I have spent a decent portion of the past 38 years trying to find “my sport.”
It’s no secret that I completely lack coordination; I consider a day I haven’t fallen or tripped more than once to be a winner.
Despite not hitting my stride in pretty much any physical activity, I keep trying. And trying. Which is why I find myself sitting in the helm of a kayak (hang on — is the front of a kayak called a helm?) here in Miami.
At this stage in the game, I’ve been kayaking in places like The Maldives, Vietnam, and now Miami, and one thing remains frighteningly certain: kayaking is NOT my sport.
Over the years, I have paddled into rocky outcrops, cave walls, and mangrove trees. I have scared small animals, water fowl, and Ayaz.
Typically, I enjoy kayaking for the first few minutes, until I remember that I’m not very good at it. And yet, I keep kayaking. I mean, there’s much to be said for gliding over the water in a plastic boat — at least there is when one’s path is not blocked by things like, oh I don’t know, NATURE.
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