A Confirmed Wakeboard Spectator
I remember the first time I wakeboarded. It was on Griggs Reservoir (Scioto River) in Columbus, Ohio with my friends Amy and Gerrie. Gerrie was driving the boat while Amy sat on the back, guiding me through the process of strapping myself to the board and giving me a tutorial on the handle grip, posture, and probably a few other things I didn't understand and don't remember.
"You ready?" she asked me.
"As I'll ever be!" I responded, trying to process what she had told me and feeling sure I was going to stand up on my first try.
Whenever Amy strapped in and got into the water to ride, she did a cool shuffle off the platform on the back of the boat and seemed to just step out (impossible of course, because both feet were on the wakeboard) into the lake, facing the boat. Slowly, she'd sink into the water with posture straight and confident as the receding boat reached a distance equal to the rope length and gave her a little tug, pulling taut. Very smooth.
I, on the other hand, sat down on the platform and shoved myself off the boat and into the water with a glorious splash. In so doing, I got the rope caught on the edge of my board and had to stick my feet (and the board) out of the water and flail around a bit to untangle myself. Once free, I pushed my feet down so that I was "standing" in the river and realized I was turned the wrong way. I shoved at the water with long, sweeping strokes of my left arm to accomplish an about-face, keeping a solid grip on the handle with my right hand.
At the moment the boat reached the end of its tether, the handle was plucked out of my grip.
"Oops," I called to no one in particular. Amy made it look so easy.
"It's okay, just swim to the handle and we'll try again," Gerrie said. She sounded encouraging and patient.
Faced with the challenge of maneuvering in the water once more, I executed a single breast stroke which propelled me forward. Instantly, the board floated to the surface behind me taking my feet with it, knees bent. I tried for another stroke, extending my legs with a kick. But when the leg extension retracted, the resulting force pulled me backward and away from my target. Hmmmm. So a conventional swimming approach was not going to work in this case. I felt like a big, floating inchworm. It's a good thing I was wearing a life vest or I'd have been hard pressed to keep my head above water - floating on my stomach with the board strapped to my feet.
I opted for straightening my legs behind me and dragging myself forward with my arms by any and all means possible. Eventually reconnecting with the handle, I had to pike-and-twist myself back around and into an upright position. Very elegant.
"Alright, you ready? Tuck your legs."
Oh yeah, Amy said something about how tucking my legs up was essential to getting up out of the water on the board. Pulling my knees up into my chest and between my arms, I concentrated on keeping myself from rolling onto my back (and probably looked a lot like a bobbing buoy).
"Good?" asked Amy. It's at this point that she usually gives a hoot or a thumbs-up to indicate she's ready for takeoff if she's the one riding but there was no way I was letting go of that handle so I just yelled, "Yeah!"
VROOOM! The boat took off and my hands, arms, and upper body went with it until I was fully extended with my face in the water. At some point I had let go of the handle, which was a good thing. Okay, so I didn't get up on my first attempt. I'd get it on the next try.
As the boat circled back, Amy was talking to me. "You need to keep your legs tucked and push into your heels to stand up." That made sense in theory, but I was pretty sure I'd told my body to keep my legs tucked last time...
"Okay, right," I replied as if understanding completely. I grabbed the handle, tucked my legs, and gave the go-ahead call. As the boat pulled away, I pushed my heels down causing my torso to rise halfway out of the water, and was jerked forward onto my face - a familiar position - at which point I once again released the handle. Over and over, the boat circled back around and I reset my starting position with Amy offering new tips like "angle your heels toward the boat while you're tucked" and "don't pull with your arms, just stand up". Several times I was able to keep my tucked position and maintain my hold on the handle, dragging along behind the boat like an anchor for a few seconds until I lost my grip.
Twenty minutes (and countless attempts) later, I finally made it out of the water and rode along for about thirty seconds before I dropped the handle of my own accord and sank down to await my friends. I was toast! And my arms were no longer arms, they were like jellyfish tentacles floating at my sides.
"Woohooo!" Amy and Gerrie whooped and cheered as they circled back to pick me up. "You got it!"
"Yeah, I just had to tilt the board toward the boat and push into my heels while sort of leaning back. Why didn't you just tell me that?" I accused.
"You can't be serious." Amy had fallen for my bait, her face indignant and looking as if she was about to repeat all of the pointers she had given in the last half hour - verbatim - as vindication.
"Bahahahahaha! I know, I know. You told me that, exactly. I guess I had to feel it happen to understand...the words just didn't sink in," I explained. I struggled to use my arms for even the smallest tasks over the next three days (turning the steering wheel, putting my hair up, making a fist).
The next time I went out on the boat with Amy and Gerrie, I had no problem standing up on the first try. I even rode it out for several minutes before catching the front edge of the board on the wake and experiencing what it feels like to bounce on water at 16mph. Let me tell you, it's not fun. I think I blacked out for a second. When I came around, I realized I was lifting my arm in a wave of acknowledgement and confirmation of my well-being (riders are supposed to do that when they fall so that the people on the boat know they didn't knock themselves unconscious). But surely they could see that my nose had been smashed into the back of my head? Light-headed, I waited for the boat to pick me up and decided I'd better call it a day. And upon further reflection, determined that the thrill and joy of the sport didn't outweigh the occasional face plant. At least it didn't for me. I was a confirmed wakeboard spectator.
And so, in all of the years following I've enjoyed my spot in the back of the boat, peering through the viewfinder and snapping photos of those brave souls who crash over and over but get back up again - all in pursuit of the next challenge.
This photo was taken on Norris Lake while staying at Rider's Retreat. We set out at sunrise on a chilly morning, mist rising up from the warmer water that was as still as glass.
"You ready?" she asked me.
"As I'll ever be!" I responded, trying to process what she had told me and feeling sure I was going to stand up on my first try.
Whenever Amy strapped in and got into the water to ride, she did a cool shuffle off the platform on the back of the boat and seemed to just step out (impossible of course, because both feet were on the wakeboard) into the lake, facing the boat. Slowly, she'd sink into the water with posture straight and confident as the receding boat reached a distance equal to the rope length and gave her a little tug, pulling taut. Very smooth.
I, on the other hand, sat down on the platform and shoved myself off the boat and into the water with a glorious splash. In so doing, I got the rope caught on the edge of my board and had to stick my feet (and the board) out of the water and flail around a bit to untangle myself. Once free, I pushed my feet down so that I was "standing" in the river and realized I was turned the wrong way. I shoved at the water with long, sweeping strokes of my left arm to accomplish an about-face, keeping a solid grip on the handle with my right hand.
At the moment the boat reached the end of its tether, the handle was plucked out of my grip.
"Oops," I called to no one in particular. Amy made it look so easy.
"It's okay, just swim to the handle and we'll try again," Gerrie said. She sounded encouraging and patient.
Faced with the challenge of maneuvering in the water once more, I executed a single breast stroke which propelled me forward. Instantly, the board floated to the surface behind me taking my feet with it, knees bent. I tried for another stroke, extending my legs with a kick. But when the leg extension retracted, the resulting force pulled me backward and away from my target. Hmmmm. So a conventional swimming approach was not going to work in this case. I felt like a big, floating inchworm. It's a good thing I was wearing a life vest or I'd have been hard pressed to keep my head above water - floating on my stomach with the board strapped to my feet.
I opted for straightening my legs behind me and dragging myself forward with my arms by any and all means possible. Eventually reconnecting with the handle, I had to pike-and-twist myself back around and into an upright position. Very elegant.
"Alright, you ready? Tuck your legs."
Oh yeah, Amy said something about how tucking my legs up was essential to getting up out of the water on the board. Pulling my knees up into my chest and between my arms, I concentrated on keeping myself from rolling onto my back (and probably looked a lot like a bobbing buoy).
"Good?" asked Amy. It's at this point that she usually gives a hoot or a thumbs-up to indicate she's ready for takeoff if she's the one riding but there was no way I was letting go of that handle so I just yelled, "Yeah!"
VROOOM! The boat took off and my hands, arms, and upper body went with it until I was fully extended with my face in the water. At some point I had let go of the handle, which was a good thing. Okay, so I didn't get up on my first attempt. I'd get it on the next try.
As the boat circled back, Amy was talking to me. "You need to keep your legs tucked and push into your heels to stand up." That made sense in theory, but I was pretty sure I'd told my body to keep my legs tucked last time...
"Okay, right," I replied as if understanding completely. I grabbed the handle, tucked my legs, and gave the go-ahead call. As the boat pulled away, I pushed my heels down causing my torso to rise halfway out of the water, and was jerked forward onto my face - a familiar position - at which point I once again released the handle. Over and over, the boat circled back around and I reset my starting position with Amy offering new tips like "angle your heels toward the boat while you're tucked" and "don't pull with your arms, just stand up". Several times I was able to keep my tucked position and maintain my hold on the handle, dragging along behind the boat like an anchor for a few seconds until I lost my grip.
Twenty minutes (and countless attempts) later, I finally made it out of the water and rode along for about thirty seconds before I dropped the handle of my own accord and sank down to await my friends. I was toast! And my arms were no longer arms, they were like jellyfish tentacles floating at my sides.
"Woohooo!" Amy and Gerrie whooped and cheered as they circled back to pick me up. "You got it!"
"Yeah, I just had to tilt the board toward the boat and push into my heels while sort of leaning back. Why didn't you just tell me that?" I accused.
"You can't be serious." Amy had fallen for my bait, her face indignant and looking as if she was about to repeat all of the pointers she had given in the last half hour - verbatim - as vindication.
"Bahahahahaha! I know, I know. You told me that, exactly. I guess I had to feel it happen to understand...the words just didn't sink in," I explained. I struggled to use my arms for even the smallest tasks over the next three days (turning the steering wheel, putting my hair up, making a fist).
The next time I went out on the boat with Amy and Gerrie, I had no problem standing up on the first try. I even rode it out for several minutes before catching the front edge of the board on the wake and experiencing what it feels like to bounce on water at 16mph. Let me tell you, it's not fun. I think I blacked out for a second. When I came around, I realized I was lifting my arm in a wave of acknowledgement and confirmation of my well-being (riders are supposed to do that when they fall so that the people on the boat know they didn't knock themselves unconscious). But surely they could see that my nose had been smashed into the back of my head? Light-headed, I waited for the boat to pick me up and decided I'd better call it a day. And upon further reflection, determined that the thrill and joy of the sport didn't outweigh the occasional face plant. At least it didn't for me. I was a confirmed wakeboard spectator.
And so, in all of the years following I've enjoyed my spot in the back of the boat, peering through the viewfinder and snapping photos of those brave souls who crash over and over but get back up again - all in pursuit of the next challenge.
This photo was taken on Norris Lake while staying at Rider's Retreat. We set out at sunrise on a chilly morning, mist rising up from the warmer water that was as still as glass.
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