01/18/1999

The Application Process

    We gathered at Portola Valley Presbyterian Church at 10:00 on Saturday, January 16, 1999 for our youth group advisors retreat.

    I'll start by saying that I don't like retreats. Never have. I'm the sort of person who has no trouble laying out her personal thoughts to her Web page, but I'm not interested in sharing with a group.

    So anyway, my number-one condition for attending the retreat was that there be coffee. I walked into our meeting room, oversized CIO coffee mug in hand.

    Kimberly looked at my mug and then at Andy, our paradoxically named Youth Elder. "Andy, did you bring the coffeepot and the filters?"

    "Uh, was that my job?" Andy asked.

    We rummaged through the church kitchen for Mr. Coffee and his filters. Jim L. got the coffee going, and I was anticipating my first swig of the day when the coffee maker erupted.

    Coffee grounds and hot water spewed out the top of the filter basket.

    I turned the coffeemaker off and started to wipe up the mess, when it erupted again all over my left hand.

    I said some not-so-very-Christian vocabulary words and then ran it under cold water and wondered why I was there.

    Andy cleaned up the mess and I supervised his coffee making. Once the second pot was actually done, I settled down on the couch with my laptop to keep notes of my personal commentary throughout the day.

    We began by sharing who we are and what we do and a story from when each of us was in junior or senior high school.

    I told the group about when I ran for student body president when I was in eighth grade. Michelle Laidlow was supposed to run, and she was the odds-on favorite to win, but I became her opponent regardless. Then, much to the surprise of everyone at Pine Hollow Intermediate, it was determined that Michelle would be disqualified from the race because she'd received a D grade on her report card the previous year. By that time, the application deadline had passed, so I ran unopposed and won the election.

    Leila strapped on her guitar and we sang a couple of songs.

    My hand throbbed under the ice pack Jim had fetched for me.

    After singing, we went into the first meaty part of the program: Lectio Divina. That's Latin for "Divine Reading." It's a way of praying with Scripture. The whole group participated. Kimberly, our youth director, read Psalm 62 to us twice.

    The first time, we concentrated upon opening our minds to what God wanted us to hear. The second time, we listened for a word or a phrase to grab us.

    We were given a bit of quiet time to write down the word and reflect upon it. The words I selected were "assail" and "deliverance." They made me think of Christina Williams, whose 13-year-old decomposing body was found three miles from her house on January 13. I've struggled with that ever since hearing that the remains were indeed hers.

    Leila read the Psalm to us a third time. Her reading was fluid and emotional.

    This time, the phrase "and set no vain hopes on robbery" hit me with a wallop. I hadn't even heard that line the first time.

    It started me thinking of my buddy Ken, who is currently serving time in San Quentin for armed robbery.

    I reread the Psalm and picked up my Bible to read its interpretation.

    It never ceases to amaze me how well God knows us, how intimately he understands our humanness.

    Even as I write this, sitting on a stone hearth with a fire's heat licking my back, it chills me to realize that God knows all of our faults and, even so, allows us to act upon our own selfish whims and desires.

    I used to be really hung up on money, until I parted ways with IBIS and watched my income slide as a result.

    Ken, who used to attend church twice weekly, is now suffering God-only-knows what sort of abuse behind the bars of a maximum security prison.

    And why? Because he felt he needed to hold up a bank.

    What type of Entity, what sort of parent who loves us, allows us to screw up repeatedly, even though the consequences of our actions may cause us nothing but pain and suffering for many, many years?

    I guess a parent who knows His advice is worthwhile, and trusts his child to follow it.

    It makes sense to me. But sometimes it's a real pisser.

    And despite all of that, I praise God with my actions and my voice. I sing the Doxology many times a week, and always wholeheartedly.

    Then it was time for lunch. Kimberly and Andy went to get the sandwiches. Megan brought in a long stick she'd found during our 20 minutes of quiet reflection and we played baseball indoors with the stick and a Styrofoam cup.

    We ate lunch when the sandwiches arrived, and talked about spelunking. I told the group about tunneling though the storm tunnels of San Carlos with my roommate. The story was met with much admiration.

    After lunch, we played team-building games. I was the only person who refused to be blindfolded. I took off my glasses and shut my eyes instead.

    No, I didn't peek.

    We were all led to a piece of rope and were challenged to create a perfect square.

    Jim H. became our leader, and had us count off. We determined who was a corner and who was a side.

    The corners put their hands in the center of the circle to ensure congruency. Then we all stepped back five steps, adjusted our positions, and then the sides took a couple of steps back as well.

    After final adjustment, they took off their blindfolds and I opened my eyes. Our square were nearly perfect!

    We played some more improv games after that. A pen was passed around and we used it as a prop. I pretended it was an arrow shot into my heart. My silent death scene garnered applause.

    Then we pretended that a folded piece of fabric was pain, and had to act out what we do with that. I wiped my eyes with it and then wadded it up and threw it at Joel.

    Why does there always have to be negative imagery involved at retreats? At the IBIS administrative staff retreat, Brenda (then the president of IBIS) led us in our group exercise, which was to pretend we'd all been fired from IBIS and had formed our own consultancy to do for IBIS the jobs we'd done while on staff. And I said, "why would we *want* to work for IBIS after you've fired all of us?"

    Ahhhhh, retreats...

    Then we played a translation game. I volunteered, essentially so I could say I'd volunteered for something during the day's events. Andy was from the island of Samsua and had to talk about the public transportation system there. His performance and my translation were truly inspired.

    Then, at 2:30, an hour behind schedule, we got down to the heart of the matter: The Youth Advisor Application Packet.

    When I started advising for the junior-high group five semesters ago, the only prerequisite was that you have interest in being an advisor. Now, the Youth Ministry Team has created an 11-page packet that includes a four-page application, which is to be completed by all Quest (junior high) and Sonlight (senior high) advisors and potential advisors.

    I flipped through the application quickly, expecting to be personally bothered by at least part of it.

    Satisfied once I was, I flipped back to the beginning to follow along as Andy spoke.

    We discussed the covenant/mission statement of the Youth Ministry team, and then the different youth ministry groups we could work with.

    Then came the job description: Growing closer to Christ through regular Sunday worship attendance and personal Bible study, having fun without getting too excited, appropriate physical contact (not too violent during the games, not too close during a hug), being a good Christian role model, and having good listening skills to help kids focus on the speaker.

    I know that the kids are the reason why we're doing this new application process. But it's difficult to impose structure in a group that has been remarkably structureless since you became involved with it more than two years ago. Especially when the youth programs have already kicked off for the winter/spring semester of 1999.

    So we're going through it and the Youth Elder is joking his way through the packet, to the point where I finally stood up for either doing this seriously or not doing it at all.

    Andy agreed that he was just kidding. But why would you kid your way through this packet when the whole reason we were there was to be serious about it?

    Have I mentioned that I hate retreats?

    So then we took a break until I asked that we resume the program (because I really wanted to get to the driving range).

    Among other things, we discussed my inappropriate grabbing of Justin last week -- he'd attempted to throw me over his shoulder and I reached for any part of him that would keep him from dropping me on my head. Unfortunately, my arms weren't long enough to reach his legs, so, unknowingly and unintentionally, I took hold of his butt.

    I again apologized for it, but he *was* trying to throw me over his shoulder at the time, so I don't think I'm wholly to blame...

    I asked if we were to complete every question in the application, which was met with an affirmative answer. Sigh.

    Then Joel talked about how to facilitate fun for the kids, while also facilitating fun for yourself.

    Fact of the matter is, we're not in this for ourselves. We're in it for the kids. If we have fun, that's great, but we ought not to have our fun at the expense of our charges. We are Advisors, which doesn't mean we're always Participators.

    So now it's 4:05 and I think we're starting to wind down. Based upon this application, I'm seriously doubting what my involvement in Quest will be this year. I have to admit that I'm not happy that this is being introduced in the middle of the year. Now that we've already had the first meeting, I'll look like a quitter. But I am nowhere near eager to fill out this application.

    I am not comfortable with sharing the three significant events in my life that have impacted me spiritually.

    I am not comfortable with sharing my dating history.

    I am not comfortable committing my personal and lifestyle information to paper, especially when the confidentiality clause states that each completed application may be read by as many as eight people.

    I really love advising for Quest. But I'm really not going to complete this application.

    At 4:12, Kimberly thanked all of us for the time and dedication we've exhibited today and throughout the youth programs. She started to fiddle in her bag for the awards she'd created for each of us.

    "You'll have to bear with me, though, because they're homemade, and therefore..." Kimberly began.

    "Homemade-ish?" Justin asked.

    "Exactly."

    Then, while attempting to clean up, Steve dumped a cup of water on his crotch.

    "Guess he's really excited about the awards," someone said. Or maybe I just thought that.

    My prize was "Most Rambunctious." Kimberly praised my energy level, but also my upbeat personality and my optimism. She mentioned the meeting I led about disappointment and how to use it to your advantage. She thanked me for the creativity I've shown in planning meetings (making hats for the homeless, top 10 things Jesus did, etc.).

    She also thanked me for sticking with Quest even during difficult times in my life.

    What, me feel guilty? Naah...

    At 4:33 we broached the idea of closing in prayer. Kimberly asked us to pray about things on our hearts, and to share them with the group. I requested inspiration and guidance.

    We prayed a circle prayer. Justin had to pray for me because we prayed for the person at the right of us. Justin began his prayer for me:

    "God, be with Lynn, because she rocks."

    I busted out laughing.

    So at eight minutes to five, we were released. I put my laptop and application packet in my truck and went back to visit the sanctuary.

    It is beautiful. The sanctuary (where church services are held) is an A-frame structure, and when you sit in the pews the wall you face is all windows, windows that allow you to look out into the trees.

    It's very Godlike.

    I sang the Doxology and went back to my truck. While driving home, my odometer turned to 60,000 miles.

    Upon returning home, I was totally wiped out from the intensity of the day. Abby came by and I talked to her about it. We decided to hook up with our friend Jim and Charles. I went with her to feed her parents' cats (her folks were out of town for the weekend). While we were there, she called Jim, who said that a buddy of his had just given him two tickets for tonight's Sharks game, and would she like to go with him?

    She agreed. "Does Charles want to talk to Lynn now?"

    We planned to all meet back at my house. When Jim and Charles arrived I read some of the questions from the application packet to them. Everyone agreed that they'd never answer the questions posed. Heck, I don't even think some of them are legal.

    After Abby and Jim left, I went into my room to put on a sweatshirt when BOOM! What I needed to say about the application came pounding into my brain. I grabbed the application packet and quickly scrawled what was in my head. I'm convinced it was an inspiration from God.

    I walked out of my room, the weight of the application lifted off my shoulders.

    "You look like you feel better," Charles commented.

    I read to him what I wrote, and we left to rent a movie. I completed the first page of the application ("General Information") during "Lethal Weapon 4." At the "Marital Status" question I ignored the "Single" and "Married" boxes and checked an "Unmarried" box of my own creation. I thought about who should act as my references and chose my colleague John, my past Photojournalism advisor Jim, and my Mom. It said that the references shouldn't be related to you, but I talk to my Mom more than I talk with any other human being so I figured they might as well give her a call.

    I was much relieved when I finished the page.

    On Sunday morning I made a copy of my application and sought out Kimberly.

    We spoke quietly in a corner of the Narthex. I handed her my file folder.

    "This is my application. If it isn't OK, I need to know before this Thursday, because I don't want to keep going to Quest and get the kids accustomed to me if I'm going to be disqualified based upon my answers."

    "Oh, Lynn, I'm sure it will be fine." Kimberly said. "It's just something we need to do across the board. We can always talk about it."

    "No, I don't think so. If it isn't acceptable, please call me before Thursday. If it is OK, well, no news is good news," I told her.

    I don't know if she's read it yet, but this is what I wrote on the back of my one-page application:

    I know that, without God, I am but an empty vessel. The life I lead is that which He has granted me.

    Therefore, I discuss intimate, personal secrets with Him alone.

    I hope this does not disqualify me after more than four semesters of "upbeat and positive" (Kimberly, 01/16/1999) service to Quest.
    --(signed) M. E. Benson

    On my way out of church after the service, I picked up an informational brochure about the choirs. We'll see if I'll need it.
*****

02/13/1999

A Valentine's Surprise

    The florist pulled into our driveway at 2:00 and I raced out to greet him.

    "What's the address on the card?" I asked.

    "706."

    Abby's apartment. Bummer.

    So a couple of hours later, Abby called me on her way home from work.

    "Abby, you got roses delivered!"

    "I did?"

    "Yeah, there's white and red and yellow and pink and orange and yellow-orange and coral ones. They're beautiful!"

    "Who sent me flowers?" she mused.	

    "I don't know. It just started to rain so I'll bring 'em inside. Want me to read the card?" I'm such a humanitarian.

    "Yeah."

    So I walked to her porch with my cordless phone and pulled out the card.

    "Oh my God, Abby -- they're for me!"

    It was true. "Lynn Benson" on the card, plain as day.

    My enthusiasm tempered her disappointment.

    I gave her lip-shaped sugar cookies (iced with pink frosting, of course) to lessen the blow.

*****

03/08/1999

Biblical Roadtrip Rest Stop

    Graham and I were at In'n'Out Burger, a dinner stop on our way to Tahoe, when he noticed a small reference printed on the bottom of his burger's packaging: Revelation 3:20.

    He pointed it out to me.

    "Mine has it, too." I said. "Is it the Book of Revelation or the Book of Revelations?"

    "Revelation -- it's singular," a voice behind me said.

    I turned to see a large bearded man.

    "I missed it on a test once and have remembered it ever since," he explained.

    "Funny how you can remember the few things you got wrong, and yet forget all the things you get right. At least, that's how it is with me..." Graham said, as much to himself as to me and the bearded man.

    I asked, "So what's Revelation 3:20?"

    Bearded man shrugged, but the young Asian guy next to him piped up, "I know. Revelation 3:20, right?"

    "Well?" we all asked.

    "It's the one with 'Knock and the door will be opened unto you.'"

    "That's perfect!" I cried, delighted.

    We all went back to eating our food. Once finished, Graham and I stood up as the Bible scholar was also leaving.

    "God sent me here all the way from San Jose to answer your question," he said, smiling. "God bless you."

    "God bless *you*," I replied.

    He left, and Graham turned to me.

    "That was cool," he said.
    * * * * *

    Upon returning home, I looked up 3:20 in The Student Bible (New International Version):

        Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and him with me.

    So, not only did I have a great road trip to Tahoe, but I have a newfound respect for In'n'Out Burger.

    Alleluia!
*****

06/11/1999

Lynn's Friday Double Feature:
"Austin Powers: The Spy who Shagged Me" and "Happiness"

    This review contains spoilers (i.e. stuff you maybe shouldn't know until you see the movie). The movies and this review contain adult themes that should not be read by children without an adult guardian in the room. Kids, get your folks and make an evening out of it!

    If you don't want to know what happens in "Austin Powers:TSWSM," "Happiness," "The House of Yes" and "The Ice Storm" before you see them for yourself, then bookmark this page and come back to it after you see them.

    S'alright? S'alright.

    It was Friday morning (06/11/1999) and I called Dean to find out what time the first "Austin Powers: TSWSM" showing was. He told me that he'd read some about the movie and it didn't sound like something he would like to see. Tease.

    John tried to get Christy to come but they decided they'd go to Santa Cruz after, instead. Alex had to work, Abby had the day off but was thinking of going to Sacramento.

    I called Jim. He had to finish up at a job but would be available for the 1:55 show. I bought three tickets for John, me and Jim. John was running late so I paged him and told him that I'd tape his ticket to our office door. There are few things I dislike worse than hanging out front of a movie theater waiting for someone.

    I scored us a row of five seats in the hidden balcony I like. There was a father and his junior-high aged son. We talked about the first "Austin Powers," about "The Phantom Menace" and the Quest junior-high youth group at Trinity Presbyterian. I called Dean on my cute new cell phone and offered him a last chance to sit in our only available seat. Abby and Jim showed up with refreshments.

    The movie was pretty funny. Thankfully, John showed up before the first Jerry Springer bit. John loves "The Jerry Springer Show." We laughed as Dr. Evil called Jerry a mother**** and attacked.

    "John, where are the lesbians?" I asked.

    The answer is: Sitting on Frau Farbissina's side of the table. The German commandant has "learned to embrace the love that dare not speak its name." That leads to a pretty funny Dr. Evil line later on (well, if you go by the year, I guess it would be "earlier on"), one of the better set-ups of the film.

    After 10 minutes I lost count at eight blatant product placements. Elizabeth Hurley offers her husband a post-shag Smint. For the third in the series (you *know* there will be a third), Number Two should orchestrate world domination by merging the Evil-led Starbucks with the Gates-led Microsoft.

    Oh behave!

    I bet it's exhausting to hang out with Mike Myers. Heather Graham is anatomically impossible -- she really ought to think of having her body bronzed while she still can. And the size-conscious folks who threw such a fit about 24-Hour Nautilus's "When Aliens Come, They'll Eat the Fat Ones First" campaign will be absolutely livid about the Fat Bastard character.

    The convertible were amazing: Jaguars, 'Vettes, even a convertible new-school VW bug, tripped-out and psychedelic.

    (I wonder if Volkswagen had something to do with that?)

    The names were amusing (Ivana Humpalot is a personal favorite) and the acting was harmless.

    So the movie was clever enough and I had a number of belly laughs, but it's been only seven hours since I left the theater and I can really only remember two or three worthwhile quotes. That will probably improve after I see it again. My favorite was, "I put the 'grr' in 'swinger,' baby!" Rowrrr....

    Lynn's Rating: Great matinee, would even maybe pay full-price to see it again.

    After we left the theater and I did some more work and Abby and Jim ate dinner, we went to Jim's house to watch "Happiness," the movie Abby had rented.

    It's a 1998 film directed and written by Todd Solondz, who also wrote and directed "Welcome to the Dollhouse," the saga of a picked-on girl and her hellride through junior-high school. I tried watching that one once and couldn't take it -- turned it off after less than 15 minutes.

    I brought along a book to Jim's in case this movie was the same way. But the fact is, I can't imagine *anyone* losing interest in this film.

    It's a deep look into the intertwined lives of these horribly pathetic yet believable people, some of whom are related by birth, blood or marriage. The perfect family is anything but, the psychiatrist is a pedophile, the sisters are either self-involved or horribly destined to loserdom, and things are done and said that I don't believe that have ever been committed to "respectable" celluloid.

    It's brilliant.

    The way that the pedophile talks to his son, the way that the fat, hyper-alone character played by Camryn Manheim adoringly strokes the face of the passed-out drunken obscene phone caller, who's providing the successful, selfish poet ("Everything I write is so shallow! 'Rape at Twelve,' 'Rape at Eleven.' I've never been raped. How can I write about it?") her first alternative view of life, the way that Marla Maples consoles a woman facing divorce after 40 years of marriage ("Divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me").

    Most of these people are rotten. Really rotten. The nicest person in the film also has the most depressing, pathetic life, which snowballs after Jon Lovits cuts her to the core in a speech I wish I'd made at least *once* way-back-when while dating members of the lower links of the food chain...

    This is a movie that gives us a sympathetic glimpse into the lives of monsters. Even Dr. Maplewood, the pedophile brilliantly portrayed by the unassuming-looking Dylan Baker, supports his family, holds down a job, teaches and reassures his son through his pre-pubescent anxieties, albeit sometimes in a borderline, "did-he-really-say-that?" fashion.

    It's the callously rotten characters who are more unlikeable than the monsterly rotten characters. I was most repelled by Helen, the pretentious poet, who whines, "It's just I'm... I'm so tired of being admired all the time. All these men I mean... they're all beautiful, artistic minds, great sex, the whole package, but hollow, you know what I mean? I feel nobody's really honest with me. Nobody wants me for me."

    Yeah baby, I get you. Loud and clear.

    Bitch.

    The Internet Movie Database lists "Happiness" as a comedy. I'd like to know which sick person is getting a laugh out of that one. It's black comedy, sometimes ham-fisted to make sure you're understanding that some of these scenes are unbelievably amusing. Todd Solondz has a great interview at Nitrate Online that explains quite a bit.

    But the movie is visually clever, an easier sort of gag to laugh at. Toward the end of the film, Dr. Maplewood drives past a "Watch Children" street sign on his way to tend to his second young victim.

    It helped my comfort level that the only boy Dr. Maplewood has on-camera physical contact with was the child who played his son. I'd like to know how that kid was affected by playing that part.

    But frankly, I was more physically repulsed by the language and visuals in "Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me" than I was by anything in "Happiness."

    Were I back in the dorms at San Jose State and in charge of an all-night movie marathon, I'd kick-off (in order) with "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" for historical purposes, followed by "Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery," ending with "The House of Yes," "Happiness," and "The Ice Storm" for its death-to-rebirth theme. But I'd probably pour champagne throughout the night, just to keep things lively, baby.

    The yin/yang of comedy and drama each offer valuable lessons:

        * Comedies: We can't think too much and make life too serious, because thinking *too much* messes with your thinking.
        * Dramas: No matter how bad we might believe our lives to be, things are actually quite peachy, comparatively. I mean, but for the grace of God, we could be sleeping with our twin sister or molesting little boys or shoplifting in the corner drugstore or something. Yikes!

*****

07/03/1999

The Canoe Race

    07/03/1999, Dateline: Summer Home Park

    Usually, the Summer Home Park Independence Day Canoe Race is something that Debbie and Mike do. They've only won it once, though -- the first year that a trophy was involved.

    There's a picture of Mike and Deb holding the trophy at Snug Harbor, the family compound where I spent my summers every year of my childhood.

    Every other year they're on track to win, but get tipped by self-appointed race-fixers. Bastards!

    So we all toddled down to the beach but Deb wasn't with us, as she needed to pick up her boyfriend at the airport.

    "You know, Lynn," Mike said to me, "if Debbie doesn't show up, it's you and me in the canoe race."

    "Looking forward to it, Mike." I replied.

    We watched the swim races -- always boys first, then the awards for that race, and then the girls.

    When the announcer called the "Girls 18 and under" race, Mike headed towards the canoe. "C'mon Lynn, let's go."

    We walked towards the boat. A woman sitting with her feet in the River heard me ask Mike, "OK, so the plan is for me to stick to one side and paddle like hell, right?" She laughed.

    We entered the canoe and paddled toward the footbridge that would serve as the starting line. Mike clued me in on our strategy -- line up closest to the rocks (farthest from the shore) and make a tight turn around the rowboat. And forcibly dissuade anyone who might try to tip our canoe.

    We paddled under the bridge and practiced turning around. I didn't quite get it -- although I'd grown up canoeing, it had been many years since I'd sat in the front seat of the cabin's aluminum canoe.

    "How about when it's time, I'll just yell 'back! back! back!' really loud until it's time for you to stroke forward again.?"

    "Good plan," I concurred.

    Others were converging and we jockeyed for position. The swim races wrapped up and we paddled under the bridge to line up.

    The judge approached us. "Closer to the other boats, please."

    "No thanks, we're fine where we are," Mike said.

    "No lead-offs," the judge reminded us.

    "Of course not," I huffed.

    JT and his female partner were in the canoe next to us. He's about eight years younger than me and has been a pest for as long as I've known him. So it shouldn't have surprised me when, after the gun went off, JT held on to the back of our canoe.

    Mike extricated us from JT's grasp and we began to paddle wholeheartedly. We were fourth, then third, and then second only to JT in his stupid yellow canoe. I wasn't wearing my glasses, which wasn't that important since I wasn't responsible for the steering (if I had been, we probably would have ended up in Santa Rosa or Seal Rock or somewhere).

    The emcee had said that the turn-around point would be Highcroft, a beach two beaches down from our starting point, but the rowboat was parked closer to Badman's Beach, 50 yards from the end of our beach.

    The boat ahead of us splashed us with what felt like a cubic ton of water. I heard my father hollering encouragement as we paddled furiously past the sandy side of the beach.

    We were the first to reach the rowboat, and the only ones to make a counter-clockwise turn.

    "Back! Back! Back!" Mike hollered. I dug in until I heard him call, "Forward! Around the boat! Around the boat!"

    We were first coming out of the turn and easily put a canoe length or two between us and JT. I stroked on the other side for some yards to let my other arm rest for the sprint to the bridge.

    That is, until I peered ahead and saw heads in the water.

    Uh oh.

    Let me get this straight right now -- I was *not* going to allow us to get tipped. Neither was Mike, who said later, "Sure, you can tip a canoe -- just make sure it's not mine."

    Two ruffians took hold of our canoe but Mike beat 'em off. They slowed us, though, to the point where JT took the lead.

    I switched my paddle to my stronger side and stroked mightily. Two other fellows swam to our canoe. The one closer to the bow went to put his hands on it.

    I raised my paddle menacingly and stared him down. I may even have growled at him.

    He backed off quickly, cowed by my ferocity.

    JT was still ahead of us. If this were an epic poem, this would be the crescendo:

    The race was swift,
    the current mighty,
    we'd not give up
    without a fight-y.

    We were a mere 15 yards from the bridge when the Heavens opened, the angels sang, and ruffians got hold of JT's canoe. Tipped it clean over. I saw his head emerge from the water to late to warn Mike to steer around. Bonk.

    Our competition vanquished, Mike and I paddled to victory. I threw back my head and let out a victory yell.

    "OK, and we've got some very happy winners," the emcee announced to the crowd.

    Arms and lungs burning, we turned around the canoe and shouted our names to the statistician.

    "Mike Martin and Mari... uh, Lynn Benson."

    "Who?"

    "Lynn Benson."

    "What's the last name?"

    "BENSON." I bellowed.

    We paddled back to the beach to collect our trophy.

    "That canoe's greased lightening! That's what you should call it!" the girls on the shore chattered excitedly.

    We walked up to the bridge to collect our trophy and champagne.

    "Where's the cup?" Mike asked.

    "We don't have it. It's at the Lodge."

    "What about our champagne?"

    "Not this year," they told us.

    "Well, then I want to emcee this next year," Mike announced.

    We walked the canoe back along the shore, accepting congratulations. JT met us and rubbed his head. Mike didn't even know we'd hit him. The other canoe tippers grumbled that we ought not to get the trophy since we'd done harm to those who'd tried to tip us.

    We laughed off their complaints.

    "It's not like we drew blood," Mike philosophized. "If there's no blood, it's a fair fight."

    Sounds reasonable enough to me.

    We made it back to the sandy side of the beach to the huzzahs of friends and family.

    "I didn't think you were going to win," Dad said. "Figured you were too out of shape. At least you can say you didn't overtrain."

    "Screw off, Dad," I replied, imagining the taste of victory champagne from a trophy engraved with my name. My name.

    Ahhhh, victory is indeed sweet.