The 'Odd' Paddler

My heart pounded loudly in my ears. One hard beat, followed immediately by a quick, soft one. A beat after the other, pounding, pounding. Catching my breath, I looked at the dark, purple, and starless sky of dawn, my mind wandering for a moment. My hands lay on the wooden paddle that rested above my shaking legs. Both arms were sore and felt loose around their sockets. The thumb of my left hand throbbed in pain from hitting the side of the gunwale in my frantic paddling. And my back, like an old piece of rubber stretched to its full extent, felt swarmed by thousands of pinpricks.

The men and women in front of me, breathing hard as I do as we rested, all waited silently for the dreaded command of the next grueling round of paddling over the inky, black sea. The Signal, who stood at the prow facing us, looked at his timer and said in a great commanding voice, "Thirty seconds."

Glancing left, I saw a massive ship that carried cargo stacked atop one another. Like a big block of rusted steel, it glided smoothly over the water's surface. Beyond it was another ship, equal in size but still docked, a white cruise ship, its bright lights illuminating the area around it. The men and women ahead of me remained motionless, seemingly conserving their energy, while my mind went through the fundamentals the steersman taught me beforehand. I heard myself grunt as I held on to the paddle's shaft, my left hand about a wrist's length away from the blade while the other reached for the grip.

"Twenty seconds."

The paddlers stirred, and their movements sent spasms that rocked the boat slightly. There were eighteen in total, nine paddlers on each side, a mixture of men and women, each contributing equally to the force that drove the boat.

A standard boat has ten rows, this I learned from one of the team's officials. The first three rows were called the Pacers-two of the three captains on board were in this group. The four rows after were the Engine, while the remaining three were called the Last Kick. Out front is the team captain, whom they call The Signal, and at the back is the steersman. I was seated on the last row, while the area beside me was unoccupied. This unique situation allowed me to take turns on each side of the boat. After switching sides between a couple of rounds, with me getting a feel for the action, the steersman then said, "You stick to the left." It was a good call, as I blundered and kept splashing seawater to the paddler ahead of me when I did the right side, to whom I kept apologizing. The guy, who worked the paddle relentlessly on the earlier rounds, turned briefly and graciously said, "It's alright. It's water sports, after all." That made sense.

"Ten seconds."

My glutes tensed. The growing soreness from the stiff seats became more palpable. The seats were blocks of polished wood that reached both ends of the boat, while its width was only a palm's length. Underneath each seat were reliefs, one on each side, that I could push with my foot against for added stability and power. In preparation for the next call, I leaned my left foot in one, the side of the same leg resting on the wall of the boat. I shrugged, one shoulder after the other, as I waited while my hands gripped the paddle tightly. Pierce the water, the steersman's words coming to me.

"Ready!"

Everyone pushed their paddles ahead, including myself, the flat of the blades parallel to the sea. A heartbeat, followed by another. Then another.

"Position!"

Going into a bladed position, leaning forward with arms outstretched, hands where they should be, blades dipped into the seawater, foot pressed hard on the relief, we all awaited the signal. Then came a pause. The silence seemed to stretch as we waited for the call.

Although I expected it, my nerves were jarred when The Signal's voice finally came, forcefully, like a massive explosion. Everything blurred. The sound of splashing water mingled with the loud grunts of the paddlers filled my ears. Stroke after stroke after stroke, like clockwork, each driven into the water with vicious intent.

"Eyes ahead! Let's go!" The steersman yelled behind me. And when I did look on, I saw a thing of beauty, everyone paddling in a pulsing rhythm, one explosive stroke after another, his words, like invisible hands lending added power to each of the strokes, their energies never waning, never failing.

But not me, twenty strokes later, or thirty, for I have lost count, my shoulders started to fail me, I grew tired, my stomach growled, and the corners of my eyes started to black out. Losing what I thought was explosiveness, my strokes grew weaker. The blade no longer drove deep into the water, and my body failed to pull as far as it should. I began to expire.

And just on the brink of losing consciousness, my eyes rolling, the Signal called for long strokes. The explosiveness of the first part was to set the pace, while the second, which is as important, was to drive the boat farther. Albeit slower, long strokes require more power and a much longer pull, hence the name. But it also allows room to breathe. And this I took advantage of. I no longer had the power to put in on the strokes, but my mind lent me the strength to go along, for I was deeply motivated to drive the paddle into the water and keep time with the others. Stroke after stroke after stroke. I no longer bothered to count how many. I was on autopilot. All I cared about was the Signal's call to rest.

Fifty or so strokes later, it finally came. My mind reeled from the exhaustion. But alas, it was over.

Seagulls squawked as they flew ahead, the sky brightening from deep purple to a bright orange, a grunt here and there from the paddlers.

I was startled when suddenly a hand clasped my shoulder. And when I turned to look, the steersman said, "Good job!"

Ahead of me, the paddlers turned and said something similar. The Signal called to me and asked how I was. All I could do to respond to him was a thumbs up, and I almost lost the rented paddle into the sea with the effort. Well, hey, I survived. Who would have thought?