Crisp fall evenings
And blinding spring afternoons.
The boat cuts across the calm water,
Disrupting it.
We drop our oars in, straighten our legs, and raise our blades.
Again and again and again.
When the rowers are unified,
Each depending on the other,
Each pulling for the other,
We achieve beautiful motion:
Catch, drive, finish, catch drive, finish.
Legs, bodies, arms, arms, bodies, legs.
We are exhausted and spent
And any other synonym you can think of.
But still we search our deep wells of energy
For even the slightest of remaining strength
To give more to the boat
Especially when those around you have nothing left to give.
It is peaceful,
And an exhilarating adrenaline rush,
And full of pain at the same time.
In these moments,
The boat is the only thing that matters
And everything else fades away.
Nine girls become one
As sixteen legs pull together
And eighteen eyes look straight ahead.
Lowering splits
Moving faster and faster
And faster.
I sit in the stern with my headset
Clutching my CoxBox.
Though I am cramped in my seat
And my voice is hoarse from yelling,
When the wind blows back my hair,
You can see my smile.
