Ice cold water splashes against my face. The vile smell of sweat and lake algae fills the air. Absolute pain courses through my legs as they contract and release in an endless cycle. And that unbearable noise in my ear, a mixture of the screams of our annoying coxswain and the wind whooshing past. Amidst this chaos and torment, I want to give up. But I physically cannot stop, as I press on for another stroke. I am more machine than man, entirely in sync with the steady rhythm of my fellow crewmates. I am part of the boat, and the boat is part of me.
That was six years ago, at my very last race for St John’s College Rowing Club.
I first got into rowing when I was in Grade 7. My school made it compulsory for every boy to participate in a team sport, and I had been terrible at all of them. From getting dismissed by the first ball I faced every cricket match, to being personally responsible for losing 4-0 in a football game, I was a regular appearance on every F Team (teams were made based on skill, with A being the best one and so on). I guess it was mainly because I preferred reading books than running around fields when I was younger, hence my complete lack of athleticism. However, rowing presented me with an irresistible offer: my institution’s high school rowing club was looking for incoming students to join and it would be a leveling field in terms of sport abilities. I can finally have a chance to not be on the worst team.
My first proper experience with rowing was at the annual September training camp. It was held at Witbank (literally “white ridge” in Afrikaans), one of the largest dams in South Africa. It was about a two hour drive from home, and I remember being excited the entire way. Despite the long journey, it felt like mere minutes: I sang along the way and constantly peered out the window like a curious 9 year old child. I knew that a few of my very good friends had signed up as well, and I could not wait to meet the high school students of my school. Little did I know of what lay on the road ahead.
Every day we followed a strict schedule. We would wake up early, take our oars down to the shore, then carry our boat down to the water. After a 90 minute practice on the dam, we came back to have a delicious breakfast prepared by the rowers’ moms. We then relaxed for a bit, learnt some technique on the ergo (rowing machine) and headed for an even more scrumptious lunch (Upon reflection, however, I think the meals were actually pretty standard and it was our hunger that improved their quality tremendously). After lunch, our coaches taught us more about the boat, like how to attach the riggers (which held the oars in place) and how to adjust the rowing shoes inside the boats. An afternoon water session followed that, and we would have the evening off playing cards and do other fun stuff that the coaches deemed as “bonding exercises.” I clearly remember one night when we had to introduce ourselves to the other members of the rowing club and somehow make the club captain laugh. Some older boy told me that my claim to fame should be “catch crabs every race.” It most certainly had a response from the audience, but later I learned that a “crab” is a fatal mistake in which a rower loses control of the oar and it gets trapped in the water. Not something to be proud of at all.
As with everything else in life, rowing was fun at first. We started with the oct, which has a crew of eight rowers and sixteen oars (and the coxswain, of course). Although the movements were somewhat repetitive, the constant change of scenery around us as we rowed across the dam made it quite entertaining. The boat was very heavy, but our coaches reassured us that it would get much lighter when we moved on to better and smaller boats. Indeed, for my birthday, I got to row a double with my friend. It was a completely different experience, as I had to put in a bit more effort and also steer the boat at the same time. But overall I had a fun time on the water. I was not too bad on dry land either; my ergo time of 2:03 for 500 metres placed me second fastest in my cohort of novices.
In the following weeks I found that rowing was actually quite demanding. We had water practice twice a week, and the nearest lake to practice was a 30 minute drive from school. Moreover, there were early morning ergo and/or gym sessions three times a week. Luckily, I did not have much commitment outside academics and managed to keep up with the training. “It will all be worth it,” my coaches promised me, as we prepared for our first regatta.
A regatta is a rowing competition which consists of a series of races. Despite the racing only happening on Saturday, it was a three-day fixture for us. On Friday afternoons we had to perform the arduous task of de-rigging our boats and loading them onto a trailer to be transported to the regatta venue. On Sunday, we had to return to our boathouse to unload those boats. On average we carried twenty boats of various sizes for one regatta, and more boats for the end-of-season championship. But these were nothing compared to the race day itself.
Waking up as early as 4:30 am, I had to be at school by 5am which is when the bus leaves for Roodeplaat Dam. This journey usually took two hours with good traffic, and mostly I just slept through it. Upon arrival, we immediately start unloading boats from the trailers and rigging them for the upcoming races. After that I could finally rest until the time of my race.
The first few races were extremely frustrating for me. Not only did I not live up to my potential and achieve nothing impressive, but I watched in envy as another crew in my year group collected their very first medals. However, my coaches reassured me that my time would come. Young as I was, I believed them.
Two trimesters. Three hundred days. Four hundred and thirty-two thousand minutes. All this for just one race. A race that will take no longer than four minutes. Yet it is these four minutes to which we have devoted our entire life.
Our crew consisted of nine men and sixteen oars on a single boat. This was the Under 15 A Octuple Race at the South African Rowing Championship—the most prestigious junior race in the country. Rowing slowly up to the start, we cheered at our victorious colleagues and wished that we could be just as successful. We jeered at our nemesis, St Benedict’s, and we saw the same hunger for glory in their powerful strokes. I glanced back at the faces of my crew and memories flooded my brain: I saw us selling our souls on the dreadful ergos; I saw us laughing merrily at homemade banter; I saw the joy of our previous victory; I saw each of them, not as friends, but as members of my family.
As we stopped at the starting line, I looked forward to face my coxswain, Liam. Though his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, I could feel his anxiety and burden of responsibility. Yet he calmly told us that we should try our best and nothing else. We nodded, but we knew the expectations that had been placed upon us. Suddenly, the gunshot sounded and all other crews shot out like arrows, dividing the calm water into seven even straight lines. For a split second, we sat there, unable to comprehend the disaster: we were already behind.
Despite the unexpected start, we started to row very hard, very fast. With each stroke following the previous one, we rowed non-stop and in exact timing like a synchronized machine. Our hearts pumped to the rhythm of the strokes as the nine of us merged into one entity: the boat itself. By the first quarter of the race we were tied 5th, only overtaking two crews which were not far behind. I saw the fear in Liam's eyes as he desperately tugged at the steering. We started to panic, too. However, at the halfway mark, something unexpected happened that changed everything.
In his desperation, Liam shouted a single command: “Go for home!” We were stunned and confused. ‘Go for home’ is the call for the final sprint if there is tight competition for medals. There was no competition for us and we were only halfway through the race! Nevertheless, we trusted him and gave him what he wanted – the rate of our strokes went up higher, the power kicked in and we zoomed away from 5th place. With each powerful stroke, we gained more water towards the competition ahead.
However, with each stroke, unbearable pain tortured my body. I could feel the sweat running down my cheek and where the afternoon sun was burning my neck. We were getting tired and we were slowing down. But we rowed on. Against the wind, against the current, and against the pain. We finally managed to catch up with 3rd place and the fight for Bronze began. The hunger for medals drove us to bring in a new wave of strength, fighting back our agony. By the last quarter, Liam called for another ’go for home’ and we realized that we need to bring the rate even higher: to reach an almost impossible forty strokes per minute. But in our hearts we knew it was the only way. So we gave him all that was left of our stamina. The boat rocketed forward and overtook the crew in 3rd place in a matter of seconds. We struggled against the unbearable agony but we still fought on, because we understand that medals last longer than pain. Near the end we sprinted, ignoring the roaring engine of the umpire’s motorboat and the numbness in our arms and legs. We closed our eyes and embraced the finish line with the dream of our bronze medals.
That afternoon we walked together, arm-in-arm to collect our bronze medals. Except when we got to the podium, we realized we didn’t get Bronze. With a time difference of 0.06 seconds, we went home with silver.
That was probably the absolute peak of my rowing career. I have reached my maximum potential, and everything after that second year could only be described as anti-climatic.
One day after another uneventful regatta, my parents suggested I should quit the sport. For the current season I scored zero medals and there always seemed to be something wrong when I was in the boat. I had been dropped from the oct crew, and my quad was disqualified for jumping the start. With the single-seater scull I had better luck, finishing third in a qualifying heat but was unable to progress. Then I somehow completely forgot how to steer myself, and was blown off course by the wind for two races. One of those occasions was extremely embarrassing, as the commentators roasted me on live radio for drifting out of my lane. “St John’s Tan thinks Lane 8 is not good enough for him,” they quipped while I struggled desperately against the current, “and now he’s in Lane 2. Surely that’s a guaranteed last place!”
My parents’ argument was not only that I had little success compared to my fellow peers, rowing was taking up too much time and would be a detriment to my academics. Moreover, the dues I had to pay as a club member were increasingly becoming ‘a bit too much’. However, I still wanted to pursue the sport, perhaps still hopeful for another miracle like that oct race from last season. I was also too brainwashed by the cult that was the St John’s Rowing camaraderie, so I begged my folks for one more season to prove my worth.
Under such parental pressure, I forced myself to train harder. Put more effort into practices. Adhere to the coaches’ advice. Row my heart out at races. Gradually, I began to see some resurgence of my former self. I managed to score a bronze medal at the Under 16 B Double race. Not very impressive, but still an achievement nonetheless. And my effort did not go unnoticed, as I was promoted to a seat for our A Quad which was a top crew for our age group. If we did well enough, I might have the opportunity to sneak into my school’s First Team, the most prestigious group of rowers. Perhaps then I could convince my parents to let me stay in rowing. Moreover, I was motivated by Daniel James Brown’s The Boys in the Boat, a nonfiction novel about nine Americans and their epic quest for gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. The struggles and sacrifices of these rowers from the University of Washington felt so relatable for me, and I was convinced that with all my hard work I could achieve something significant, too.
Our crew trained so much and so hard for that race, including doing extra water sessions on Sunday mornings. The coaches made sure that our technique was absolutely perfect, making us repeat movements until we were exactly in sync with one another. The start drill was the most torturous as we needed to recreate the intense sprint at the beginning of races countless times. I vividly remember being absolutely exhausted after every practice, and needed an hour of recharge time on my bed before I could start on my homework.
The Under 16 A Quad race was simply unforgettable; it was absolutely heartbreaking. Despite having a decent start and still in the fight for a podium finish, we had to abandon the race midway. My friend David was complaining of struggling to breathe and asked us to stop. A medic motorboat arrived shortly to take him back while the three of us rowed back to the jetty in silence. My last hope of redemption was dashed forever, but I knew that we did the right thing. Despite this setback, my rowing journey was not quite over yet.
Four entire years of blood, toil, and sweat. I had finally achieved my dream of rowing for the First Team. I did not care that I was substituted in for someone who was sick, nor that I had never rowed with these students who were much better sportsmen. I was here and that was all that mattered. Besides, I felt I deserved my place, and I was about to right the wrongs of last year’s championship race.
I still could not believe I would be rowing a Filippi, the elite class of boats that I was not even allowed to touch two years ago. It felt so light as we carried that beauty down to the water, reassuring me that we definitely had a chance of glory. Even as we slowly rowed up to the starting line, I felt confident that this would be my moment to shine.
“Hold it all crews… Attention… Row!” As the familiar amplified voice of the umpire faded away from the distance, I knew we had a good start. But I was too scared to see where exactly we were at in the pecking order of boats. Just focus on the steady rhythm and ignore all that noise around me, I told myself, and give it everything you have. I had never rowed with such ferocious intensity before, and our stroke was steadily hitting a 38 every minute. But I managed to keep in time, and it was as if I was possessed by an absolute lunatic.
Suddenly, the boat jerked violently to the side, and all of time seemed to slow down. Was it me? Did I pull a stroke out of time? No matter, as time rushed back into reality I became painfully aware of all the absolute chaos that exploded around me. Our coxswain shouting in vain. My crewmate’s oar inclined at an unnatural angle in the water. And worst of all, the mechanical clanking noise as the other crews sped down in the adjacent lanes. A numb sensation paralyzed my entire body as I realized the unbearable truth: we were leading and now our race was over. It was not even my fault; our stroke was the one who caught a crab.
My disappointment and despair was beyond anything I experienced before. I refused to talk to anyone for the rest of the day, choosing to instead wallow in my chair. I had finally given up on rowing and my terrible luck at races. Moreover, the immense time commitment was becoming an obstacle for my academics, especially when I started preparing for US standardized testing exams like the notorious SAT. My parents were right all along and I knew that my rowing days were almost over.
Yet rowing to me was like alcohol to an addict – you somehow always return to it when you know it is time to quit. After submitting my formal resignation to St John’s College Rowing Club, the head coach presented me with an alternative: I could stay in the club with less time commitment and “row for fun.”
So my rowing journey continued on for another chapter. In just a week, I transferred from an elite group of athletes to a more prestigious club known as the “Social Rowers”. The demanding training camps became optional, and we had just one practice a week. We were so good that we only prepared for one regatta the entire season. Now this is understandable, since all the other members were either quitters like me, or had less than one year experience in rowing. I finally got to do what I loved without all the pain.
Although it was not as fun as before, I actually did enjoy social rowing. Yes, we never stood a chance against other crews, but we did our best. One crew achieved the almost impossible (and the most embarrassing) by tipping a quad at a race, and quads were considered to be the most stable of boats. Another time I had the privilege of coxing an eight which proved to be disastrous. Not only did we ram another crew at the start and force the race to restart, I also retained my awful steering by making the boat go in a zig-zag fashion. Naturally this put us in dead last, and my unimpressed stroke pointed out afterwards that I “made [them] row 3km” instead of the standard 2km race. However, there were still some highlights. In an heroic battle with the St Benedict's Fourth Eight that would surely go down in rowing history, the inexperienced St John’s Third Eight managed to beat them at the finish line by just 2 seconds and win the race. Unfortunately for us, there were no medals for a final with only two crews starting.
All good things must come to an end. On my own accord, I decided to hang up my rowing boots for good. I finally acknowledged the fact that I was just another average athlete, and the uncompetitive nature of social rowing did little to motivate me. Thus, on a windy Sunday afternoon at Roodeplaat, I had my last dance in a rowing boat.
When I crossed that same finish line for the last time, I could not help but laugh out aloud. Laughing at the poetic end to my short-lived career with yet another last place finish. Laughing at all the worthless sacrifices I made during my tumultuous adventure as a rower. Laughing at how silly everything was, nine boys sweating to death on a boat in the middle of a dam under the scorching summer sun.
I never rowed again.
Sometimes I still dream of my desperate quest for rowing glory, the impossible future that year by year recedes like waves on a beach. But the sport has provided me with lasting memories: the unforgettable camaraderie, the searing pain of endurance, and, of course, the invaluable friendships formed along the way. I have learnt so much from rowing, and it will always remain an integral part of my life story and who I am as a person.
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
__ F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
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