The early morning air is heavy, laced with moisture. The coxswain sighs and looks past the docks, overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Then, in spite of the stifling mugginess, she heaves a long smiling breath: the river is gorgeously serene. Wrapped in a flannel of mist, with fog and humidity veiling a complicated city, the river beckons the crew team to leave shore.
At the dock, rowers hover over the boat, sluggishly passing oars and water bottles, drowning in sleepiness and humidity. The coach barks orders to get going, and Kristine eases into the coxswain seat as the rowers climb in.
“Count off from Bow when ready,” she calls, waiting for the rowers to settle in.
Each rower sits in a numbered seat and for the duration of the row is called simply by his seat number. The coxswain listens for the count off: Bow-Seat, the man farthest from her, sleepy and yawning; Two-Seat furious about who-knows-what; Three-Seat laughing; Four and Five ending a friendly heated discussion long enough to holler their readiness; Six mumbling; Seven singing off-key; and Eight. Eight, who never counts off, just looks at the coxswain with the comfortably confident smile of “I’m always ready.” She rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly, makes the call and they push the shell away from the dock, shattering the smooth, even river.
Day begins—still shrouded in moonlight, encased by the blanket of night.
In the boat, every seat rests on a set of smooth tracks called slides; the rowers are tasked with pacing the speed at which they scoot up and down the slide. The idea is to get the power of eight people rowing a boat, and yet the movement of only one. Each rower muse synchronize his movements with those of the man in front of him. There is no way to row well without a consciousness of the other rowers; without all eight moving precisely as one, a perfect row is impossible.
Warming up, mustering the energy and will to combat the lazy atmosphere, the rowers move slowly but with determination. The air presses down, constraining the whole city with its weight. The coxswain fights to keep her voice from being weary—in a tug-of-war with the morning’s lethargy. She looks at Eight-Seat, sees him mirroring her battle. She strives to keep her tone and her calls energetic; he fights to prevent his body from surrendering to the slow, languid air. He knows there are seven men mimicking even the temper of his movements. His energy must draw out the others’.
The sound of the oars disrupts the weight-laden morning, stealing its power little by little with a persistent splash-snap, splash-snap. The rowers struggle to maintain the rhythm; and in the struggle itself, they steal small victories from the drowsy morning.
At sunrise, everything in the world is just beginning its evolution. Even the city—undisciplined, untrained, and complicated—starts from nothing and comes to life. First there is only darkness, and then softly, the sun comes out, coaxing a sleeping city to awaken. Buildings, cars, people take shape against the dawning light. Dogs are walked, lights turn on, joggers stretch and run, engines rev; the city attains the speed and power that controls it through the day.
Practice, rarely beginning with excellence, evolves as well. It takes time to perfect the rhythm, takes time for the eight bodies and oars to become one. Every stroke marks a change: timing improves, body angles strengthen, focus is mastered, control is gained, power increases. Ten strokes, thirty, fifty, seventy. Focus. Effort. Force. Fight. And then there is one splash instead of eight and a single, hard snap—audible perfection.
The man jogging along the riverside can tell neither that Six and Five are enemies, nor that Three and Two are brothers. Aside from himself, no one knows that Seven-Seat’s girlfriend has cheated on him. Eight is aware of an extra force of energy behind him, a drive that is not always present. Seven is pouring all his rage, all of his grief into the oar’s handle. Six and Five have turned their focus to technique, matching their bodies, attaining perfect timing; Three and Two have ceased joking, their smiles replaced with intense, driven grimaces. As a boat they have learned, they have fought to learn, to harness who they are and what they feel. On the water, they can be nothing without each other, and every personal difference and feeling has to be channeled into the moment. Some days they fail; other days—like today—they master it.
Defeating the humidity, the sleek, smooth shell cuts steadily through the water. Then in one swift, strong motion, everything comes together. All eight oars seize the river with impeccable sync, and the boat is lifted off the water. A slight, almost imperceptible, victorious breath from the coxswain is mirrored by the look of triumph in eight pairs of eyes.
The moment passes instantly; all the eyes refocus, reflecting again only determination and intensity; it is time for the next stroke. Even in their satisfaction, they maintain their unity. Together they have overcome the dense air, and they have flown. Once liberated from the oppressive sky they will let nothing, not even a moment of unfocused triumph, conquer them. They have beaten the atmosphere, and they continue to row with the same precision, power and focus. The wake of the shell slices the watery mirror, fracturing the images of an awakening world. Every stroke conquers; sustained flight becomes their realized dream.
The dream, though invaluable on the water, does not last beyond the river. When practice ends, another evolution begins. The unity, power and focus that took time and effort to attain deteriorate in an instant. Inevitably, just as it happens every morning, they regain their autonomy as they pull up to the dock; once again, they are people whose bodies do not move in sync.
Sean is shorter than Evan, and they bicker over where to stand to carry the boat up. Michael gets elected to bring everyone’s street shoes back; Tom carries the oars while Luke and Dave grumble that their backs hurt. Kristine—tired of being cramped in her little seat and driven by a nearly irresistible urge to pee—complains about how slow they are on the dock. Michael will break up with his girlfriend today while Keith aces an exam. Evan works two jobs; Matt will sleep through a class his trust fund pays for. Kristine will struggle to be heard by the members of her Econ group. Consumed by a myriad of unconnected thoughts, they tramp back to the boathouse; flight becomes a memory.
There must be something compelling in the memory, though, because tomorrow they will be back, facing the battles again. They will try to conquer the early morning, the weight of the boat, their different selves, their separate bodies all over again. And if they get past that, they will fight the air even at its heaviest. They will fight to fly, dawn after dawn, in spite of all the weight the day may bring.
