Beep. Beep. Beep.
The alarm clock glows blue with the ungodly numbers 5:30. It's time to get up. It's a Saturday or Sunday morning, and while most of your friends may be asleep for the next few hours, you stand up. Today is a regatta. This is a day you've been training for since the beginning of the season.
You walk to your dresser and pull out a racing tank with the team logo on it and a pair of spandex shorts. It's cold this morning, so you throw on your windbreaker with the team name blazoned across the back and your team sweatpants over your racing gear. A pair of clean socks and your old, worn sneakers cover your feet.
In a drawstring bag, you bring a blanket, sunscreen, sunglasses, a water bottle, and some homework that you probably won't get around to doing. You bring it anyway.
Your hair is up in a ponytail or bun, if you have long hair. You put your iPod and cell phone in your front jacket pocket and grab the lightest of breakfasts. There will be more food once you get there.
A parent drives you to the regatta at some river or another. The sun has only recently come up, and it is cold and windy. You walk to the team tent and drop off your stuff, then head to the trailer to unload and rig the boats.
After a nerve-wracking episode in which the heaviest boat almost fell off from the top rack, and after fifteen minutes of scurrying around with a 7/16" wrench fastening all the riggers to the boats, the team heads back to the tents. The waiting begins.
Everyone brought blankets. People cuddle and snuggle in a great pile under the shelter of the wall-less tent. Some nap. Some discuss the races. You halfheartedly take out your homework, but you don't really want to work on that right now. Strange conversations are struck up. A boat's worth of rowers gets up to row in the first race. You cheer them on as they walk off, then go back to your conversation.
About a half-hour later, a parent or coach or someone will announce that the boat that left earlier is racing. You and the rest of the team go down to the edge of the river to watch.
The river is a broad expanse of choppy water, marked here and there by a buoy or two. Four long, spidery boats propel themselves downriver towards you at maximum speed, oars turning and pushing together in one single stroke, then coming up for another in another two seconds or less. The oars occasionally skim the water. Oarlocks clack as one entity per boat. The coxswains are yelling unintelligibly at their rowers. The boat from your team is in second place. Your team strikes up a cheer: One, two, BLAIR CREW! One, two, BLAIR CREW! The boat passes the finish line in second place. Not bad. As the coxswain tells them to relax, even from the river's edge you can see them slump. A race takes a lot out of a rower.
You walk back to the tent for more huddling under blankets. It's less than two hours before your race, so you're not allowed to eat any of the delicious food on the tables next to you. Wait until after your race, when you're hungrier and you've earned it.
A little less than an hour before your race, the coach calls your boat to go get ready to race. You peel off your jacket and sweatpants, make sure you've had an adequate cover of sunscreen, and jog to where the boats wait in slings. You check your heel ties, your oarlock height, your shoe stretcher distance. The rowers and coxswain of your boat go in for a team huddle. The coxswain or stroke seat gives a motivational speech. You go over your strategies for power tens, when the sprint will start, and what the coxswain should say. Finally, everyone walks to the boat and, under the coxswain's command, walks the boat to the dock.
Docking is even faster than usual. To minimize extra weight in the boat, no one brings water bottles. A parent grabs shoes and puts them in a bag to await rowers upon their return. Once everyone's ready, you sit in the boat and push off. Bow pair rows away from the dock to make room for the next boat. You practice drills and show off for the other teams on the way up to the starting line, perhaps stopping and practicing your racing starts. Finally, an official calls the coxswain and directs them to the correct lane.
Your stomach is in knots. Your adrenaline is pumping. You're at the three-quarters slide, ready to go right into the start. Your eyes are in front of you, and your ears are tuned for the two magic words. This is it.
"Attention...
"Row!"
The coxswain's voice takes over your mind. "Three quarters! Half! Three quarters! Full! Full! POWER TEN! ONE... TWO... THREE... FOUR.. FIVE... SIX.. SEVEN... EIGHT... NINE... TEN... LENGTHEN TEN! ONE... TWO..."
There is nothing but you, your fellow rowers, the coxswain's voice, and your oars pulling through the water. You push as hard as you can with your legs, your arms, your back, your abs. Everything counts. You focus on keeping the boat set - catching a crab could pull you to last place. You push off your foot stretchers, pull with your body, keep in time with stroke seat and your pair partner.
The initial adrenaline wears off. You are more aware of the boats to either side of you, but you dare not look. The coxswain calls out their locations relative you your boat, and that is not good enough, but you make do. You have to keep up maximum power without draining yourself too much. You have to save something for the sprint.
The race continues for three more minutes like this, at thirty strokes per minute. Someone behind you is grunting with pain and exertion. You are internally screaming.
Then you reach the last quarter of the race. The coxswain tells you to prepare for the sprint. While a quarter of your brain is shouting in alarm and another quarter gives up, the remaining half reminds you to perfect your technique, sit up straight, breathe properly. You have to leave the other teams behind in the sprint.
The coxswain calls the sprint. She yells and yells and yells, reminding all the rowers of everything they're doing, right and wrong, and reporting the location of the other boats. You leave everything behind here, pulling as hard as your muscles will let you.
Your brain quietly informs your body that you are going to die. Your heart screams back, "SO F***ING WHAT?"
You see a boat pull forward out of your peripheral vision. Oh hell no. You add an extra burst of speed. Luckily, so does the rest of the boat, and you pull forward just in time.
You cross the finish line.
"And, paddle!"
There is no paddling. There is only slouching on the oars, gasping for breath and wishing for water. What place did we come in? Second, the coxswain says. Second is fine. You'll take second. But you still berate yourself, because you could have made first.
An exhausted boat steers around towards the dock. You call "good race" to a neighboring boat, in which all the rowers look as tired as you feel. Someone calls the same back to you, managing a smile. Finally, you pull in against the dock, with enough energy gained from the brief rest to roll the boat over your head and walk it back to the slings.
You walk to the tent and stuff your face with water and food. You drape a blanket over your shoulders and eat. You've done well today. It's all easy going from here.
The rest of the boats race. The girls' varsity eight wins their heat. Of course they do.
The regatta winds down. You walk around, maybe buy the official regatta t-shirt. You de-rig and load the boats onto the trailer. You'll rig them again at practice on Monday. For now, you can go home.
You say good-bye to your friends and head to the car with your parent. It's been a good day overall. You're probably sunburned, but who cares? You had fun.
In the end, that's what keeps you coming back the next week and the next, to different boathouses on different rivers in different cities. You had fun.
You can't wait for next week.
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