Those three words can bring a fair amount of trouble. I’m happy to report that this time, they didn’t.
Yesterday, after walking to and from my old breakfast place to, you guessed it, have breakfast with BDR, I was doing the best part of nothing at all. I was sitting in the sun on a back patio, listening to the endless procession of droning small planes taking off from the nearby airport and visiting with my ever-gracious hosts Tom and Suze.
“What are your plans for today,” Tom asked me.
“You’re looking at it.” I had big plans of doing little. Last day here. Sun shining. Sitting in the sun and reading, napping and teasing out solutions to the occasional sudoku and crossword puzzle seemed a decent enough idea. Besides, I’d have the chance to sit and laze with my local four-legged bestie Monte. Sorry, Indy, I know we made a connection that I hope we’ll continue in the future, but Monte and I have spent a lot more time together spanning a couple of years.
“We’re thinking of taking out the kayaks and doing a paddle near South Shore, then maybe riding bikes to Camp Richardson. We have a third of everything. Wanna go?”
I thought about it for more than the usual split second for non-athletic activities. The bike ride? Sure. No problema. The paddle? Hmm. I hadn’t paddled anything for a long time. I think the last time was when I tried SUP in SoCal at least a dozen years ago. (Don’t quote me on when, though. I’m old and my mind is slipping these days. Just ask George about 25 hours making up a day.) I do recall I enjoyed it well enough at the time, but I just never got around to doing it again since.
I then uttered the fateful words: “Sure, why not?”
No need to cue any foreboding music. No drastic, life threatening, or even life altering, events transpired. No, it just plum wore me out. Conditions weren’t bad, they were just challenging. There was a constant swell with occasional whitecap, but it was always from the side. That’s what was killing me. Add in that my rudder pedal fell off, (this after how to deploy it sunk through thinning hair atop a thick skull) and the fact I plain suck at kayaking.
Tom, smooth and in the lead. Suze, equally smooth and the two of them chatting amiably about the spotted osprey and bald eagle. Me? Thrashing and flailing and like a speared sunfish about to be landed and filleted. I think that about half the time my paddle met the water’s surface at, shall I say, inopportune moments? By my calculations, approximately 63.7% of the water that ended up in my kayak was caused by me splashing myself. The rest from waves crashing my starboard.
We pulled in on an empty beach and Tom was able to reattach the rudder pedal. Sweet. Now I can steer, even though I can’t propel. But, hey! A win is indeed a win.
We took off again, heading west toward the Tahoe Keys. It’s a community on the lake, Venice style. Once we entered the sheltered parts, my ability to move improved drastically. Who knew that getting tossed like a cork has a deleterious effect on forward motion?
As we paddled and ogled the boats, a dock worker at the marina told us about free food. What’s that? Free food?! You can bet your bippie we headed toward that! Tom put in, and Suze and I just sat alongside a jetty. Baking in the sun. Por supuesto this guy didn’t do sunscreen. Typically, not an issue, but when clambering aboard my faithless water steed, my shorts rode up almost to the point of looking like I was wearing a Speedo, revealing upper thigh to the sun that hadn’t seen that level of UV in who knows how long. They were pinking nicely. Nicely if they were lobsters on the boil, and not my legs. Fortunately, Suze had some sunscreen in her kayak. Better late than never, since we still had to paddle back.
Soon after application, Tom returned with food. Dessert first, as one does. We had caramel ice cream cones, followed by soda, capped off with what they called cheese steak sandwiches. The ice cream was yummers, the soda cold and hydrating and the cheese steak stretching what it is to be a cheese steak. It was tasty and large and filling, but ground beef drenched in a cheese sauce with peppers on a brioche does not a true Philly make.
The return trip was a bit more challenging. Sure, I had a rudder. Sure, I’d fueled. Sure, I had increased familiarity and skill after some time paddling in the calm waters of the Keys. But the wind had freshened a bit and the fuel slopped around in my gut, mixing dangerously with bubbles from the soda. Yippie!
I didn’t get seasick. I didn’t need a tow. I eventually made it back, wallowing sideways from wave trough to wave trough like an overloaded, fat tugboat. I definitely was an anchor on my fellow paddlers’ progress. They chatted. I wallowed. It was some definite Type-II fun.*
As we landed the kayaks and loaded them up again, I was thinking about how I could possibly demur from the ride. I didn’t have to speak up, thankfully, since T&S decided it was time to head back; they had the weekly grocery shopping to do and the whole spur-of-the-moment activity had started a bit late. I tried to hide my oh-so-infinitesimal disappointment that I wouldn’t get an opportunity to further embarrass myself — this time on a bike. I made up for it by napping in the truck on the ride back down. An old-man win.
This morning is a pack it up and move it out kind of morning. I’m returning the car rental, and making my way to the Amtrak station. Yep. Like Billy Joel, I’m moving out. Heading east though, with Denver in my near-term sights. The train ride is about twenty five hours, but I’m not in a hurry, and the seats aren’t cramped like on a plane. It’ll be just like when I took the ship to Sydney last year. Except on land, twenty five hours instead of twenty eight days, smaller spaces, not as wet, I have to buy my food along the way, and there’s no running track. Yep, exactly the same.
Be kind, and take care of yourselves. If you can, care for someone else, too.
Slang, out.
* Type I fun is fun while it’s happening, and remains so in memory. Type II fun is where, upon reflection afterward, it wasn’t so bad, even though while in progress, one is questioning one’s life choices that brought about said activity.
If you aren't questioning life choices, are you even living, let alone, having fun?