Wind Bound

The water of Lake Irene inundated the canoe and my heart plummeted.  3 foot swells breached the gunnels and it was all over.  My three participants thrashed about in the water, attempting to keep the boat, our packs and themselves afloat.  While I knew they were relatively safe, the sight was still terrifying.  The day had started out calm, with no wind to be felt, and not a single cloud on the horizon.  In the matter of an hour the leaves began to sway and the crests of the waves began to break.  All we had to do was make it around the point, but Mother Nature had gotten the best of us. 

            I looked back with a glint of desperation in my eyes.  I decided to take two of my strongest swimmers with me on the rescue mission.  We plunged into the water and gasped for air as soon as we surfaced.  We swam, and swam and swam, and reached the capsized boat not a moment too late.  The bruises forming on the arms of the victims made me cringe, but together we all swam the boat to shore.  Exhausted and soaked, the crew was all standing on shore.  That was all that mattered.  We hunted for any bit of land the sun was shining on to obtain some warmth, but the search was futile.  My scouts looked at me with pleading eyes, and asked what we were going to do next.

            “Wait,” I said.  “It’s all we can do.”

Half Marathon

It all started two days before the festival really.  I was signed up to run the 5K, a distance that I thought I could manage.    “You run so so much,” gushed my friend Alice, who had no concept of what constituted so so much for a runner.  “I run four miles every couple of days,” I answered, “which is nothing compared to other people.”  It is true.  My roommate Laurin had been training to run in the full marathon and was doing twenty mile runs every week.  The thought of that made my knees ache.  Many people gave her a lot of flack for that; she exercised too much, she never ate, she was addicted to cardio, she was “exorexic”.  In my opinion they didn’t understand.  I admired Laurin’s work ethic and the mental perseverance it took to run for that long.  So when somebody told me that their brother was dropping out of the half marathon due to an ankle injury, I considered taking his number.  I was nervous.  No, I was terrified.  Yet I was given an opportunity and I decided I had to take it.

            On October 15^th, 2011 I woke up at seven in the morning.  I ate a banana with peanut butter, some cereal, and an egg white omelet with spinach and tomatoes.  My blue sweat wicking t-shirt was the only appropriate choice, along with some black spandex.  No one likes chafing.  I walked down to Penn Station and hopped on the light rail.  Every other person in my car was also heading to Camden Yards.  The swarms of people had turned downtown Baltimore into a blur.  Before I knew it, ten-thirty a.m. had arrived.  The half marathon began for me when the third wave was released across the starting line.

            For the next two hours and five minutes, constant cheering filled my ears.  I had told myself that all I had to do was finish in five hours, before they shut down the course.  But those yells of encouragement, those kids in costumes and the music blasting from car speakers made it seem like I wasn’t running 13.1 miles at all.  The spectators of the marathon are what gave me the extra push to succeed.  Without candy being thrown at me and the high fives from the sidelines, I don’t think I would have finished the race.  For everyone who thinks marathon running is all about the physical capacity of your body and about the grueling training, think again.  It is all about mental toughness and the support you receive from your fans.

            

Church

            I take my place in the pew, not kneeling and crossing myself as do all of the other patrons of this service.  I don’t know what to do and I feel anxious.  I shouldn’t be in this place but I promised Andrew I would accompany him.  Why did I agree to this again?  I fidget in my seat and my eyes move to the organ that is above us on a balcony.  The choir is singing but of course I don’t know any of the words.  Andrew smiles at me and kneels in the pew to pray.  Should I pray?  Am I even allowed to pray?

            The singing grows louder and echoes off each wall before reverberating through my body.  I smell something strong, and I realize the bishop is swinging a metal ball of incense through the center aisle of the church.  It probably has a special name and I feel bad that I don’t know what it is but how could I know?  Andrew has told me it is fine that I go to church but I feel like everyone’s eyes are on me.  Obviously there is no way anyone knows that I am not Catholic, but maybe they can sense it.

            The cantor leads the crowd in another hymn but I remain silent.  After a few more readings the bishop gives a homily about Steve Jobs death and how he was a prophet of technology and something about believers and non believers.  I keep fidgeting.  There is so much kneeling and standing and sitting during this service and I am always one step behind.  All of the hand-shaking took me off guard as well.  I glare at Andrew a tiny bit when this is over, angry that he didn’t warn me about that.  I remember I am in church and I should not be angry at anyone.  He gives me an apologetic look.  I will tell him I am sorry later.  Now it is time to receive communion and I know I cannot go up to the front and eat that wafer.  For sure, someone will realize I am not part of this faith and scold me for pretending.  Andrew tries to tell me to go up but I refuse.  He also tells me to stop making a big ordeal out of all of this but what else am I supposed to do?   After one hour, the service is over and I breathe a sigh of relief.  I probably did panic more than was warranted, but participating in a service led by the Archbishop of Baltimore in the oldest cathedral in the United States is bound to make a person nervous.

Aquarium

The entire tank is engulfed in darkness.  Suddenly, a tentacle darts out of hiding and smashes up against the thick glass.  Its suction cups, pulsating to some unknown rhythm, glue the octopus in place.  The tentacles are moving towards each other but at the same time moving apart.  Eight sinewy arms are ebbing and flowing around anemones, urchins and sea stars.  The octopus is just one slice of the ecosystem that lies behind the barrier of glass.  Each living creature is dependent on another in the constructed habitat of the aquarium.  Carefully placed underwater plants and porous rocks are still even when water rushes around them.  A yellow cube lies in the corner, with cutouts of stars and hearts.  It does not belong, but then the octopus scoops it up with a tentacle and it disappears in the cluster of tentacles.  In this tank, the flora and fauna are also dependent on their human caretakers for food and for fun.  I watch the yellow cube drift to the floor and land in the sand.  The octopus slides back into its hiding place and one tentacle peeks out from around the edge of the tank.  It is like a curious child, moving in and out of view and trying to catch a glimpse of the world beyond the glass wall.  The toys of the octopus are even reminiscent of a child’s play pen.  Except in this case, the child will never grow up and never escape the watchful eyes of its parents.