This was originally intended for use in a magazine that was to be published by a friend. As is happens with the best laid plans life got in the way. I like what I had put together and waited until after I knew whether or not it would be published to publish it this way. Thanks for reading. - Beardedcanoeist
Countless are the passions which we pursue. Each as unique as the individual that pursues them. How do we choose those things that drive us? How do we define exactly what our goals are? These questions are some of the few that came to mind when the opportunity to participate in this experiment “Tattoo America”, came along.
Now before I dive head long into a diatribe about my passions, let me introduce myself. I was raised in Campbell County, VA. Although born north of the Mason-Dixon, I consider myself a Southerner (by choice and by heart). I have a few names, Matthew is the most common and least offensive. My parents, who are amazingly supportive of me through all my troubles, are still married. I, however, am no longer married. Which may be why at thirty years old I am taking chances that many so close to middle age would not.
Now please do not misunderstand, I do not for a minute believe I can completely describe myself in just a paragraph of impersonal details. There is more to me than where I was raised and how old I am. There is more to you, than ink on skin or what is in your camera bag. When discussing what would be my contribution with a fellow contributor I was at a loss.
“What should I write about? Tattoos or people who get them, or my own?”
“Write about whatever you want to”
Those words can cripple a writer just as fast as they can set one free. Sometimes we all need a little nudge in the right direction, or any damned direction for that matter. So here I sit, typing away on a laptop that is easily seven years old and on it’s last legs. Hoping my little Dell does not just freeze up and lose all my work so far. So I have decided to write about “passion” in this installment, of what I hope becomes a series. I feel you can learn more about a person through what they are passionate about then any questionnaire.
What are my passions? Simple question, just four words. The answer is less so. The first thing that comes to my mind is a single word: river. I cannot honestly recall the first time I encountered a river, nor can I recount for you the first trip I made down one. I know it was the James, the very same that flows right through Downtown Lynchburg and eventually Richmond. My chubby butt planted firmly in a truck tire tube, soaking up the sun and bobbing gently down the small rapids and riffles. It was tremendous fun. All except the rash you would get on your arms from paddling and rubbing wet skin against black rubber. That was not fun. I would leave the river for many years. High school sports kept me busy all Summer as well as Spring. Post graduation the little bit of college education I earned and working took the rest of my time. I finally was reunited when I took up fishing. I no longer fish, lets just leave that subject for another time.
My passion for the river really ignited the first time I paddled a canoe solo. It was not a good boat, inexpensive and unresponsive. Ridiculously heavy and far too wide. I went through another boat of ill conceived purpose before I stumbled across what I really wanted. My first whitewater canoe is nearly as old as I am. Built in 1986 and showing the physical signs of a boat that has been enjoyed and abused (these are the same thing in the whitewater community). I could spend days regaling details and specifications and notable achievements obtained in this hull design, but I digress. My passion is not in the details.
Whitewater paddling is fun. If it is not fun, then you are doing it wrong. After my best days on the river I drive home with a huge shit eating grin on my face and sore shoulders and hands. Recently I had one of these days. Instead of simply paddling down my favorite section of river one time, as was planned, I went back for seconds. Paddling into a stiff headwind the first time, and a much more developed headwind the second lap. Carving hard u turns into small eddies and delicately side surfing below a ledge. Zig zagging back and forth across the whole width of the river to pick and choose which features I would play in. The sun was warm and pleasant and the cold water felt absolutely refreshing. Halfway down on my first lap I removed my paddling shirt and let the warmth settle into my bones around my pfd. Starting my second lap I could feel the sunburn starting to settle in. I am an avid sunscreen user, but this day was just too perfect. A day worth the risk. A time not worth spoiling with concern, self doubt or other worries. I could look down and see the rocky river bed passing beneath me. Look skyward and see countless birds playing in the updraft just as I played down in the stream.
During dark times in my life, I would find myself sitting alone in my truck, overlooking some familiar section of stream. Quietly watching the hours flow like the water. The sun setting and the reflection of it on the waters rippled and broken surface dancing slower and lower. Our lives are like rivers. There are rough waters and flat pools of tranquility and solace. Steep drops that are over quickly, in the blink of an eye. Long running wave trains that seem to go on forever. Wherever I find myself on the river that is my life, I take solace in the fact that just ahead and around that bend is another river feature. Maybe that feature is an exciting rapid or perhaps flat-water with a fierce headwind, either way I know I how to get past it. Words of wisdom from an extremely talented paddler I admire, “Don’t stop paddling.” I may not paddle the steepest canyons, the biggest rivers or the tightest creeks. However, I do paddle with passion and for me, for right now, that is just fine.