I have always loved rowing and paddling…whatever type of boat: rowboats, dinghy, canoes, even a raft or log. Rowing on the Ganges at night with the funeral pyres casting orange and red hues against the Ghats, and the sound of a flute penetrating the stillness…that was out of the ordinary. I did not last long ( I passed the pleasure over to the boat owner as we headed up river) but it was a trip, worth the blisters.
Rowing is not for everyone. Prisoners who rowed on Spanish barges lived and died shackled to their seats-rowing, eating, sleeping, urinating and shitting at their position. No bliss in that. Their moments of ecstasy were not achieved by rowing in unison under the whip of the boat master, but more likely when they stepped into a boat on the river Styx.
At college, a couple of roommates rowed lightweight crew. I was never attracted to rowing in an Eight. The coxswain barking orders seemed antithetical to the point of bliss on the water. In graduate school, I almost sank a shell in Chicago when i joined a crew,and found out everyone else had rowed in college. I gracefully raised my oar out of the water so as not to rock the boat. Humiliating perhaps, but at least we remained dry and afloat.
I learned to row a single shell at the Lake Washington Rowing Club (and passed the flip test), but my exquisite moments in a boat were at dawn on Mallet’s Bay in Vermont- flat water, mist rising sparkling with the morning light and no wake to contend with. The stillness except for the sound of blades dipping the water and the oarlocks clicking as the oars snapped into position, that was unmatched as a sensual experience. These were Zen moments.
My dad had inherited a shell when his war time buddy developed ALS. The scull was a tank. Heavy fiberglass skin and wooden oars more suitable to the slave ship. After enlisting in a rowing camp, he had purchased a new shell, one that he could maneuver down through the pine forest to the lake in front of our Vermont house. The full body excercise kept him in shape for skiing well into his 70’s. After he died, I was the only family member creasing the water in Nut Shell 2 on Lake Champlain, Vermont.
Yet the only times I sat in the boat were on rare summer visits after traveling back to Burlington from Seattle. My solution – ship it out west. Easier said than done. My wife’s friend rowed with the Mt Baker club and she was going to participate in the Head of the Charles regatta. She offered to help if I could get the boat from Vermont to Cambridge, Massachusetts. I managed to contact the University of Vermont rowing club, Vermont Rowing, and they agreed to pick it up and haul to Cambridge. Years before, my dad found a farmer with property on the Lamoille River who allowed Dad to store his shell in the barn. The UVM crew found out about the spot and built racks there for their boats. So we had a link. In Cambridge, the connection was made and the boat delivered to Pocock folks, who then hauled it to the NW (for a fee). The last leg was on top of our Explorer down to Seattle.
My shell has more road miles than sea miles. I am paraphrasing Ben, a neighbor and boat builder. Ben co-owned Lake Union Shipyard where the craftsmen only worked on luxury yachts, so he held a critical view of boats that have abandoned their element. The boat he built in his back yard eventually soared all the way to Lopez Island, where it cruises among the San Juans.
And there Nut Shell 2 sat.
And sat. The slings of outrageous fortune barely supporting the scull.
The scull stretched out like a corpse, a constant reminder of past glories and dreams unfulfilled.
I rejoined the Lake Washington Rowling Club…at a cost. When I first joined in the 80’s , the fee was $75. They outgrew their boathouse on Lake Union and so requested members help fund a new boathouse…with a $5000 investment. I lacked the funds and besides, the rate of return was worse than a savings account. When I rejoined , the annual fee was $800 and I would have to pay even more to store Nut Shell 2. Given the boat’s ancient riggers and worn look, I decided not to embarrass either one of us by putting up on their racks.
That year I only got on the water once, in the Club’s boat. My launch started badly. I was more unsteady than usual as i pushed away from the dock. I knew I was rusty but what’s up? My oars were upside down. I was not familiar with the new oar design , and so was not paying attention when slipping them into the oarlocks. Rectifying the situation under pressure as a Four was attempting to dock, I set out to catch up with the other rowers and the coach. I was feeling pretty good in the ship canal after a few strokes. Then the volunteer coach motors up and asks where I learned to row and when. After broadcasting my brief history across the water, he said, “That explains it.” WHAT? Apparently I was making too much noise during the catch and release. Having been taught to snap the instant of catch and release, the oarlocks made a rattle. My coach said that now rowers move more smoothly, no sudden catch, no sudden release. Damn, I liked my old style.
The next step as a “new” member was the flip test either in Lake Union or a pool. I resisted since I had already gone through the maneuver years before as a member. No go. I never found the time to go dunk.
My boat languished. So I borrowed Ben’s truck and portaged it once again to a new location, Lake Tanwax where my wife’s twin had a cabin/house.
Where is sat…and sat. The hour and half drive takes one through Trump territory, past multiple mini-malls and chain restaurants. It’s a Hell of a drive. Pure aggravation. How to find my Zen with such appalling bookends to a trip? So I never slipped it into the lake. I have rowed on this lake in a wooden skiff and the surface often is placid like a mirror. I only wish I had listened to Nut Shell’s pleading to bathe in the shadow of Mt Rainier. When my brother-in-law threatened to burn the boat like some Viking float trip to Valhalla, I sought another solution.
So I made a major decision. On hearing that Ben’s daughter Mackenzie, had started rowing on Green Lake, and having tried sculling, she was enthralled…I gave her the boat. Sure, I wanted to row again but I had convinced myself that a didn’t need a racing shell. It was time to invest in a more stable boat, given the conditions around the NW open water.
Once again, the boat put in road miles all the way to Lopez Island.
Just when Ben thought he was done with boat repair, I dropped this project on him. Ben was not going to waste his time if there were any fatal flaws in the hull, so he began his research on the boat. Only to find out that when built in the 80’s this design was the latest in carbon fiber hulls, and was a racing shell. (Typical of my dad to invest in the latest for his passion.) The manufacturer is still around and parts were available. Ben sent a scope down the inside of the hull, and no cracks so he committed to the work ahead.
Mackenzie swabbed the decks during a stopover in Seattle, contemplating the look of the reborn Nut Shell 2.
It shall be pink.
And thus it was so.
More work needs to be done, but with luck and Ben’s skill come spring, we will join Ben, Mackenzie and a patient mom, Kris, for a relaunch. This after Mac practices her flip, dumping out of the boat and climbing back in, at their farm’s small pond. I will be given a chance to sweep the oars once again…with an inflatable vest on just in case I get overly exuberant.
Stay tuned.
Whittoons 