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Cold Water, Cold Choice
Kayaks tip more eagerly than the customers at Hooters, so the next watery adventure was learning how to cope with an overturned boat. A two-person kayak is too large for the classic Eskimo roll, so the sodden paddlers (now upside down) must undo the "skirt" that holds them to the boat, surface, right the damn thing, and climb back in. We learned by doing—yes, we deliberately capsized.
My partner and I leaned hard to the right and flipped over into the chill Pacific. (Finally something I could do on the first try!) More at home in water than on land, I easily tugged the exit cord and came smoothly to the surface. We righted the boat, and my partner climbed in easily.
 Not me. My hands kept slipping as I tried to pull myself out of the water. And it was too deep to push off the bottom. Instructor Ian Adamson—who set a world record by paddling 203 miles (371 kilometers) in 24 hours—came over and offered gentle advice. I tried using a paddle as a sort of level. No luck. Ten shivering moments passed, and I was still bobbing like a manatee.
I looked pleadingly at Ian: "I'm a really good swimmer, and it's not too far to shore. Can I please just head in?" He nodded.
 I was sure all of northern California was watching my breastroked retreat. I was also sure that I was in over my head—literally, figuratively, professionally. If I couldn't handle rudimentary training, how would I possibly manage a two-day sample race? How would I tackle mountain biking or rappelling, which I'd never done? How would I face disappointed teammates if I dropped out mid-race? (A team must finish together; losing even a single member means disqualification.)
I wouldn't. Half swimming, half crawling, I got out of the water and trudged—sandals dragging by a single Velcro strap—over to talk with the instructors. Looking as rueful as I could, I murmured, "I think I'm just gonna be a journalist for the rest of the weekend."
I had lasted five hours.
NEXT: Accidental Enlightenment
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