Tuesday Night Kayak Race fiction

 

                It was Tuesday evening in Deep Cove. It was cloudy and misty but not raining. 

Paul Tulley strode past Wickenden Park towards the boathouse. He was carrying his carbon wing paddle, red lifejacket, towel, and stainless steel BPA-free water bottle. He was again going to participate in the Tuesday night kayak race. His wife, Anne-Marie, was off doing Tai Chi. As he left that evening she had requested he win a red water bottle at the end-of-race raffle. “It will match my new gym bag,” she had teased in her affable Cape Breton accent. 

                In the park two dogs chased after a bouncing yellow tennis ball that their owner had flung. A young couple walked toward a park bench holding hands, oblivious to the dogs and procession of kayaks and kayakers. 

                At the boathouse Paul gazed at the posted race route. The course was from Deep Cove, along the western shore of Indian Arm to Grey Rocks, from Grey Rocks to Hamber Island via the mid-channel, and then back to the Cove. There would be high tide just before the end of the race. 

                He noticed Yvonne on the beach stretching her neoprene spray skirt. She had not seen him. Or had she? A few months ago they had been very chummy, often kayaking in together, but in recent weeks she had been very cold. Maybe something Paul had said or done? Yvonne, like Paul was a tennis player, but he had not encouraged the notion of playing together. A few weeks ago, Paul drafted behind her and maybe he had cut her off coming about a buoy? The phases of the moon! Maybe it was just that Yvonne was a beautiful woman. How could a man understand a woman? She was wearing a hat that he had lent her when it was raining a month ago. Will she ever return it he wondered? 

                Within minutes, Paul was on the water, bib number 2710 taped to the port side of his red kayak. Colour of kayak and cap were the chief way of recognizing kayakers, but some faces looked familiar. Hugh, Margerie, and Geoffrey were there, but not Malcolm. Paul’s kayak edged towards Yvonne’s bib number 39. He expected her to finish ahead of them all. The cluster of kayaks jockeyed before the beginning of the race. Kayakers exchanged nervous small talk. Which races they had recently done and what they thought about certain kayaks. It was a race. Paul had been in many races in his life. Mile running races, cycle races, swim events. Paul was not nervous. He was there to have fun. Not to win. 

                Each kayak race was different. There was the wind, tide, and chop, plus the intrusion from power boaters. But it was more than that. Time itself felt different during a race. Albert Einstein’s theories on nature of time made sense, and during a race Paul’s watch kept a different time than those on the beach or nesting on a park bench. Einstein on the beach!

                From the adjacent Government Dock came the starter’s horn crescendo, and they were off. The swell of the front kayakers bounced Paul’s kayak. For about sixty minutes Paul and the other kayakers would push their bodies to the limits. Within no time the 5 knot no wake buoy approached and paddlers jostled to expediently circumnavigate. The field was spreading out with the leaders way up front. Paul could see Yvonne and Hugh three kayaks to his port side. He could not see Geoffrey or Margerie. There were indistinguishable voices from behind. He hoped Hugh and Yvonne had started too fast. Always a dilemma for a racer how fast to start. They paddled past the lofty homes perched on the shore. Some of the occupants stood on their private docks and stared in posh silence at the kayakers. Was this the definition of pointlessness thought Paul, just standing there? But he hypothesised, this might be the conduct of great composers, revered mathematicians, or great writers. A few sea gulls swopped overhead to their own time signature. 

                There was annoying chop as they continued, some of which came from the race boat. It had been snapping photographs at the start and was chasing the leaders where the real action was. Yvonne was going further away, with an elegant stroke, but Paul was gaining on Hugh. A double kayak almost collided with Paul and two single kayaks passed him on his starboard. Were they not a little too close to the shore? A double was ahead, looking strong followed by a blue kayak. Paul recognised the couple in the double but not the blue kayaker wearing a green cap. Paul felt the close presence of another kayaker. Who was it? He was being drafted. As in most action sports, especially cycling and kayaking, drafting was the optimal way to travel. What would the kayaker following Paul do? Stay there for the whole race and get an easy ride or just rest and forge ahead? It was going to be the latter. Margerie’s yellow kayak, bib 2750, pulled alongside. She smiled. Effortlessly, she passed. Her violet cap and ponytail were soon passing the single red. The double was still in front. Everyone was overtaking Hugh. 

                Paul chased the blue kayak but seemed to be gaining very little, and in fact might be falling slightly behind. The racer in the blue kayak had a wing paddle and cutaway life jacket. He had a good cadence, and just like Margerie, was rotating his torso as the kayak courses instructed. Centimetre by centimetre, the kayaks increased their distance from Paul. There were other kayakers behind him, but Paul didn’t know how many? 

                Suddenly a rainbow appeared and cropped a vista of Burnaby Mountain. While kaykers disappeared around Grey Rocks, Paul envisioned the Phillip Glass Ensemble playing on the small privately-owned island. Paul slowly came alongside bib 808. 

                “Looking for me?” quipped Paul. 

                “I was wondering where you were?” retorted Hugh. 

                The two singles caught the double kayak but were not able to cleanly pass due to the low water and the rocks. Paul studied the passage of the double and slid in front of  Hugh, forcing him to go wide. If it was deep enough for the double it was deep enough for Paul’s kayak. They all paddled under the small dock and headed for Hamber Island. 

                It was like taking to the open sea now that they were away from the shore. It was a grey world with water and sky toned as one. Paul smelled fish. Barbecued fish. Paul knew that to do well he had to keep a steady pace. There was no need to go faster, just don’t ease up. The double was way ahead and slowly edging away. He thought he made out Yvonne in the distance. A motor boat sped across the straits and one passenger, wearing an orange hat, waved. Did the motor boat have a destination? Did it have a purpose? The wake from the motor spread like a sine wave. Paul thought of his mathematical training. What was the wavelength of the wave? What was its damping effect? Couldn’t this be explained by a Fourier series, decomposing the aquatic signal to zero oscillation. The beauty and terror of an ocean wave!

                Paul’s shoulders ached but there were no debilitating pains. He was grateful. And now he only had to keep his mind focused. There was a constant swish as his kayak made passage at about 6 knots. The swish modulated to a snare drum sound as his kayak ploughed through a mass of green debris. Trimmings from some careless man’s land. The rainbow was no more. 

                He could make out the tiny speck of a kayak against Bunzen Ridge, pulling away from Hamber Island, and soon the double kayak would disappear behind the island. A harbour seal popped up his head and gave Paul the once over. He stayed a while and was off. As the seal disappeared Paul came upon Hamber Island’s red navigation light. There was now vivid green before him. His grey world was no more. A flood tide forced him to more exertion before surging through the narrow waterway separating Hamber Island from the mainland. Time and sound changed again. Paul listened for the potential scraping of his rudder in the shallow way. He briefly glanced up at the hulking twisted earth-tone boulders. He imagined a mountain goat giving him the nod, or Paul Cézanne painting from a row boat. Maybe Jack Shadbolt had created something here? 

                There was something in the water up ahead, bobbing like a fisherman’s float. It was red and didn’t look natural. Kayakers sometimes lost water bottles or their bib numbers. Paul skewed the item as he passed it. It was a red cap. It was his red cap. He deftly placed the cap on his head, came about the island, and set his bearings for Deep Cove. Across a vast expanse of water. The sun had broken through the cloud and crouched behind Mount Seymour. With the diffused light he could no longer see the double, but he thought he saw a single kayak about 800 metres ahead. He looked up and saw the antennae of Mount Seymour. He was thirsty and tired, and disillusioned by the long trek to go. He decided to increase his speed slowly, hoping to chase down the solitary kayak. It worked. He now had a new goal, plus a treat if he was successful. He would be able to draft behind, providing the joyous rest. There was a slight wind but little chop. Half way across Paul recognised Margerie’s classic kayak stokes emanating from a yellow kayak. As he got closer he could see she was wearing a yellow top under the red life jacket and still her violet cap. She was keeping a steady rhythm. 

                Paul saw a motor boat in the distance, passing by Jugg Island. Surely it would slow down, but it kept its speed. Could it see kayaks low down in the water, especially in these sun-refractive conditions? They were mid channel. Paul was three or four boat lengths away from Margerie. And the coveted slipstream still eluded him. He didn’t want to exhaust himself as the race was still not over. He could hear the motor boat and now see its form. It looked like a 
33-foot Bayliner bearing down on them. He hoped Margerie could see it. Paul glanced at the yellow tag on the front of his spray skirt. Just in case he needed to get out of the kayak quickly. He thought of Yvonne. How is it she had lost her cap? His cap! She must be at the finish by now. A seal appeared. Maybe it came to protect them. And then it disappeared. Paul could see the Bayliner’s skipper, but could he see them, or was he just having fun? Paul could feel the cold water already. He heard the roar of the boat. Smell of petroleum. And strangely enough, barbecued fish. He was suddenly a metre higher than before. His carbon wing paddle was no longer drawing water. Everything slowed down. He surfed past Margerie and struggled to balance his kayak. Another wave from the motor boat propelled Margerie past him. There was silence as the Bayliner receded into the horizon. Yet another wave jockeyed them forward. 

                “Looking for me?”

                “I knew you were strong tonight,” quipped Margerie playfully. 

                Paul made a lunge for Margerie’s rudder and adroitly eased off to ensure he didn’t bump her boat. Paul was able to draft Margerie, and life became physically easier. He just had to concentrate so as not to knock her kayak or fall behind. Paul could see other kayakers in the distance circumnavigating the 5 knot can, which meant the home stretch into Deep Cove. Paul was feeling strong and permitted his kayak to slowly ease past Margerie’s bib 2750. She kept her stroke steady and smiled at Paul. 

                Forty five minutes earlier they had all passed this way, but the world was different now. The posh occupants of the lofty houses had gone inside. Maybe to discuss mathematics or watch the Nature Channel on satellite-fed LED screens. At the 5 knot can he lent perilously to the port side by raising his right knee and made his kayak carve a tight path. He hoped his cornering would give him advantage over Margerie. Where was she?

                He was tired again, and thirsty, but he had to keep going, just not too fast to blow up. He knew Panorama Park was somewhere to his starboard. He scanned for familiar land objects, such as large houses and moored catamarans, all of which helped to alleviate the pain. The sun was in his eyes. Music flooded his head, but this time it wasn’t Phillip Glass. He played Bach to soothe his mind. He then started counting musical bars. He cycled through 12-bar blues. He asked himself how many bars before the end. There were small branches in the water and his kayak emitted a different sound as it scraped through nature. Something was in the water to his port, and slowly moving. Was it the friendly seal? The blue double kayak was ahead and he had presumptuous notions of catching it. He could make out the park on the hill. Were the lovers still on the bench? The boathouse came into view, and then to his delight some of the faster kayakers were cooling down by laggardly paddling towards him. 

                He felt a presence. He heard nothing. Suddenly Margerie’s bow eased past him, a phantom. She smiled. Effortlessly, she pulled away. Paul slid behind her rudder but could not keep up the pace. He saw her ponytail protruding through her violet cap. He was using his torso to rotate but didn’t want to hurt his back with the extra exertion. 

                It was a swimmer in the water. Just out for an evening swim. He had a fine stroke and was wearing goggles. A few sea gulls glided overhead. The race boat appeared from nowhere and sent annoying wash. They were shouting something which he couldn’t make out. Maybe they were giving words of encouragement? He could hear cheers from the Government Dock. He thought there might be another kayak close behind. He made a final effort to keep a steady pace. He could see the blue double kayak finishing and then Margerie. 

                “Number 2710,” cried Paul as he darted beside the Government Dock.

                “You’re looking good Paul,” yelled Eron, perched on the dock with her clipboard, while her even thinner colleague studiously examined an enormous stop watch. Paul slumped forward in his kayak. 

                He had a good race. Maybe he could have done better going around the buoys? 

                “Number 808,” shouted Hugh behind him. 

                Paul sculled his kayak under the dock. He could hear Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet,” pulsing from the boathouse. If it had been a movie they might have played Phillips Glass’s Einstein on the Beach. Two dogs were swimming in the water. He could see Margerie was already hauling her kayak up on to the beach. 

                “You’re not going to wait for us?” It was Geoffrey, and  Hugh.. 

                “We couldn’t catch you when we went around Grey Rocks. You were very steady. Maybe we took off too fast?”explained Hugh. 

                “Why don’t I stand us all drinks down at the Raven,” interjected Geoffrey with his heavy English accent. “I need a beer. I say, did you see that chappie swimming? Looked awfully like Malcolm.” 

                The men agreed to meet at the Raven and turned their attention as the end-of-race announcements began.

                Paul didn’t win anything at the raffle. But Yvonne did. 

                As Paul strolled past Wickenden Park, she approached him. 

                “I see you have your cap back. Thank’s for the loan. Tonight was my last race at the Cove. I’m moving to Kelowna for a new job.”

                Paul did not respond. And time itself felt different.

                “I don’t need this water bottle,” Yvonne said quietly as she offered Paul her raffle prize.

                And then she was gone. 

                The young couple sauntered away from the park bench with hands joined and swinging, oblivious to the procession of kayaks and kayakers. Paul looked back and the saw the quarter moon. Paul looked down and saw the yellow tennis ball. Next week he would take it easier and not push so hard. 

                Anne-Marie should be pleased with the red water bottle.