Storms, Starts, and Serbian Sorcery

(*some poetic license was taken in this post--no safety violations actually occurred during this rowing lesson)

Today, two days before my first race in a single, I am going to learn racing starts. I still don't know what I am doing, and I am nervous as hell. The idea of sitting at 3/4 slide, oarblades behind me, waiting for an official to call "Attention! Row!", all without flipping the boat, is terrifying. The 4 fast strokes following that first one are unthinkable. But my coach, Marko, all 6'6" of his large, imposing Serbian self, gets into his single, and says I will learn how to start a race today.

I have worried all day about this lesson, as the sky has filled with thunderheads, the wind has picked up and the humid air tingles in anticipation of atmospheric drama. But there has been no storm yet, and time is short. So Marko and I head down-river to find some shelter in which to practice racing starts.

As we begin our pick drill, I hear a loud noise and look up at the anvil clouds overhead.

"It's a truck" Marko reassures me. I peer over at the road, and see nothing. But I nod in agreement.

We continue down through the bridge, and he has me sit at 3/4 slide with blades flat on the water, helping to balance me.

Another loud peal.

"The train is going by" and Marko continues giving me instruction. I try to focus on what he is saying, but my mind keeps questioning how there can be a train, when there are no train tracks in the vicinity.

I quiet my anxiety, and do my first 3/4 slide stroke.

I nearly flip, but I don't. And that is an important distinction. NEARLY flipping a boat is a lot dryer and a lot less humiliating than ACTUALLY flipping a boat.

We try a few more starting strokes, and I gradually feel a bit more confident.

Another loud clap from the sky. Marko looks up and says "we should head back closer to the dock." But this time, he doesn't give the noise a name.

We paddle up-river, past the boathouse, and he continues giving me pointers--"faster hands away!" he encourages. I have been told this is Serbian Style Rowing--super-fast hands away. My hands are pathologically slow. Whatever. I will try to row Serbian style. Or Greek style. Or Australian style. Honestly, whatever it is that I am doing is not recognizable by any national rowing team as their style. It is just messy rowing. Robyn style.

Marko and I get up to the wide upper stretch, above the boathouse. No one else has ventured out today. We have this section to ourselves. I try the starts again, and again. These starts are getting easier. I have one good start, and Marko's smile lets me know I am getting the hang of it.

A bolt of lightning shoots through the sky in the distance.

"3/4 slide!" Marko commands. I want to obey. I slide my body up into a semi-crouch, trying to ignore Nature's angry storm. My knees quiver with fear. I am wary of what lightning does to people in small boats in the middle of wide expanses of water. Marko does not seem to care.

Marko snaps "Stop your knees from shaking! You can't keep the boat set if your knees aren't still!"

He glances at my face, and must sense my terror.

"Don't worry, Robyn! You are not the largest thing out here!" And he sits up taller to illustrate this point. His massive frame towers above his boat, and even in the wide expanse of river, Marko is significant. The lightning will choose him over me--a strangely reassuring thought.

I chuckle and calm myself enough to still my knees. There is a certain power that Marko commands, and I imagine that not even nature is immune to his Serbian sorcery.

"Attention! Row!"

I pull the first 3/4 stroke, and move back to 1/2, 1/2 3/4, 7/8 and full. Not too awful. My boat actually picks up speed. I pull another 5 high strokes and weigh enough.

Over Marko's head, a brilliant zig-zag of lightning lets loose, and the clouds open up, large drops of water fall on our heads, drenching us in seconds. We both race furiously back to the boathouse and pull ourselves onto the dock.

As we peel off our socks, and put on our shoes, Marko's face lights up with a wide grin. "I had forgotten how much fun rowing in the rain can be!" he confides happily.

We pull our boats from the water, and head up to the boathouse.

I watch the storm from shelter of the pavilion, and feel the satisfaction of having made a reasonably successful stab at acquiring a new rowing skill, in less than ideal conditions. I will not win my first race, and I may even flip my boat. But I am confident that my first five strokes will most likely start my boat moving in roughly the right direction.