The First Stroke

In our first year of college, my sister and I joined the rowing team and I wrote the following story on the adventure...

So. Sister and I have joined the rowing team. Oh, boy, did we ever.

I emailed Mr Coach last Friday and this Monday he got back to me, asking if we could meet in the cafeteria. I realized about twenty minutes before our rendezvous time that I didn't know what he looked like. Lucky for me I had my handy-dandy iDevice so that I could quickly stalk him on Facebook.

The clearest picture featured him swinging a golf club while wearing a kilt and a blown-up latex glove which was situated in such a way as to imply that he had an udder. I was willing to get past cyber first-impressions, though, so when Mr Coach walked in to the cafeteria I did my part in making purposeful eye contact across the room.

Meet-ups like that are the worst. Mr Coach was coming in, looking around hard at the innocent bystanders who were eating their lunch and, for the most part, avoiding any form of eye contact. I recognized him right away, despite the lack of kilt, club, and udder, and I attempted to let him know that I was the one he was looking for. But without awkwardly saying “I'm the one you're looking for”, which is harder than I thought it would be.

Initially, I thought we'd had good eye-contact established. He looked at me, and I thought I succeeded in the tricky maneuver of grabbing and maintaining eye-contact. What really happened, in hindsight, was he looked at me, and I raised my eyebrows and smiled at him.

Upon even deeper reflection, it might have been more of a lip-purse than a smile. Anyway, then he smiled quizzically back and, when my expression did not change (I didn't really know how to move past eye-contact establishment), his gaze flicked to and from me. I'm pretty sure he had an inclination that I was the one he was supposed to meet, but I think where we really both came short on this rendezvous was in committing.

He didn't want to up and say, “Are you The Prairie Chicken?” (I typed my real name there, but then I remembered that I don't put names on this site, so I put my pseudonym there, but in real life, Mr Coach did not call me that because why on earth would I have ever introduced myself as that? Anyway...) and I sure didn't want to ask him if he was Mr Coach.

As awkward as it was, it was a short impasse which we breached by approaching each other slowly. He started saying, “You must be... The Prairie...” and I finished with, “The Prairie Chicken, yes! You must be Mr Co...” for which he picked up his cue and finished, “Mr Coach, yes.” I introduced Sister, whom he wasn't aware of as interested, and after that, the meeting ran rather smoothly, if I do say so myself. Which I do.

Mr Coach is a mid-50-ish man originally from the East. He took an interest in agriculture and spent a lot of time doing random stuff before coming to teach Agronomy here in College Town. He retired from teaching last year, but is still coaching. I have a hard time seeing how he had time for both, because as we sat down to meet with him, members of the rowing team kept coming in to ask him something about the schedules or to report on their practices. From what I heard, Mr Coach oversees multiple practices each day, since class schedules are not exactly in harmony. He is very dedicated.

He seems a little bit like a wizened uncle to his team; he jokes and teases dishing it out but taking it, too. He calls the kids “monkeys” or “goofs” or “knuckle-heads”. He also used the expression, “Lord love a duck.” I'm disposed to like him. Also, he somehow injured his foot, so he is a very busy guy hobbling around in a walking cast. It's pretty precarious out at the docks, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Mr Coach was very eager to get us started. I'm glad that he assumed we'd never rowed before, because I would have felt bad breaking that news to him. In truth, I probably would have left it until we got out to the water and it became painfully obvious that our skill levels were negative seventeen. I'm getting ahead of myself again, though. Conveniently, he was going to be practicing with four other novices (albeit novices who had been rowing for the last two weeks), so he told us to meet him out at the docks after school at 3:30.

Sister and I were pretty excited. I think, deep down, a very conceited part of our beings just assumed we'd be natural rowers. That we'd pick up those oars the way Harry Potter picked up his magical wand and there would be a mystical breeze and maybe some shooting stars. Also maybe unicorn or two. I dunno.

Even deeper down, in that area of my being where my reason has been repressed and buried, I knew that there was no reason for me to be good at rowing. My experience with rowing include one vague memory of being in a canoe (and being very afraid), and being in a blow-up kids raft. When I was in the raft, I ended up losing both oars. It was shallow, murky, weedy water, so my loving family instructed me from the beach, “Just jump out and grab them!” so I did. I got hives. That's the extent of my rowing career. Unless paddle-boats count, but I think we all know they don't.

At 3:30, Sister and I geared up in track pants and long sleeved shirts. We were pumped. Down at the docks, we were the second vehicle to arrive, so I think we came off as eager, but not too eager. Played it cool. Mr Coach arrived in a powder-blue Volkswagen. It was a textbook hippy van complete with a blue-flowered lei hanging from the rear view mirror. I'll have to get some pictures of it; it made me very happy.

We started out by just getting the oars set out at the docks and then watching the other girls pick up a four-man boat and take it out to the water. Then it was Sister and I being walked through the process of grabbing a two-man boat and taking it out to the water. The boats are decently heavy; enough so that setting it in the water without dropping it on the dock and without falling in ourselves was a pretty nerve-racking task. He told us that the front was the bow and the back was the stern, and then left us to attempt to put the right-side oars in correctly while he worked with the other girls. Good thing Sister was there. I got all mixed up in my head and ended up doing what she did, then reasoning it out after. We got it right, to my great relief.

Once he got the other girls off and rowing, he started working with us. I was getting more and more nervous as we progressed. We got both oars in, put our shoes in a box on the dock, and then we had to get in the tiny, narrow thing. Its name was the Dvorszac, I think. I don't know what that means, but I have mixed feelings towards that boat.

Getting in was a challenge. You have to hold both oars in one hand, the dock with the other, then you are expected to do a squat with one leg on a grip in the boat (I can't recall what my other leg was doing at that point; my multitask capacity was right full, so it was on its own), getting your butt down to a sliding seat that is at the same level as your foot. The space you have to work with is maybe two feet square (until you're in, then you can stretch the legs), and beyond that is the river water's cold embrace. I was in the bow of the boat, and Sister in stern, which meant that I was in the front of the boat and facing her back.

Once we got past the ordeal of getting in, my mind was free to wonder why we had decided to try this. I recalled that I was not a good swimmer. And that this was a river. And that this was a competitive team I was joining. And then Mr Coach pushed us away from the stability of the dock and I could no longer give these thoughts my full attention, though they did continue to scream very loudly in my head as the following events played out.

As soon as the dock and Mr Coach were no longer supporting us, our left side, which I now know is starboard, but which I did not really care about naming right then, began to lean into the water. And lean. And lean. And lean some more. Before he had cast us away to our imminent doom, I remember Coach saying that these boats don't tip unless you drop the oars. “If you forget everything else,” he had said firmly, “do not drop the oars. It's a fatal mistake.” He added, “Well, not fatal; you'll just be swimming,” but I think my subconscious clung onto that “fatal” bit. That would explain how petrified I was.

As we were steadily progressing from parallel to perpendicular to the water, we went from nervous “uuuuuhhhhmmmm??”'s to delirious chuckles. Before long, I had left Sister in Delirious Chuckle stage and moved on to Horrified Hyperventilation Perforated By Chuckle-Like Noises stage.

But I did not let go of the oars. I gripped them until my knuckles turned white and my gills turned green. Oh, did I grip them.

There came a point when our starboard edge was right at the surface of the water. I was preparing myself for that lurching movement that would surely happen when the boat, straining as it was to remain buoyant, would flip itself out from under the dead weight that was me and Sister. Like when you push one of those foam flutter boards into the water at a swimming pool and it violently erupts from the water when you let it go, hitting you in the teeth. Just saying, that could happen... and that's what I thought was going to happen. Our flutter board was getting ready to erupt; it just had to dump us first.

Of course, that is not what was going to happen. Those kind of boats do not just flip over. Rather, they take on water. Fortunately, I didn't see this happening when we were in our critical state. I didn't see that water had begun to trickle in along the edge. I knew our clock was ticking, but I didn't see that final countdown taking place. I may have given up entirely if I had.

This was all happening at a strange sort of pace. In my state of mind, things were happening very quickly; I felt I had no time to respond. In reality, it happened at a reasonably gradual pace, so Coach had lots of time to shout instructions to us and lots of time to observe that his fledglings were not taking flight. Very not.

Most of the instructions that I remember ignoring were, “Keep the oars sitting on the surface!!!” and “Keep your hands together!!!” The number of exclamation marks attached to each was directly proportional to the severity of our angle.

When we reached that critical point that I spoke of, when water began to trickle in threateningly, we reached a stalemate with our circumstances. At that angle, we stopped, desperate and afraid, but, to our credit, still clinging to the oars. It was then that Coach's words began to penetrate.

He was very calm, which really helped to calm me down. I thought, “Surely, if he is so calm he must really believe that these boats don't flip if you don't let go of the oar. And I haven't let go of the oar, so we must be okay. We are going to be okay!” (again, I didn't see the water we were taking on). I listened carefully to what he was saying, then, trusting that he could get us out of our predicament.

I am not entirely sure how we got straightened out. I think it involved using our starboard oars to push up from the ground, which we were hitting in our extreme angle. Then we finally listened to his instructions to keep our hands together, and then we listened to him when he told us to keep our oars on the surface. Once we were righted, we went back into Delirious Chuckle stage and Coach pulled us into the docks. He gave us a pep talk about how he would give us very specific instructions on what to do with very specific parts of our bodies, and that we must listen to him. Then we worked on putting the oars into a fan position and square position. Then he cast us from the docks again.

The first time, we had started tipping so fast that our oars hit the bottom and we stayed pretty close to the docks. With more experience under our belts, we were able to drift out away from the docks a good long way before we started tipping. Coach caught up to us in the little motor boat that he uses. We were at critical lean again, and even he was getting desperate, asking aloud, “What is going on?!” between commands for our hands and oars. I felt an odd sort of comfort in our universal bafflement. I was trying to do everything he said, but still we would tip to starboard.

Excellent pupils that we are, we were able to follow his instructions and right ourselves a few more times before he realized that the wind was what was making our progress so difficult. Short of us being able to direct ourselves to a better angle in the wind and waves, his solution was to hit the bow of our boat with his boat a couple of times until we were facing the wind. Well, the boat was facing the wind, but one sits backwards to row, so we were with our backs to the wind. Anyway...

By this time, Sister and I finally had a concept of how to stay upright. It was shaky. Sometimes, we swung like a pendulum out on that river, but we were getting it. And then Coach got a call on his radio from the other girls. It sounded like an emergency. Coach answered that he had to get us back to the docks and then he would come to them. I was horrified. At the rate we were going, drifting away from the docks, preoccupied with trying to not sink, we would be out there for hours. It reminded me of the BBC mini series, Far From the Madding Crowd, when the dog chases all the sheep over the cliff. I mean, sure, the farmer wanted the dog to be part of the team, but there is no team to be part of if all the sheep are dead. Once the sheep are dead, the only thing the dog can do is serve as a reminder for when all of his sheep died; and all of his sheep died because of the dog.

I didn't want to be the over-eager Border Collie trying to learn row and accidentally causing the loss of the actual rowers. I know what happens to that dog. And I did not want to be that dog. That dog gets shot.

Maybe it's a leap, but as Coach looked on at our pathetic attempts to remain dry, I thought I saw that look in his eye. That look that was weighing the value of a Border Collie when all the sheep are gone.

Anyway, it turned out alright. Well, not the bit where we get back to the docks. That still took us a grossly long time, but it turned out that there was a miscommunication and, as we were floundering back towards the docks, we saw the other girls speed gracefully by in their boat, their wool still dry.

Getting back to the docks required teamwork from Sister and I. First, it was Sister's job to be the “training wheels” as Coach called them. That meant that she was responsible for balancing the boat by keeping her oars always just so on the surface of the water. It was my job to row us pack to the dock. I did a bit of rowing. A lot of floundering to re-balance us after my strokes sent us leaning. Eventually I got us a little closer to the docks, but mostly we stopped progress because we went into the weeds along the shore. Beached whales would be the operative image, if that's helpful.

To my, and Coach's, surprise, I managed to get us out of there. It was a lot easier because the reeds were somewhat stopping the wind from foiling our attempts at stability. After the reeds, I managed to also get us back to the docks. It wasn't just a point A to point B operation; there was still a lot of pendulum action, but we made it.

I thought we would be getting out of the boat, then. I thought, perhaps he has given up on us. I had mixed feelings about that. Like I would have mixed feelings about putting a dying animal out of its misery.

Coach, however, was serious when he said that this was a trial, but he wouldn't let us quit. He spoke true when he said that they needed people to make an 8-man team. He truly and honestly meant it when he told us that they desperately needed warm bodies.

And so, he sent us back out.

We were much, much better that time. The wind had gone down, and we were able to steadily drift out as we were told, then row back in, taking turns between being the “training wheels” and rowing. If things hadn't gotten better, I would be very not looking forward to our second practice this evening, but I have hope.

After the practice, we were all gathered around the epic, powder-blue VW and discussing when the next practice would be. Coach was telling the other girls a bit about our practice. We may not be magical naturals at rowing, but we did leave our mark. Coach said that he's only ever witnessed two other incidents when a boat was tipped that much and didn't sink. He had been quite sure, apparently, that he was going to have to fish us out of the river. I'm glad I didn't know that at the time.

Needless to say, we were pretty proud of our accomplishments.