Grace and Power

Today is the 11th time I have sculled in a single. Each time I go out, things gel just a little more. This morning feels good. Maybe even veering over into great at moments.

I get into the boat, and launch pretty painlessly. Given the multiple layers of things to do (put your feet in the shoes, put pogies on the oars, turn the stern toward the dock, shove off, pull in the starboard oar, push off the dock, and start rowing), and given how easy it is to flip during any one of those maneuvers, I am pretty proud of myself for doing it all unassisted.

I head upstream, and start to warm up. At 40 degrees, I am wearing several layers, and I am still cold. Rowing arms only. Then, arms and back. Half slide (which quickly evolves into full slide--I still have work to do on that one).

I love pause drills in a single. I catch.....and pause. At the finish. Arms away. Body over. Really, the only pause drill I can do without dragging oars on the water is at the finish. But that is the rhythm--caaaatch! and pause.....slow. up. the. slide and caaaatch! and pause....slow. up. the. slide and caaaatch....

Each catch gets stronger, and I feel the connection on more than half of them. My legs start to warm up, and I begin to press my feet into the stern with every stroke.

I know eventually this rhythm will be like breathing. It still takes some time for me to get into it, but it feels so comfortable once I am there. Like a heartbeat--regular in its syncopation, comforting, safe, familiar.

I cross the upper basin and the water is smooth, except for the pattern left by my oars and my tiny wake. Footsteps of heaven. Ringed in trees of gold and orange, the flat body of water is empty. A flock of swans hovers near shore, watching me--a strange water bird--as I steal past them in silence.

I admire swans for their grace and power. They float easily, but when they take off, you feel every ounce of their tremendous strength as they build up their speed and start moving their wings. At the last moment the wings catch the air and the strain disappears. Flying is effortless. The last steps on the water, and the first moment of true flight is what I feel mid-drive in my stroke. My muscles strain, the oars hold firm in the water, and then the boat takes off.

I turn back downstream and start to pick up the pace. Catch and send. Catch and send. Silent, yet rhythmic. Sweat builds across my shoulders and my breathing is heavier. Out-breath with the catch, in with the send. My mind empties and the rhythm takes over. A sweaty meditation.

Two hours later, I land at the dock. Another rower is waiting, looking out at the water. Anticipating his row. We smile at each other.

"Beautiful day for a row." I say. He smiles and nods. This is part of the rhythm as well. One rower finishes, the next one begins.

I am tired, but renewed. Ready to face the rest of my day.