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Ploče, Croatia 1983
I had been a confident, some said cocky, nineteen-year-old in 1983, with enough racing wins to draw attention from my coaches and the local sports media.
One autumn afternoon, when the air was ripe with the aroma of leaves tucking themselves into moist ground, I ran my hands over my kayak near my boating clubhouse in the coastal village of Ploče where I grew up—124 kilometers south of Split. I checked my boat to make sure everything was shipshape, just as my first coach had taught me when I was thirteen. I was carrying my boat to the shore of Neretva Delta for my daily workout when one of the board members of my boat club, a gray-haired man, rushed toward me.
“Luka,” he panted, smiling. “I have good news for you.” He held out his hand. “Congratulations.”
“What for?” I set my boat on the ground and shook his hand.
“You have been chosen the Athlete of the Year for Ploče.” The man’s smile broadened.
I was dumbfounded. Every year, the city honored one athlete from professional league sports like football, basketball, volleyball, kayaking, and canoeing, among others. Out of all these athletes, they had chosen me. I couldn’t believe it.
Word traveled fast at the boat club, and that day I spent more time shaking hands than working out. It was the first time I’d received any kind of special recognition.
The ceremony was held a few weeks later in city hall, attended by people from the community, along with political and business leaders. Reporters from the local newspapers interviewed me while photographers snapped my photo. All the attention felt awkward and made me nervous, but with the support of family and friends, I faced the town leaders and media to accept the award.
My parents were so proud of me. At the award ceremony, they sat near the director of the regional power utility company, Elektrodalmacija Split, chatting throughout the evening.
When it was almost time to go, the director turned to my father. “That’s quite a young man, your son,” he said. “Send him around to my company headquarters in Split. He’s the kind of man we need.”
As we left for home, Dad told me of the invitation, a hint of excitement in his voice.
In the weeks after the ceremony, my dad kept after me to talk to the director, but I dragged my feet, reluctant to approach people I didn’t know. Dad finally took matters into his own hands and drove me to the headquarters in Split. He sent me inside to fill out the paperwork and said he wouldn’t leave until I had completed the application. They hired me straightaway.
A few weeks later, I started work. My parents helped me find an apartment and move. I was lucky to get a great job right out of school, but even more than that, I had made my parents proud.
Once at the power company, there were several crafts I could go into, and I chose to become a lineman. It was a really good job, and I was suited for it. I liked climbing poles, wasn’t afraid of heights—nine to eighteen meters, that is—and respected the high-voltage electricity that I worked around every day. Linemen were the guys called out during storms when power lines blew down. When everyone else headed inside, linemen climbed into their trucks to go out and fix emergencies. I loved it and liked all the guys I worked with. Like athletes, these guys were strong and determined.
Racing took up all my spare time. I joined a boat club in Split, and the Elektrodalmacija Split administrators took pride in the fact that I was an athlete making a name for myself. It reflected on them, and they encouraged me to train and race during work hours.
I trained every day, lifting weights, running, and of course paddling, year-round. The only people I wanted to impress in those days were my coaches and the race judges.
All my hard work, and God-given talent paid off, although we didn’t talk about God at all in communist Yugoslavia, not if you wanted to get anywhere in life. I earned a spot on the Yugoslav national canoe and kayaking team, and eventually made the Olympic team.
The happiest day of my life, the culmination of my dedication and hard work, was the day I won the gold medal in the K-1 500-meter sprint at the Olympics in Los Angeles in 1984. After I came down from the indescribable high of winning, my teammates and I, along with our coaches, made time to sightsee.
I was so excited to be in America, and Los Angeles couldn’t have been more different than Croatia. We walked the boardwalk at Venice Beach where girls in bikinis played volleyball in the sand, and others roller skated or biked along the path. Split, Croatia, has a beautiful promenade along the sea, but the sights and sounds there were far more subdued than LA.
It had also been my first opportunity to try out my English. English was taught in school from early grades, and I eagerly sought out locals to practice. I ordered ice cream cones from vendors and did my best to chat in English. People sometimes commented on my strong accent and asked where I was from, so I made a mental note to work on taming that accent.
