I Kept Rowing

David Greenawald

Our boat slid off the wooden dock into the glimmering water. A light fog still clung to the surface from earlier in the morning. At the coxswain’s command, the stern four rowers began to row. As the slender boat skimmed quietly through the calm water toward the start of the race, the river lapped at its sides.

I was sitting in the bow of a racing shell at seven o’clock on a cold Saturday morning. I could have been sleeping, snug in my bed. This wasn’t my sport anyway; it was my sister’s. Why should I have to row just because she did?

We went through the warm-up that we had practiced as we rowed to the start. Rowing lightly, everyone reflected on the last few months of training. All that training leading up to this, our first race.

The starting docks loomed above our boat as we neared them. I should have been excited like everyone else, but I wasn’t. I wanted to be home. Not trying to be as good as my older sister. Not always trying to get them to notice me.

The coxswain was yelling his commands, trying to get the tippy racing shell ready to start. “Bow, take a stroke. Two seat, take a light stroke.” Finally all the boats were lined up.

The starting judge barked, “three, two, one, attention, row!” and the race was on. We started like we had practiced so many times. The boats shot out into the course. After the first few strokes, our boat was already ahead of the others. As we settled in to a rhythm, we held our place. We were ahead, but not by much.

I rowed hard, but not because I cared. I rowed hard because they cared. I wanted them to see I could be good too. Each stroke was torture, a fresh jolt of lactic acid flushing through my body. But I kept rowing.

As we reached the middle of the course, the coxswain shouted at us, “power ten in two!” Two quick strokes later and we started our set of ten harder strokes. As we began our move, we pushed ahead. We slowly inched further and further in front of the pack. Our ten stroke move seemed to last forever, each stroke longer than the last. Then finally it was over and we settled back to our previous pace.

The pain was almost unbearable, but we were nearing the finish. I couldn’t give up. What would they say then? My sister didn’t give up during her races. So I kept rowing.

After what seemed like an eternity, the coxswain called our sprint. The final push to the finish. We rowed faster and harder, drawing on the endurance we had built in training. The splash of the water from the oars in front of me blurred my vision and drenched me. The taste of the river was sour in my mouth, but I kept rowing.

I could almost feel the presence of the approaching finish line. As we drew closer, each stroke propelling us toward our goal, I imagined myself lying in my warm bed at home. Then I realized I would rather be on the river – tired, sweaty, drenched, cold and hurting. At the same instant, we blasted across the finish line. First place. That race was for my family. I kept rowing, but all the races since have been for me.