My trip to Uganda gave me exactly that. I had two months of living on an island paradise, paddling and partying everyday with a wide variety of wild and wacky people whose antics and mischief gave me what was possibly the best Summer of my life. My last day had everything you'd want in a farewell - after a week of nerves, five of us had a killer finale by nailing the three most challenging rapids on the river in one day while the whole gang cruised down with us to cheer us on in a wicked day on the water. Then we had a night that would lead to everyone on the island waking up covered in Zappa stains and several circular red burns accross their chests like badges of honour. Great paddling, great friends, and great times. The next morning, despite a crippling hangover and having to talk my way out of bribing some Ugandan police on the way to the airport, for the forty something hours of transit back to Sydney I was sporting a grin that would make the Cheshire Cat look serious, and was armed an endless list of stories for me to tire my Aussie friends with once I got home.
What you feel like when you roll up after Hypoxia.
On our last trip to Perisher, we often joked that anyone who dares utter the term "last run" is instantaneously cursed by Murphey and his laws of douchebaggery, where short of riding the chairlift back down the mountain, they are destined to injure themselves between the top of the hill and the bottom. This was later proven to be true - although whether it was a self fullfilling prophecy or part of some ancient voodoo curse is still up for debate.
I put the blame squarely on this guy though.
Personally, I find nothing more frustrating about surfing than when the last wave you catch into shore pummels you into oblivion, and all you can do as you cough, splutter and drag your sorry ass back up the beach is look back at all that potential that just didn't turn out the way it should have.
It's hard for me to not view this Canadian mission in a similar light. In an ideal world, I would be returning some five or six months from now, after a long and prosperous second Summer working on the river every day, having a blast every night and having spent the spring paddling at the highest level of my sport that there is. In my mind I had built this up as the defining trip of my freestyle kayaking career - Stakeout is as big as playboating gets and I was finally going to get my shot at it after drooling over videos since 2006.
But instead of returning as a conquering hero with many a story to regale my Aussie friends with; after battling with uncooperative water levels and the French, I'm going to show up five months early; as some shmuck who knocked himself out being a jackass one night and subsequently ruined his trip.
Although I did take refuge in the fact that on the internet, someone has always screwed up worse than you.
And I am now faced with the challenging part of the post. As much as I want to focus on the fact that this page would be more accurately titled Shenanigans, Banter and Three Days of Kayaking; or that each surf on Buseater cost approximately one hundred bucks and two days of university that I'll have to catch up next year (in hindsight I probably shouldn't have calculated that), somehow I need to turn this mopey, depressive, down and out bullshit into some uncliched positivity.
...Sigh, let's give this a shot.
So there I was, down on my luck, unable to kayak and wallowing in what ifs. But then I realised something important. In life,
Badum tsss! Strikeout puns, baby!
Alright, maybe there's no easy way to wrap this up in an overly upbeat way without resorting to cliches. If your last run down the mountain ends in a broken arm, or if your last wave of the day ends in a snapped board, there isnt too much to say is there?
But thinking back to all those times surfing and getting washing machined back into shore; as irritating as it can be that your last memory of the session wasn't a good one and sure, there was definitely a lot of potential out there that you missed out on, eventually your mind gets around to the good rides you had. That despite the fact that you were cold, frustrated and waiting for a wave for what seemed like forever, you still some fun had out there. You'll know with full certainty that it was worth more to you than sitting at home staring blankly into Facebook, and that regardless of how badly it may have gone, you'll get another shot at it eventually.
Wait... did I just manage it?
Well, regardless if I did or not, that's enough retrospectiveness for one day. In five days from now I'll be back home with my two litres of duty free fun and I imagine I'll have a substantial amount to catch up on with not a whole lot to write about. So until the next time I go somewhere more interesting than Hermann's Bar, this shall be the last of my mental dribblings for a while.
Catchya later Canadia, and see ya in a few days Sydney.
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