one stroke. one sound.

we get down to the shell house at the ripe ol' time of 5:45am to be safe. someone shows up at 6:01, they're doing 150 ballistics after practice. show up at 6:10, they got 200 and get thrown in the canal. no shows? eh, they just do the whole shpeel then next day, and tack on an extra 50 ballistics just for shits and giggles.. oh, ha, ballistics are the ever-lovely calf burning, ass-toning jumping drills where an oar is propped up against the back of a couch and the person must jump over the halfway mark, over and back equaling one completed. a long 150 for a miserable one minute late.

we grab hold of the boat at the coxwain's "all hands on", and walk it down in the pitch black to the dock, where we set it in the water, sit down and tie in. we push off the dock and do warm ups. it's utter silence other than the sound of the boat skimming across the water, our oarlocks clunking simultaneously as we feather and square our blades. feather. square. feather. square. its like a pulse.

the boat glides under the fremont bridge, the silence interrupted by the cars running over the grated surface. in about 25 strokes, if we look up, the aurora bridge looms far overhead. by this time the sky is a light purple. the cox calls out a power ten, and the speed doubles as we power up.

as we pass gasworks park, couples can be seen huddled under blankets holding coffee in a feeble attempt to keep warm. a corner of my mouth turns upward as i glance down at my bare arms, and i focus once again on the rhythm. feather. square. feather. square.

and then something glorious happens. just as the sky begins to turn an orange-pink, the clouds breaking apart, i feel rain begin to hit my face. i look down again at my arms as they become speckled with waterdrops, leading my gaze to the water surrounding me. little circles that rippled outward covered the entire surface for as far as i could see. our hair matted to the sides of our faces, we turned the boat around, as the most breathtaking sunrise welcomed the sight of faces rather than backs. "way enough" the cox said, and we stopped rowing and let our blades skid across the water, staring at the closest thing to the Aurora Borealis that Seattle would ever see.



and people wonder why i do crew.