There is a topic that I haven’t brought up here. Because it will allow Google to put two and two together. But it was a part of my life.

I used to fly sport kites. Competitively.

Seriously.

I wasn’t a master at it, but I was successful. At my best, I represented the East Coast at the national championships, and placed fourth in Experienced Quadline Ballet. That’s a solo event where a four-line kite is flown to a piece of music and the flyer is scored on precision and choreography. That same year, I took third in the fighter kite skills competition, also in experienced class. I had invitations to international events.

For the years I competed, it was an expensive and busy diversion. You chase the competitions up and down the coast, like cowboys chase rodeos. I went to Boston; Newport, RI; New York; Belmar, NJ; Wildwood, NJ; Ocean City, MD; Richmond, VA; Treasure Island, FL; Grand Haven, MI; and Ocean Shores, WA. Not all in the same year, but some places more than once a year. One month I was gone every weekend.

Now, competitive sport kiting might not sound very important, but, like any hobby you can name, there is a small group of people that take it very seriously. And when you surround yourself with that crowd, any crowd enthusiastic about a subject, it feels very acceptable and normal. Better than that, even. Because if you are talented at that activity, the praise they will heap upon you feels wonderful. I was looking for that at that time in my life.

The winning was fun. The flying was relaxing. The travel was interesting. It all made for great diversions at a time in my life when I wasn’t very happy. That was the main reason I did it. It was fun, and if you’re having fun, you must be happy, right?

It was fun to travel seven hours to a strange place, pull in, and see all of your friends there. The travel, the long hours on the field/beach, and the competition made for intense friendships. I met some great people, and some real jerks.

Then it stopped being fun. The competition part of it became too much. To be a contender took too much money. There was pressure to participate. As one of the top flyers, you were expected to give back to the sport. Cliques became clubs, and suddenly your time wasn’t your own anymore. You were supposed to be at certain places and do certain things, and if you didn’t, people got mad. There were obligations. And I was spending all my vacation, and going into debt, to attend what sometimes felt like another job.

So I quit.

Not all at once. I moved from multi-line kites to fighter kites for a while, believing that they were more “zen”. Then fighters became popular and brought all the same baggage. Then I just went to hang out. But if you’re not chasing championship points, there isn’t much reason to go to every festival. Eventually, I stopped going.

As I said, I was doing it as a diversion. It was a distraction from a depression, like some people use drugs. Any effort, any amount of money could be justified because it was fun. It made me happy. That made it all the more tough when it stopped being fun. Then I had to deal with the depression directly. Beginning with identifying the depression as such.

I tried a therapist and anti-depressants for a while, but neither of them solved anything. It was actually an Ani DiFranco song that separated the concepts of “fun” and “happiness” for me. Gravel:

“Maybe you can stop me
From ever being happy
But you’re not going to stop me
From having fun”

I still have some nice trophies and plaques to remember those years by though.

I wonder if my kites are worth anything on Ebay?