Rowing: North Meets South

Sitting at the starting blocks, a fiery ball of nerves roils inside me. The stake holder moves the boat slightly away from the blocks as the official directs—I respond by calmly asking two seat to take a light stroke to reset my point so we start straight. All eight of my rowers sit in hyper focus waiting for the starting call from the official.

“Sit ready. Attention. ROW!”

I let out the beast of nerves inside me as I call out the starting sequence, “Three quarters. Half. Three quarters. FULL. One, two, three…” My voice is gruff, powerful and direct—I’ve unleashed my coxswain growl.

Immediately Exeter pulls ahead in the lane on our starboard side. Shake it off, I tell myself, focus on the boats we can beat.

Slowly but surely we work our way past the four other boats. “I’m on stern, let’s get me to coxswain…I’ve got bow, let’s get bow ball!” The thrill of passing boats rushes through me. I let it fuel my coxswain growl to head into the last 500 meters.

 It is a fight in the final sprint, but we pull ahead and cross the finish line second—placing into the Grand Finales heat for NEIRAs 2011.

Beginning my rowing career at a New England prep school, the United States rowing hub seemed to me to be centered there. While everyone in the rowing community knows there are fast crews elsewhere, the hottest competition always seemed to be in prepville: New England—or the northeast in general.

Case in point was that Grand Finals competition—Exeter, Kent and Andover duked it out for medals, with the remaining three prep boats soaring in behind. All six boats were from Massachusetts, New Hampshire or Connecticut.

Now, I don’t want to pretend that I know a lot about the rowing community, because I don’t. I have coxed on three school teams for a total of about 25 races. I never went to rowing camps or other programs where the rowing community becomes interconnected. I know nothing except my own limited experience. (Although I do get pretty much all the jokes on whatshouldrowerscallme.)

However, I have competed twice in the Head of the Charles regatta in Boston. It is one of the most thrilling experiences to be part of the huge convergence of the international rowing world. The excitement can be overwhelming, but it fuels the air of competition through the pure, collective joy of speeding over the water, passing boats, and rowing with a tight-knit crew.

Coming to Nashville, I never expected to find such a flourishing rowing community in the south. Sure, some Florida and other coastal programs are thriving, but in Tennessee? Alabama? Georgia?

Let me explain what I mean by thriving. This past weekend I traveled to my first official regatta with the Vanderbilt Rowing Team: the Chattanooga Head Race. Considered somewhat of a warm-up for Head of the Hooch, I expected the regatta to be a small race with nearby crews, local, somewhat disorganized officials and a laidback atmosphere.

I was right and I was wrong, but as it turns out both in a good way.

At the coxswain and coaches meeting at the wonderful hour of 7:30 a.m., the regatta organizers presented pertinent information and rules regarding the course and the competition—as any race organizers would.

I was somewhat perplexed by the questions some coxswains asked. Immediately following a very thorough description of the buoys on the course and what they mean: “Which side of the yellow buoys do we need to be on?” After the officials said you would either hear a horn beep or someone yell “Mark” (if the horn is broken) as you crossed the starting line: “Which one will it be?”

At first I was annoyed by these seemingly silly questions, but I realized that they did not come from a place of misunderstanding, but rather from a place of excitement. Likely these coxswains were new to the sport, and did not want to have anything extra to think about on the fly. They were eager, so they did not entirely hear everything the officials said—I was certainly guilty of that as a novice coxswain.

Once I realized that this air of utter excitement was hanging over the crowd, I couldn’t stop noticing it in every spectator and athlete. Next to our team tent alongside the river was a large club team from Alabama. The team consisted of juniors and masters rowers, but the group also included a massive extension of enthusiastic families. Every person wore a broad smile—and their cookout spread was extensive.

These rowers of a range of abilities and ages were truly thrilled to be a part of this community event. When one of their boats approached the finish line, they stampeded to the shore to cheer loudly for their teammates. Their enthusiasm was infectious.

When we launched for the men’s college 8+ race, a group of juniors and novice rowers were returning to the docks. They were drenched and most of their shells were full of water, demonstrating that tricky wind patterns awaited us upstream. And yet they were laughing about it, smiling, and still completely happy to be a part of the scene.

Rowing up to the starting line, we rowed by Nashville Rowing Club. They gave us a friendly good luck shout. This kindness put a smile on my face that affected subsequent interactions with officials and other boats. I recalled that the Georgia Tech coxswain in the morning men’s 4+ race had been friendly at the start as well, even without the connections we have with NRC.

When the officials called us to our race, we started close behind the women’s junior 8+s. Being a men’s collegiate 8+, we bore down on them quickly. I had to yell to the coxswain to yield and let me pass, and when she did, I yelled out a friendly thank you in the spirit of the day.

The warm community feel of the day had an influence on me, as I would never have wasted my breath in any of my previous races. In my previous experiences, coxswains had always been brusque with me at best, and sometimes outright mean. Taking my cue from the dominant culture, I simply responded likewise—in short, efficient words.

Last year I coxed for a D1 program in Boston. At the Princeton Chase, Princeton’s frosh 8+ was passing us. When the coxswain called for me to yield—and I did to the best of my ability—she felt it necessary to include an f-bomb in her instructions.

My rowers laughed it off—coxswains are normally b!#@$y!

I think it is time that we change that standard.

The southern rowing community has showed me that I can hold onto the competitive rowing spirit, without succumbing to the sophomoric harshness associated with fierce competition. Now I see that it is not necessary to omit kindness. It takes only a small breath to say thank you.

My coxswain growl does not have to be mean to be effective—in fact it seems to be more effective to be kind.