that.
Back at the van, I pull my board off the roof and begin changing. Thankfully, the wetsuit and top aren’t cold and damp from the day before. I get my number pinned on. 291.
Making my way to the staging area with my board, I look around at all the people here. Such a large group of racers. Out in the water, the outriggers and racing kayaks are all on a line, waiting for the horn to blow. I’ll be starting from shore. I walk past and through people. I hear a distinct thud of board hitting board.
“Come on”. A young woman says.
“Does anyone know where the starting line is?” another woman asks, looking at me.
“I’m guessing it’s that large group of people over there,” I reply.
She turns and looks. “Oh yeah”.
At the start line, people are strung out along the sand, close together but not wanting to be too close. The previous heat was distant on the horizon, growing smaller. The wind gusts up suddenly. 9:19 am. It’s strong. Cold. The water’s surface begins to dance.
Hoooooooooon. The air horn sounds.
Everyone takes off into the water. Thankfully, I didn’t over shoot the board and roll into the water. A small pack of people in the back I try to keep up with. I know I won’t win. I just want to survive.
Heading out into the harbor, the wind is head-on, and bumpy caps make the paddle more work. I’m able to slip past and through people. A sharp left is coming up across the opening of the harbor mouth. The wind blows sideways, easily pushing my board at a northward drift. I’ve got to make it across and around the landmass that SeaWorld sits on.
As I approach the bridge, a paddler behind me exclaims, “There’s Waldo!” My red-striped rash guard, which was part of a Where’s Waldo costume, always gets people to laugh and call me Waldo. I turn, look, and laugh.
“Here I am. Just trying not to die.”
“Just one paddle at a time,” he replied before taking off in front of me.
One paddle at a time, I think. Easy right. Under the first bridge, I hit the wind again. I wonder how long this is going to be. I hit a mile before hitting the second bridge. My watch reads 16’08. I’m shocked. Still, it was not anything worth writing home about compared to the athletes at the front of the pack, but for the wind and less-than-ideal training schedule before the race. For a split second, I’m pretty happy, then the wind comes up again, and I’m brought back to the moment.
I’m now near Seaward, coming up to the second turn. I’m definitely at the back of the pack, but I'm warming up and feeling better. One paddle at a time. Around the buoy and, for the first time, going with the wind. It’s still choppy, but the flow of the tide with the wind is helping a ton.
I came around the next bend in the course. A huge gap to cross to reach the eastern top of Vacation Island. Though the wind was at my back still, the chop was much higher now. The nose of my board plowed through the water like a torpedo.
The pack was far ahead and getting smaller. Paddle. Paddle. Paddle. At this moment, I want out of this challenge, but the only way to escape is to continue. I finally made it to the point. The buildings, the island itself, and the low tide allow a short relief from the wind.
Around another curve in the island shore, and boom. The wind hit me like a truck. Dropping my paddle speed drastically. I must push. I see the last turn at the end of this straight. Just put my head down and push. I pass a couple of outriggers that are piloted by older athletes. My lower center of gravity helped in this moment.
I can see the last turn. As I come around this dune, a huge gust comes up and sprays sand into Bonita Cove. Friends encourage others to continue and fight on. The finish was almost there. I wiggle the board from side to side to keep it straight. The wind easily blew me and my board off course. I feel my fingers drag along the sandy bottom. The water is so shallow.
291 I yell as I come across the finish line.
Final time: 1h 19m 46s.
Distance: 5.05 miles.
The race is over. My hands are numb, and my arms feel like noodles. I walk up to the shore and right to my car. A wind gusts up, blowing boats and boards that had been left on the sand. Rolling one of them into another. People race after them to make sure they don’t collide with other boards. I walk on.
Barely able to work my arms, I somehow managed to get changed and loaded up. I’ve got a two-hour drive home and flags to sew once I get there.
At home, I’m exhausted but think about how I could have done better. What do I need to adjust in training? The first thing that comes to mind is how when the weather is bad, windy, or cold, that is when I need to go out. The wind at this event showed me that it’s not anyone else I’m competing against but God. He will challenge me and push me; I must prepare for the worst weather in anticipation of that during the race. Training only during sunny, warm skies will not make me strong. It will not prepare me for the hardship of this task or the hardship of life.
Thank you for following me on this adventure. How do you prepare your mind and body for the’s challenges?
Aloha,
Rev. Ben
