Come to the Picnic

Because we all need to remember that adventures are not tidythose are called picnics.

We should all be reminded, occasionally, that even the most meticulously planned afternoon, at your favorite beach-side restaurant, might include a visit from a seagull that will steal your blueberry muffin and crap on your table.  It is at these times that you can choose to 1.) consider your day ruined and pack it in, 2.) accept that the rat-with-wings that just made off with your buttered muffin is pretty good at what he does (which may include pissing you off) or, 3.) laugh and consider the whole thing a numerous side-note to an otherwise great day.  (We can talk later about shooting the seagull out of the sky, which, in all fairness, is an occupational hazard of being a seagull.)

The point is that all plans are, or should be, fungible.  Wherefore this little insight?  Well, with less than 13 days remaining to the Catalina Classic Paddleboard Race, I find myself without a boat and without a crew.  I should be freaking out but, in this case, well…wait, no: I’M TOTALLY FREAKING OUT.  Rat-with-wings freaking out.

On second thought, however, I have a board and few hours in the water, and, as of this weekend, a skipper.  The latter is thanks to the help of one Steve Washburn, who has stepped in to guide me across the channel and keep me safe.  For this, I’m smiling…a lot.  The rest, as they say, will come.

“Wash” (not a seagull, for sure)

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