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West was always eager to get out on the water. After unloading supplies at the dock, we got some paddling time in. Lake Chelan is huge, and as we glided through the estuary toward open water, West told me lake water conditions can turn in an instant. One minute water smooth as silk, the next a treacherous churning of wind and whitecaps.
West insisted we have a little race. As we were paddling back in, Olivia watched us from the dock. It almost felt like after my first race as a teenager, when all the girls stared at me. A flip of the heart, a flash of pride.
I rode with West back to the Ranch, and on the drive, as West chattered away, my thoughts returned to that June day sixteen years ago. To the Danube. My first big race.
***
As the first orange shaft of sunlight had eased into the room, I’d thrown off the covers and walked to the window. Below, a tapestry of terracotta roofs sheltered ancient, stucco houses—houses that seemed to elbow one another for position, as if jostling to catch a better view of the Danube.
After all, it was race day.
I threw on the team uniform—blue shorts and tank top with red and white stripes down the sides, Croatia’s colors—and pulled on lightweight racing shoes. Breakfast was necessary, but brief. My interest lay in the task before me, not in food.
As the sun climbed above the rooftops, I joined my teammates and headed to the river where our boats waited impatiently, lined up like warrior steeds poised for battle.
I lifted my thirty-five-pound racing kayak as if it were made of balsa wood instead of slightly waterlogged mahogany, carried it to the holding area, then stood on the shore and drank in the view. The Danube languished before me like a woman dressed up in cobalt blue. At seventeen, almost everything reminded me of girls.
As the sun crept higher, the shore began to fill with local Serbs, along with visiting Bosnians and Croats who had traveled to watch.
At the first starting gun, I cheered on members of my boat club, grateful to burn off some nervous energy.
At last, they called my event—the junior division, 500-meter, one-man kayak sprint. I grabbed my paddle, slipped into my boat, and pushed off from shore. A strong current shoved me around, and I struggled to take my place at the starting line with the others. The judge, in a nearby powerboat, watched and waited until we were all in position. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it.
Bang! The starting gun shot a hole in the sky.
The river erupted into a wall of spray as paddles churned the water. After the first few exhilarating seconds, the world faded from view and my vision narrowed. I dipped my blade in the river and used my core strength to rotate and push through the water all in one smooth motion as automatic as breathing. Silence thundered in my ears and nothing else existed except soaring through the water.
I flew.
It was over so fast, so unbelievably fast. I crossed the finish line, heart hammering, lungs greedy for oxygen as I floated alone, no other boat in sight. Panic gripped me. Had I made a mistake? Gotten off course? Thirty seconds of heart-thumping silence passed before another boat shot past the finish line. Then another. Confused, I paddled slowly back to shore, hoping I hadn’t done something stupid to get disqualified. I glided onto the beach and stepped ashore dripping with sweat and water.
People stared. Talking.
“What a race!”
“Did you see that?”
“Who is that guy?”
I glanced over one shoulder, then the other, trying to see who they were talking about, but saw no one else.
Then a sea of bodies slammed into me. Hands thumped my back, cheering teammates manhandled me. They parted and my coach walked straight up to me.
“Novak,” he said, his voice a mixture of pride and astonishment, “you finished a full fifty meters ahead of anyone else. No one came close to your time.”
Over the coach’s shoulder, girls in the crowd whispered to one another behind cupped hands, eyes fixed on me. I did my best to look slightly bored with pure seventeen-year-old cool, but a smile exploded and gave me away.
I loved winning.
Winning was worth all the hours of training, all the weightlifting, all the early morning runs, even the times I had fallen out of the boat, including the winter swims when the water had gripped me like ice-cold cement threatening to drag me to the river floor.
Winning was worth all of that, and more.
At that moment, I had known without a doubt what to do with my life. A purpose, an identity, had filled me.
My destiny had found me.
***
“I hope we have time to go out again tomorrow,” West said as he pulled the pickup into the Ranch.
“We’ll make time.” I smiled at him. “Thanks for the ride.”
“The dining hall should be open. Want to grab a bite?”
“Absolutely,” I said. And we went to see what delicious food Sam had prepared for tonight.
