| This Really Isn't the Best Time to Give Me a Lecture |
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| Written by Christian Knight |
| Thursday, 29 November 2007 09:28 |
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All of the sudden, the term ‘divorce kayak’ is making a lot of sense to me. This is our second time in one and, if I remember right, my wife and I nearly ventured into ‘D’ territory over the same topic. “Why can’t we just paddle together,” she’s shouting. “In sync. Like those guys over there.” The problem with that is she wants to paddle slowly. To be fair, I should say she doesn't want to paddle slowly. It’s just that that’s all she can really muster at this point. I want to paddle fast. Fast enough to make my heart quit. Fast enough for my arms and lungs to go on strike. Fast enough to beat “those guys over there.” The same guys my wife-for-now is using as a positive example. This, you see, is a race. Not an especially important one. In fact, this October 13 race doesn’t even have an official name. Twenty minutes ago, when I asked the registration lady in a 19th century period dress, she shrugged. “The kayak race,” she paused. “The Alaska Days Kayak Races.” The course is on Swan Lake, the same lake that was responsible for inflating the Alaska Territories’ price tag from $7 million to $7.2 million. I know we got a great deal on the 600,000 square-mile piece of land—two cents an acre was a steal even in 1867. But even by nowadays standards, I think the Russians jacked us on Swan Lake. I mean, seriously, $200,000 for a duck pond. Lily pads grow all the way around it. And to stretch out the course, the race organizers placed buoys around the lake’s edge. That first buoy is halfly responsible for us sliding from first to second. That and the three-kayak collision that prompted my wife to jerk her paddle out of the water and shriek “Sorry!” politely. The second buoy and my wife’s identical reaction is what slid us from second to third. And the third buoy is the reason those guys over there are going to make this argument an impossible one for me to win. Of course that’s not the way Veronica sees it. She thinks the middle-aged couple is threatening to beat us because as she keeps lecturing, we’re not paddling in sync. “If we paddled like them,” she says. “We’d be doing better. But you have to paddle like a maniac …” That she’s still lecturing me is convincing me that this is yet, another opening for her to tell me all the things she doesn’t like about me. How I leave water in the spaghetti pot to let it soak; how I stop on the crosswalks at intersections; how I only do chores after she’s nagged at me for the 10th time. Of course, I must admit that I have nearly hit more than any motorists' fair share of pedestrians. She does have to tell me 10, sometimes 11 times to take out the garbage (I'm working on that one). And I do leave water in all my used dishes, which she often spills all over her clean floor and her socks. "Maybe she's right," I think to myself. And as I look over my right shoulder, I realize she probably is. The middle-aged couple at this point, isn’t just threatening to beat us right now, they are beating us. And yes, their strokes are perfectly timed, as if they’re applying everything they learned in synchronized swimming to this double sea kayak race. The finish line—designated by a steel moose and a tiny grassy island—is 50 yards away. And my arms are about to go on strike. They feel empty. Already, fourth place isn’t sounding so bad, I tell myself. It’s better than half. Plus, it’s not like we trained for this event. And besides, this is Sitka. A town on an island. Paddling is a way of life here. Most residents probably sea kayak to the grocery store, sea kayak to pick up their kids at day care. I’ll bet you the high school wrestling team sea kayaks the 300 miles to Ketchikan for meets. The finish line is 25 yards away now. And fourth place, okay, I’m not going to write a column about it, but it’s good enough for me to forget about. As I’m asking my arms for one more oomph, I notice something strange off to my right. Those other guys, the middle-aged couple, they’re faltering. They’re fading. If we were cyclists, I’d say they had bonked. They look like they're still trying. Their faces are as determined as they were at the start line. But our lead on them is suddenly a half-boat length. And widening. I convince my arms to ignore my wife’s advice and just go—all out. Like a maniac. We’re going so fast now I’m sure I’m going to steer us right into that damn moose. “Christian!” Veronica screams. “Turn right or we’re going to hit that moose.” |
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