1 Shea Lewis Rowing

For the First Time The shell shakes from side to side as I grip the gunnels from the coxswain seat, waiting for it to flip, to completely disregard my pleas for it to remain upright. It never does. Tugging at the rudder strings too hard, then not enough. Words and commands fall from my tongue, limp. Coach Brian says: yell, and even then I only raise my voice slightly. The oars move back and forth, sloppy and out of sync. I fail to find any concrete starting point; the numbers on the Cox Box, stroke rate, watts, and split time, mean nothing to my untrained mind. My only expectation is to survive I only joined to be like Danny, my brother. That terrifying feeling of being engulfed by the rivers current and trapped in its constant pull creeps up slowly, then attacks. Eight strangers look to me for the direction that I cannot give, but so desperately want to. Its so odd how this horrible confusion, this, by my standards, horrific failure, feels exactly like sinking.

On a Cold Day in March The dock creaks and aches with each step, shivering in the cold with us. The wind rips through the desolate, naked tree branches, then stops. The hazy clouds crawl overhead and the world is covered in gray. First oars and oar locks in silence, then pushing off. Underneath the bridge and to the first river bend, the crows call out to one another and then listen to the water sloshing past with each stroke. My nose drips like a leaky faucet, consistent and unavoidable. Cracks form on my lips and the oars cut through the water on mute. I can feel the bruise forming on my spine from the check, a sort of limbo that results when the full force of the rowers strokes must

2 compete with a rushed transition back to the catch. Slowww the slide. Easy on the recovery. Im wearing sunglasses in the winter because even though its freezing, its also still sunny. Every once in a while the oars graze a piece of drifting ice, and I watch it saunter off as I count the strokes that never end. The beginning of the season means two pairs of long thermal socks, spandex Under Armour compression leggings, sweatpants, long sleeve Under Armour heat gear beneath a long sleeve t-shirt, a fleece sweatshirt, a hooded cotton sweatshirt, a waterproof rain jacket, and waterproof pants topped with rubber boots. I cant move. All my appendages succumb to the fierce coldness slowly, inevitably transitioning to numbness while my coarse throat generates mild heat methodically, like a candle slowly burning down its wick. My efforts to bundle up are futile, and I look stupid. I know I look stupid. When its cold when its frigid no one ever comments, though. I wonder if I remembered to pack a wrench in my bag, and I think about States and the dull feeling in my toes as it slowly fades away.

Two Days Before States May brings molten rays of sun and steamy, humid afternoons. A thick film of pollen rests on the waters surface. Even in a tank top and shorts, the sun burns through my skin and leaves my hairline damp with sweat. Trees that a few weeks prior were gray barren branches, flourish with a mask of green and sage. The grassy knoll a half mile past the dock is overrun with vibrant blossoming flowers, the product of pathetic nubs that languished in winters violent wrath. Two miles down the river we pass Ryans Dam and Fountainhead Park, the point where we always turn around. We stop for a water break and I readjust my headsets microphone. Its a pyramid all the way back to the dock, building up the power then slowly releasing it back down. I have to concentrate on counting out the tens for these; its easy to lose track when staring off at all the

3 houses we pass along the shore. My fingers grip the rudders comfortably and loosely, moving and gliding on their own. The pulsing cells of my brain fuse with my vocal chords and the commands flow effortlessly and without second thought. I look down the port and starboard sides to examine proper posture, correct oar depth in the water, and uniform speed on the recovery and the drive. A refreshing gust of wind ripples past and flutters a loose strand of hair. For the first time nine minds latch onto the same wavelength. The intensity grows and the nerves fester.

At Nationals All I can feel at the start is my heart, diving and crashing inside of me. I ask bow seat to take a light sculling stroke and its a little too light, but the next one is too heavy so two seat has to take a quick corrective stroke. Finally straight in the lane. Hoping theres no gentle current or light breeze that could ruin my angle at the last second, the point of no return. My hands sweat and I wipe them on my spandex. The other coxswains look over across the line and we make eye contact and attempt to be intimidating, though we are all actually going to die right there, of anticipation, of want, and of failure. We cant see each others eyes through our sunglasses and headsets, just our matching rigid jaws and tense fingers tightly gripping the gunnels. I notice all the other boats with their matching hats and for the first time ever in my life I wish I attended a private school just so I could have a matching hat too. Focus! Stroke seat sees me crawl out of my skin, but she promises not to tell. The flag drops. Half, three quarters, three quarters, full, power twenty. My throat is dry already. The meters sit still in time and the buoys bob to themselves. 750 meters; the markers sneak up on me, and the sense of urgency takes over. By the last five hundred meters the crowd in the grandstands is on its feet, but their enthusiastic

4 claps and cheers sound like nothing, like silence. Ive got their stern cap, bring me to their stroke. Walk it, walk it, push. Stroke, seven seat I watch the oars move in sync and the hand levels at identical heights, and its perfect my hoarse screams reverberate through the microphone and back into my ears, and I remember its the last time. Suddenly I dont want to cross the line because the line means that Im not the one anymore. But the line is all we need.

After Quitting Watching Dannys college races at the marina I used to row at is like going to a party where all the people there used to be your best friends. The boats are on their racks waiting for their new owners to take them home, to the water where they belong. Thats the saddest part, I think, that none of the boats here are mine. There are no longer eight women who warrant me to point, turn toward my Dad, and say shes one of mine. Its like closing the chapter of a book (how clich) that cements itself shut; afterward the library miraculously loses all record of you ever checking it out in the first place. I feel like an intruder, like I am invading upon sacred ground. I feel like a fraud wearing my old spirit shirts that identify me as a member of a certain team, of a dream that I let go. A regatta is a well-oiled machine, and I watch it all, the launch dock, the boat slings, and the oar trees, move forward in time, my crucial role filled by someone else now. Im replaceable; this realization is hard, and I box it away to be dealt with another time. Its always a distinct, overwhelming feeling of wanting to live in the past, of wanting to ask someone, anyone, if they know that I once was a part of this, too. I tell myself to enjoy this time, to enjoy the competition without all the stress, but it makes me feel more pathetic, sitting there with no purpose, cheering on someone else who had the strength to continue, someone who is not me.

5 Im always looking out to the glistening water on early Saturday mornings before the drop of the first flag wondering if I made the right choice, and usually the cool October air whispers no.