Women’s rowing: An exercise in balance

From Bainbridgebuzz.com, Monday, 14 February 2005

It’s dawn in Eagle Harbor. The morning light is pink and tender, and mist rises from the water. The manic tick tick tick of a lone Kingfisher breaks the stillness, and then a woman’s voice calls, “Bow seat, give me a couple strokes.” There is a clunk of oar on oarlock and a rhythmical splash of water under the oar.Eight middle-aged women are in a rowing shell with me, seven other rowers and our coxswain who sits in the stern, facing us, calling out commands. We’ve recently finished a three-week Learn-to-Row class, and we’re training for our first race. “Okay ladies, give me a power ten!” the cox yells. We’re already sweating from our warm-up and she’s ordering us to do ten strokes at top power. “It’s only ten strokes,” she cheers. “You can do anything for ten strokes!” “Bullshit!” the woman behind me mutters. “I need some coffee. I can’t frickin’ do this. I wish I’d slept in. Shit! Shit!” Her swearing makes me laugh, because it’s so out of character with her land personality. I love sitting in front of her because when she bitches, I forget my burning legs, arms and lungs. “No talking in the boat!” the cox orders. “In two, take it down two.” Translation: after two more strokes, we’ll slow down by two strokes a minute. I took up rowing shortly after my 50th birthday. I’ve never been particularly athletic and don’t really care about winning races. I signed up for the class because a friend of mine is so nuts about it she recently bought her own two-person shell. I saw her at the gym one day (while I was yawning and doing half-hearted leg lifts on the weight machines) and she raved about how beautiful it is on the water, how fun the rowers are and what a great workout it is. She sealed the deal when she had me feel her abs. They were like a brick wall. It’s not likely I would have met most of the women in my boat any other way. I work at home on Bainbridge. The other rowers work for the ferry system, the federal government, a law firm, the school district. A couple of them are retired. In age, we range from the late forties to seventy years old. Three of the women are over sixty, including our “stroke,” the person who sits in front of everyone else and has to have the best technique and rhythm because she sets the rowing pace for the boat. These women are strong and sleek, funny and interesting. They’ve erased any anxiety I had about getting older. We’re half-way through a 1000 meter practice race. We started fast and then slowed to a pace we can keep up for a hundred strokes or so, until we do our sprint to the finish. I’ve gotten a second wind; I’m in much better shape than I was when I started rowing. My teenage son, who works out all the time, says he’s impressed with my “guns” (my biceps, which have reappeared as actual muscles after years of neglect). As I row, I look straight forward, because one human head weighs enough to disturb the “set” (balance) of the boat and slow it down. I can’t look around at the stunning blue water, the heron standing in the shallows, the boats in the harbor. But I see them peripherally. I hear the gulls and that solitary Kingfisher. This is the perfect team sport for a loner like me. I’m with other women, but when we’re rowing, we communicate without a word, through our oars and the movement of our backs. Everything depends on synchronizing our strokes, so we read each other silently, intuitively. It is a meditation through water. If one of us loses her focus and lets her thoughts wander, we all lose our rhythm. The boat is our Zen master and immediately critiques inattention by tipping to one side or the other. We’re novices so we wobble more than we glide. But when we’re together, there’s no feeling quite like it, a smooth and elegant conversation among rowers, boat, oars and water. It’s why we drag ourselves from sleep and warmth three mornings a week. It’s a meditation, a fresh air work-out and social session, all in the first hours of the day.