row2k Features
A Pilgrimage
December 7, 2001
Alessandra Phillips

(with thanks to John Knowles)

"All of them, all except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way-if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed the enemy"

--John Knowles, A Separate Peace

I returned not long ago to my first rowing club; the boathouse i frequented in my summers home from boarding school. It was Thanksgiving, and I had decided to take a quick jog along the lakefront. I took the curving gravel path from my family's place through the park to the thousand-meter lagoon, and came to an inconspicuous wire-mesh gate set into the side of a mound of earth.

The boathouse looked smaller and more faded than I remembered. Its cave-like bays exhaled that familiar odor of damp and mold and WD-40 that brought back memories of thick itchy polyester knit trou, blisters, and the annual trackbite that would send my mother into fits of despair. "That's not ladylike!" she would say at the holes in the backs of my calves. "You'll scar for life--what are you going to do when you're older, wear concealer on your legs?" (I could never find bandages to stay on my legs for the whole practice, and once my brother started rowing as well, my mother gave up.) No permanent damage done; but I've never found boats that left such marks since.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the bays, I noticed that the sweep workhorses, ancient Schoenbrod and Dirigo eights, had been replaced by many smaller sculling boats, with even a few hulls gleaming that singular shade of almost-neon yellow. It was like visiting a museum, although the current cast of characters, save one, were completely different, although friendly. I felt a bit like Odysseus might have felt, walking through a familiar place while interacting with strangers.

I had always seatraced and practiced with the adults during those high school summers, the only difference being of course that at the end of the regatta I went home, rather than go out carousing with the other rowers at local watering holes. What I remember most from that time was such intense enthusiasm, the heady stuff we all experience when we first join the sport; it nurtures and feeds us through the initial complexities and frustrations of trying to master a motion that appears deceptively simple.

When I started rowing in school, everything was interesting; betting shirts, trading gear, reading assiduously anything that came from USRowing. I remembered enjoying erg tests because it meant a chance to distinguish myself from the heaviness of the eights we rowed. Even then I was acutely aware that I wasn't an optimal size to row. Much like my father must have dreamed as a boy of playing baseball like his idols, I would dream of becoming effortlessly fast.

Later, towards the end of my scholastic and collegiate rowing career, I began to take the sport for granted, and it lost its luster. I could no longer compete with the big girls. I could not understand why my erg score did not improve, despite my best efforts. I did not understand how to improve technically, and after a while I was tired of always asking the coach what I should do better. I was angry with myself for not making the top boat. I left college rowing with regrets but also an overwhelming sense of weariness. I had put my trust in the wrong gods, and was in a small way glad to be free of what practice entailed.

There is an old Zen koan which talks about focusing on the moon, not the finger pointing to the moon. When I first learned to row, the enjoyment of the movement was reward enough. Then I learned about racing, and instead of focusing on my rowing, I focused on winning and how that affected how good a person I was. Going back to the boat club at home kindled that old original flame of optimism. Despite battered equipment, limited coaching, burrow-like boathouse, and a short, stinky lagoon, this was the place where more than a few dreams had started--mine and others'. And doing well at anything in life comes naturally, when you are in the flow, enjoying the work, and putting genuine effort into it.

In the past two years, I fell into familiar patterns in my personal rowing; too many practices without joy in the work, and after a while standards slip; you decide not to do that last steady state piece, or that last 500 meter sprint. A kind of panic crept in, because I knew I was missing something and feared I was failing others' expectations of me. I wasn't enjoying it, because I was afraid of failure. Two years ago, even in the toughest workouts, I was loving it because I was thinking of nothing more than learning, and being in the moment. Obviously that fear of failure is just a ghost, but one that might take different forms with different people. Regardless of its shape, fear can be crippling. You lose sight of reality and get caught up in shadows. It blocks you off from being able to interact with people, from experiencing life.

I had breakfast with some rowing friends a few weeks ago, and was struck by the positive attitude of one particular rower; she seemed to radiate a strong faith in herself, and was open, and cheerful. It was infectious, and made the breakfast much more pleasant. It reminded me of what I had been missing.

So try to return to that place that evokes your enthusiasms this holiday season. Corinthians talks about leaving childhood things behind once one reaches adulthood. But perhaps it's that magic and wonderment at the world of a child's perspective that inspires hope. It is wonderfully refreshing, and a much-needed indulgence in these times.

May you all have calm water, good outings, and good cheer with your loved ones.

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