All Eight, From Halfs, Feather Blades

The first thing you should understand is that rowing is a lot more technically challenging than you might think. You don't just sit eight guys in a boat with a coxswain and start pulling on oars. If you did that, then the first thing that would happen is the boat would tip over to one side or the other, half the oars would get stuck in the water, and the boat would lamely wobble amidst much cursing and splashing while the cox's shouts get increasingly patronizing.

So our first lesson once we get in the boat is about balance. First we learn to sit the boat by resting our oar blades flat on the surface of the water. Even this simple task takes several rounds of relearning. Once we've mastered the knack of floating in one place without tipping over, a single pair is allowed to begin rowing, arms only, while the other six oars lay out like training wheels. After all the pairs begin to get the feel of it (and it's terrible at first, because even with six training wheels the awkward balancers let the boat rock enough that you're not quite sure if your oar will hit the water or come out again) then we move up to fours. Half of us rowing, half sitting the boat. That was as far as we got in the first couple of weeks.

The next thing to know is that rowing is not just about arms. Our seats slide in tracks forward and backward, with our feet anchored to plates in front of us. This way we can double ourselves up completely, reaching out between our knees, and lunge backward to full extension. Like a spring. Body length is a plus (Hooke's law). But even just springing out and curling up has technique to it, so your oar doesn't hit your knees and so you make the most of all the force you have to exert. Legs straight, back back, arms in. Arms out, back up, legs bent. Legs, back, arms; arms, back, legs. Until it's worked into your subconscious, that's the mantra.

But the dominating feature of rowing is the coordination. The ideal state is for all eight of us to match each others' movements exactly. Eight blades enter the water, push back with even pressure for the same distance at the same depth, pop out together, feather together, and return to position at the same height. When the eight of us are rowing and that perfect synchronization breaks down, the boat begins to wobble. And as it wobbles, someone's oar will catch too early, throwing the rhythm further off, until we end up rocking and splashing and frantically trying to catch up with the person in front of us. We've been doing a lot of that this week. Still got another week to go...

A rowing eight is a unit, a body. The boat has only one pair of eyes, the cox's. Jeremias is our fearless cox, a fresher as new to his job as we are to ours. The cox sits in the back and shouts in elaborate code. "Bow four, from backstops, half slide, feather blades, ready...go!" "Bow and three, take a tap; stroke, hold her up." "Stroke side, take the runoff." "Next stroke, easy there. Strokeside, back it down; bowside row on."--though Jeremias likes to call that last maneuver "Crazy Ivan". I think the jargony cox signals are my favorite part.

The Christ Church Regatta for novice rowers starts next Thursday, and Julian (an experienced rower for Corpus, and our coach) thinks we have a shot at winning it. At least, that's the only rationale I can think of for trying to get us on the water four times this week, with an additional two land-training sessions. And judging from the look of what's been floating out there, I think we have a good shot. We began seriously rowing all eight from Saturday before last, and it's beginning to feel somewhat less than terrifying. We're good at starts, and our in-place turn--totally unimportant for the actual races, but crucial for pre-race intimidation--is starting to look quite good. At any rate, I'm getting a much better workout than I'm used to, and having quite a lovely time--in spite of the 6am outings.

Stay tuned.