43 freaking years old. Freezing my patooty off in the dark, in the rain, away from home, learning drills, trying to keep up with the experienced, or the younger, or the better, or the whatever paddlers, trying to remember not to use my kayaking techniques because I am a dragon boat racer now. Hungry, cold, wet, tired, sore, sick, frustrated at my inability to do it just like the lead coach, Alden, who never bends that inside elbow and does his trunk rotaion with perfection...
WHAT am I doing here?
"HOLD THE BOAT!!!!!" The gorgeous tiller, Djambel, yells from the back of the boat. I vaguely hear the caller, our technical coach, Rob, giving instruction from the front of our dragon boat. I am unaware of the noise coming from the rush hour trafic on the bridge above. Rob tries to be heard over the wind and urban bustle.
But I am only aware of the Osprey who has flown high above our vessel soaring overhead once, twice, three times. His large outstreatched wings, graceful, elegant and powerful. It is a blessing to have him fly over us, and he flies over us three times. The wind blows across my face, the world is a silent dream, and for a split second I close my eyes.
I am the Osprey.
I am the wind.
I am the blessing soaring above.
"PADDLES UP!!!" Djambel calls from the rear. "TAKE IT AWAY!" And I drop my paddle into the water in unison with the other 16 paddlers as we glide across the water as if we were meant to be there.
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