Last night I fried up a heaping pile of fresh rockfish fillets for a fish-taco feed. Captain Nate was prepping for his first off-shore salmon trip of the season, while his brother Matt and roomie Nick cheered me on in the kitchen. I hadn’t seen Nick in a couple of weeks, and I asked what he’d been up to.
“Man, I just got back from the National Championships in Iowa,” he said. “Only got a couple of hours of sleep last night–caught a red-eye home at two in the morning.”
“No kidding?” I said, clueless as usual. “How’d that go?”
“I won it,” he said confidently, “third time in a row.”
When I see Nick, he’s either fishing or lounging on the leather sofa. Or grubbin’ on the latest ocean catch from the salty Ventura (Nate’s floating office). I’m sure Nick trains a lot, but that’s not the Nick I see. He loves to talk fish and fishing, which are obviously among his greatest passions. His house is within spitting distance of the town run, and he can be fishing for trout or steelhead in minutes.
After dinner, Nick rolled the video of his championship race. He prepared us for some of the lame commentary that we would hear from the announcers. “The reporters don’t like how I run.” He explained. “But I tell them that it’s my style. It’s a strategy. And it works for me.”
Nick’s event is the 800-meter. That’s two trips around a track. The runners move fast from beginning to end in the 800m, practically leaping with each stride. Nick is not a big guy, and some of his competitors seem gigantic in comparison. From the start, Nick takes it easy. He hangs at the back of the pack, in perfect control, for the entire first lap. The commentators are used to this, and can’t help but say things like, “And there’s Nick Symmonds, holding right where we expect him.”
“Yeah, dead last!” Nate quips. Nate has a funny laugh, similar to squawk of an excited sea bird, which adds to the tension. I can’t imagine how Nick will pull this off, even though I already know he’s going to win.
Then it happens: Nick pulls to fifth place halfway through the second lap. The announcers are still busy jabbering about the first three runners, pontificating as to who will break away. As the runners go into the final corner, Nick hits the turbo boosters and burns around everybody. He’s in the lead as he hits the home stretch, then leaves them in the dust, gaining a full second lead over his nearest challenger. The intensity on Nick’s face as he crosses the finish line is harrowing. This is serious business, and Nick was obviously born for it.
Back in Eugene, our little living-room crowd went wild, caught up in the astonishing power of that final dash. Nick blushed slightly, and thanked us for our praise. It was a strange juxtaposition, our casual bachelor-dinner-party contrasting the high energy of the USA Outdoor Track and Field Championships. We all felt transported, and utterly awed by what we had just witnessed.
The last rockfish fillet disappeared and our company split up to our respective homes. As I drove the short way back to Oakway, my heart was still racing.
-RR
Bad Ass! Thanks for the story.
So HE gets healthy rockfish tacos and I get – what? Brotwurst?
You’re killin’ me. Pass the fresh fish taco! JN
Well, I knew I wanted to run with Nick but I didn’t know I want to fish with him.