A Row in the Snow

It snowed last night. Crusty white ice covered the docks. The boathouse doors were locked down tight. The rowing community was tucked inside, working out on their ergs. The fall season had finally come to a belated close.

For everyone else.

There are three crazy people I know who would avoid an inside row at almost all costs. I am one of them. Severine is another. And the third is John--crazy, sadistic John Sisk.

Severine and I arrived at the boathouse first--both dressed to row, both toting a bag of clothes to erg inside, if that were the decision of our coach. When John arrived, grinning broadly, he asked "what boats would you like to take out?"

Severine and I smiled happily and settled on two singles.

We opened the boathouse, took out our oars, and crunched through two inches of snow down to the slippery docks. We helped each other with the shells, stablizing the boat while the other person slid down the incline to the dock. The wind picked up, and the geese scattered. Cars on the road slowed to gawk at this strange group of water people--no doubt thinking it was a summer sport gone bad.

I pushed off the icy dock with very little traction, but once in the water, it was calm, crisp and clear. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright. We headed downstream, along the shoreline--laced in snow-covered branches, and crystaline leaves. The sun sparkled on the ice and leant an air of magic to the scene.

It goes without saying that there was nobody else on the water--except for two lone kayakers at the beginning of our row. They waved at us--fellow water people pushing back at winter's threats to our boats.

The geese swam in front of us. They moved only at the last moment, when they were sure we would hit them if they didn't get out of the way. I looked at the frost on their backs, and wondered at the warmth of their down. They were proof that the water was a fine place to be on a sunny winter morning.

The wind was strong and always in the wrong direction. I struggled to keep my hands soft. I constantly pulled to port. And yet...

And yet.

And yet it was a most beautiful row. I peeled off the layers as my body warmed up. I pulled hard and moved the boat as well as I could. I took power tens. I reveled in this experience of leaving winter on shore, and rowing as though I could row twelve months of the year. The season was trying to push me indoors, but I was pushing right back. The sun glinted on the tree tops, and sprayed across the small waves. I passed under a bridge and snow blew down and covered my stern. I laughed. How often does a rower get covered in snow?

As we finished the row, I tried to dock, landing perfectly, but when I put my hand out, it slid, with no place to stop, across the icy crust. The wind picked up and blew me more quickly along the dock. I had no handhold, no break in the ice to grab.

I laughed out loud, spun the boat, and circled around to try again. I felt like calling out"Ha, Mother Nature! You can't stop me!" I pulled a few hard strokes and then slowed a second time. This time I found a small notch in the ice, and gripped it tightly with my fingers, stopping the boat, this time successful in coming back to shore.

We carried our boats back up, slipping a little on the ice, looking at our lonely footprints in the snow.

The three of us smirked secretively together, wondering that nobody else had ventured out in the bright magical winter world. We were part of an elite society of rowers, willing to forgo the ergs, witnessing this magical wonderland, and taking our bets on the weather, in order to get just one last row in the snow.