Sunday, June 16, 2013


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.


The Geezers said...

Holy Moses. Impressive indeed. Though far, far younger than your 59 years, not sure I'd be trying this.

Hats off to your spirit.

Jerri said...

So, what? One "far" wasn't enough?