by Meg Frost
No one believed Fred when he proposed the idea of our ragtag public school team going to the Women’s Henley regatta in England. Standing on the dirt floor of our “erg barn,” a dilapidated old white barn converted into a makeshift rowing machine gym, we laughed at the idea. Despite our successful season and shocking defeat of Phillips-Exeter, Andover, St. Paul’s and a gang of other New England private schools, a regatta in England seemed far out of our reach. I knew the kind of hoity-toity teams that would be there and our crew simply didn’t fit the ticket. But Fred’s deep set, wrinkled brow and sharp eyes behind his wired rimmed glasses said otherwise.
“You girls have it in you. We’ve trained for this.”
He’d say these same words a year later as he pushed us away from the laminated wood dock into the green waters of the Thames.
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That winter we set our minds to fund raising, sending out dozens of nagging emails and hosting a variety of bake sales, “ergathons” and anything else that might draw attention to our cause. The visions of stately striped tents, sundress-filled galas and ornate medals of the Henley fueled our hours of begging for support. The Henley still felt like an illusion, impossible to conceive of in the dark, barren New Hampshire winter.
As soon as the ice melted on the Connecticut, we hauled the boats out of the barn and rigged them up. After weeks of rigorous erg trials and fierce competition for spots in the first boat, Fred had decided the lineup. Our team huddled in the crisp April air, feet planted in the
muddy dirt parking lot and awaited Fred’s decision. I was thrilled to have earned a spot as the five seat, nestled in the “engine-room” of the vessel. Hannah, who had been my pair partner–the port to my starboard–since our novice year was chosen to be six seat. I was glad that for our last year on the team we would be rowing together again.
#
Navigating the crowded highways around London, Fred’s bald head had grown increasingly red as he struggled to grow accustomed to driving on the left side of the road, dropping multiple F-bombs in the process. Finally our rented van approached the quaint, countryside town of Henley-On-Thames, located west of London, where the Thames flows lazily past towering manor houses and century old boathouses. Despite my post-red-eye sleepiness, I rose, alert to the windows as we approached the stone bridge that traversed the famous Thames river. Pressed against the glass my eyes scanned the deep green water, dotted with multi-colored flags, marking the race course. Long white boats cut through the current, their oars churning up small white whirlpools behind them. I saw the strong, sculpted arms of the women heave the oars with ease, their powerful legs straining against the footboards of the boat. They all looked at least twice as muscular and a few inches taller than any girl on our crew.
The next morning we woke early in the childishly decorated bedrooms of the home that was hosting our crew for the week. I clambered off the top bunk and shoved our seven seat–the rower second from the stern–Ada’s sleeping form in the bottom bunk. “Ada get up, we’re leaving in thirty.”
“Ugh fuck what time is it?” She muttered from under the covers.
“5:30. Fred says we’re leaving at 6:00.”
Thirty minutes of scarfing down crumpets and yanking on unisuits later, Fred corralled us into the van and we set off to the river. We drove down the small residential road, towards the river, gliding past rows of identical houses that reminded me of the Dursley’s from Harry Potter. The van buzzed with unspoken nerves. Our first row on the Thames felt like a trial. The other teams had already arrived and set up camp at the stately Henley Rowing Club boathouse. We filed behind Fred like a line of kindergarteners as we approached the boat racks. Our rented boat felt strange and misshapen in my hands, thinner and sleeker than our usual “Miss Mundy.” We clambered into the shell with unusual clumsiness, aware of the eyes of the Exeter team watching from the lawn.
“Ladies, no time for chit chat this morning. We have a week to prepare for this race, let’s make every moment on the water count.” Fred spoke solemnly, pushing us away from the dock. I was reminded that I also only had one week left of rowing with this team. I tried my best to memorize the back of Hannah’s head in front of me, and the familiar sound of Ada humming a pop song in the stern.
As we cut through the mist and rowed upstream my eyes were drawn to the long, striped lawns of summer estates. I gazed past the shore to watch the sun climb over the soaring rooftops, turning the water a pinky-orange hue. I was jolted from my reverie as my oar smacked violently against Hannah’s and the handle jabbed suddenly into my ribs.
“Focus, Meg, eyes in the boat!” Shouted Fred from the launch.
“Shit, sorry guys.” I whispered, locking my gaze on Hannah’s back.
The next day we shoved off the dock in the fog again, eyes in the boat, silent except for our coxswain Meghan’s voice over the speakers. We rehearsed our well-oiled warm up and progressed into our pieces for the day. The boat jolted side to side. The oars hit the water at
different times. I pushed, then Hannah. Nothing was in rhythm. My blistered hands bled on the oar and the morning sun cut blindingly into my eyes.
“Pull it together ladies, we can’t fool around. We’re on the goddamn Thames!” Fred yelled exasperated.
The rest of the week passed by quickly. We spent the mornings on the water, struggling to adjust to the intimidating surroundings and new boat, and the afternoons visiting tea houses and castle ruins. We grew restless as the race day inched closer and our practices continued to be long, exhausting and uncoordinated. I also felt a nagging melancholy building up. Most of the crew were seniors and these days marked our last rows together, before we went our separate ways for college. I clung to the final days of Ada’s singing during warm-ups and the sound of Ava’s giggles echoing from the bow whenever Meghan cracked a joke.
On the morning of the race we woke before dawn, buzzing with anxiety. Despite Fred’s repeated reminders that “A good breakfast makes a good race,” we struggled to swallow the crumpets and jam that we had been eating by the dozen the week prior. I felt the knot of anxiety that had been building in my gut tighten as I thought of the race ahead. The overwhelming dread reminded me why I had chosen not to row in college.
As we pulled out of our driveway and followed the familiar path of winding, cobblestone streets to the river, the tense silence was cut by the familiar starting notes of “Feel This Moment” by Pitbull, our crew’s favorite pre-race hype song. We chanted the song with a frenzied fervor, desperate to rekindle the rhythm and connection our crew had lacked during the week prior.
My nerves only built as we navigated through the maze of colored tents that now dotted the grassy fields beside the river. Weaving past teams of huge, tan Australians, and graceful, preppy British girls, our small, shorter than average crew felt deeply out of place. Our usually
chatty group was silent as we set our bags down below our borrowed, plain white tent. With shaking hands we set about our usual pre-race ritual for the last time, braiding each other’s hair with maroon ribbons and swiping silver glitter across our sunburnt cheeks.
“Fred, I don’t feel good,” whispered our two seat, Virginia, her usually rosy cheeks blanched to a pale whitish shade.
“It’s just nerves. You’re gonna get in that boat and row and you’ll feel fine,” he assured her in his typical tough-love tone.
It was time to launch. We followed Fred through the bustling crowds to the docks, his tall form cutting a clear path before us. The boat cut familiarly into the dent in my shoulder, pressing into the small bruise that had formed under my skin. I looked at Hannah’s strong freckle-dotted shoulder ahead of me. Behind me Virginia stumbled, still complaining that she was on the verge of throwing up. My skin prickled with anxiety as I tried to gauge if maybe, I too was becoming nauseous.
With sweat-slick hands we set our boat into the water, clumsily clipping our oars in. The race officials watched us with beady eyes, waiting for us to launch so they could usher another crew onto the dock. When we had all clambered into our seats, Fred knelt by the side of the boat. I waited for his usual carping reminder to remember our form or keep up our stroke rate. Instead, his eyes grew almost misty and his gruff voice softened.
“You girls have it in you. We’ve trained for this.”
His large, wrinkled hands pushed us away from the docks and into the waters of the Thames. We were on our own now. Our coxswain, Meghan’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Stern four, ready, row!”
As we finished our well-oiled warm up routine and neared the start line, Virginia began gagging over the side of the boat. Her pair partner, Ava, who was notoriously terrified of vomit, called out to Meghan, “We need to get our spare, please get Virginia out of the boat! Oh my god, I can’t do this.”
The rest of our boat echoed her request, and we rowed frantically to the starting line official.
“Hello? We need to get our spare please. Our two seat is sick, she can’t row. Can you contact our coach Fred?” “Yes we’re the Hanover crew. Yes we have two spares at our tent.” Meghan spoke desperately to the woman.
“Okay, hold water here Hanover.” She responded in a crisp British accent.
Ten minutes later, with Virginia still slumped over the side of the boat and no sign of Fred or our spare, the race official returned. “I’m sorry dear, but we couldn’t get a hold of your coach. You’re going to have to race with your initial lineup.”
Ten minutes of sitting still, and a two seat down, we fell into a demoralized silence as we pulled our boat towards the starting posts.
“Okay ladies, we’re going to try our best. Virginia, row as much as you can, but try to keep the oar moving.”
Meghan’s voice sounded calmly out of the speakers. We quietly rowed ourselves to the start line. My legs twitched with anticipation and my heart pounded in my ears.
We pulled ourselves to the catch, oars buried in the river, knees bent against our chests. The flag went down, and Meghan’s powerful voice boomed through the intercom.
“Power twenty for the start. Push, push, we’re at a 30, let’s get to a 32. Come on ladies, give it everything!”
My eyes found the familiar crease between Hannah’s shoulder blades and my lungs heaved humid air with each stroke. Blind to the crowds on the shore or the shouts of the spectators, we fell into rhythm. With each stroke I pushed with the power of eight pairs of legs. Eight hearts pounded in unison. Eight oars clicked in harmony, pushing the green water behind us, rushing frantically towards the bridge. Hannah’s powerful arms were mine, Meghan’s voice my own.
The first 1000 meters flew by in a haze. As we passed the halfway mark I felt the burning intensify in my muscles, and my chest ached with each heaving breath. But Meghan’s strong, encouraging voice rang out through the speakers.
“This is it ladies. It’s all been for this, all the training, all the pain. This is your time. This is our last dance! Push, push push.” She called.
Our pace picked up, each ragged breath coming in unison from our parted lips. Last dance, last dance, this is it, this is your last race. It’s almost over. For the Mundy, for Fred, for Hannah. Push, push, push. I shut my eyes, tightened my grip on the oar and pushed on the foot board with every straining muscle in my body.
“Ten more strokes girls, ten more. This is it. Don’t leave anything on this race course. PUSH! PUSH!” Meghan shouted.
We cut across the finish line, slowing our strokes and slumping over our oars. I heard Virginia heaving over the side of the boat. There was no way we had made it to the second round. But it didn’t matter anymore. We’d never rowed so well in our lives. There couldn’t have been a better race to end my rowing career.
I felt the tears mixing with river water on my cheeks as Hannah turned back to hug me, her chest heaving against mine as she gasped out, “We did it, I love you.”
As we pulled up slowly to the docks, messily lifting our oars above the wooden planks, Fred rushed past the impatient officials and bounded towards us. I felt a pang of regret. Fred would be disappointed in our early loss. He’d pushed us so hard to be here, and now we were going to be eliminated before the second round.
“Girls! You did it! You’ve qualified for the second round!” He shouted joyfully. For the first time I saw tears welling up in his usually cold, serious eyes.
We rose from the boat in joyful disbelief. As the race officials futilely attempted to corral us off the dock we gathered in a sweaty, shaky, jubilant group hug. Even Fred dropped his usually stoic expression and patted us gently on the back.
“Ladies, we’ve got another race ahead of us.”
Even with our spare taking Virginia’s place, the second race was a massive loss, with the second seeded British team pulling effortlessly ahead of us in the first 500 meters. But it didn’t matter to us. We had made Fred proud, we had left everything on the race course and we had never rowed so well in our lives. It was a good last dance
