Dave vs. The Paddleboard

There is a new metric out there designed to tell your health.   It's a one-foot balance test.  They tell you how long you should be able to balance on one foot, depending on your age.  The idea is if you're in your twenties, you should be able to balance on one foot for, say, a year.  At my age, the target time was thirty seconds, IIRC.  I tried it at home; I made it three seconds, which means I should be dead or something.

Well, I have a rejoinder to these bright medical types lecturing me about my declining motor skills.  Try paddleboarding.  Yeah, try balancing yourself on this floating bubble that is ready to slide sideways at any moment.  

So here's the scenario:  You set your bum on the dock and eaaaaaasssseee your way onto the floating pancake of death.  You remain on your knees, no matter how stupid it makes you look.  Meanwhile you try and manipulate this thing called a 'paddle' to propel the pancake forward.  Bang into your boat.  Push off.  Bang into the neighboring boat.  Push off.  Eventually you get to a life ladder sticking up from the dock.  You shakily push yourself to your feet, hoping like hell you don't take a header off the concrete dock.  Then you push off, trying to balance.

If you remember your first attempt at riding a bike, yeah, that's what it's like.

And the yachties go by in their dinghies, merrily waving encouragement.  You grin gamely, not daring to release the paddle to wave back.  You take a few tentative strokes.  And you're so smart - you use the 'J' stroke of canoeing fame.  Doesn't matter - the floating pancake only goes forward and won't turn.  You hit the far shore.  Push off.  Figure out how to sweep the oar to get some semblance of directional control.  And you head back toward your boat, cautiously avoiding ramming the stern and your dinghy.

And now comes the hard part - disembarking.  You paddle along your boat directly at the dock, knowing you'll never turn the floating pancake in time.  You hit the dock and almost fall down.  You take this as a cue and kneel.  You use the paddle to pull you in toward the dock.  With a great sigh of relief, you slide your bum onto the dock, look heavenward, and say "Thank You."  You tie up the floating pancake of death, swearing that anyone who can use these things must have alien blood in them.

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Two days later you're jetting around the marina, happily perched atop your paddle board (no longer the pancake of death).  You come to the conclusion that you have alien blood.