This weekend, headed to Santa Cruz with husband, son and brother, for a little fishing at the Santa Cruz Pier. To my surprise the Santa Cruz Ironman Triathlon (70.3) was happening as we drove up; exhausted people in wet suits were lumbering out of the water right next to the pier as we drove by. The swimming portion is just the first leg of the event, but several of the competitors looked like they were already ready to quit, and at least one woman was being helped out of the water by race authorities, so she was definitely done.
My husband and brother set up the fishing gear while Jesse and I went down to the beach to get a bucket of water. I watched more of the Ironman. I'm all but 100% sure that I will never, ever subject myself to that much coldness and misery. Okay, yes, I have set myself the goal of completing an olympic triathlon next year, sometime in the spring or summer...but I'll do it in a place where the water temperature is at least 64 degrees, not the frigid 55 degrees or less of Monterey Bay or the Pacific Ocean. (Even 64 degrees scares me...but we'll see.)
We went back to the pier, where my brother and husband had already caught a couple anchovies and thrown them back. My husband caught another and handed the rod to our son before it had been reeled in; "You caught a fish!" we both exclaimed to Jesse, who looked proud; but then about twenty minutes later, he caught a fish all by himself with his own cast, and said to us, "Wow, the first fish I really caught by myself." Which teaches my husband and me a lesson about trying to fool a seven-year-old.
The atmosphere on the Santa Cruz Pier, even in the middle of a triathlon on a Sunday morning, is "totally chill," to use the popular lingo...you cast, sit back in your portable chair, and take in the seagulls and sea lions, or grab a cup of coffee and a pastry from one of the many restaurants and cafes on the other side of the pier. We released all of our anchovies back into the water when we were done, just dumped them out of our bucket (I hope they survived the fall), and the man fishing next to us shouted, "Free Willy!" and commented, "They're gonna tell their friends how they were just abducted by aliens." Most of the people fishing were men and boys. It was Jesse's first fishing trip where he learned to cast the line himself (our previous fishing trip, on Lake Almanor, was completely controlled by the fishing guide, with his deluxe boat, fish finder and four fishing rods set up at each corner of the boat--not very hands-on for our son, and we only caught one tiny fish even with all that gear and expertise).
What a different cultural experience fishing is, compared to a triathlon...compared to most things in our extreme-fun, hurry-up-and-relax culture. I don't necessarily love fishing myself, but I can understand the allure (pathetic pun intended). To feel that wiggle at the end of your line--suddenly your life and that fish's life are completely bound together. Whereas, in a triathlon, you're pushing yourself through the water like a machine, hopefully not smashing your arm against the body of the nearest competitor, trying not to think about how much pain you're in or how difficult it is to catch your breath...you're not connected to the ocean in any way, you're just trying to get past it and onto your bike. I had a few moments of euphoria during the sprint triathlon I did last year, but they didn't come during the swim in San Francisco Bay; they came when I was zooming through the last part of the bike leg of the race and realized "Hey, I can do this." But they were fleeting, and had nothing to do with the beauty of my surroundings or the wildlife in the vicinity.
I guess I have some qualms about the whole triathlon experience...then again, fishing is pretty nasty for the fish. Let's face it: neither of them are activities I want to pursue on a regular basis.
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