SUP

Heading off to Marina del Rey at 7:15 am, I wondered what the heck I was doing.  Killing time before class, I wandered around contemplating the water--shiny with oil and murky with its-better-not-to-know what.

A manta ray swam by, and I fought off the impulse to retreat all the way to Brentwood.

Once again, I was not only preparing to do something very close to stupid, I was paying someone for the privilege. Will I ever learn? (Let's face it.  Probably not.)

The eight other people in the class dribbled in by twos and threes.  None of them over 35.  None of them even half a percent over ideal BMI.

I turned 59 in May.  Best not to think about my BMI.

And yet, I scooted down onto my Stand Up Paddleboard, then knelt as requested. When the time came, I clambered to my feet. Not gracefully. Not quickly. But fully upright.

For 90 minutes I paddled, turning when asked, stopping on command, and flexing my knees. I paddled past sea lions and into the wake of biiiiiig boats. I even pin-turned into a slip when we got into a tight jam with a sea lion swimming on one side and a sailboat passing on the other.

The first 70 minutes were pretty good. By the last 20, even my eyeballs were sweating. But I didn't freak and I didn't fall.

Driving home with Paula's top down, I began to feel a tiny bit proud of being out there despite everything that makes it unlikely. I'm fat and I'm old. But I'm still paddling.