Montenegro Days 4-6

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When I last checked in, we were halfway through our time in Montenegro; as it’s now the night before we leave, and I imagine most of you have heard next to nothing from the kids, another blog post is probably overdue.

Day 4: As many of you read, much of the first three days of the trip were spent in training. While that shouldn’t be surprising (it is a training trip, after all), since we at Agoura want your kids to be well-rounded and cultured as well as dynamite water polo players, Kevin and I gave the kids Friday afternoon off and we all went on a “boat excursion” (Milos’s words) that he and Dusty arranged for us. We justified this by giving the kids a killer of a morning dry-land workout (even going so far as splitting the team into five mini-teams of four; after all, nothing triggers hard-work like a little friendly competition) before training with Jadran again. Watching the gradual evolution of our Jadran competition has been pretty funny: the first day, they brought their 14’s; the second day, their 14’s plus a few 16’s; the third day, predominantly 16’s; and this fourth day nearly all 16’s, with two “national team players.” Walking on the pool deck each morning has been like watching one of those time-condensing stop-motion videos: every day, the kids across the pool deck are a little bigger and a little hairier, like they aged a solid year overnight. The results were always the same though.

So after another Jadran training session, we met Milos in the lobby of the hotel, from where we walked 10 minutes down to the harbor and onto a “65-passenger” boat. I’m not sure exactly where they got that number from, but having been on it with 26 other people (Milos brought some friends), the only possible way they’re getting 65 people on that thing is if they hang a handful off the sides like the boat cushions and superglue a baker’s dozen onto the hull. That by no means is meant to disparage the boat; it was a perfect size for our party – a nice seated area in the cabin where we could see the view (and where we could nap, a very popular choice on the way back) and a flat top (basically the roof… I know next to nothing about sailing vernacular in case you couldn’t tell) that was big enough for all of us to lay up there and soak in the absolutely perfect day (pictures should be attached). Also, going forward, I will try to avoid any type of temporal estimations… basically, I know that we left at around 11, got back at 5:30, and the chronological order in which things occurred, but have no idea what the actual times were; when we were sitting at lunch, I would have believed any time between 12:15 and 3. We took the boat out onto the sea, and Milos pointed out the other close parts of Montenegro. There were two highlights on this leg of the boat ride: an Alcatraz-like mini-island used to detain prisoners of Iceland during World War 2 (naturally giving rise to a whole host of history questions I didn’t know the answers to) and swimming into a naturally-occurring cave. It was a relatively small cave that jutted out into the sea from a rock face, with two large arched openings on either side large enough for some smaller boats to pass through. We dropped anchor outside and all swam inside. The interior was stunning. The elevated, barely-visible ceilings and high arched openings gave the interior the sanctified power of a gothic cathedral, like an organic Notre-Dame. This only added to the effect of the water: Because the light could not directly enter the cave water (we entered when the sun was directly overhead), the only light inside was the spillover from the light outside, which meant that, instead of reflecting off the tops of the wave ridges as would occur with direct light, rather it penetrated into the water, as if illuminating the water from a place just below the surface. So while the water as a whole looked dark and opaque like polished obsidian, when each wave would reach its crest, the upper section of it – the section above the general sea level – would catch the ambient light and turn darkly electric, an extraterrestrial turquoise with the same kind of self-generated radioactive glow that white t-shirts acquire under a blacklight.

After we had spent enough time in the cave to realize how cold and salty the water actually was, we went back onto the boat and made our way to another beach. This beach was very popular and clearly catered to the boat-touring crowd, as the only things we found in the area were two cafes, a small handful of crepe stands, and a beach volleyball court. This was a place exclusively designed for peace of mind. (Only two things really didn’t help: 1) personally, my ideal beach has soft white sand, not pure rocks (though compared to a slab of concrete, I guess small smooth rocks are kind of like sand; 2) at my ideal beach, they don’t try to charge me 2 euro to use one of the plethora of bright red beach umbrellas that were laying discarded all over the beach.) By this point, we hadn’t eaten since breakfast and all the swimming and training and salt were catching up to us, so the first thing we did upon landing was eat. After that, a few of us walked around and ate crepes, a few sat on the beach and ate crepes, and the rest went and played 5-Alive at the cage tied to a buoy in the water. (Those are two more features of Montenegrin beaches: swimming areas designated by strings of buoys and public water polo cages like we have basketball courts in the States.) We rotated in those activities until we decided to get a big game of beach volleyball going. I was wary at first since I wasn’t sure sand existed in the country and didn’t really feel like playing rock volleyball, but I was pleasantly surprised. The sand was a little coarse, and there wasn’t a whole lot of it, but there was certainly enough, and we got a really good (and, naturally, competitive) game going. I also discovered – or I should say, rediscovered – why we’re all water polo players; land is clearly not where we athletically thrive. As we were all pretty sweaty by this point, we all headed back into the water, where, in typical American fashion, we took to flipping each other over in the SS Kevin (a raft – you can see it in all its glory in the attached picture) and chicken fights.

After we had our fill of grappling with each other and small cuts on our feet, we got back on the boat to head back. Before we did that, though, we had one more stop: an old abandoned submarine bay. It’s basically a long, narrow concrete tunnel inserted into the side of a rock ledge. It’s long enough that a submarine can be half submerged in water and totally covered by mountain side. Since we’re talking about submarines, obviously the water just at the entrance has to be very deep. What this means is that a person can jump from the little perch at the top of the tunnel (probably 60 feet) and have plenty of water depth to land in. Of course, 60 feet is pretty darn high, especially as you’re looking down over the edge. It was pretty funny to watch the certainty with which they climbed the first half of the mountain up to the jumping point, then the gradual erosion of their courage as they approached the top and started to understand how high they were, then the almost inevitable halt at the perch, certainty replaced by the instinct of self-preservation. Of course, nothing can quell even the strongest internal warnings like peer pressure, and so quite a few made the jump (some even three or four times). A few highlights: Dylan Grant practically doing a back-flop, causing the Montenegrins to almost fall over themselves laughing; Gilbert having to go off three times because my camera didn’t focus on the first two; Dylan Pritchett a) having to take a running, yelling start in order to amp himself up enough to actually jump, then b) actually taking an audible breath in mid-air in order to continue his scream on the way down; Chase sitting 20 feet from the top for basically the entire time making the same comments (“this is really high… how high do you think this is?” or “I really want to go,” then when you say “okay then go,” he says “I will, I will” then doesn’t move) and making the same negotiations (“if you go I have to go,” then when the person goes, Chase makes the same negotiation with the next guy) before finally jumping at the very end (I have the video, and it’s hilarious, but it’s probably not language-appropriate for a family blog); Max having no trouble with the jump but all kinds of trouble just climbing back out (picture attached); and Tyler a) screaming like a dog whistle on the way down and b) developing a bruise the size and shape of Australia on his thigh from the landing. After we all had our fill, we retreated back to the boat and went home. On the whole, a great way to spend a day off.

Day 5 was Saturday, when we were back to our two-a-day schedule, with a scrimmage with Jadran in the morning and the Russian team in the afternoon. My first sight on the way down to breakfast: Will walking like an 85-year-old man (or me at the Royal game last year)… right heel, right toe, pause. Shift weight left… left heel, left toe, pause. I started laughing and all he said – totally matter-of-factly – “I’m in a lot of pain.” As I said, the dry-land set the day before was difficult. So after we beat Jadran in the morning (by this point, the 14-and-under group had all but disappeared), instead of another dry-land workout, we spent the entire hour we had in the gym stretching. This seemed to help as we dominated the Russian team.

Day 6 was Sunday, our last full day in the country, and we started it off a little differently. After our second team competition (another dryland set), instead of our usual Jadran scrimmage, Kevin and I bought a couple rafts (our coaching chairs) and a makeshift water polo ball and took the kids out to play in the sea. As I said earlier, a cage lashed to a buoy line is a relatively common occurrence, but maybe 20 minutes from our hotel, we noticed that at one spot in the sea, there was actually a full, 30m course marked off. When we arrived there were already a few guys messing around in the pool (yes, I know it’s not a pool, but it’s easier to call it that), so we ran relays (our culminating team competition) until we could claim the court. We split into three teams and had a full two-hour practice (ending with a going-away “Pairs” game). We then went back to our hotel to rest before the afternoon “round-robin” tournament. Well, some of us rested. I had heard about public clay tennis courts not too far from the hotel, so Dylan and I managed to get in a few sets. Unfortunately, we both forgot sunscreen (who knew you could get burned outside of Agoura?), so by the end our faces were about the same color as the courts, but we had a good time and I can now say I’ve played on clay.

I knew the Russian coach was pretty excited by the idea of the afternoon round-robin, but until we arrived, I don’t think any of us realized quite how excited. There were five teams in the tournament – they split themselves into two teams, then had Jadran, Biella (probably misspelled, another Montenegrin polo club), and us – and on the wall hung flags of the three countries represented. We opened the tournament with a lap around the pool for the athletes and stood for all three national anthems, and the stands were practically filled with Russian families. There were trophies, an announcer, and an all-tournament team. This didn’t feel like an unofficial scrimmage; this felt like real water polo. All that was missing were official referees (an omission that I’d sorely miss… but more on that later). We opened with a tougher-than-expected victory over the Russian “A” team, then lost tight matches against Biella and Jadran and walked over the Russian “B” team. It had been awhile since some of the kids had been in a real tournament atmosphere (especially since much of the team did not go to Junior Olympics), and I think it was a very good experience for them to be put back in that scenario, to be reminded of how stakes and expectations ratchet up, and how focus and level of play must match them. A few lapses in concentration, a few submissions to the weight of the moment are the difference between victory and defeat. As the Agoura team, we hadn’t been in that situation in a long time. Hopefully we learned something about ourselves.

There was one other incident that made this tournament unique. The last game of the night featured Biella vs. Russia “B.” The conclusion of the game was inevitable: Biella was clearly the superior team, but as Biella had had a very physical game against Russia “A,” the lack of suspense in what the final score would be was made up for in how we might arrive there. And I, of course, had the honor of reffing. The game started out fine: Biella built a substantial lead and things were physical but not too bad. Then, with around 4 minutes left in the game, I noticed these two players starting to mouth off in the line-up after a goal. I waived my hands for them to look up, made what I hoped was a hand gesture that said “don’t do it; I’m watching you guys” and started the next possession. No more than five seconds in, the Biella player fouled the Russian player hard – very hard – and the Russian player came up swinging. The fight was pretty short – I’m whistling the whole time, of course – before they were pulled away by their teammates. I obviously get rid of both of them and give their coaches hand gestures that I hoped said “are you guys kidding? Let’s keep this under control.” Unfortunately, just like my other hand gestures, apparently these were also lost in translation. The next time down, after the ball turned over (so Biella was going to offense), their substitutes – or who I assumed would be their substitutes – came back in. The Russian team had taken their player out of the game, but when I looked up at who was swimming down from the Biella side, I realized it’s the same player I had just excluded. To absolutely no one’s surprise, he immediately jumped on a different Russian player, and they started going at it. (Again, I’m waiving my arms and whistling like crazy, but at this point it’s like a parent flicking the light switch on and off to stop her kids from fighting.) To everyone’s surprise, however, the Russian player previously involved apparently decided he had had enough and – I’m not kidding – did a flying jump kick from the deck right onto the Biella player. I took that as my cue to leave, blew a whistle that absolutely nobody heard, made the “end game” hand gestures that absolutely nobody saw, and walked to the side.

So concluded our water polo experience in Jadran. Eventually things calmed down enough to have the title ceremony and big group picture, though I know that what everyone will remember from the game was the brawl. For a while I was unhappy with the idea that that ridiculous spectacle was our finale, but I’m not so sure it’s such a bad thing. We handled ourselves well – sometimes very well – in the water, but more importantly, we handled ourselves well outside it. The boys saw how it looks when you lose control. The players involved were no doubt fueled by a sense of righteous justification, that they were somehow defending their honor by brawling in a friendly exhibition tournament. But what did we see? We saw ego-blindness and overreaction, the result not of a rational response to a challenge, but of a player so drowned in an emotional deluge that he is momentarily incapable of understanding circumstance and perspective. Obviously we’ve all had those moments, and I don’t want you to think I’m making more of this than there was – really, despite all the kung-fu drama of the jump kick, it was simply a pretty short fight – but in a sport as physical as water polo, in which it can be very easy to let things escalate from self-protection to personal vendetta, it can be a nice reminder for all of us.

I know I’m a day behind, but I should be back with the first few days of Croatia tomorrow (I’ll go for frequency over verbosity for this next week). Hope all’s well back home.

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Photos

Photo 2
Kevin, ready for anything

Photo 4
Adam and Will next to the only sand in Montenegro

Photo 6
Survived the jump

Photo 8
Nothing like fear to bring a team together

Photo 9
The jump was fine; it's the getting out that's hard.

Photo 11
The pre-tournament lap

Photo 12
Post-tournament

Photo 13
Good-bye, Kevin!

Comments

[Ball Family]

We are so enjoying the blog!
Sounds like the adventures have been wonderful! Thanks so much for keeping us all posted, and mostly for taking such good care of our boys.