An End and a Return

So it’s finally happening: the last class I ever have to fucking take, cellular biology lab. Dude. I’m stoked.

And I’ve also decided to go back to rowing. I talked to my old coach about joining Baltimore Rowing Club (BRC). He sent me a sign up sheet for open practice and some group called the Super Pack. I’m waiting to get the approval of the Super Pack to join their elite posse.

I looked at the roster… I’d be the youngest person… by ten years. The oldest rower is 67, but she’s a legend, as are all of the other rowers.

I’ve been to my share of scrimmages and regattas, and those people have kicked ass and taken names. I remember they were carrying their racing shell down to the dock and some university-aged rowers were laughing and pointing. The BRC rowers stopped, looked at those kids, and said, “We’re gonna walk up on you [pass you during a race].” And they did. I have an immense amount of respect for those old geezers.

The boats BRC uses are a bit different from the ones UMBC does. I’ve only coxed stern-loaders (the coxswain sits in the stern of the boat and can see all of the rowers). BRC only has bow-loaders for the 4+ rowing shells. That means I’ll sit in the bow and see only open water in front of me. I don’t know anything about bow-loaders. How will I know who’s fucking up if I can’t see my rowers? Steering and docking is gonna seem whack because… I dunno, things will seem ass backwards. I’m scared. Jose, the ace coxswain, said we could talk about all that shit over dinner.

I reckon I’ll have to act “normal” the first few times I meet everyone. I’ll have to let the silly/goofy/crazy out of the bag slowly.

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