Ski Lessons

There are many firsts in your life. The first time you learn to walk. The first time you learn to ride a bike. We forget most of these firsts. It's even hard to remember on the first cold day of January, just how blisteringly hot it was last August. And vacations all blur into the other when you try to look back at them. At least, it's that way for me: a year is a long time. But there's one first I remember, clear as anything; the first time I tried to ski.

I must say I’m a native Floridian. Seeing snow was a huge deal for us. We would run outside at the first hint of sleet falling from the sky, our tongues in the air hoping to catch something. I can remember my father driving and driving, looking for snow while we were on vacation. We finally found a small un-melted patch in a ditch on the side of the road. My father pulled the car over so my brothers and I could climb out and make a snowball. Like I said, snow was a huge deal.

When I had the opportunity to take a skiing class for college credit, I naturally jumped at the chance. The six-week course, offered every Tuesday night at a resort ninety minutes from campus, sounded like paradise. The Winter Olympics were only two years away; I had plenty of time to master this. I couldn’t wait to begin.

The first night, I boarded the bus with sixty other classmates and took a seat next to Catalina Menedes from Ecuador. Catalina was typically Ecuadorian, by that I mean beautiful. She had thick black hair, stunning black eyes, and exquisite olive skin. She also spoke perfect English, but with a glorious accent.

We arrived at the resort; those of us without the proper equipment were ushered in to the rental facility to be fitted. We were each given a pair of skis, a set of poles, and a pair of the heavy plastic torture devices they called ski boots. I slid my foot inside the soft lining, as I saw my classmates do, and promptly fell flat on my face. I tried, again, but fared no better. Catalina wasn’t any help. By the time the ski instructor, Tony, came to look for his two missing students, we were laughing hysterically. He took one look at us, pulled us up, and - click, click, click – buckled us in. The pain was immediate.

“I’ve got the wrong size!” I insisted, but Tony shook his head and said,

“You'll get used to it.”

He picked up our skis and poles and walked out to the bunny hill. We followed looking like two female Frankensteins staggering in our boots.

Did I mention that Catalina was beautiful? Tony noticed that, too, and was quite attentive to her needs, making sure her skis were attached properly, showing her how to stand, and where to place her poles. I followed his instructions, but still ended up on the ground three times before my skis were on correctly. It turns out snow is cold and wet. I was learning.

Our first assignment was to learn how to stop. This was accomplished by positioning the tips of the skis together forming a wedge. Tony called this a “plow”. His partner plowed part way down the bunny hill and Tony asked us to follow the example. One by one, the eight other beginning skiers formed their wedges and skied down to the proper spot. When it was Catalina’s turn, Tony skied beside her, guiding her through each move. I was the last one to go. I carefully slid my left ski over so the very tip touched the right, bent my knees as instructed, and plowed … right into the rest of the students.

From there, things didn’t get much better. At every opportunity, I took full advantage of the chance I had to learn about the white stuff Northerners call “snow”. I touched it. I tasted it. I even smelled it. By the time we got to the bottom of the bunny mountain, Catalina and I had declared this the steepest “hill” we’d ever seen, Tony was almost at his wits end, but he loaded us on the chair lift and promised to meet us at the top and try again.

When we reached the top of the lift, we were instructed to raise the bar, stand up, and slide down the small slope. Catalina and I raised the bar. I watched her slide down the slope and land face first in the snow. I remained seated on the chair lift as it circled around to head back down, again.

Suddenly, I heard a loud eardrum-shattering siren. The lift came to an abrupt halt and two giant men huffed their way toward me. I’m not normally afraid of new adventures, but when they directed me to jump off of the chair, I was understandably dubious. Instead, they removed my skis, took away my poles, grabbed hold of my boots, and yanked me off of the chair, depositing me in … more snow.

This ski resort had a lovely lounge. Patrons could sit comfortably, enjoy a hot cocoa or a cold beer, and look out over the entire ski area. The lounge was directly in front of the bunny lift. As I climbed back up to stand next to Catalina, I saw noses pressed against the large plate glass window of the lounge. Some were cheering. Some were clapping. Most were pointing and laughing.

Tony was next to Catalina, too. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a ten dollar bill.

“You ladies look as if you could use a nice cup of hot chocolate,” he said, and directed us to the lounge entrance.

The next five weeks flew by. It turns out, to get credit for taking the class, we only needed to show up and board the bus each week. Whether we learned to ski or not was irrelevant. Catalina and I drank a lot of hot chocolate on those Tuesday nights, thanks to Tony, and we played a lot of cards. On occasion, when the opportunity arose, we’d join the others and press our noses against the large plate glass window, and we’d point and laugh.