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My bro is going back to school, and one of his assignments was a narrative essay. He sent me the first draft, and said I could post it here.
Maybe some of you can relate to the feeling....
Whiplash, Sore Arms, and Eyeball-Flavored Water:
One Man’s Quest to (Briefly) Defy Gravity
I coughed and sputtered for just a few seconds, then forcefully exhaled an unpleasant mixture of lake water and mucous from my nose with an unfortunately practiced ease. From where I floated in the greenish-brown water, I could hear the sound of my brother’s slowly turning boat, coupled with a burst of giggles, laughs, and one exuberant exclamation of “Oh, MAN!” Now that everyone on the boat could see that I was not dead, they knew that they could openly express their appreciation for the face-plant I had just performed. I did not mind; on many occasions, I had found great amusement in their catastrophic wipe-outs as well. As long as the rider was not seriously injured, laughter and ridicule were practically expected.
Just a moment before, I had made another in a long line of attempts at a wake-to-wake jump. As with many previous attempts, I had failed to actually jump the wake but had succeeded quite nicely at digging the front end of my wakeboard into the water, abruptly halting my forward progress and planting myself violently face-first into the water (hence the term “face-plant”). Those who have ever experienced this know that it is indeed physically possible to drink water through the eye sockets. My mind screamed at me that I knew exactly what I had to do, because I had come so close on several occasions, and that I just had to get out there and do it. I briefly considered taking another run, but my tired muscles and rapidly stiffening neck argued fervently to the contrary. They won. As the boat drifted slowly over to me, I loosened the bindings that held my feet to the board and resigned myself to the fact that another day of wakeboarding had ended, and I was no closer to landing the seemingly simple yet extremely elusive trick that I had sought for so long now. As the boat pulled away from the scene of my latest letdown, my mind wandered back over the years since I first started wakeboarding.
I had never thought that I harbored any self destructive tendencies, but there can really be no other explanation for a thirty-three year old man to voluntarily strap a board to his feet, grab a handle at the end of a sixty-five foot rope, and allow himself to be pulled across the water behind a boat traveling at twenty-two miles per hour. On the other hand, my brother Mike and his girlfriend Liz made it look fairly easy – kind of fun, even - so I thought I should at least try it. That first day was overcast, and the slight breeze made the water a bit choppy, but it was still mostly usable for our purposes.
Mike lent me his board, a spare life jacket, and a bit of instruction on how to start: I should float in the water with the bottom of the board facing the back of the boat, hold on to the handle tightly, but relax every other muscle in my body. As the boat started accelerate, the friendly laws of physics would do all of the work and pull me up into a standing position. It all sounded very plausible. Several attempts later (and after snorting much more than the recommended daily amount of lake water), I actually was moving along at normal speed in a shaky crouching position, and was starting to think that I really could do this! I was up! I was riding! I was extreme! It was at this moment when I was enlightened to the awful truth that the laws of physics are not to be trusted in the slightest, for they are both treacherous and cruel.
The water had become a bit choppier, and my feet, in turn, had become a bit shakier. The front of the board moved up and down in response to the movements of my feet, until it was pushed below the surface of the oncoming water. When this occurred, the front of the board dug deep into the water, and it stopped going forward. I, however, did not stop. My feet being secured to the board, and the board being secured by the resistance of the water, the rest of me had no place to go but down. In less than a second, I slammed into the surface of the water face first and learned that even water hurts when you hit it fast enough. That was the first major wipeout in what would become a veritable dynasty, the most recent of which had felt no better to me than the first.
“All of this time, and still no closer,” said a disgusted-sounding voice in the back of my mind as we reached the boat launch. Now, I knew that this was not true at all; I had improved a great deal since my first foray. In fact, considering the fact that I usually did not get to go out wakeboarding more than a couple times a month during Northern Illinois’ abbreviated riding season, I felt that my progress was actually pretty good: my form had improved considerably, and I had gained quite a bit of control over the board, moving with confidence from side to side. I no longer feared riding out over the wake on either side of the boat, even when my brother put extra weight in the boat to increase the size of the wake. I had, two years previous, completed several one-wake jumps without wiping out. However, the owner of this disapproving voice would accept no compromise. I had been trying to complete a jump from one wake to the other for the past one and a half years now and had not done it.
I realized that it was not a matter of not knowing how – I had seen this trick performed every time Mike or Liz were riding, and I had viewed no less then four tutorial DVD’s on the subject. I knew what I physically had to do; ride as far out to the left as possible, set the back, or “heelside”, edge of the board at such an angle as to steer me back to the right, and ride the progressively deeper edge all the way back to the wake. Once there, all I had to do was stand tall on the board, and it would ride easily up and over the left wake, and I would land on the down slope of the right wake. In my mind, I had done this hundreds of times (after each imagined jump, the theme from “Rocky” would play, an American flag would be draped across my shoulders, and the world would stop for a moment in awed recognition of my magnificent feat).
In reality, however, I never got that far. I would always flatten the board out on the water to slow down what is supposed to be an increasingly faster cut into the wake. When all was said and done, I was scared, and I had not been able to get past that. No amount of reasoning, cajoling, or outright mockery (I had often been told by others on the boat that I should put on a skirt and change my name to Nancy) could get me to commit myself one hundred percent to the jump.
I had even bought myself a little incentive: a T-shirt with Kevin Smith’s characters Jay & Silent Bob on it, which I would not allow myself to wear until I landed a wake-to-wake. This same shirt hung, in plastic, on my wall through the entire next winter, a daily reminder to my own failure during the previous summer. I had since put it in my car, hoping that I would soon have occasion to wear it, but that had not happened yet. It mocked me from the backseat as I drove home.
Several weeks later, I was out again, chasing the trick that had become Moby Dick to my Ahab. The sky was clear, and the water was calm, with only a slight breeze. Though it was a Saturday, there was very little other traffic on the lake. By the time I arrived, Mike and Liz had already been riding for a while and were happy to let me have a run immediately. I wasted no time and began to methodically attempt the jump which had evaded me for so long.
Hope turned quickly to the same old frustration though, as I found myself doing exactly what I had done so many times before; starting the cut in, then flattening out the board to slow myself down before reaching the wake. Even these sad attempts resulted in small jumps, a fact which Mike pointed out proved that I could easily jump and reach the opposite wake if only I would commit to doing so by maintaining the correct form and speed. I tried again and again, with the same end result. By this time, my arms were getting tired, my left foot was asleep, and, in my anger, I was not paying attention to my form, causing me to make even more mistakes. I let go of the handle disgustedly and let myself sink into the water. By the time the boat was turned around and headed my way, I had removed my board and doubted whether or not I would put it on again before next year.
Mike took a run next, making a series of jumps and flips look easy, as he always did, until his already sore ankle caused him to cut his run short. Liz was tired from having ridden before my arrival, so that left me.
“Why even bother?” asked that ever cynical voice at the back of my mind. Why, indeed?
I thought about this, and about how long I had been waiting, and about how close I had come, and about the fact that it was already September 17th, and that I might not get another chance this year. I had to try once more, or simply accept defeat.
I strapped on my board, grabbed the handle, and got into the water. As the boat idled forward to pull the rope taut, I felt all of the previous failures swirling around in my mind, working hard to discourage me before I even started. I did not listen to them. This was a new run with new potential, and nothing that had happened in the past had any bearing on what I was about to do.
I yelled “Hit it!” to signal my readiness for the boat to take off, and I held on. Once the boat was up to speed, I spent a few moments just moving back and forth between the wakes, and then I dug in the edge of the board, and shot out to the right. I had not done this for quite some time, since I had been concentrating so much on my jump from the left side. It felt good; it felt right. My body was in the correct position, and each movement seemed to flow seamlessly into the next. I cut slowly and easily back to my left, crossing both wakes in a smooth, continuous path. I followed this path as far out to the left as I could, then took two seconds to level out the board and set up my starting position.
There was no mental pressure; no specter of failures past: there was only me, the wake, and the physical forces that would bring us together. I leaned back against the rope and began my cut in.
I have heard people talk about how, in moments such as this, time seems to slow down. This was not the case with me: I remember no specifics of what happened. I only know that a few seconds later, I was on the other side of the second wake, angling away from where I had just landed.
Did I do it? Had my foot crossed over the wake before the board landed on it? Before I could ask again, I heard the boat’s horn honking, along with triumphant shouts from Mike and Liz. I had done it! I had finally landed a wake-to-wake!!
I was ecstatic, and every part of my being wanted to celebrate, but I knew that according to our unwritten law, I had to land a trick three times before I could call it mine. I cut smoothly back over the wakes to the left, and tried to visualize exactly what I had just done. I had every confidence that I would be able to do it again.
I cut back towards the wake, making every effort to repeat my last jump precisely, though I found it no easier to think as quickly as I was traveling. I had a brief feeling of weightlessness, and then I was riding down the other wake. Twice!! I had done it twice!! All I needed was one more, and I could say that I had truly accomplished what I had set out to do over a year a half ago. I was on top of the world!
While making my way back over to the left, I hit some rollers – small waves left by another passing boat – and went down. When they came back to get me, Mike and Liz greeted me with shouts of encouragement and accolade. They had been with me from the beginning and knew what completing this jump meant to me. I was excited but would not allow myself to celebrate yet: I had one more to land.
Once again, the boat took off, and I rose on my board behind it. I spent a few moments just carving the board back and forth across the water, enjoying myself in a way that I had not in a long time. Gone was the frustration of all of the failed attempts; gone was the psychological weight of having something that has to be done hanging over my head. Landing the third one was a forgone conclusion.
I cut out to my left as far as I could, straightened up for a couple seconds, and then set my edge to cut back in. I could feel the pressure building as I the edge increased, and I could feel the board ride up the wake. There were another few seconds of weightlessness, and then just the slightest pressure as the board rode down the other wake. My third jump had been my best yet.
As I cut out to the right, I let the handle go, raised both arms in the air, and shouted out in sheer joy, as I glided gently into the water. Where I had so often failed, I now was successful. I had endured countless face-plants, muscle strains, and long, frustrating days of riding to get to this point, but it had been worth every minute, for I had accomplished my long-sought goal.
In the end, there was no band playing the theme from “Rocky”; there was no flag draped over my shoulders; and the world went right on as if nothing of importance had happened. It did not matter, though, if the world knew or cared, because I knew. I had landed my wake-to-wake.
A short while later, I sat in Mike’s living room, proudly wearing my hard-earned shirt, and repeatedly watching myself catch air as the camcorder played back the day’s triumphant events on the television. I was tired, and my arms were sore, but I was satisfied. Looking back at my long, often painful quest, I found myself pondering the old axiom “Nothing worth doing is ever easy”. I chuckled to myself, positive that whoever spoke those wise words must have been a wakeboarder.
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