At least, according to everyone but my Dad.
It was a great day for windsurfing. Or sailing. Not so much for Stand-Up Paddling, never mind a SUP race on the Charles River – one of our nation’s most notoriously polluted resources. But, like buying Tiki Bar for our covered porch 2 years ago, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The time was about 2 months ago, when my most persuasive friend – (the only one that can convince me that surfing at 5:45 a.m. is a good idea – and in doing so inadvertently introduce me to my husband – but that’s not important right now) convinced me that our support was needed at this race, which was really a fundraiser for Christopher’s Haven, which was also also an awareness building event for the Cape Cod Bay Challenge.
Anyway, 2 months later and I had trained, well, not at all. 2 half-hour quiet paddles on a flat beach day and in Pleasant Bay, so named for good reason, in no way prepared me for 4 miles in 15 mph winds on the nose of my husband’s SUP board, so borrowed because it’s a bit longer and more stable than mine.
The first leg of the first loop was a bit like paddling upstream into the wind – no, wait, it was exactly that. I was digging deep to make small and insignificant gains on people who actually paddle more than 3 times per year. The breeze was a small relief to the 94-degree day and the 150-degree brown water lapping all over the board and around my ankles. Ew. Ignore it. Ew. Ignore it. Don’t fall in. Do not. fall in.
The downwind section of the first loop took u
s through the “lagoon” – the quiet and serene, wind-blocked part of the river – which, without the breeze, felt a bit like paddling a longtail boat in Thailand. At high noon. In August.
But the support boat was puttering near, with my friend Jess snapping official event photos, and as I approached the pass under the first bridge, I heard my name. The voice, one of the two most familiar of my life. There was my Dad, up on the bridge above, arms outstretched, smiling…calling my name.
I looked up, encouraged and happy to see him. And as I gasped “Hey, Dad!” he continued…
“WHAT is THAT? That’s the stupidest sport I have ever seen! What are you doing that for?!?!” Did I mention that after nearly 40 years of living in Boston, he still has a Jersey accent?
I paddled under the bridge, with the support boat beside me, necks craned upward to see who the heckler was.
I popped out the other side, where Dad had run across the bridge to the opposite rail, to be sure I heard, “I raised you to be smarter than that! Ridiculous!”
With what little breath I had I pointed and nodded toward the finish, in the direction of the free beer I had promised him earlier in the day. But I wasn’t even close.
After the lagoon leg there was the along-the-Longfellow bridge leg, which was cool and all if you love getting side slapped by wind waves and cut-off by novices from Boston Community Sailing. I almost yelled “Starboard” to two sailboats and three kayaks. Couldn’t they see by the sheer volume of pain on my face that I clearly had the right of way???
Then there was the up-the-Cambridge-side-to-Mass-Ave.-bridge leg which was the longest, but only because it required the greatest amount of suffering, again directly into the wind. I made a friend for a minute on that leg. The guy paddling off my tail asked me if I paddled a lot. “You look like you know what you’re doing”. I could only respond that desperation breeds determination, or something like that…
Around the mark and along the Mass ave bridge. More side slap. A hydration pack would have been a good idea about an hour earlier.
Around the last mark, and back down through the lagoon. All bridges were clear of supportive parents, and I dug with everything I had to pass a girl I’d had in my sights for the last 3 marks, but she was strong and she looked like she knew what she was doing for real.
Speaking of, about a 1/3 of a mile from the finish, I took a look at my husband’s paddle and wondered if I’d been holding it correctly this whole time. 4 miles and an hour and a half in is the perfect time to wonder if you’re doing it right.
Turned the paddle around and dug some more, thinking only of water at the finish. And as I crossed it, my husband recording the competitors’ times overheard a woman in the crowd. “Oh…that poor girl has her paddle turned the wrong way. Shame.”
Two hours and two free beers later, I found my Dad at the after party on the community sailing docks. It really was a stunning evening as the day cooled down, the sun set its reflection on the Prudential and Hancock towers, and the Red Line trains shuffled back and forth across the Longfellow.
Someone started blowing a Conch Shell (seriously?) and awards were being announced. I was halfway back to the bar when I heard my name. Second place, women’s stock. What.
I looked around and did not see anyone else who looked like they shared my name and worked my way through the bar line and the crowd to claim my “trophy” – a very cool wood-carved mini SUP board trophy handmade by Chatham Wind and Time.
Upon receipt, I looked around while retreating back into the crowd. I couldn’t place my husband – he was hiding behind a lens, former photographer that he is. He’ll never admit he was as surprised as I was – though he willingly admits I’m “always full of surprises!”. I kept looking, and placed my Dad. There he was, behind the free cheese plate, not beaming with pride, but eating a banana, sideways, the way some people eat corn on the cob.
I’m no SUP star, but this sport is definitely growing – from beaches to urban centers, and anywhere there’s water in between. In a few weeks, two friends and maybe 40 others will paddle 28 miles on SUPs across Cape Cod Bay, from Plymouth to Provincetown, in an effort led by a cancer survivor, raising money for kids with cancer.
And that’s cool.
No matter what my Dad says.
(Love ya, Dad.)
