Stroking a boat has never, it’s fair to say, been my calling. As both a bowsider and Very Small Person, my natural home has always been in the bow seat, and jolly nice it is there, too. Too far away for the cox to see what’s going on, invisible to the other members of the crew, able to see what’s going on all the way down the boat – what’s not to love? The only drawback is catching the full force of the cold and the wind, but after a lovely, warm summer I’ve practically forgotten what that feels like anyway.
I guess I’ve always taken the stroke for granted. We’re lucky enough to have some thoroughly reliable women who occupy the eight seat in our squad. If I’d ever given it any thought – and I hadn’t, much – I suppose I assumed that so long as you had a reasonable sense of rhythm there wasn’t much to it.
Ah… how wrong I was. The formation of a novice women’s 8+ for a forthcoming head, coupled with a frig rig that has a bowsider “stroking” the boat, propelled me suddenly to the stroke position last week. Fine, I thought. How hard can it be?
Hmmmm. The answer is very hard indeed. Maintaining a rhythm was the very least of my worries. For a start, having always just followed whatever the stroke pair was up to, I had no instinct for what a rating of 18, or 26, or 30 felt like. As for taking the rating up, that proved harder than it looked. As a notorious slide-rusher, increasing the rating without hurtling up to front-stops was an endlessly stressful challenge. Suddenly I felt exposed, self-conscious. Everyone was looking at me – after all, they were supposed to. I started missing strokes, splashing, rowing like a beginner once more.
To make matters worse, I hadn’t bargained on being under the scrutiny of the All Seeing Eye that is the coxswain. I’d always fondly imagined that the stroke and the cox had a cosy partnership – them against the rest of the world. I was wrong on that score, too. After an hour of being told I was slouching at the finish, rushing the slide and “doing something funny with my wrist”, I was so demoralised I’d happily have hung up my wellies for good had it not been for the promise of scones and jam at the end of the outing.
Happily, my promotion to stroke was (unsurprisingly) short-lived. A behind-the-scenes pow-wow amongst my elders and betters, a quick re-rig, and I’m back where I belong, in the comfortable obscurity of the far end.
I’m glad I tried it, though. I’ve learned a valuable and chastening lesson. Oh, and I’ll never complain about the cold at the bow end again.
