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WATERSKI MagazineI was packing my wetsuit when a whacked-out worry surfaced. In less than 24 hours, I would be off to Florida for a ski school adventure, and I was suddenly gripped by the irrational fear that I might not be able to get up on my slalom with Jennifer Leachman and Lucky Lowe looking on.
For your average skier, getting up on the slalom with a future Hall of Famer in the boat has to be a little like shooting a free throw in front of Michael Jordan. How many hot shots might choke with His Airness looking on?
This nagging concern aside, I was thrilled to be flying south to three schools run separately by former world champion Lowe, former U.S. pro tour champion Leachman and professional wakeboarder Dave Briscoe. My goals for the trip were simple. As a passionate slalom skier, I wanted to improve my style, hang out with other skiers – and try not to invent too many new variations on your basic face-plant.
It's important to prepare for this kind of trip, especially if you live in Chicago and haven't skied for a few months. So I prepared by getting a vicious virus that knocked me cold for three full weeks and kept me from swimming laps, my preferred form of aerobic exercise.
Aside from packing all the normal stuff, like shorts, toothbrush and underwear, a skier bound for school should also take all of her (or his) equipment. I toted slalom, gloves, spray leg and wetsuit. What I did not take was my vest. This was a mistake. At one school, there was no equipment; I had to borrow a vest from another student, who luckily was exactly my size. At another, the vest I used was a little too snug.
“There are so many things you have to be thinking about when you're at ski school,” Leachman told me later, “and if you have equipment that's unfamiliar, that's just one more thing.”
I also took lots of heavy-duty sunscreen and a hat. The best instructors give students a chance to ride in the boat while other skiers are being coached, and the sun and glare from the water can be brutal.
There is one thing I wish I had left at home – my ego. Even if you're a super skier (which I'm not), your technique will be picked apart. I found the best approach was to keep an open mind and swear underwater when necessary.
My first stop was at Lowe's school, which is next to an orange grove on a small, private lake just north of Winter Haven. Wearing a big straw hat that made him look like the lead singer in a mariachi band, Lowe drove his ski boat, using arm signals and loud whistles to let skiers know when to pull.
One of his first suggestions was to change my grip. I did what he said, skiing first with both palms down, then with right hand, instead of left, on top. Amazingly, this simple switch of hand position made me feel more stable.
Next set, I hit the course, got four buoys and took a dive. “Who taught you to keep your arms like that?” he asked across the water. “You should look like you're holding a cafeteria tray,” he said. So much for my style.
Later, on the way back to my motel, I considered stopping at Morrison's Cafeteria to borrow a tray so I could practice. What I really needed, however, was several months of pull-ups.
The next morning, for something completely different, I ambled to Briscoe's Ski Away School on Winter Haven's Chain of Lakes, where I spent a few days on a wakeboard. This turned out to be a great idea for a couple of reasons. Learning to use Briscoe's twin-tip was both exhilarating and easy. And wakeboarding was also kinder to my muscles than slalom skiing.
Of the three schools I attended, Briscoe's was the most laid-back and family-oriented. Among other students I met were a 10-year-old girl who had never skied, an accomplished wakeboarder from Germany who was trying to nail a front roll, and some amazingly talented disabled skiers from Britain.
Briscoe is a dynamo who's both funny and patient when he teaches. He'll keep the boat running until dark if there are still skiers waiting to ride. I was on the lake with Briscoe and other students until after 7 p.m. for two straight days.
A former show skier at Cypress Gardens and Sea World, Briscoe and his assistant, British competitor Steve Reuter, teach all disciplines. Briscoe encouraged me to try to jump. “We'll lower the jump and I'll go over with you,” he said. I was enticed, but decided I'd better keep body intact for the family. Maybe next time.
Wakeboarding was a kick, but it was time to get back on the slalom. My next destination was Leachman's training center in Orlando. The former women's slalom world record holder was holding her 20-month-old daughter, Taylor, when I met her. Warm and animated, she was eager to talk skiing.
“So what's the best way to prepare for school?” I asked.
The pro, who looks like a Vogue model, recommended a rigorous program of weight lifting. “People call 30 days in advance and ask what to do,” she explained. “By then it's too late.”
Gathered around her black-and-white plaid coffee table were three students: Gary Hamann, a mechanical engineer from Easton, Connecticut; Rainer Schuttenhelm, a Lufthansa pilot from Hanover, Germany; and Larry Rowthorn from Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada. All were intermediate skiers trying to run the course, but struggling a bit.
Rowthorn said he'd done 100 sit-ups a day for the last few months to get stomach and back muscles in shape, but was still achy from skiing. “And I'm a flooring contractor. I have a strong back.”
We wrote our names on a board – the ski lineup. Preparation included putting on a cap with an earpiece – the Ultra Sport – that would allow Leachman to talk to us from the boat. This turned out to be a nifty piece of equipment.
When it was my turn, Leachman asked, “Do you get up OK?”
“Sure,” I said, then remembered I'd worried at home about that. Waste of time. I popped right up, amazed to hear the champ's voice in my ear.
With our high-tech communication, she could tell me precisely when to turn, pull and release. I felt like a beginner, concentrating hard on every move. But when she said, “That was a good cut,” my day was made.
Leachman made a point of saying prospective ski school students should be “realistic” in their expectations. “Ski school is not the Hilton,” said Leachman. “We don't have waiters in tails delivering drinks.” In short, here's how my three coaches differed in outlook and style.
Lowe was all business. He zeroed in on specific problems and offered simple suggestions. “You just give people a good ride and let 'em have some experience, and you can hardly fail,” he told me.
Briscoe was cheerleader as well as coach. “You can do it” was something he said again and again while teaching. He made me feel euphoric about skiing even after I'd crashed.
Leachman was a buddy. She chatted about taking her daughter to tournaments (“She's good company”), then switched to detailed instructions on how to pull correctly through a cut.
At the end of my personally selected three-stop tour of central Florida schools, I thought briefly about continuing my excursion. I could have visited some of the other two dozen or so schools in Florida, or the endless array out West. If the right mood had come over me, I could have worked over a trick ski or Air Chair, or even tried barefooting and swivel skiing. But the truth is, midway into my trip I could have used a boat hoist to get my aching body out of bed. Here's what helped my sore muscles: stretching for about 20 minutes in the morning, long, hot showers after skiing and a little wine with dinner. Hey, who cares about a few aches and pains when that super-cool ski school boat is waiting?
Fre
elance writer Anne Taubeneck spends her summers skiing near her home in Wilmette, Illinois; she spends winters pleading for a Florida ski school assignment.
