Jonah was a wise mariner. He recognized that there is a time to sacrifice for the greater good of his boat mates. He also knew that any shelter, even a whale's belly, is the best place to be in a storm. I am not sure that New England rowers are that smart.
Yesterday morning, March 13th, I went out in a mixed 4+ in the beginning of a true New England Nor'easter'. It was an optional row, with no other reward than the sheer joy of being on the water.
I arrive on that cool, overcast morning at the boathouse. Weather predictions include a severe storm advisory. As I step out of my car, the first sprinkles hit the windshield, and the wind begins to blow.
Inside, Peter is on the erg, warming up. Peter and I are in the same winter training class. I like his commitment. I like his urge to improve. He looks up cheerfully and says "I can stay and erg, if you want to bail." He immediately follows with "but I am willing to go out and give it a go."
Yay. That's a man I want in my boat!
We head downstairs to the lobby, where Cissy, decked out in pink, is stretching her hamstrings. She looks up with a big grin and says "I can't wait to get out there! Where's Jim?". Cissy is the energizer bunny. At 5am, or 6pm she is bundles of happiness, and doesn't slow down. I have been in her boats where she calls power 20s, power 50s, and power 70s. She doesn't know when to quit.
Jim is the newest member of our sorry patched-together foursome. He is a REAL rower. He has rowed forever. He knows about Proper Technique. He has rowed long enough to have evolved his stroke. He has fast splits. And, he is big. Which, in the world of rowing, is a huge advantage. Every bit of that bigness, and every bit of that tallness can be converted into moving a boat forward faster. He also keeps everyone laughing. When Jim shows up to a workout, everyone is just a little more upbeat. A little more willing to push themselves just a bit harder. And he is the poster child for teamwork. He cheers others on. He smiles after the most grueling workout. And his smile is contagious. We are always happy around Jim.
So, when Jim walks through the door, I know he won't back out. I know he will let rain and wind slap across his face and his smile will not waver. He was hand-picked for a day like this. We are in for some misery, and a quick joke and encouraging cheer will keep us moving.
Our little coxswain, Vivian, is all bubbles and joy. Really, given the weather, we are all awfully happy. Like an advertisement for antidepressants. That is what happens to rowers after a long winter of erging. Bears are cranky when they come out of hibernation. Rowers are giddy. Getting out on the water puts a bounce in anyone's step after a winter of body odor and accumulation of sweat.
We choose our oars and pick out a boat. "Hands on!" the coxswain calls. I feel the excitement building. "Split to shoulders" and we face out of the boat bay. And that is when I first see the sleet. Coming down sideways. In a 30 knot wind. Gulp. I glance at the coach, and worry that the weather will cause him to reconsider. He shows no signs of weakness. Good. We chose him well.
"Walk it forward!" And we do. The bow of the boat, once free of the shelter of the boathouse, is pushed by the wind. We hang on and march down the dock, as straight as we can manage. The wind is strong. The waves are big. The rain and sleet are increasing. And we persevere.
It takes some doing to push off of the dock. The wind keeps pushing us back. Bow seat (Cissy) has to take some hard strokes to turn us out. Then, as bow pair, she and I haul for all we are worth to get us out of there.
I was told afterward that my favorite Harvard rowers were on the water just then. The ones I can never keep my eyes off of, with their slow, strong strokes, and lovely muscular bodies. Today I see nothing. I am heaving and hawing, trying to keep us moving forward. The Harvard heavies walk through us, and I never notice. There is a first time for everything.
We do some pick drills, and row by pairs on the square into the wind. Every millimeter of my squared oar is met with the resistance of the 30 knot wind. My hands are slow as they move away from my body, but I swear half of it is due to the wind.
Cissy and I row hard, but we aren't used to the wind, or the heavy stern pair, and the shore line doesn't move an inch. Despite all of our effort, we are just barely staying in place. When we finally switch pairs, the boat lurches forward. Our bow-pair's combined 250 pounds mean nothing to those strong men, at more than half-again our weight, as they bend their oars, and we gain momentum. When the coxswain (whose cox-box has shorted out in the rain) yells for us to add in, we finally feel some momentum propelling the boat ahead into the wind.
Four of us, working together, may be able to move this boat! My grin gets wider.
I am sitting behind Jim. His boathouse jacket exaggerates his size, and my field of vision is the red and black of his gortex. I try to keep in time with the movement of his body--press and release...hands away, body over...slowly up the slide... The waves are high, and periodically splash over the side of the boat and break--CRASH!--onto Jim's back. He is sitting in a puddle, and I know it is cold. While his jacket may be waterproof, his pants are not. I mentally check in with my own seat and realize that it, too, is wet. I am sure my back has been hit by some waves as well.
We finally go into some steady state pieces, all the time at a stroke rate of 16. That is what happens when a heavyweight is stroke seat. I keep my slide slow and pull hard, trying to keep down with this rate. I feel strong, but slow. I am used to compensating for my small size by rowing faster. This is pure torture.
I notice that Peter's oar is faster out of the bow than mine. His Serbian coach is a fan of "fast hands away", whereas mine subscribes to the belief that the hands should move out at the speed they moved in. So we gallop--Da-dum--with each stroke. My hands are too slow, and he hangs at the catch. Our drives are synchronized, but we jerk at our own paces on the recovery. And try as I might, I just cannot match his rhythm. Something to work toward. But for now, we just lurch along in dyssynchrony.
After a long hard haul into the headwind, we spin and come back up river. A tail wind is a lovely thing. While we are stopped for a water break, the wind blows us 200 meters up the course. It also blows the sleet into my face, rather than my back. My sweaty body grows cold. Jim suggests a faster stroke rate "for the lightweights in the bow". I feel a wave of gratefulness surge up inside me. Jim, the team player, is always seeking compromise.
"Ready? and Row!" calls our loud, diminutive coxswain in her "man voice". "You are at a 16, up to 18 in two!" and we begin our climb into more familiar stroke rates. The wind scurries us along, and we pull hard and fast, and feel like olympians. Very very wet olympians. With 5 inches of water sloshing at our feet, and a slight crust of ice on our riggers.
I figure Jonah was smarter than we are. He looked around at the high winds, the big swells and the heavy (sideways) driving rain, and headed immediately for the shelter of a cetacean's gastrointestinal
calm. God spoke and Jonah listened.
When God speaks to us, all we know is to pull harder. We tough it out, boat tossing to and fro, waves crashing over the gunwales, sleet driving into our cheeks, my slow hands away, Peter's hanging at the catch, Cissy's late squaring oars, and Jim's seat in a puddle.
When we finally dock, after a final fast piece, I couldn't wipe the smile off my cold, wet face! I look around at my boatmates, and see my joy mirrored in their own. We give each other happy fist bumps and giddy hugs, and all agree that this was the best (and first) row of the season!
Jonah didn't know what he was missing.
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