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.

Global Rowing

My quad in Durban!

I have never figured out how to combine my crazy travel schedule with rowing in other countries, but this morning it all came together in a mixed 4x in Durban, South Africa. Mark Burgess, the president of the Durban Rowing Club, responded to my email, and said "Yes! Please come and row!" 

Almost as far away as you can get from Boston, in the middle of a dark, chilly winter (it was 93 degrees in Boston), we launch in the very beginnings of dawn onto an active harbor. Rowing around 3 meter high bouys that guide tugboats pushing fully loaded ocean liners, and then darting around those looming liners and building-high stacks of shipping crates was a surreal experience. I work to match up with the person in front of me while my starboard oar washes out with a gunwale high wave. This isn't the Charles River!

About half-way into our row, we pause in a glassy section and watch as the flaming ball of sun rises over the horizon. We rowers, from opposite hemispheres of this planet, share the moment in silence, then spin and head back through the wide open harbor, turning into tugboat wakes, and pull hard against the tidal current.

As we return to the dock, Mark says "What a great row. Come back tomorrow for an 8+!"

I grin happily. "Of course!" 

Stolen November Morning

Mid-November is post-season in the rowing world. The last of the regattas are over, winter training is around the corner, and the cold, dark mornings don't suggest water sports. A late November morning on the water is not expected. It is stolen.

Yesterday's rains came with 20 mph winds and temperatures in the 30s. Icy docks and gusty waves kept me off the river and consigned me to my basement erg. It was a long, lonely workout I was desperate not to repeat.

This morning is warmer though still cloudy, but the river calls faintly, and I decide to give it a try. Two faithful friends join me and we launch in the pitch black, little red and green lights bravely shining from our bows. Silently we shove, breaking the silence only with the plop! of the oars and the whisper of the water flowing by the hull. Although their bow lights are visible, my friends are not, and I row in virtual solitude for the first 2000 meters.  We meet at our agreed upon rest area, for reassurance more than rest.  We continue 9000 meters into the middle of the Charles basin and spin.

Three of us side by side, in a vast expanse of flat water, and a city skyline peppered in lights, outlined in gradually brightening clouds. No red. No flames. No explosive dawning of a new day.

"Where's the beautiful sunrise?" I ask, thoroughly disappointed at the monochrome dawn.
"It's too cloudy" comes Loryn's practical response.

I watch a bit longer, hoping for color, but greeted by none. I know we have to head home, and I fight the feeling that daybreak has let me down.

Our return row is long, but as I relax, the familiar rhythm and flow takes over. There are few boats to be seen and the river is ours. I remember why I am here, and begin to enjoy myself.

As the last stretch approaches, Loryn slows down for me to catch up. We row, side-by-side, stroke-for-stroke, for the full 1200 meters. Catch and press...glide, Catch and press...glide. We mirror each other, pair partners in different boats, perfectly matched, rowing in sync. The rhythm of the late fall morning is ours.

One last November morning, stolen from the cold, snowy winter that lies ahead.

Fall Rainstorm

New England skies let loose pent-up summer grief that pours down in steady streams of finality. Green leaves give up their vibrancy as daylight loosens her grasp around the edges. Autumn rain cleans up uncertainty as she washes away the last of vacation and prepares the earth for the inexorable seasonal shift toward darkness and cold. 

Morning row after the equinox

The predawn black with its tight grasp on the world swallows me as I shove off the dock. My oars slice through a misty aloneness that is both calm and wary. 8 kilometers of silent rowing until the edge of night starts smudging with grey. I spin in the basin and face the city skyline edged in a scarlet aura of possibility. The red sky expands, stretching fingers of light into the fading ebony of night, then leaps down to the water around me and the world explodes in a wildfire of dawn.

Today I bought a phone in Ethiopia.

Today I bought a SIM card in Ethiopia.

The internet has been out in Addis Ababa since yesterday, and I decide it is time to buy a SIM card so I am not completely cut off from the world. The hotel reception sells these. I grab my wallet and head downstairs, phone in hand.

This should be the end of my story, and instead it is only the beginning. I must change the first sentence. 

Today I bought a phone in Ethiopia.

It should have been so simple--- a SIM card for my African Nokia. Instead, it becomes a 2 hour adventure, back and forth around my neighborhood (where the main dirt road has a 2 meter wide canyon running it’s length as a new sewer system is built. Area merchants have placed metal barrel lids nailed together, or 2x4s, to aid pedestrians, dogs and goats in the harrowing crossing, and the busy shopping district provides scores of observers eager to offer advice and delighted to witness my unusual odyssey.

With the help of a woman police officer, I am guided across an unstable 2x4 to the phone store (a 3-sided tin box), where they spend a lot of time figuring out that my phone (purchased in Malawi) won't accept an Ethiopian sim card, so I have to buy a new ETHIOPIAN NOKIA (buy stock in NOKIA. They have a brilliant business plan). I lack cash, and the Tin Box doesn’t take plastic. But the shop owner points down the road to an ATM. I proceed across the canyon (a middle-aged gentleman urges me “to run quickly to not fall in”) and find the ATM (doesn't take foreign cards), am directed to a second ATM back on the first side of the road (broken), and I return for further instruction to the Tin Box (in the process of this, I inadvertently pick a nice man's phone up from the counter and walk off with it). I follow their directions to the bank (across the road again) where they make copies of my passport, my Massachusetts driver's license, my ATM card, and an old Harvard ID. The nice man’s phone rings. I ignore it. It rings again. I ignore it again. It rings again and I answer it, (as I am filling out a third Byzantine form in triplicate) and say I will bring the phone back in 5 minutes.  I hang up. It rings again—and a voice speaks in Amharic. (I don't even know how to say "I don't understand" in Amharic--a professional oversight). A few minutes later, as I am standing in line in front of a teller behind iron bars, a young boy sporting a tattered "England" football jersey comes running in and taps me on the arm. "Phone! phone!" and he thrusts a striped plastic bag in my hand and grabs the nice man’s phone. I assume the kid’s legit and I let him have the phone (honestly, it happens so fast, I couldn't have stopped him), but now I am holding a bag containing an ETHIOPIAN NOKIA I haven't paid for. I can’t run after the kid, because the bank teller slides a HUGE pile of cash through the iron bars, which won’t fit in my wallet, and is (embarrassingly) too big for my bra. I stick it in my waistband and hurry back to the Tin Can, crossing the now familiar chasm that is my street. The kid is there, and so is the nice man with his phone. The shop owner holds out his hand for my cash. I reach into my pants (by now the money has slipped well down into my somewhat sweaty crotch) and pull out the damp bills. I peel off the requisite number and lay them on the board. The kid watches me with disbelief (Americans on TV carry purses). I shrug, stick the money back in my pants and walk proudly back to the hotel with my new ETHIOPIAN NOKIA, by this time quite nimbly crossing the Great Ethiopian Canyon. I arrive safely, and sit down and order a strong coffee. I relish the feeling of accomplishment I feel from buying a phone in Ethiopia.