The bay around the naval docks was deceitfully calm. A cormorant disappeared beneath the glass as we numbered off, the yachts sitting at their moorings in elegant seduction. But as soon as we poked our heads around the sea wall at what we call "The Bullnose", the ocean changed to a washing machine lumpy, confused melee of peaks bouncing us around. And in amongst that large dips cut out into the swell making our bow bang down onto the solidified waves beneath us. Water rushed over the sides and swilled around our feet. "Not sure how this is going to go," I thought to myself. The boat wasn't sitting completely square, my blade dragging along the water on stroke side. After 2 months of fine boat singling where it was me, and me only, responsible for how the boat was running, it takes a while to get used to the team effort and all the patience-testing niggles that come with that.
With my injury I was that much more nervous of having a blade sucked into the water. The rougher it got, the harder it was for us all to level at the catch, bucking around, the waves catching one blade earlier than the other. But Stroke steadied the rate and kept the slide nice and slow. Fine boat rating, slow. We ploughed on, my blade whipped out of my hand as I fumbled to get it back and rejoin everyone else's stroke.
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| Ark Rock on our moonrise row a few months ago © SafariB 2014 |
After forty five minutes of ploughing through this field of water we'd finally got it together. The pressure was upped to 80% and the boat began to fly. The cox increased the rate and whoever wasn't levelling the boat was now focussed, the boat pitch perfect. The clunk of the blades and the shhhhh of the slide, clunk, shhhh, clunk, shhhh. The spoons popping out of their little pockets of water in perfect unison.
We finished off the outing with a lung searing stretch and pulled in to the boat ramp as the naval ratings were numbering off for drill. They marched towards us looking somewhat ridiculous, one arm outstretched rigidly to their right, just the left arm swinging. "They're obviously having a hard time dressing off." I chuckled, remembering my own time on the parade ground moons ago and the stick we gave to the blokes who didn't quite get it.
***
OK, thats it folks. I have a Whatsapp message waiting for my response whether to join a sweep 8 at Misverstand Dam this weekend for a 6km heads race. My sweep is scratchy at best... The alternative is to overcome our perpetual agonising about whether to head to Zambia for our longed for soul-quenching trip to the bush before the rains. Though the rains have now inched their way closer, cascading carpets of flowers onto the earth wherever the clouds open. Pity we're too late for the 24th October regatta on the Zambezi for the 50th anniversary of independence. But you can't do it all!
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