Creative Writing: Why Do You Row

Why Do You Row? At five AM on a Saturday in August, most people are nestled comfortably in their beds. I am ironically craving water although covered in sweat. Tuning out my burning legs, and strained back. I am becoming numb to the pain of my raw, bleeding hands rubbing against the oar, all the while in complete synchronization with the three people sitting behind me. The latter part of my day will consist of eating an insatiable amount of carbs and protein, with a gallon of water always within reach. Pre competition excitement is building up inside me, even though our big day is still two months away. Those few free moments on the bus ride to school or just after a test is finished, I spend researching the best race course, and what the

The walk from my warm bed to the shower is a chilly one, and I make sure to pack three extra layers and a hat in my backpack. Fully suited up in my uni, I hop into the car with a breakfast sandwich that I am too nervous to eat. At 7:30 AM in Boston I already see scullers on the river. Now my heart is beating faster than the music blasting through my earbuds. As I stand with my teammates watching some of the best rowers in the world cross the finish line at the largest international head race, I begin to feel warm in 24 degree weather. This is our shot to prove ourselves, to piece together the countless hours of training, to race in The Head of the Charles

We row in silence with nothing but the soothing voice of the coxswain and rhythmic click of the oar handles to keep us calm. After spending most of my fall with these four girls, no words are needed to communicate. On land we are individuals, on the water, one person. I try to cherish every moment of the row up to the finish line, because I know once the race starts I will be in a different world. Finally, we make it to the basin, shivering with anticipation. Among the voices of the 85 other coxswains in our race, “Bow 69 paddle it to port, you’ll hear a horn when you're racing,” cuts clearly through. After 30 building strokes, Betsy’s voice intensifies and echoes as we pass under the first bridge. 4000 meters in, I bring up the rate and the click of the oar locks starts to quicken. We begin to fly. Through the pain we become one and find our swing. Soon enough, we here cheers from Elliot bridge, the last push to get us over the line. As fast as we’d found it, our swing is lost. My heart rate is rising, but not from physical exertion. In the eyes of an angry coxswain headed straight for our stern, the months of determination, support, and faith flash before me. I duck under the monstrous oar swinging over my head. Of all the moments we had prepared for, this is not one of them. Within a surreal 20 seconds, our coxswain turns into a slave driver, and with a surge of terror we come out of the crash faster than ever