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“Ready…UP!” As these words echoed in the bay eight people (including myself) ignored the pain of their hands and struggled to lift a boat onto their shoulders. I stood there with my left shoulder twinging as the boat (heavier than you’d think) sat right on the bruise on the top of my shoulder. The mark of a tall oarswoman.

At the command of the coxswain my crew and I walked forward towards the docks, only pausing for a few agonizing moments for the regatta official to check the boat and put a number on the bow. As we held the boat high above our heads while parallel to the docks edge, I couldn’t help but notice a bit of shaking in my crew’s arms. Not so much from the weight they strained against, or the wobbling of the dock from the waves, but the pure agony of nervousness before the race. At the coxie’s word we flipped the boat slowly into the water. For a brief moment I felt hesitation at putting the boat into the water, as though the placement was sealing one’s fate. But the moment passed, and the world that was teetering on the brink of that dock righted itself again.

I stepped with one foot into the purple interior of the boat and held onto the wooden oar with one hand, using the other to steady myself on the unsteady boat. I slowly sat on the sliding seat, some of the rubber cushioning coming off from excessive use. “Typical…” I muttered. “Only the Falcon.” I didn’t mean the bird of course. No, I meant the boat. The Rising Falcon, the heavy, pockmarked shell of St. Peter School. Used by all novice rowers, even from other schools. Now I know this sounds as though I am just finding something to take out my nervousness out on, but it’s not that. This boat was terrible, even boats 5 years its elder excel in quality. You can tell when you are in a bad shell when you are getting more tired going up your slide to prepare for another stroke than you do taking the actual stroke. “If these seats move any less, they’d be stuck in concrete…” I thought, tugging absentmindedly at the designer shirt I was wearing. “Alack, thine dreadful spandex.” As Shakespeare would have said. If he rowed.

We pushed off the dock with one hand, and at the command of the coxie the bow pair rowed it away from the dock. On the way up to the starting gates we slowly did some drills and starts, not wanting to overexert our energy. Everything was shaky, and why wouldn’t it be? We were nervous. It was the first regatta of the club season. Here we were, the second best boat in the club of our category, and stuck in a terrible boat. At the last moment the James Rock, the boat we usually use, was crashed into a marker on the course and had a huge hole in it. So we were stuck with the Falcon.

We rowed our way up the course, a few boats from the opposition sailing past us in their fancy yellow empachers. The Ipod of all boats. Finally we stopped at the coxie’s command (“Let it RUN!”), and spun the boat around as best we could. Then, once again at a command, the last four people (actually the first four from my view, seeing as we sit backwards) flipped their oars around and backed the boat to the starting gates. Once our bow was safety held in place by the person lying on the platform of our gate, we sat in the starting position. Halfway up the slide, with our blades turned perpendicular in the water. I could hear everyone’s breath turn ragged; this was the most terrorizing part. I was reminded of a poem I had read. “Have you sat at the line, with cold chills down your spine, just before a hard race had begun? When each moment intense seems a year of suspense while you wait for the flash of a gun?” Back then I didn’t know what it meant, but now the meaning was crashing about me in roaring waves of fear. The best comparison I can think of would be the most frightening moment of your life; while you wait for the future you do not know but seems hugely important. Like the outcome of a loved one when they have an accident, or such. It seems like a vast difference, but believe me, if you were out there sitting in that boat, you’d know the terrible feeling.

All too soon, we heard the announcer’s voice over the speaker. “Attention…START!” At those words the light in front of us winked green and we began. “HALF, HALF, THREE-QUARTER, FULL!” our coxy shouted over the din of sliding seats, sloshing water and the terrific thump thump of our oars twisting in unison at the catch and finishes of our strokes. What she shouted was the instructions for our start; move halfway up the slide first with a stroke at half pressure, same thing, and three quarter ways up, then the full slide. We did a hard ten right away, pulling ourselves stroke by stroke ahead of the other boats. As I fought for breath my mind was whirling, exhilarated! Every single tip and technique dropped out of my head, but it didn’t matter. I guess my subconscious remembered though, seeing as how I didn’t catch a crab. It was only my crew, moving as one. Up the slide, down the slide. Bodies swinging as one, pain being felt as one. My whole body was burning, arms, legs and hands. My mind screamed at me empty words, telling me to give up, to throw my oar away, but it didn’t matter. It made me pull harder than before. We did another hard ten, somehow gathering the energy to pull harder than ever. Our coxy was shouting, in the brief moments when I was leaning to the side up at the catch position I could see her moving with every word, her eyes sparkling with the joy of being in the lead. With our success.

“COME ON GIRLS! HARD TEN! SIT STRAIGHT UP! HANDS AWAY FAST, KEEP THOSE OARS OFF THE WATER! PULL UP HIGH. WE CAN DO THIS! WE’RE IN THE LEAD, LET’S PULL AWAY! OPEN WATER GIRLS! OPEN WATER! 500 METERS LEFT. 100 METERS. 50 METERS! LAST TEN GIRLS! NO REGRETS!” I pulled along with every word, her voice and the cheers from shore filling my ears. Just at the most painful moment of all, a loud horn sounded. Then the most amazing sound of all. “Let it run.” our coxy said, and it was over. We stopped moving, chests heaving, feeling sick. But everyone was beaming.

As the roars of the crowd at the grandstand grew to an incredible level, I somehow gathered the breath to give a quick laugh. I won. But as the people in my boat turned around to give high fives, too out of breath to talk, did I realize my mistake. It wasn’t I who one. We won.

We won.