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[This is a continuation from Hawaii - Aloha & Honor (Part 2: The Wahine). Please read that before this post. Mahalo!]

One would think that after the wahine race the tale would be over, but alas, I still have my duty of paddling to perform, as did the crew I was with and the master koa team. Oh, and 130 plus other canoes competing. So, how to sum it all up….after the jet skis and official boats zig-zagged in front of the long line of canoes and told us to back up, move forward, wait, and hurry up to the line…(basically everything short of doing the hokey-pokey) I think a flag must have dropped. Because the next thing I know, our seat 1 had started paddling and the canoe was moving forward along with the rest of the field. Oh, did I mention I was the seat 1?

So suddenly the canoes were all speeding north taking up several hundred yards of water from the coast to the sea. Water being churned, captains yelling commands, teams bumping into each other, other teams turning to avoid each other. The usual first quarter mile race chaos. And there we were, in the mix with the island of Hawaii on our right and the world’s largest ocean to our left. The water churned a little less violently beneath us as our crew settled into a more sustainable pace and rhythm. 17.75 miles to go until we finish.

Lining up for the race start

Our crew was made up of mostly malihini, (Hawaiian for new-comer), novice paddlers. However, at the kapena (seat 6/captain) position, we were very fortunate to have Dave Bloom steering us. Having steered this race before, as well as raced it from seat 1 another year, his experience was invaluable as our green paddling status would make this a rough go without some wisdom to keep us in check, motivated, and paddling each stroke as one solid unit. As malihini paddlers, our racing distances all year were 6 miles at most, so to jump up into the big leagues and ‘power on’ for 18 miles would be a substantial jump. Not to mention the crews we were racing against consisted of some of Hawaii’s top paddling clubs. So, we did not expect any crazy top place finishes. We were there for the experience, and to paddle as hard as we could as a team, and hopefully finish in a way that those giving us their kokua (support) back home would be proud of.

That all said, it didn’t take long for me to lose grip on the euphoria of everything and have lactic acid take its place. I had been training hard the last several weeks, paddling distances non-stop up to 26 miles back home in San Diego. But there is never a substitute for a race, and while all that training helps you a ton, it doesn’t take the pain away…as I learned from a few previous races…it only lets you deal with the pain longer while you continue to perform at a high level. I was dealing with it at that moment and would be for a while to come still.

And the race has begun. Over 130 canoes participated in this years kane’ (men’s) race.

Canoe racing is interesting because making up a huge distance is very difficult. It’s not a sport of insane surges and jockeying for position. It’s a gradual pull away from the competition. A lulling into security that the canoe in front of you really isn’t getting smaller, when in fact it probably is. I had a rate of around 60 strokes a minutes going into our 4th mile and the field had stretched out. Many canoes were in front of us. Several around us, and I wouldn’t know until the finish who, if anyone, might be behind us. As a paddler, you look forward. Not to the side, and certainly not behind you. Stay centered. Stay focused. Stay strong. And in my case being in seat one, STAY IN TIME! The front seat (the stroker) can’t go off of the paddler in front, so they work with some sort of internal timing machine or favorite song to keep the stroke rate equal on both sides as well as try to give ample reach with every stroke for the power seats behind him or her. Having sat behind some quality seat 1s in my first season (my teammate Marty and the afore-mentioned Dave Bloom), I had good examples to follow today. But I still wondered with each return motion if that last stroke was long enough? Is my my rate too slow? Did I catch enough water on that last pull? Should I-
“HUT!” [stroke] “HO’E”.
The crew bellows out the call to change sides. I am left to ponder my questions again, now on the other side. All the while looking straight ahead at a pack of canoes and charging through the swell-filled water.

Around mile 6 was the last time I recall seeing the masters koa crew from Ikuna Koa in front of us. We had dropped a few surges in to try and make up some ground with them, but as each surge would end, we dropped back down in speed and their canoe would chug along…very very gradually getting smaller in front of us in a pack of about 6 other canoes. They were a strong bunch, and while I would have liked to have been alongside them, I was proud of their power and experience prevailing ahead up. Rivalries and competition are nice n all, but in a canoe, the battle with me is usually internal, and I am sure each of the crew I was with had their own internal battles being waged to continue pulling hard and staying focused.

At 30 minute time slots, our kapena called out seat by seat opportunities for very short water breaks. I had been training all season to not take water breaks; so I would not be overly dependent on them come a race. You never know if the straw from the Camel-back might malfunction, not to mention not paddling makes the canoe slow down and is a detriment to the timing. However, in this setting, I was grateful and looking forward to each water break, and would greedily power a few gulps before hopping back into the rate of the paddling again. Maybe wipe away that bead of sweat on my forehead that had been annoying me for the last 20 or so minutes. Once I was back in time, the next seat behind me would get their opportunity to miss a few strokes. I would come back in extra hard, to earn the little break I had just been given, and hope I didn’t cost the canoe too much time.

There is a challenge when paddling to stay focused and to remember the core values we were taught early on and will spend a lifetime trying to master. Each stroke trying to:

“Get good reach!”
“Power up front!”
“Twist!”
“Pop and Glide!”
“Watch your timing!”

I didn’t have someone yelling to remind me this time of those valuable insights with each stroke, and as the race wore on, my internal voice would start to get a little quieter as it struggled to remind me of what Gus and Dan had taught me. That is why staying focused is so important. Getting “lulled into sleep” where the paddle stops pulling as hard, catching as much water, and slowing down the rate, is a constant song of the sirens (Greek mythology people) to resist. As seat one, you have a battle to maintain your own rate, for the sake of everyone behind you. If you slow down, stop pulling as hard, or compromise how far you reach, a chain reaction will follow and next thing you know, the canoe, as a whole, is slower. No pressure or anything. So staying focused is key. And a good crew and kapena can help each other with that. Random encouragements being yelled out (”way to go seat 3!”). Reminders (”Keep the timing solid!”). Even blatant calling out of a seat (”Get that rate up seat 1 don’t fade out now!”). I think I deservedly heard that one at least once.

The crew I proudly paddled with. Myself, Brad (guest paddler from Oahu), David, Fred, Bong, Dave.

I learned back in my running days that any distance race has different parts to it that present unique physical and mental challenges. The hardest in my opinion was always when you were coming up on about 3/4 finished. The race is in the second half, fatigue is fully setting in, the finish is nowhere in sight, and it’s too early to get any finish-line adrenaline. Well in this race I started to feel that tough part right on cue. The canoes were all very stretched out now. We were in no-man’s land, no canoes pressing from behind to motivate. The pack ahead, while having settled in to our same speed and not pulling away, was not getting any closer. We were on an lonely island on in the sea, and even the thought of an upcoming water break was little solace to keep me focused….around that time I started to really dig deep inside me and pull on some support I knew was being sent my way.

I started to think of all the teammates of mine back in San Diego who would have loved to be a part of this honor. How many times I’d leaned on them this season without them knowing it when I would start to hit a wall in a race. I thought about them in the canoe behind me. Sitting in front of me, on the shores screaming for us. These teammates (hallucinations are cool huh?) started occupying my thoughts with each side. I decided at some point around mile 12 or 13 (about when I felt like leaning right was maybe a good thing. ‘Paddling joke, leaning right is the cardinal sin and will lead to a huli/flip’) that I would start dedicating sides to some folks back home. Shortly after I started doing this though, the paddle got a little lighter. The water moved a little more efficiently, and I would get a restored strength. As one side would conclude and I’d feel pretty tapped, I’d switch and start with a new person. Saying their name to myself with each pull.

The last two years of challenges and triumphs has taught me many important lessons I hope to never lose sight of. Leaning on the support of those who care about me, especially when things are at their darkest is the most valuable lesson of them all. In that canoe, I embraced this lesson and really felt the mana and support of many as we paddled forward. After several sides of dedication to teammates back home, I dug deeper. I started pulling for some folks who wouldn’t be greeting me home in San Diego anymore, having passed on to a new home up above. Uncle Pierce dis side for you. Uncle Dave mahalo for the strength. Ga-ga, I got choo here. Dad, I’m pulling hard I promise. My arms were numb. My paddle was heavy. Up ahead in the distance, I saw some radio towers and a great big hotel which marked our finish. A few miles to go still and they would hurt just as bad as the previous miles - if not more. But we’d make it just fine.

Information on this beautiful piece He Noho Kou I ko’o Wa’a (Paddler) is available here. I found this painting on cards two days after my race and was very moved by the appropriateness of them.

Now if there is one thing about canoe race finish lines I have learned in my rookie season, is that they are never as close as they look! I don’t know if it is the heat off the water skewing the horizon, or just delirium setting in, but this race was like being on an escalator and walking backwards. I kept focusing on the tea leaf lei on the front of the canoe though that Stefanie had placed there for us. Man that lei looked beautiful. Eventually, we would make it. My crew and I had incorporated a finishing vigor. We were close. Pretty soon the sweat that had pooled on our foreheads, dried and re-pooled again repeatedly could be wiped away. We’d get to lean back in our seats with arms on the gunnels, paddles stowed between our legs and collapse. And you can bet each of us did just that as we crossed two buoys with a crowd on the pier screaming in a frenzy. The voice on the loudspeaker encouraging our canoe, “HERE COMES…IKUNA KOA!”……”Holy crap that’s us!” I thought to myself. We’d finished. Nobody had bonked (when a paddler pretty much falls apart). And through the slits of what used to be my eyes, I looked behind us for the first time in well over 2 hours and saw there were canoes still finishing behind us.

[to be concluded...]

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009 at 10:31 am and is filed under General, Recreation, Travels. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.