I believe that to master a discipline fully, one must explain it to others.

During my nine years as a high school mathematics teacher, I learned the material far better than I ever had in school myself. Even in courses I had taught many times before, I continued to learn new things each year. When you're at the front of a room full of twenty or more kids who can ask anything that pops in their heads, you are forced to think from all angles about things you had thought you understood.

I really appreciate that about teaching: the opportunities to learn never cease. Just because a teacher is the giver of grades rather than the recipient doesn't mean he lacks for intellectual challenges.

That is what has kept me interested in paddling. I have been involved in the sport for over 20 years, and I have mastered many skills; yet I am not even close to knowing everything there is to know.

As often as possible, I seek guidance, and I have found some very capable guides. When I first started paddling, this guidance came on a daily basis from the counselors at the summer camp I attended. As I got older, experience became my best teacher, but I continued to pick the brains of people I trusted whenever I could. These people included the more experienced people I paddled with and, once I started racing, national team members and their coaches.

But I cannot truly consolidate and assimilate all that I have learned until I have taught it to somebody else. That was my "ulterior" motive this past Memorial Day weekend.

A couple of girls I went to college with had told me a few months earlier that they were interested in learning to kayak. One had already bought a whitewater boat and some gear, and the other was considering doing so. One of them half-jokingly asked me if I'd ever be willing to pass along a few pointers. I replied that I would do not only that, but in fact put an entire course together for a weekend. The other girl arranged for us to spend Memorial Day weekend at her parents' house at Kentucky Lake near Murray, Kentucky, and I drove up with boats for myself and for the girl who hadn't bought one yet.

The course I designed included the curriculum of the American Canoe Association's "Intro to Kayaking" course--the wet exit and self-rescue, the bow rescue, the forward stroke, the back stroke, the draw, sculling, and forward and reverse sweeps. Since we had three days to work with, I also incorporated discussion of river safety, an overview of available clothing and equipment for paddling, and instruction in the Eskimo roll.

Even though it was a holiday weekend, we found a reasonably secluded cove on the lake. As I watched my two friends strive bravely to control their boats, I was reminded of the following:

Kayaking is not a natural motion for the beginner. Skills I take for granted were an exotic language to my two students. This was especially true when I introduced the girls to the Eskimo roll: all most people think about when they are under water is where their next breath is going to come from, and the composure to concentrate on hip-snapping the boat up can take a long time to develop. It seems a lifetime ago to me now, but I spent long hours just playing in my boat on the camp lake before I finally achieved the underwater presence of mind necessary to roll consistently.

Words cannot always adequately express what takes place during a few seconds of paddling. I realized this as we worked on forward strokes. Watching the girls struggling to make their short little whitewater boats go in a straight line, I was surprised at how long it took me to pick out the things they were doing right and wrong and render my observations into a comprehensible explanation. My suggestions to them, such as "push across your face with your top arm " and "straighten your lower arm more," came only after I had studied their entire motion, broken it up into its components in my head, and picked out the flaws.

Classic technique, while something to aspire to, is not achieved by every good paddler. One of the first things we did when we assembled Friday evening was watch the video The Brent Reitz Forward Stroke Clinic. The next morning on the lake, the girls, both of whom happen to be very smart and keenly observant, pointed out that my forward stroke didn't quite contain all the components of Brent's. I replied (and I truly believe this; I wasn't just being defensive) that every paddler develops his own style, one that suits his body type and coordination. Still, for the rest of the weekend I found myself thinking hard about the stroke components Brent outlines in his video and how I might refine my stroke to move the boat better.

When I first signed up for canoeing at summer camp when I was 13, the idea of cruising through the backwoods down a swift stream was very appealing to me. But little did I know then what would get me hooked onto the sport for life. Since that summer, I have spent my life learning, refining, polishing, nudging myself ever closer to that unachievable state of perfection, and relishing the process. And the process continues even when duty calls me to lead others along the same path. The teacher is a lifetime learner. Every time he enters his classroom (or his lake, in this case), he faces a real test of just how well he knows the things he thinks he knows.