74 The faint centre point of dull pain in my shoulder gradually pulls my muscle tighter indicating the beginning of a knot. With fatigue setting in, my body begins to lose the war against pain. The rough texture of the padding material begins to rub the skin off my shoulder and the sting is enhanced by the mixture of salty sweat sun cream that trickles into the wound. It is then that I feel the droplets of sweat running down my neck and I become aware of the drenched feeling over my whole body. The rough patch of fibreglass chafes my neck and my head begins to bruise from the jolting banging of the four teen kilogram speed machine on my shoulder. My legs begin to be overwhelmed with fatigue and overbalancing becomes yet another barrier to push through. Running from the sun into the shade, my body is out of place, sizzling in the cooler air or the valley floor under the leafy canopy. There is the feeling of my sweat freezing in comparison to my volcanic interior. The sweat/sunscreen mixture stings into my eyes. My vision becomes blurred as I try to blink it out of my eyes. I see the moist dirt-brown track leading me forward surrounded by a kaleidoscope of only one colour : green. This is the path to hell, devil’s cauldron at the bottom of the valley. Everything I see is on the for ty-five degree due to my boat nestled in my shoulder. What am I doing? My mental being, in association with my physical, becomes overwhelmed with the frustration of wanting to go forward but mostly wanting to stop and relieve myself of this pain. I just want to give up. No, I just want to go faster. No. What do I want? The ear thy, damp, moist smell enters my nostrils and along with the slight slippery feel underfoot is evidence of the recent downpours and rotting vegetation.This mingles with the unnatural industrial smell and the tropical sweetness of the sun cream. The cacophony of insects forms a spongy buzz of background noise, James Kirsten grade 10 James Copland grade 12 the Christmas beetles creating the never-ending high-pitched scream, the odd click of some other bug. The continuous ‘clunk’ of my rudder system gives a rhythm to which I run. There is an odd ‘thwang’ as the rudder cable scratches and slides against the hull. My paddle slowly wriggles itself free and the carbon blades give a different sound as they too tap against the hull causing a squeak as the polystyrene buoyancy whines with protest as the blades scrape through it. The irregular crashes echo as other boats collide with the trees or the soil eroded embankment next to the myriad other paths nearby. The welcome sight of the muddy brown water comes as a relief. But it’s a false vision – there are still two more por tages to go. I just want to give up. No, I just want to go faster. No. What do I want?
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