Yo, Row!

How to join the river crew

 
 
 

By Susan Jackson

normally don’t start my days at 4:45 a.m., but I did it twice this week. Anticipating my first practice in the adult intro-to-rowing class at Community Rowing was a lot like getting ready for my first 6 a.m. spring practice on the field-hockey team at UMass. It’s how you might feel when you have to wake up ridiculously early to catch a flight: You don’t have much trouble actually waking up, because you barely get to sleep in the first place. I awoke at least three times Tuesday night, blinking against sleep to see the clock as it blinked back at me: 12:46, 2:29, 4:26. “What if the alarm doesn’t go off?” I asked myself each time. “I don’t want to miss the boat.” Literally. “And, whoever else is in it. Who signs up for this stuff so early in the morning anyway?”

When I pulled into the parking lot of Community Rowing’s Harry Parker Boathouse in Brighton for my 5:45 a.m. class, it was still dark out. Pitch black, actually. So dark that I could barely make out the rich blond color and long, flowing lines of the building. Not surprisingly, most of the cars I’d kept pace with on Storrow Drive also pulled in. Surprisingly, the lot was nearly full. There are a lot of people who sign up for this stuff so early in the morning. Warm lights from the boathouse glowed against the cool, pre-dawn air as these fit people buzzed about in eclectic combinations of athletic gear: spandex shorts, T-shirts with college insignias, flip-flops, rain gear of various weights.

Clai White, a recent Syracuse grad and the coach of my class, greeted each of us as we straggled in. In seersucker shorts and waving around a paper cup of coffee, he told us we’d be taking out the barge that morning. At least a few in the group weren’t happy to hear this. I didn’t react, since at this point, I didn’t know what the barge was. While the six people I was joining had already had a few practices, it was my first class. I followed their leads as we made our way through the boathouse, past long, sleek shells tucked into neat rows and stacked from the ground to above my head. The boats have names like Grubby Bubbles, Mighty Lighties, and Artemis. Along one wall hung bunches of tall, light oars, divided into families by lines of colorful tape. We each chose an oar from the set with three orange stripes and made our way to the dock.

The sun was only just starting to rise as I walked toward the river. I’m conscious of keeping the long oar I hold from turning into a Three Stooges movie prop. I take care not to smack those around me with it each time I turn a corner.

The beginners’ barge is a tank compared to the lithe shapes being placed in the water all around us. What it lacks in aesthetics, though, it makes up for in stability and easily handles seven students and one instructor plodding around on it to their seats. We locked in our oars and shoved off from the dock. Clai gave me a crash course in the basics of a stroke—legs straight to start, arms out, slide, reach, blade in at the catch, stroke, arms away, finish. (“Did you get all that?” he asks. “One more time?”) And we’re off.

I took in what he said, but left a lot of the learning to watching those in front of me and feeling the rhythm we (almost) created as a unit. The sky was brightening quickly now and Clai paused frequently to point out the techniques other boats were using as they glided past us. Boats of fit, grandfatherly older men, of all women, of all ages. It was inspiring to see this diversity of age and ability converge around the same sport.

After taking several turns and even making it unscathed under one of the Charles River’s many bridges, we turned in. It had been more than an hour. Back ashore, some of the others convinced me that I needed to come back for the next class. Mostly, their enthusiasm revolved around having enough bodies to take out a real eight-person boat. I felt welcomed nonetheless.

When I arrived on Friday, we had enough people to fit into the eight-seat boat, and had shown enough improvement to earn the right to try it. While the concept of stroking was the same, the ride was much more wobbly as we familiarized ourselves with a far narrower hull. We split up into fours, then sixes, and then finally all eight rowing at once. For a few good clips it felt like we were working as a unit, and Clai said as much, trailing us with a small megaphone on a platform boat propelled by a low-horsepower outboard engine.

Rowing in the shell was a unique physical, mental, and rhythmic, challenge that I look forward to trying again. The good news for most of you is that you don’t necessarily have to get up before the sun to experience it. Community Rowing offers a range of classes.