Words & photos:
Corran Addison
Corran Addison is a regular contributor to the Paddler magazine and owns Soul Waterman
I did it my way
I have never spoken of my time leading up to the 1992 Olympic Games. The blood, sweat and tears, to quote Churchill, I sacrificed were undoubtedly not as hard as those of some and were harder than others. But this story is mine.
I revered the games throughout my youth, idolising remarkable athletes such as Daley Thompson, Mary Loe Renton, Mark Spitz, and kayaking’s own Norbert Sattler.
Whitewater kayaking had made but one appearance in the 70-year history of the modern Olympics, so it was not like I was holding out. And anyway, growing up in isolated, civil war-wracked South Africa, international sport was not an option.
Escaping the war-torn country, mainly to avoid military conscription, where I would be forced to fight against the freedom fighters I supported, I fled to Belgium with my mother and my brothers, where we settled into a sedentary conventional life of school and youth.
I am naturally active and adventure-seeking, and it wasn’t long before run-ins with the police, a few nights spent in lock up, drug and alcohol abuse as a teen, and hating school convinced me I needed to make some changes.
Three months before the year-end exams, I approached the school principal and asked to take my final exams (O levels) despite being a year behind. They agreed, and I crammed a year’s work into three months. I wrote the exams, passed, and got the hell out of Dodge.
A backpack and a kayak
With a backpack, a kayak I had designed in the garage, and a girlfriend in tow, I bought a one-way ticket to the USA, walked into the Perception factory, and announced they needed to hire me as a designer. I grew up in the Dancer (which I loved), but it was time for something new, I asserted.
It was the summer of 1986. Bill Masters, the founder, hired me on the spot. We filed for the necessary work permits, and I went to work under the watchful eye of expert shaper Alan Stancil. My first boat for them was the Corsica.
Through this, I met seven-time world champion slalom paddler Richard Fox. He had agreed to have his winning slalom design produced in plastic, and the task fell on Alan and me to convert this to something producible.
Bill, Alan, Richard, and I visited Japan to promote the new plastic Reflex with Mont.Bel amongst Japan’s slalom and whitewater paddlers. At the end of the week, a slalom race was held, and I placed second to Richard. He pulled me aside and told me that slalom would be in the 1992 Olympics and that I had the talent to be a good slalom paddler.
At that moment, everything changed. He gave me his composite Reflex in the US, and I began to train.
Alone.
Easly, South Carolina
I was in Easly, South Carolina, and there was nothing in the way of slalom infrastructure near where Perception was located. I set up gates on the Saluda River in Greenville, and every day after work, I’d go ‘work out’.
It was an odd thing. I had yet to learn how to train or what to train. Ad hoc, I’d go down faithfully daily and ‘do gates’. It’s not like I could YouTube this.
Then, in December 1989, I broke my back running the infamous Looking Glass Falls and spent the next three months as an invalid. It would be three more months before I could step back into a kayak again and a full year before I was functioning as I had before, with the ability to paddle the extreme rivers I’d come to love.
So, slalom was a useful respite. It allowed me to paddle low-impact and rebuild strength. 1990, I left Perception and moved to the NOC to train full-time.
Unemployed, penniless, and with employment a limited prospect in Bryson City, I ambled about aimlessly between workouts. Chris Spellius, once a K1 sprint hopeful himself, took me in and allowed me to stay rent-free. He knew the drill. He’d been there. He’d feed me, and occasionally, I could use his car for the 30-minute drive to the slalom course.
More often than not, I hitchhiked to and from the workout twice a day, every day.
Broke, I’d bum food off of passing paddlers. There, I’d train with the other US Olympic hopefuls, with coach Fritz Haller, and slowly, I got faster and faster as I understood how to train. Hungry, half the time sleeping under trees at the NOC, Fritz’s wife took pity on me and insisted he bring me home (like some stray dog), where they gave me a place to sleep and food.
The Reflex2 I was using was not suited to my style, so I designed a slalom boat that would help me paddle my way – more rocker, wider bow, more bow volume, and an easier-to-pivot tail. Andy Bridge agreed to build the boat and gave me one if I could sell it to others. I went to DC, built the mould and the first boat, and competed at the nationals, where I didn’t do well.
Apartheid abandoned
Then the hammer fell. South Africa announced that they would abandon the Apartheid racial system, and in return, the IOC said that they would allow South Africa to compete in the 1992 games.
I called my father and told him I was returning to train to make the South African team.
My economic status remained the same upon arrival. The other hopefuls lived and worked in South Africa and would train before and after work. In an oppressive drought, rivers with enough water were few and far between, and the best site was in Escort (Kwazulu Natal), a spot where, by chance, 1972 Olympic silver medalist Norbert Sattler was coaching the Austrian team over the winter.
Befriending Wayne Nicol, who lived in Weenen, the next town over, we set out to design new and better paddling equipment for the South African market. Years of isolation under Apartheid had left them without the equipment we took for granted in the US. It wasn’t much money, but it was a place to stay and some food.
Weenen was a solid 40-minute drive to the slalom course in Escort. Each day, I’d hitchhike there, spend the morning training, go down to the McDonalds afterwards and steel packets of crackers and ketchup to make a ‘sandwich’, sleep under the trees, do the afternoon workout, and then hitchhike back to Weenen, where we’d spend the evening designing and sewing the equipment we were creating.
Occasionally, I’d borrow Wayne’s Land Rover to drive to the Tugela to work out in ‘bigger water’. This car was a sight to be seen. With no seat or windshield, I’d sit on a cooler and squint into the wind. It had neither 1st gear nor reverse, so driving was tactical.
A carjacking
On one occasion, returning after dark from my workout, two minivans were parked across the desolate country road, blocking it off. I had Wayne’s 38 pistol in the cooler, and assuming this was a carjacking, I stopped early to ponder my options. Turning around was not one of them. It was hours of driving the other way, and I had only a few litres of petrol in the car.
I left the pistol where it was, drove up to the cars, hopped out, and, with a smile, asked if I could help them. They walked over to the car, saw its pitiful condition, and decided I wasn’t the right person to rob. They let me pass, and I went on my way.
A month later, a gunfight broke out outside the house while Wayne was in Durban getting materials. The distinctive clatter of an AK47 would make a short burst, followed by the retort from a pistol. Pop. Pop. Another short burst – pop pop.
Pushing my girlfriend onto the floor, I crawled into Wayne’s room, grabbed his shotgun, and crawled out into the yard, where I watched this spectacle of two people hiding behind opposing walls, shooting at each other without looking up. They eventually ran out of ammunition and took off running in opposite directions.
I walked back into the room and went back to bed.
Alick Rennie and Gary Wade
The team’s two most likely South African candidates were Alick Rennie and Gary Wade. Alick was older, an established and successful Escort farmer, and a long-time slalom paddler. Gary was about my age, also situated locally, and was one of the rising young hopefuls.
South African Canoeing hired Norbert to remain with us and train us, and under his expert eye, we all progressed. Finally, the day came to set up the team trials, and Norbert insisted that the rapid chosen be challenging as the Barcelona course was not easy. His choice was the infamous Tops Needle on the Umgeni – a challenging rapid even without gates. Much protest ensued. But this suited me just fine. With my extreme kayaking background, the harder the course was, the better my chance of making the team. I’d learned in training that I wasn’t much faster than the other guys on easy water, but as the game stepped up, a gap would open.
I won the selections by a whopping 22 seconds (in a sport where there are usually multiple paddlers within a second). I was then told by South African Canoeing that, “I wasn’t really a South African (despite being born and raised there), and I could not have a spot on the team: the three places were going to ‘real South Africans’.” Having been isolated from the world for over a generation, South Africans felt resentment towards outsiders, especially those who had left the country during its challenging times to seek success elsewhere.
This was the beginning of what developed into an apparent exclusion from everything moving forward. Norbert went to bat for me. He argued that they had two places for ‘real’ South Africans, but I was their only chance of getting a good result – so they could justify slalom being in future Olympic teams. His arguments won the day. Alick was made team captain, Garry vice-captain, and I was… well… there to fill the last spot. I felt it important to climatise as quickly as possible to European weather, rivers, and how events were run, so I left months before the ‘official’ chartered flight for the SA Olympic team.
Again penniless, without transport, I ambled about Central Europe joining where I could the workouts of various teams, slotting myself quietly into their national workouts. Only by training with the fastest can you improve. I was harmless enough as a South African, and so I was tolerated.
Alick, who came from money, arrived with his wife Nanette (who was on the women’s team) and with Gary, rented a camper van, and proceeded to go to the various World Cup events around Europe in relative luxury and comfort. Dry and warm, they’d cook meals, sleep on mattresses, and then drive to the next event, each time in a different country.
My lot was quite different. I’d stroll up to a group that looked like they were getting ready to eat and start chatting. I was invariably invited to join them, and a meal was had. My favourite place to sleep in the cold, wet European spring was on the concrete floor of the bathrooms. It was hard and cold, but it was dry.
In Milan, the only dry spot I could find was in a seated position between the toilet door and the toilet itself, so I spent the night huddled, sitting, wearing my (primarily dry) paddling gear (as I did every night), trying to rest. The following day, I was racing for my country.
A growing resentment
I watched with some envy (and a growing resentment) as my fellow team members exited, rested, out of their camper, warm, comfortable, and fed, and they walked the course together.
This would be a good time to point out that they were not inherently bad people. As the descendants of upper-class British colonialists, which very much prevails through the South African culture, you are either ‘one of us’ or not – the gentleman’s club. Enough of my accent was peppered with Americanisms, and my ideas were pervasively American to them, so I was not one of them. The exclusion wasn’t about me. Anyone in my position would have received the same treatment.
Richard Fox
I was lucky enough to have Richard Fox often invite me to walk the course with him and glean from his insight and experience. Still on the payroll, Norbert did what he could, but he was in an impossible position to please the SACF (Alick) and do what he could to help me. I was truly an unwelcome outsider. On one occasion, the SA, Australian and NZ teams had agreed they would go out for dinner. I had little money but decided that this one time, I’d splurge. When I arrived at their camping spot, they announced the camper was full and drove off without me. I ate with the Germans.
At each event’s conclusion, the South Africans packed up and left for the next event, and I scrambled to find a lift for myself and my boat (often not the same ride) to the next event. The German paddlers were very accommodating and often gave me rides, as did the sole Portuguese paddler.
Hitchhiking across Europe
Between two such events, I was unable to get myself a ride. I was left hitchhiking across Europe. Dropped off at one end of a city, I’d have to find a way across to the highway on the other side, where my chances of a ride to my destination were more likely. Backpack slung on one shoulder, kayak on the other, paddle in hand, I’d trudge across whatever town I was in until I could get a ride. In one such town, the German police stopped and asked what I was doing, and they gave me a lift to a good spot. On another, a restaurant waiter saw me sitting on the street corner with a bag and boat and asked what I was doing. When I said it had been a few days since I’d eaten, he invited me in (they were not open yet) to eat a good meal. On my travels, I encountered some genuinely kind people.
I eventually arrived at the race just hours before it started, in time for last-minute registration, but I was unable to do any training runs. Considering I’d been sleeping beside a highway for a week, it wasn’t a bad result.
Despite this, that season competing in Europe remains one of my most cherished memories. I loved competing, and while I was a mid-pack to rear marker most of the time, the challenge was always there to beat someone who had bested me in the previous race. I continued to train with enthusiasm and vigour, and race with passion and delight. I welcomed the new course’s arrival each week, learning its secrets (courses the Europeans had raced on for years but were each new to me) and looking forward to race day.
A shiny new boat
In Augsburg, I, unfortunately, snapped my boat in half (doing pirouettes in a hole like an idiot), and Jan Keller lent me his old Pyranha Flight – a relic from the previous decade. I appreciated the loan for the race (and had a decent result), but in desperation, I called Andy Bridge in the USA to ask if he could make me a new boat from the mould. I pointed out that I had no money and couldn’t pay for it. He came through for me, made the boat, and gave it to the US team to bring over. So, I had a shiny new boat for Barcelona, with my (heavy) repaired original as my backup.
I was fast in practice at the challenging course in La Seu D’urgel (the little village in the Catalan mountains where the course was located), and a top-20 was an outside possibility. The opening ceremony in Barcelona for the Games itself was a marvel; standing out there with all those amazing athletes and tens of thousands of people cheering you on from the stands was an experience I’ll never forget.
Coulda, shoulda, mighta
Sadly, race day was a disaster; missing a gate (both runs) and having to loop back for it put me in the lower reaches of the pack. Despite this enormous time loss, everywhere else, I was fast, and without that colossal error, who knows? Coulda, shoulda, mighta. Alick placed two spots ahead of me and Gary a place behind. I’m sure half the field has their ‘mistake’ story.
After the event, a representative from South Africa told me that if I wanted to compete for South Africa in the 1996 games, I had to move back there and ‘train the next generation as the coach’. It was not a paying gig. I pointed out that my goal at the next Olympics was to medal, not just to attend, and to do this, I needed to live and train with the best. I was told categorically that I would not have a spot on the team unless I moved back to South Africa, no matter how fast I was.
Freestyle
I returned to the USA, leaving my kayak at the check-in desk in Frankfurt when they refused to put it on the plane, much to the dismay of the personnel left to deal with it. I decided to take another path for my competitive urges – freestyle.
As I circle back to the top, these hardships must be kept in perspective. Unlike so many people around the world who have nothing, mine were by choice. At any time, I could quit, get a job, and live well. I chose this life. The hurdles were motivating for me. The treatment by my team members motivated me to train harder, be faster, and beat them.
I also learned the value of being kind to others. So many were kind to me during those years, and their small acts of kindness, meaning nothing to them, were of unimaginable help to me. To this day, whenever I see someone in need, I try to make a small effort to help. I know from experience that even small gestures are a big deal.
Slalom in South Africa rapidly faded. They didn’t qualify for a kayak for the 1996 games, and the sport died a pitiful, scornful death. I went on to win a medal three times on the world stage in freestyle.
Alick and Gary
Alick died in a flying accident decades later, and Gary, who I remained friends with (and he tried to be there for me without endangering his position with the others), moved to Canada, where he lives with his family.
To this day, slalom remains my first love.
