There comes a time in life when one’s goals or dreams or wants or desires are put under scrutiny, much like a very drawn-out 2km race. The time comes when even your family may have doubts about what you choose to do with your life, no matter how noble the cause (in this case, that’s more like a 10km). That’s all good – that’s normal. The only time that doubt becomes a problem is when you doubt yourself, to the point of questioning if you really like some of the things you said you have liked in your past.

In the last ten months, I have invariably faced, and been confronted with that doubt. I was made to see that the path that I chose to reach my desired career was incorrect. I was made to see that my inventory of abilities did not match the task which I needed to excel at, let alone achieve. I had listened to the advice of those who told me that the path was the one I would need if I ever wanted to get where I said I wanted to go. I listened to them tell me what I needed, instead of filtering their advice against my experiences and things I know to be true in my life. For me, their path, which I thought I chose for myself, was like trying to row a 16km race having not practiced – of course I was doomed to blister and fail.

After falling from the path, I was at a severe loss about what to do for about a month and a half. I had no idea if I was even qualified for a job. I applied with painfully-detailed applications to jobs that I thought could still tie me back to the old path, but when they didn’t come through either I realized that I had to let go completely.

I had to start at ground zero; find an empirical experience, and start testing myself from there to see what I could and could not do. As my coach would often advise for race-starts, I would need to tap-tap-tap before I could lengthen out my stroke.

The first idea that came to my head was the one I picked: maybe a good place to start would be the service and hospitality industry. If I needed to make rent, and still wanted to exercise an empathetic nature, maybe being a server wasn’t so bad. Turned out that I revered the job more than I should have (like I haven’t done that before), and I naively signed up full time for my first serving job. The struggles were amplified by slow days, rough dealings with co-workers, a family emergency, and a full-time course load. When I had to slow things down for the summer, I realized at that point that I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I woke up, went to work, and passed out exhausted every day. I didn’t budget for time to take care of myself or my career goals, because I thought that rent was more important. Once I saw that this was happening, I knew something needed to change. I needed my drive back again. So I left the job that was holding back that drive.

Now that I am again between jobs, I am not as scared as I was at first. I am no longer afraid to toss out a line to any opportunity, because as long as I respond to opportunity, there is an actual chance that it could respond back one day, if not today. If I see something that I believe in, something that I know I like, I should jump at any chance to be part of it; and if it costs too much, I should volunteer for involvement.

Enter the purpose of this entry. I haven’t been back on the water since my senior year of college. Many days have passed when I would jog with heavy breathing by the boathouses longing for the feel of oars in my hands, but I always thought that I would have to pay a membership fee to be involved. While that may be true, I hadn’t considered before today that I could do anything without that fee.

On this sweaty DC afternoon, I found myself trekking my usual Lincoln Memorial Route, when I suddenly thought: hey, maybe I should hang out around the docks more often. I always love watching the boats from that low vantage point. Just as I was about to reach that stretch of metal-carpet which would lower me down to the loading flats, my eye caught a “private dock” sign and I thought instinctively that maybe I shouldn’t. A young man with a Jackson Pollock-like shirt, salmon pants, and earbuds casually strolled past me down to the flats (clearly he wasn’t renting any boat), after which point I heard mad shouting from one lonely boathouse staff member, running to try and enforce the privacy I had encountered, which “JP” had invaded.

As I watched this young fellow get chewed out for not paying attention to the sign, another thought crossed my mind. As long as the staff member was getting mad at someone else, why should I not try to find out what the boathouse has to offer? I came up with the best opening line I could considering I had just watched a lecture-session: “Goodness, it’s been so long since I’ve been in one of these”, I said, pointing to a nearby shell. To my relief and happy surprise, I got an “Oh yeah? really? how long’s it been for ya?” from the recently flustered crew member. I was amazed to find out how easy it was to get into a conversation about boats, and this was easily becoming the perfect setting to extract information.

I found out that while participation in the rowing classes and programs was on a fee-based system, there was nothing that said I couldn’t offer myself to volunteer as a worker in the house. Maybe there was some odds-and-ends handy work that needed done for the boats, or maybe the coaches could use some assistance in their programs for the close of the season. I was happy to hear that there was no formal volunteering application process, nothing that could hinder leaving my contact information and saying, “hey, lemme know if you guys ever need help around here sometime. I would love to get to know the crews and coaches,” or some such sentences.

This was nothing compared to the long process it takes to volunteer in any of the metropolitan hospitals in the area. For instance, I provided several references and an essay on the reason behind my desire to volunteer in order to get clearance to work in data-entry at a surgical clinic last summer and shadow the physicians there. Striking up a conversation at a boathouse was the last thing I imagined that I would have to do if I wanted to volunteer there. But boats are something that I like, even years after I’ve left the sport formally. There’s nothing externally formal about a like, except what comes from inside the person that likes. And something told me that if I good-naturedly offered to be part of something I liked, I would get a response. And I did.

As I walked out of the boathouse and back towards my house, I saw a roster of rowers. Upon reading through the list out of curiosity, I spotted the name of one of the surgeons I followed last summer. I walked away with a smile, thinking some kind of fate drew me down to the river today. Nobody told me to go – I just remembered what I liked and decided to keep that like in my life. Whatever fate this was or will be, it was awesome.