"You will roar with all the might of the Isis in your wake, and you will know what is like to soar."
Limbs limp, doubled over panting in the gravel, my body too exhausted to notice the bitter sting of the frosty air of early morning. I go against my own advice, closing my chest to relish in the release of resting my palms against my knees, legs still trembling from another run around the meadow. I angle my head upwards, cast in the shadow of the looming brick building nestled at the very end of a long line of boat houses precariously arranged on the river embankment. Roof and doors are painted electric blue, a stark contrast to the deep maroon and oozing emerald moss that clings to every moist surface it can find. Another morning practice reduced to an exhaustive run, propelling my limbs forward to keep with my crew.
Just when my lungs finally expand with the bitter cold air, those bright blue doors burst open. Bodies fall in line, scrambling to order erratically, terrified to be beckoned out into the meadow on another run. As the coach emerges from that brick castle, my eyes immediately fall the chipped bright pink polish decadent upon her glittering claws. Decked in lavish embroidered rain gear, she surveys the muddy assemblage before her with the disdain of proper royalty. She pauses at my section, the menagerie of women whose bodies tremble at the stern of the imaginary royal navy vessel. Surely this would be my watery grave. I keep my eyes fixed forward on those awful blue doors, quelling my breathing to appear as uninteresting as possible. I hated push-ups in the wet gravel, palms digging into the rocky mud until your nose touched the mirth as you sank into the dredge. I certainly wouldn't get punished with them this morning.
"Stroke," she bellows, spinning around on her heel to face the three of us. Three teams. One stroke a piece. God, this banshee loves singling us out. Me out. "How was the run?"
I can't feel my face. My socks and shoes are soaked through, feet encased in the slick brown sludge. Even bits of decomposing amber leaves cling to me. My ears ring with the same deafening roar of the river behind me. And the sun suspends its warmth in all but one spot, the shadow of the brick castle which I stood. I want to be in bed, curled up in blankets hiding away from the terrible dragon poised before me, scaly legs pulsing for the first utterance and indication to strike.
J speaks first, A team stroke. The beast absolutely adores her. Good, let her speak first. "I thought it was too easy," J reports gleefully. "We could do with another lap."
"You could do with another lap," I correct through gritted teeth. Before I can even stop myself, I snap out. Protective, not just of myself but the other women standing down the line from me. B team runs at a slower pace, but all be damned we ensure we finish together.
The dragon whips its head around, her lips curling back to reveal a smile dripping with gleeful poison. I stiffen, mentally preparing myself for another face plant into the mud. "What was that?"
She heard me, that much I know. And I am not quick enough to convince her of a lie. So I clear my throat, sniffle a little bit, muttering off at the end. I've already accepted my fate.
"You will roar with all the might of the Isis in your wake, and you will know what is like to soar."
Icy fire fills my veins, the sting much more painful than any rot or ache of bone and sinew. Her words strike swift and true to target, filling me with the guilt of my crew, my reckless mouth, my selfishness, and my own petty competition with the other teams. The only way to roar is with your team to follow. Despite my own disastrous efforts, I can't steer the great sleek warship down the Isis on my own. The center of mass of the boat is raised above the surface of the water, demanding paddles to distribute force along its wake, the life force that propels our bodies forward and keeps us tucked from the dangerous black currents trembling beneath our feet.
The roar of the Isis bellows and beckons like the siren's torrent. The slick surface eddies and tumbles, moving like some swift, terrible leviathan. Even the fading rains, when the river height drops, it clamors of catastrophe, of beauty in its dark depths and awful power. The ancient religions birthed gods from these great monsters, the currents uplifted as divine intervention. Encased in its chilling, overwhelming embrace, the Isis enacts nature, demanding utter surrender to its sheer will. And from its surface, it sings. As I glide along, feeling the battle of my paddle against the current rattle my very bones, I hear its tremendous melody. Basked in the sun, encased in the shroud of autumn golds and greens, the river permeates through me. Its harmony, unsung, reverberates through my entire being, beckoning me to join in its unstoppable and unending tune. I hear it now, always, even distant from its shores. The water speaks to my wounds, fills the little infinities and the interspace of my mind caught between ideas I cannot unify.
Now, as I write, I am fairly confident that she meant we row with all the might of the Isis. Yet among the mud and muck of the bank, knowing my crew watched me with amused disdain as I take to my punishment to run another lap, that roar envelops me. It elicits such ecstasy, my limbs numb from pain and exhaustion as I sprint at the same pace of the great Leviathan beside me.
Today I reflect upon my great and unexpected love of rowing. I joined the sport out of novelty and its infamy at Oxford. After a few outings on the Isis, I am utterly enraptured. Many of the friends made here are among my crew and other members of the Christ Church Boat House. I am currently co-captained for women's B team, the US equivalent to a junior varsity team. My position as stroke marks me as the most competitive rower in the crew, and I have the possibility to sub up for A team on the occasion. Despite poor river conditions limiting most of my current training to ergs and the accursed morning runs, I am genuinely enjoying the physical challenge. Plus, I get a team track suit. And with the ancient power of the gods beneath my boat and Saturday brunch with my girls, who could really ever ask for more?
ความคิดเห็น