Coupeville Sports

Now I can spend more time at home harassing my bananas.

Sir Reginald of Chutney has passed.

Well, actually he didn’t pass. He slid like a mother halfway down the Hill O’ Death and got lodged between two unfriendly-looking rocks, and with that, I am bringing my Penn Cove adventures to a close for 2012.

And, at this point, you’re standing there, scratching your head and saying, “Do you have brain damage, boy? You’re not making a lick of sense!”

Let’s back up.

I have been going down the Hill O’ Death in front of my house and plunging into Penn Cove — twice a day most days — for 133 days this year. Last year I made it to 167. In swimsuit and diving gloves only, because wet suits are for fancy lads with disposable income and no self-resolve.

I thought I might pass last year’s mark, but the crumbly, stumbly Hill O’ Death, which is treacherous even in the best of conditions, has gone downhill even faster than normal with the return of the rain. Literally.

What was once amusing and cheeky, a test to one’s resolve, has become really, really damn hard to navigate. And since there are several places where falling off the drop-off would propel me face-first many, many, many, many multiple feet onto a rocky, mussel-encrusted beach, I have lost a bit of my resolve.

It came to a head a few days back, when I took a nasty slide at the very top of the trail — the most dangerous area — and my trusty walking staff (Sir Reginald of Chutney) went shooting out of my hand and showed me up close and personal what a fall from the top of the trail might look like.

It wasn’t pretty.

Now Sir Reginald of Chutney sits way down the hill, partially buried in a pile of rocks and brambles and there is no way anyone in their right mind will ever retrieve him. He sits there, biding his time, a vivid reminder of what could happen every time I peek over the edge.

I found a new staff, Sir Reginald of Chutney, Jr., but the hill has gotten even more treacherous in the days since, and when I hit Day 133, which added to last year equals 300 days (and with two trips a day at least two-thirds of the time, I have been in the less-than-warm waters of Penn Cove 500 or so times in the last two years), it was time to get out while I could still make that decision on my own.

So, the battered and ripped tennis shoes I wore in the water have departed the back porch and found a new home in the garbage can. They were getting pretty ratty at this point anyway. The swimsuit has been hung up. My body is getting used to not being cold all the time.

I will be back. The spring will come at some point. My chutzpah will overwhelm my sanity.

Until then, I bow to the Hill O’ Death. Well played, madam, well played.