Rowing on the square--lessons from a sadist coach

My coach, John, is a sadist. I work with him because he pushes me to improve. He makes me suffer through hard workouts. His highest form of praise is "that isn't horrible." His idea of coaching is to push me past my limits--and he pushes hard--and to let me suffer until I figure it out.

But I don't think he should enjoy it quite so much.

Yesterday was Dec 5th. Boston, Massachusetts. Winter.

Ok, so it was 40 degrees, and no snow predicted until the afternoon. But still, it was dreary, cold, and starting to rain. There were waves on the water, and a strong enough wind to blow a small boat off course. I was a little worried as I carried the lightweight single down to the dock. I put my oars in the oarlocks and John strode purposefully down the dock toward me. He was zipping up his survival suit, and had a stern look on his face. "Robyn, we're going to row on the square today." He smiled briefly, and looked out at the water. "Hmm. It's kind of windy here, let's try downstream between the bridges." And he turned and marched back up to his launch.

I tried not to cry. I have not been able to row on the square in a single yet. It is as much fun as running intervals with 50 pound cement blocks dragging from your ankles. It is like doing ballet in heavy ski boots. It is like shifting gears without using the clutch.

Rowing on the square in an 8+ is not too bad. You never try it with all 8 oarsmen rowing at once. You leave 2 or 4 of them out to set the boat up--keep it level. That way, when the oars are squared, or perpendicular to the water, you have clearance from the top of the water, and can learn the perfect catch, and perfect finish, without your oar dragging through the water. As the Beatles put it "you get by with a little help from your friends."

The problem with rowing on the square in a single is that you have no friends. There is nobody else to set the boat up while you row with squared oars. In fact, the problem with the single is that everything that is wrong is completely your own fault. You can not blame the starboards whose high handles on the recovery keep the boat down to port. Nor can you fault the bow pair who are slow at the catch. Or the stroke who is rushing the slide. If the boat is down to port, it is you. If the catch is slow, it is you. If the slide is rushed, it is you. And if the boat isn't set, and your square oars can't clear the surface of the river....it is you.

Knowing this, and knowing that even in a perfectly set boat (an experience I have never had), the 20 inch waves were going to make it difficult for my squared oars to clear the surface, I couldn't understand why John wanted to do square-oar rowing today. Most coaches would wait for a calm day and flat water to do this exercise. Not mine. My Coach wants to make sure I get as much rowing into these last few weeks of liquid water as possible. He wants to prolong my pain, and, yes, to make me improve.

And in truth, so do I. I make this his fault, though, because he chooses what I will do. I just follow orders. And he sits in the launch and looks gleeful while I suffer.

We set off through the first bridge, and discover that the water is slightly flatter, but not by much. I warm up, thinking John will have me row on the square for ten strokes a few times, and then we will work on something else.

I get down to the second bridge and he has me spin. I look at him expectantly, waiting for orders. "Ok, pick it up," John says. I hesitate, and ask "pick it up, and then what?" I need to plan the next step. I want to know what we are going to do. "Just pick it up on the paddle." is all I get. That stern look is still there, but there is a little sadistic smile at the corners of his mouth. A chill runs down my spine.

John is an ex-navy guy. He bicycles to work all year long. He thinks nothing of working 14 hour days. He isn't fazed by much, and he doesn't play games. He pushes me hard. He scares me just a little. And that smile on his face isn't warm and fuzzy. I am in for a hard lesson.

I swallow down the fear in my throat and begin to row. About 10 strokes into it, John yells out "10 strokes on, 10 strokes off." I look quizzically at him. "On the square for ten, then on the feather. Then repeat. Start on the square." He backs the launch off.

I grip the oars tighter--which I am not supposed to do--and keep the oars squared on the next stroke.

kkkk-kkkk-kkkk-kkk-kkkkkkkk pull......kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkk-kkkk-pull---lurch--wobble--swear----release.

The oars drag along the top of the water, and catch early and separately. I lurch to port. I fall to starboard. I press only lightly with my legs because my oars are nowhere near even and I would go into shore, or into the river with a real stroke. I swear under my breath.

"What was that?" barks John.

"nothing...." I mumble.

"that was one!" he reminds me. Nine more strokes to go on the square.

kkkk-kkkk-kkkk-kkk-kkkkkkkk pull......kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkkk-kkkk-kkkk-pull---lurch--wobble--swear----release. Swear again.

"two!" from the launch.

I try again, lowering my hands on the release to help the oars clear the water. This stroke is better. The next is worse. I stop and regroup.

"KEEP ROWING!!!!" John yells.

I try again. This is not fun. This calls up nothing good about rowing. In truth, I want to be a runner again--running is natural. Rowing on the square is not. Why am I in this boat? It is 40 degrees out, and raining, early on a Saturday morning, and my friends are still in bed, or drinking coffee and reading the paper with slippers on their feet. What sick force pulled me out here to go through the pain and humiliation of rowing on the square? Am I a masochist?

No. I love rowing. I didn't choose this square-oar lesson. John did. He is the problem. He is a sadist.

The evil thoughts propel me through the next six strokes. Then I row on the feather--half a blade more clearance. A chance to regain my point. A chance to row.

Too quickly, we are done with those ten strokes. "ON THE SQUARE. NOW!" from the launch. And I begin the torturous squares again. Lurching, premature catching, I grip the oars too tightly and take uneven strokes. Ten more on the feather. I look expectantly at the launch for the next drill, but none is forthcoming. John is sucking down his hot coffee, and I am freezing my butt off with this ridiculous exercise. I take ten more on the square.

About 30 minutes into this painful row, John stops me. "What are you supposed to be learning from this?" he asks. I stare at him blankly. "That you are a sadist?" I reply.

He snorts coffee through his nose. And his old, familiar grin breaks over his face. The nice grin. The "you can do this, Robyn" grin. And I breathe again. My brain thaws and I start to think.

"Ummm. I am supposed to keep my hands low through the recovery."

"yes, and..."

"get a clean release."

"what else?"

And the Socratic questioning continues for a few minutes. Followed by 40 more minutes of ten on, ten off. I gradually increase the number of good strokes on the square. When we come to more open water, with bigger waves, John cuts me some slack and has me row on the feather "but DON'T hit the waves with your oars!" he barks.

We continue this lesson for over an hour. By the end it isn't so horrible. And John's smile seems less snarky and more supportive with every stroke. He finally lets me stay on the feather, and pull some power tens.

I love power tens. I love feeling the boat move as I press harder into the stern. I stay smooth up the slide to disrupt the run of the boat as little as possible. And now my catches are quicker, and my finishes cleaner. The boat moves better. This is fun!

My sadistic coach smiles a proud smile. "Take it in!" he calls, and turns the launch back to the boathouse.

I spin the boat one final time and take some hard strokes back to the dock. I love this feeling of power. I love rowing. I don't notice the sheets of rain coming down. I just feel the sheer joy of having conquered square oar rowing. Not that there isn't a long future of squared oars ahead. But now I know I can do it.

As I pull into the dock, John comes striding purposefully down, holding my jacket out toward me. "Put this on, you don't want to get cold." He carries my oars as I lift my boat up over my head.

We take the boat into the boathouse and I ruminate on the row, about my frustrations, and about my improvement. I can't wait for the next row. I look forward to getting better. To the next challenge. To my next proud accomplishment.

I turn toward John with a happy smile on my face. He grins back at me, "That wasn't terrible."

Maybe he isn't a sadist after all. I give him a hug. "Thanks, Coach."