Being a new, inexperienced rower, I
was beyond ecstatic about my first regatta of the season last Sunday. I imagined a beautiful sunny day, with many
young, built, shirtless men, carrying around heavy boats, coaches and parents
laughing and eating food, while watching the graceful sport from the sidelines,
and us rowers having a great time with one another. While many of these
expectations were met, I may have romanticized the reality of the sport just a
bit.
That Sunday morning at 5:45, there I
went, my hands wrapped tight around my cup of coffee. It was raining, it was
dark, it was cold, and we had to drag one teammate out of bed. The next hour on
the bus many of us continued sleeping or watched the sunrise, which instead of
turning the sky into a kaleidoscope of beautiful colors, was soon covered with
clouds, leaving it completely dull and grey. But it didn’t faze me because Ed
Sheeran was singing me lullabies, I was wearing my favorite sweater, and our
dear coaches provided us with some bagels and cream cheese. What was there
possibly to complain about?
Soon we arrived at the venue, and it
started pouring. I found myself in this place that was filled with boats, wet
bodies, and muddy feet. While trying to set up the tent, which was the only thing
that could keep us dry, we soon came to the realization that it had broken, and
could only function as some sort of fort that one could crawl under. Nevertheless,
I was completely soaked only twenty minutes after arrival, and my favorite
sweater had become completely useless and disgusting. Off it went, and I was
left shivering in my crew shirt and spandex. Right as I thought matters
couldn’t get any worse, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the boat as we
were rigging it, and realized that I had been foolish enough to wear mascara
that wasn’t waterproof (because I wanted to impress those ripped crew boys, of
course), and now looked like a soaking wet raccoon. Aside all these little
things, I was very excited as our first race was approaching, the Varsity 8. We
got in line to launch, carrying the heavy boat on our shoulders, while strange
elevator music was blasting through the speakers, obviously getting us pumped
for the race.
Before I knew it, I was pushing out power
tens, pulling through the wind and rain, ignoring the pain of new blisters on
my hands, trying to find that little extra bit of strength each stroke, and
testing my mental toughness. There is one thing I strongly believe, and realized
during the race: Crew girls are the toughest girls out there. We are not fazed
by rain, wind, or mud; we don’t shy away from 6k erg tests, or weight-lifting
circuits; we don’t stop, even if our hands are bleeding or legs are cramping.
Crew girls are one of a kind. The race was very exciting as we flew by a boat,
and held off another one for the entire time.
The next race was not for another
four-and-a-half hours, which may have been the longest four-and-a-half hours of
my life. They were spent trying to find coffee, stuffing my face with Dunkin
Donuts’ munchkins, and unsuccessfully trying to stay warm. I did, however, see
some serious six packs and god-like arms, making it all worth it. After about
an hour or so, I’d given up on socks and shoes, and was now sloshing through
the mud barefoot, adding a whole new dimension to the experience. The minutes
were ticking by, lips were turning purple, and the rain was getting heavier.
When finally, we were called out for our next race, I did not think I still had
it in me to do it all over again. Once in the boat, our dear coxswain came to
the horrible discovery that her cox box (the machine which shows the
ratings/time during the race, and allows their microphone to work) had broken.
So there we went, without Kelly’s vital voice guiding us through the race,
pushed and pulled, and I might have cried a little bit out of pain and
frustration. Yet, to my surprise, we made it to the finish line; maybe not with
a great time, or with great pride, but we made it, and no one can take that
away from us.
That Sunday evening, at 6 pm, there I
went, empty handed and barefoot, back to the familiarity of my home town. It was raining, it was dark, it was cold, but somehow we lifted
each other through the day. My first regatta wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine,
rather rough and never-ending, but boy was it an experience.
