Nocturnal Rowing

Each autumn morning I bike to the boat house, while the world sleeps, arriving long before daybreak. I launch with lights on my boat, and appreciate today's magical moon which lends a brightness to the night. 

I am startled by a barred owl who flies out of the trees and circles above me, diving down close to the stern deck of my single. “Coo coo cachoo!” He cries and he draws up suddenly, likely as surprised as I am. 

As he flaps away into the darkness, I marvel at the nocturnal edge of autumn rowing. And eagerly await the first light of dawn when the rest of the world catches up.

Just a lift of the wrist

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This morning as I balance my boat with one arm and carry my oars in the other, I walk down to the dock and feel a lightness I haven’t felt in a long time. The WORLD falls off my shoulders, stops at the ramp and I continue on without it.

It is such a strong sensation that I pause, looking around to see if anyone else has noticed. It doesn’t matter—the WORLD is stuck back there on the bank, gazing longingly at me, armed with angst and stress, but I am completely out of its reach.

I laugh and put my boat in the water, get the oars in the oarlocks, and launch through some wind to the other world of rowing.

This morning I have a private lesson—a rare luxury—and we work on catch timing and clean releases. I am completely focused as I forcefully struggle to put it all together. It is ugly. And impossible. And painful.

The coach stops me and suggests we shift intention. He identifies one simple change— “just lift the wrists at the finish, Robyn”—and when I do lift the wrists, it magically makes space for everything else to happen with a little less effort.

It is unreal—suddenly, my oars are off the water, I can lift them up at the catch, and my hands are in perfect position for a lat-grabbing hang on the drive. It feels amazing. Like the Sinković brothers have taken over my boat. I am flying effortlessly at a 32 and I think there might be ballerinas on my bow.

“Perfect catch timing” the coach calls out "do you feel it?" And I do. “Ka – choong” as the oars drop a split second before I press with my feet. I feel the connection of my oars and the water and my lats. I hang and press, moving through the water faster, with less effort. The elusive catch-timing.

Of course by the 12^th stroke it is gone, but now I know what I am aiming for, and I know I can do this. And remarkably it all starts with a little lift of the wrists at the finish.

I love rowing as a metaphor for life. There are always 12 things I am doing wrong on any given stroke, and I struggle and fight with each of them over 15 or 20 kilometers, and if I am lucky, one of them is slightly improved. But real success comes when I stop fighting the issues, and focus on the one simple change that creates space, so that everything all comes together.

As I head back into the dock, I feel the WORLD impatiently beckoning me back in, ready to pounce back on my shoulders and take over.  As it must. But now I will keep my eyes open for the simple change that creates space for everything else to happen with a little less effort.