Inspirational Story

Megan Herndon
Hearts and Numbers
When we arrived at Magic Island that day, there were six of us. We were a stroker, a second stroker, three power seats, and a steersman. We were Abby, Maddie, Megan, Anna, Alannah, and Tiana. We were freshman, sophomores, Lanikai, Outrigger, and Kailua. We all met at our usual tree for the pep talk.
“Okay girls, today’s race is our longest race, the 5+. We’re going down to the natatorium, than turn around the first buoy, go all the way down to Kewalo’s and back here to Magic Island.” Our coach, Renee, said to us. She was giving us our 7th and last pep talk of the season. As she spoke to us I realized that she’s the first coach for as long as I can remember in any sport that made me really want to push myself. “Girls, one year when I paddled the Moloka’i channel we had this saying. We said ‘Pupukahi,’ which means to unite, and become one. That’s what you girls need to do today. Remember, every stroke comes 150% from your heart. Hands in on three everyone, Pupukahi. One, Two, three, Pupukahi!” We walked down the ramp and into the murky magic island water.
I climbed into seat three. My feet felt at home in the puddle at the bottom of the boat as I reached out my paddle and waited for my signal. I was in the familiar picture of race day. The painter who stands at the shore captures it perfectly. The colors are what stand out the most. The boats are two colors each, with six or more colors inside each one. We sat there for a moment, on the bridge between nature and the urban world. “Reach out, hit!” our steersman called out from behind us. We slowly made our way out to the starting line.
Diamond head and Honolulu were on our left. The rush of tourists and business and drama and money was behind us, and it was the world that we had come from. That morning we had worn our costumes; makeup, brushed hair, jewelry and cleanliness. But now, to our right was nothing but open ocean. To our right, and where we were going was where we were truly ourselves. Away from the makeup and the fakeness of the city we became paddlers, masked by nothing, wearing only blue jerseys, black tights, determination, and heart. Six heads turned towards the official’s boats.
The red officials flag fluttered in the wind, until he put it down. It felt like one of those dramatic action movies where there is an intense race starting, and there is some random guy, now lifting up the green flag in slow motion. That’s when it began. The first three strokes of a race are always the best. I felt myself channeling every ounce of power I had in my body to pulling my paddle through the water. I could see the tiny whorl pools of the ocean from where our paddles were leaving the water, like the ocean had been woken suddenly from a peaceful sleep. We settled into a rhythm and we propelled the canoe towards the natatorium.
We were surrounded by endless blue. There were two boats in front of us and four boats behind. We hugged the orange cone-like buoys through the first turn. Every muscle in my body was burning and each stroke made it worse. Iolani was passing us on the left and Maryknoll on the right. Every Punahou paddler was wishing we could turn in when we passed the canal, instead of going three more miles.
People say that all there is to a stroke is a twist, a powerpoint, and a recovery, but paddlers know its much more. The twist is like a gentle handshake, twisting your hips and body away from you. Next is the press, driving from your legs and arms and back, driving your blade into the water, with the grace of a diver but the drive and power of a sprinter off the blocks. A horizontal waterfall is created not by gravity but by motion as the blade is pulled through the water. Last you press the reset button for the recovery; you bring your blade forward and reach out again as the pattern continues.
Stroke by stroke we made our way towards the Kewalo buoy, who had become a good friend. Over winter break we must have paddled there at least 30 times, if not more. “Hut, Hut, Hoe!” I called out and we switched sides of our paddles for the millionth time. And it was in that moment I began to think about the good of this race instead of the endless torture that we were making it out to be.
I remembered three days before Christmas when we had paddling at 7 am, before the sun had even risen. We were all half asleep and no one wanted to be there. We saw dolphins that morning, hundreds of them. They were breeching in the sunrise. It was probably the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life. I remembered the pain sinking in during the biathlon we did, and even more the rush of adrenaline and the feeling of accomplishment after. I remembered all the laughs we had at the random people at Magic Island. “Hut, Hut, Hoe!” I called out again. I looked down at my left hand as it passed my shoulder. My left pinky nail was painted red, and so was every other girl’s in that boat. I remembered our team bonding sleepover, when my 4-person jaccuzzi overflowed with 12 girls in it. I remembered that we all painted our left pinky nail red because it showed us that no matter who or where we were we were a team. “Let’s go ladies, don’t give up!” Our steersman called out across the silence. In that moment six individuals became one unit.
I reached my right shoulder out as far as I could and twisted from my hips. With every once of strength I had I pulled my blade through the water. I moved with Maddie, and She moved with Abby in front of her. Anna Moved with me and Alanah followed Anna. Six of us were one. The canoe joined our team as it glided through the water just like those dolphins we saw that day. Pain left our bodies and determination took its place.
I am a thrill seeker in everyway. I’m the first to jump off the tallest rock and to ride the biggest carnival ride. In that moment I found a different kind of thrill. Inspiration was this flavor I think. It tasted like Ala Wai water combined with sweat and pain. It tasted like the hour-long showers and the long naps after hours and miles of paddling. It tasted like every muscle in my body aching. It tasted like the cracking of my voice from yelling Hut Hut hoe every twelve seconds for an hour. It tasted better than the acai bowl and the Gingerbred Frappuccino. It came from the heart. Every stroke came from our hearts.
We were a different crew in that last mile. We were best friends and athletes. We were girls with the same nail polish on their left hand. We were an us instead of a them. We turned down that channel for a last time as a crew. Fifth place was inevitable, but we were finishing strong anyway. “Hut, Hut, Hoe! Lets go girls all the way through,” I screamed through my cracking voice. Every stroke we made was together every thought we thought was together. We powered across that finish line feeling like we were the first.
That day when we arrived at Magic Island there were six of us. There was a stroker, a second stroker, three power seats, and a steersman. We were Abby, Maddie, Megan, Anna, Alannah and Tiana. We were Lanikai, Outrigger, and Kailua, and we were freshman and sophomores. But when we left that day we were something else. We were Punahou. We were a team. We were all wearing blue jerseys; we were all wearing black tights. We had all just gone through the same three months of pain, fun, love and work. We were all friends for life. We had all felt pain, seen loss, and smelt defeat. But even more, we had all tasted inspiration from something as small as a pinky fingernail.