Backstory: Greenland or bust

"I have loved learning where the sport comes from," Sigethy continues, guiding the kayak into the water. She shoehorns herself into the boat, pulls the tuiliq tight around her face and wrists, andtucks it securely around the wooden rim of the kayak cockpit. This is particularly important today because it is a "rolling day."

Rolls originated as techniques enabling kayakers to survive when capsized if, say, a seal fought back or they got entangled in harpoon lines. But kayakers now seem to devise new rolls just to challenge themselves, hence the "straitjacket roll" (tallit paarlatsillugit timaannarmi) joins "coming up on the other side on one's back," Greenland's standard kinnguffik paarlallugu/nerfallaallugu.

Easier done than said – or so Sigethy makes it seem. Swinging the paddle into position, she takes a deep breath, and disappears to her left as the bottom of the boat swivels into view like a dolphin breaking the surface. Within seconds, she emerges to the right of the kayak and, swinging to the back, rights it and sits up.

After about an hour of rolls, she rigs a target from a hula hoop. "I went into this thinking harpooning was going to be hands down my weakest link," she says. "But it's fun, and I'm actually not bad at it." Whether practicing for distance or precision, she fastens a sharp head to the harpoon and, farther down the shaft, slides a throwing stick onto two pegs. She then paddles, coasts, and, holding the harpoon by the throwing stick, leans back. She snaps her body forward, flicks her wrist, and the harpoon disengages, sailing in a smooth arc.

The prospect of doing all this and more – one event has her paddling upside down – in 30-degrees F water is, well, daunting. The solution? The 10-by-10-foot freezer of The Birchmere, a local dinner theater-cum-music hall. It's minus 4 degrees inside, where shelves brim with boxes of pizza dough, seafood, spring rolls, and meats.

"I brought my jump rope," she says, "but ... " she reaches up and touches the ceiling, her arm not even extended. So for 20 minutes – which will lengthen to an hour a day next week – she improvises, twisting and jumping, but mindful of a tray of frozen French fries behind her.

The day is not over, however, until she climbs to the 11-by-16-foot loft studio in her garage, where two thick black ropes drape like a hammock. These are for calisthenics that indigenous Greenlanders designed to train for rolling.

For the first time, Sigethy's chiseled face looks grim. "The ropes terrify me straight up," she says, then lifts herself onto them, curling her body into prescribed positions, straining every muscle to flip 360 degrees, frowning when the move fails. In minutes, she is flushed and sweaty, but skipping the ropes competition is out of the question.

***

During a chat in her kitchen, it becomes clear that what's at stake isn't garnering awards. It's all about not letting fear dictate how she lives. And not just in the championships.

After years of singing only in her car – and stopping when she "came to a traffic light because somebody on the street corner might hear" – Sigethy signed up for lessons and will step up to the mike at an artists' cafe later this summer. She beams as she tells it. "Life is so much fuller," she says, "if you dive in."

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