17 August 2009
A quiet journal writer under a sheltering cedar, a sleeping instructor, boat boat for a pillow, two giggling girls lounging in the sand talking about nothing important. A wide sand and cobble beach, and island that offers exploring at low tide, the high chirrups of a bald eagle perched in a snag above me. Wild roses grow and bloom here and the sand is studded with shells of all sorts, some familiar, some exotic. We have an hour more of this quiet time before our evening lesson. The girls say fries and quesidillas for dinner. Okay quick impressions, not nesscarily accurate--Berek, the southern "gentleman"--Alex, the captain of the crew team--Wendall, the odd one--Camille, a little spoiled--Bethany, the princess--Sam, Thoreau--Jon, the child--Ryan, slightly clueless, utterly normal--Me, wilderness girl--Parks, who is fab-u-lous. Today we paddled to Garden Point and Sam behind me we made it a goal not to run into any other boat. When I started to distract myself with songs and games the paddling pain was easy to put aside, but I am afraid my stroke still needs adjusting, for everyone else seems to be complaining of sore abs, and I haven't felt the muscles working there. Perhaps it is because I have no muscles there to speak of. We are staying here tomorrow, with skill building and lessons to fill the day. I feel as though the other girls are beginning to leave me behind. I suppose I am letting them do it and the future is in my hands with this situation, but I was a little annoyed this evening for I feel as though they are slow to do so many group things for they know I will get impatient and do it for them. Still it is a minor situation.