Where do retired stick fighters go when they can't fight anymore?

There really isn't any way to explain stick fighting, aka SCA Armored Combat, to people who have never seen it. That's me below. My fighting name is either Lady Oona of Anglesey, or to my family Oona-Bomber Groinsplitter. There is a long story in a reenactment name like mine. I will be happy to tell that story some other time.

2006 Highland River Melees credit Bogpages.com

Yes, we are dressed like "knights," but we use fiber glass poles and rattan. We do not use live steel, we use stick. And we club each other "like baby seals." "He got a wood shampoo, and a dirt nap." Like this guy, who go it in the cup:

credit bogpages.com HRM 2006

The shot above, I hit him in the waist area, which he took as a leg. Then  he tried to trap my spear between his legs. He quickly found that quite uncomfortable. Oh, yeah, I can talk some smack about fighting but I guarantee I can still lay it down. Since my neck is held together with a titanium plate, bone grafts, and 3 screws I'm not letting anyone hit me. I'm gonna bust out first and lay it down. Welcome to Groinsplitter's World. Smack.

Celt Wars 2003 credit bogpages.com

Yeah, that's me above right after nailing a face shot. I'm not a bad spear dueler, but my buddy Shamus would have taken my opponent out in just a moment.

Me and Bain (year?)

Keegan and I, next to KooKooHead, Pointless War 2001

Krov and I, back to back at HRM 2005

The three pictures above illustrate one of the functions of a spear. We fight close to another fighter, usually with a different weapon, but sometimes another spear in order to support and aid each other. "I got your back, you got mine." This is what teamwork is built on. Because we form a family-unit we fight together with an almost supernatural prescience. We rarely need to call out orders but sometimes just a "roll out!" or "roll 'em up, roll 'em up!"

For those of you who have asked me if we get bruised I just want to point out my breast plate in the middle picture above. That's heavy green satin on my breast plate. You can see how torn up it is. That's from taking hits on the plate. It's a sturdy piece of armor and can take a lot of abuse. And it has. I have a laundry list of fighting injuries, usually bruises, contusions, the occasional broken bone and the odd concussion.

There really aren't loads of photos of me fighting, and certainly none of my bruises. I realize this is because I tended to "hide" and only popped out of the line when I was hitting someone. But it's okay. I don't need photographic validation of my many years of fighting. It is better to hit than be hit and so it does not matter if I am seen or not, as long as my opponent takes my shot.

year I got headed, would that be 1995? I think! credit differentlife.smugmug.com

A group shot with my fighting family. We have been fighting together since we were kids, literally. credit bogpages.com 2006 HRM

Us at Gulf Wars 2000 credit bogpages.com

So, I had to retire from fighting. My doctors told me to close up shop. It has been really tough. Where do "old fighters" go when they are "done?" How does a Kinsman still be a Kinsman when they aren't fighting anymore? I am struggling for relevance here. It is a good thing I am an awesome painter and not too shabby at making garb, aka costumes, as well. There are things I can do to maintain my status. But I feel like I am on slippery footing. This discomfort has pushed me to find a new physical outlet for my competitive nature and need for the adrenaline rush.

2013

Pennsic 42 2013, Me and one of my banners. Textiles really excite me and I love creating art with them, both painting and sewing.

My babe in our pretty camp at Pennsic 42, 2013

Yup, he's pretty and so are my banners hanging behind him. 2013

I wanted to end this blog post with some pictures from the non-fighting side of re-enactment. The Lorax and I study our chosen time period and cultures carefully and really attempt to look good. It is a challenge, and after all, I really like a good challenge.

It turned out that this blog post isn't about kayaking or hiking. It's about the life I had to leave behind. I lived and breathed stick fighting. It was my passion, and my team, my real and genuine family.

I just can't stand around and watch my team fight. It is too uncomfortable. I feel so sad that I can no longer participate in the sport that brought us all together.

As a woman, playing a man's sport, I feel more dishonored by my infirmity than I think I should. I deeply resent anyone comparing me some of the other female fighters in Anglesey as I fought longer, harder, better, than, for example, either Kestrel or Lanea. It seems odd to me that I should be so bothered by such slights. I know I am better than that, and that I have come a long way.

I can hold my head high.

I have worked hard to get here.

I can embrace myself as I stand today. There is dharma. The world is even and I leave the violence of my past sport behind for the subtleties, challenges, and peace of paddling the rivers and sea. Hiking with my dogs and snuggling with my curmudgeon Lorax; my life is full, and I have found some real peace.

I guess it is okay that my freak flag is out and flying high today.

One last thing: Am I Kaelani? Am I Storm? Am I Oona-Bomber still? What is in a name anyway? Thoughts for a later post...