From the Introduction: Around the time I turned forty the unfinished novel manuscript went back in the drawer. I dropped the Buddhist mantra I had been worrying over like a string of beads. What I really wanted besides career and marriage and kids and comfort was, I decided, to learn how to row boats and how to race them: four- and eight-man boats first, then two man boats, then, finally and preeminently, a single scull. If what followed is a story worth telling, it is a tale not of a champion but of an amateur, whose heart was stirred by boats and whose imagination was lifted by history. The oars gave me power but they also taught me humility. I began to row on a whim a few years ago. a poster in a storefront caught my fancy; it announced a summer learn-to-row course at a local boat club. I had read a lot about the history of oared ships, and I had heard a little about the sort of rowing. Graduate school friends had spoken with reverence of their undergraduate rowing experience. For years, my favorite sport had been running, but lately a string of injuries had cast doubt on y future on the road. So I decided to give the rowing course a try. It was not a case of love at first sight. The technical complexities of the stroke confused me. If my conditioning was up to par, my innate sense of grave and my ability to concentrate left a great deal to be desired. Rowing was a tough sport and I was not a natural. After a few lessons, rowing might have gone the way of other such midlife diversions as fly-fishing, wine-tasting, yoga, and the saxophone, one-week wonder all. Yet it has lasted. Why?