An ECHO Enthusiast, Bob Auchincloss recently sent us a story he had written for his writing class:
Routines"The light green numbers clicked to 6:12, the soft gray early morning light came through the bathroom window, the trees unmoving. It would be another eighteen minutes till the alarm radio would switch on. He turned and looked at her sleeping soundly, one leg out of the covers, Victoria Secret pattern against the cotton sheet, short blond hair on the pillow; he didn't want to bother her. Two feet on the floor he put on his glasses, his watch and got ready to stand up. He would switch off the alarm then start his routine for the proper clothes, lowering his scull onto the car top, remembering the oars, driving to the river. He savored these routines and found comfort in their fluid order and measured sense of achievement.
At the river he found others, but this morning ignored them and continued changing shoes, finding the gloves, water bottle and cap; locking the car, moving the oars to the low dock then settling the boat into the water. It was eighteen feet long and 21 inches wide, needlelike with a sliding seat and outriggers that held the nine foot oars now placed at 90 degrees to the hull. He had seen it in a magazine, talked with the designer, loved the lines of it and passion bought it never having rowed before. An Aquarian, his whole life he had found peace and alignment on the water. Now he paused to look up at the virgin river, empty now, black mirror smooth, the gentle tide running south to north, with its green treed sides and topped by the cool gray sky. A soft, light haze floated over the surface. He was ready to begin.
Stepping precisely in the center of the scull, one hand holding the overlapping oar grips he eased onto the sliding seat, placed his feet in the stretcher, tightened the foot straps and pushed lightly away from the dock. The scull moved slowly sideways with a smooth momentum until the long oars were clear and flat on the water in the most stable position. A quick look over his shoulder showed a clear path down the river to the bridge a mile away. Balance set he pushed the oars away straight armed, compressed his knees, sliding the seat aft, then rotated the blades to vertical and dropped them in the water, pushing with his legs then pulling with his back then his arms, releasing the blades from the water rotating them and moving the handles back for the second stroke. The scull slow at the start, gathered speed and slid smoothly over the water leaving a thin line on the water framed by pairs of black swirls where the oars had taken their bite.
He concentrated on balance, the straightness of the wake, the angle of the blades, the resistance of the water, movement of the scull on the water. A surge ahead then a gilide, then the next surge. All his senses were focused. He could feel the pressure on the bottom of his feet with each stroke, the muscles of his legs times to give power, his hips moving on the sliding seat, his back setting the right angle, his arms pulling, releasing, pushing, his head held even for balance. The river matched his rhythm, supporting, parting, soothing, cool in partnership. Surge, glide, surge, relax; he added a little pace, his heart rhythm responding, sweat starting, lungs filling, and stronger body sensations. It went on this way with all other thought banished, a mind and body cleansing, the effort gently pushing the body to its best, a peak of ecstasy in harmony with the river, the flow of the tides, the sky.
Then the shadow of the bridge swept over him and he became again aware of the surroundings; the bridge, houses, boats moored, the train station, pulled back into the moment. Reaching for his water bottle he drank the cool water and slowly took it all in. A train ran down the track on the far side of the river, others were rowing a tug came pulling a barge bound for Albany, commuters cars hustled across the bridge, a few people walked in the park near the city. Senses sharpened, he was more aware as he turned and rowed slowly back by the eastern shore past industry, feeder streams, trees and shrubs slipping over the banks, marinas, shallows. There seemed to be space and time to enfold it all. More time to enjoy the movement of the scull, the growing movements of the river and wind, the warmth of the early morning sun, the rich colors.
An hour later, he brought the scull gently to the dock and stepped back into the routine. Oars and boat to the car, gloves off, shoes changed, drive home, hang the scull in the garage. When he stepped into the house she was having breakfast and asked, "How was your row?"
"It was a beautiful morning on the river," he said.
Then he opened the cupboard and started his breakfast routine.
Reprinted with permission by Bob Auchincloss Sept 2005 tags: rowing, boat, rowing shell, sculling
