The crackling voice of our coxswain echoed through the skull of the boat as we approached the last five hundred meters of today's practice.
"Focus ten on legs in two. One…Two." The weight of the boat lightened as each stroke became more forceful, my team's precise synchronization helping with the boat's balance.
"Focus on your legs. Slow up your slide and push… Press set. Press set! Three…Four…Five…press and set…Seven…Strong legs! Nine…Ten…Paddle in two. That's one …Two."
In perfect unison, our stroke rate dropped from thirty-six to an easy twenty-four. The pressure on my blade was overwhelming, wearing heavily on my overworked and tight muscles. I kept rowing, though, mechanically and languidly, moving my blade through the clear choppy water while choking in gulps of air and waiting for the next set of instructions.
I was incredibly thankful that this row was ending soon and our boathouse was in view. My legs felt like they were on fire; the lactic acid from the intense two-hour practice building up in my cramped Vastus medialis and tense quads. It felt like toxins were churning in my bloodstream, quickly dissolving all my energy. Our technique-obsessed coach, Tim Haspel, led the grueling practice, yelling critiques on blade alignment, early roll-ups, and posture through his megaphone as he followed us through the water from the launch. Not one for praise, he worked us hard to keep the boat from getting cocky and lazy.
Over the past three years on the team, I had gotten used to the constant barrage of orders that piddled out of the has-beens mouth. Today, however, I wanted to shove that megaphone he carried with him so far down his throat, past his esophagus and embed it into the lining of his stomach. Yesterday, out of the blue, the has-been had unexpectedly replaced our coxswain, Alice, with some newbie on the J.V. team, yet he still expected us to obey her every word at five in the goddamn morning. He also expected us to win this Saturday.
This weekend's regatta was in Portland, Oregon. It was our first away race against other teams that we would be meeting again at Nationals. It was important to set the bar high, and build our confidence and trust as a boat. A hard task when the most important member of our team, our coxswain, was relatively unknown. A complete stranger was going to be directing a volatile boat of pissed off, sex crazed, competitive egomaniacs.
"Wane-off, in two. One...Two." All four of us simultaneously balanced the boat out as we dropped our hands to the gunnels, the oars parallel to the water as we glided for several meters before the next command was shouted out. "And down. Hold water!" Our oars slapped the choppy surface of the water and the blades tilted and submerged, slowing the boat as the current took us lazily towards the dock.
"Stern pair, one stroke," our new coxswain demanded as she gently glided her right arm forward, angling the skeg in the direction she wanted to head. My pair partner, Tasha, and I moved up the slide, arms extended and took one long, but gentle stroke to guide us home.
"Arms only, stroke-seat," she said next, correcting the angle. I pushed my arms out straight, dunking the blade and pulling in.
"Lean away, catch the dock." We glided gently next to the dock, each rower catching and palming it as we slowly walked the boat down. "Unstrap yourselves ladies." I happily unlaced my feet from the attached shoes in the boat, throwing my sweaty and discarded sweatshirt along with my empty Nalgene onto the dock. I could not wait to get the fuck out of this boat.
"All hold for Coxswain," she called out after a few moments, waiting a second as everyone reached out their left hand to hold on to the dock, their right hand still holding on to their respective oars to keep from tipping the boat. Satisfied that she wouldn't fall into the water, or flip the boat, she hopped out of the shell effortlessly before turning back around to look at us.
"Alright guys, one foot out. Up and out. "I jumped out, stretching my arms and legs before leaning down for my oar, waiting for her command for 'oars across'. With the command given I loosen the oarlock and remove my blade, handing it to one of the novice members who was standing a few feet away. When I returned back to my seat, the coxswain had distributed everyone's shoes and was waiting rather impatiently, a hand resting on her hip like a sullen teenager, her cox box propped under her armpit. "Remember, two minutes on the docks! Hurry up!"
The rest of the boat hurried up with re-latching their oarlocks and stood by their respective seats, all heads turning towards the coxswain telling her we were ready to go. "Hands on!" The four of us distributed ourselves to the two ends, our hands grasping both edges of the boat, right over left.
"Up over heads!" Effortlessly, we lifted the boat up and out of the water, swinging it upside down and over our heads, our arms fully extended. We waited, standing stock still as water dripped down our arms and dribbled down our face, making our eyes twitch. She weaved in and out of the open gap between stern and bow pair, making her way to the bow of the boat, placing her hand lightly on the bowball before telling us to walk forward.
"Wane-off! Split to shoulders!" She shouted once we made our way off of the slick dock. We split evenly to both sides, lowering the shell to rest the weight on our shoulders, while we walked up the driveway and into the boathouse.
"Slide into the rack in two. One…Two…Watch the riggers. Slide in-house, one inch." Our coxswain busied about, lining up the boat so that none of the riggers were resting on the supporting beams of our storage space.
"Okay, lower it down, slowly…" She reminded us, even though we did this every fucking day. We were used to this shit; we could do it in our sleep if we wanted to. She didn't need to remind us to not break the boat; it's kind of an obvious.
"Great! Good practice guys." She smiled brightly and began striping off the bulky layers of sweatshirts and jackets she wore to keep warm in the chilly WeHo mornings.
I checked my watch. I had time for a shower before my eight o'clock class if "has-been Haspel" decided to let us go in the next five minutes. If I didn't wash my hair, I could even grab some breakfast. It was all about priorities after all.
"Gather round." Haspel said as he stood in front of the exit, a grim expression pulling at his pale skin and I anticipated a stern lecture about our sloppy sprints, but was surprised when he spoke of Alice instead.
"It has come to my attention that many of you are questioning my choices as your coach. I realize replacing Alice seemed sudden, but I'm asking you all to trust me on this. Alice is a great leader, but Carmen here can bring you gold. Just trust her." Haspel sounded like he was begging us all.
He glanced pointedly in my direction and I ducked my head, knowing I was the one that actively and verbally disagreed with his latest coaching decision. As captain, it was my duty to let Haspel know what I thought of his untimely actions and how badly it could affect the team's morale.
Carmen stood awkwardly beside the coach as she chimed in, "I know some of my commands may seem foreign to you all, so if you have any suggestions…"
Papi raised her hand and we all groaned, anticipating an innuendo-laden comment and she didn't disappoint. "Alice had this one command that took us through the first and second five hundred. We called it our 'thrust twenty.' She'd yell things like, 'push it, harder, harder, faster …'"
"That's enough, Papi," Haspel reprimanded.
"Yeah, man, she's already had to stare at your busted face all damn practice, don't make her uncomfortable," Tasha joked, winking at Carmen.
"My face?" Papi grouched out as she pointed her index finger at herself. "McCutcheon's fucking stroke seat."
"As I was saying," Haspel began, "I want you all to treat Carmen with respect, just like any other teammate. Listen to her; she brings a lot of experience. Okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, "Anyways, today's practice was sub-par. I wasn't happy with the starts. Dana and Papi, you two need to anticipate, you're always a fraction too late. It looked choppy and I'm sure it didn't feel good to any of you. We need to hit that forty-two on the start ten. Do you all agree?"
There were nods and murmurs amongst the five of us if you included Carmen.
"Okay, you all look dead tired, get some good rest tonight. There's optional weight lifting tonight at eight. If you're not there, I'll see you all tomorrow at five with the rest of the team. Hands in, Wild Cats on two! One! Two!" Our chorus of yells echoed in the empty boathouse and everyone scattered, collecting stripped clothing and duffel bags. Carmen looked uncomfortable, her mouth opening and closing before she gathered her pile of layers and disappeared into the bathroom.
"Shane," Haspel summoned with a wave of his hand, as I slowly walked over. I knew what he wanted to say and I wasn't looking forward to it. "Do you still feel the same way after today's practice?"
"Yes, sir." Something about "Has-been Haspel" always made me think of my foster father, emotionless, prickish, and only congratulatory when I surpassed expectations. That didn't happen very often.
"I'm sorry you feel that way." Haspel began, "Carmen came highly recommended from her old couch at UCLA. So when she transferred her I …"
"It's just so sudden, Couch," I interrupted. "What was wrong with Alice? She's a great coxswain and we've been practicing with her for practically ever. We just met Carmen for the first time yesterday! We're facing Harvard this weekend. We need to be united as a team to win."
"That's enough! I'm sorry, but Alice was not performing well enough for all of you. You need someone tougher, someone that will push you all, not a friend. Alice came to me because she couldn't handle it, she asked to step down."
"How do you know Carmen is good enough?" I asked stubbornly, irritation written clearly on my face. "We can't even get our starts together. We've never had a problem with them before! Full slide, half, half, three-quarter, three-quarter, full, power ten. What's so fucking hard about that?"
"Don't blame her for the team's inadequacies." That one burned to the core as Haspel yelled at me, his bulking index finger pointing in my face. "And if you want to remain on this team don't you raise your voice at me again McCutcheon."
I took a deep breath to keep my anger in check. "I don't know why you bothered to ask my opinion then."
"Because as captain you should be working to motivate your crew and help them work together, that includes Carmen. If you can't accept her as your coxswain, you're not doing your job and your teammates will see that. And you're right, if you aren't harmonized as a boat, if you can't trust her, you won't win this weekend." He walked away, slamming the door to his office behind him.
"Thanks for the bout of confidence, Coach." I mumbled to no one in particular. He was such a fucking asshole sometimes.
I picked up my duffle bag and watched as Carmen scurried out of the women's bathroom, brushing by me to the exit. She didn't say anything and I wondered how much of that conversation she heard. I didn't know whether to feel guilty or glad. If she knew she was unwelcome, maybe she'd tell dickhead Haspel to give Alice her position back. It would be one less thing for me to worry about this weekend.
Stepping out of the boathouse, I checked my watch again. Quarter to eight. I decided to choose breakfast over the shower. Let those who sit next to me suffer the stench of a rower.
"Holy shit!" I yelled at the unexpected chill. My body temperature had cooled down since practice and I was only wearing my blue and gold spandex uni and Birks. It was April, but unfortunately that didn't equate to spring weather in West Hollywood. Last week we rowed through a thin layer of ice, Haspel yelling at us from the launch to ignore the sickening crack of ice breaking against the thin shell of our boat.
"McCutcheon! Ride?" Tasha offered from inside her forest green Bronco, Dana leaning out the open passenger side window as they waited for me to answer. Tasha was our three-seat, sitting right behind me, and was the muscle and brawn anchoring the two ends of the boat. She dwarfed the rest of the team in sheer muscle mass, looking more like a female Lacrosse player on steroids than a lightweight rower.
For fun, two weeks ago, I bet that she couldn't break an oar in half during practice. The fiberglass oar really didn't stand a chance and shattered during a power ten, nearly flinging her from the boat and smacking me in the back of the head. I had never been happier to lose a bet in my life.
As for Dana, she was built much like I am. Lean and fit; barely any fat on the body. She sits two-seat with Papi behind as bow. Dana is like the Yin to Papi's yang. Since Papi has a tendency for vocalizing her complaints, Dana tends to keep it from moving completely throughout the rest of the boat, affecting the way we perform. Dane tends to nod and agree a lot, and she also tends to be the cheerleader of the boat, recanting whatever the coxswain, Alice at the time, had just called out … most likely cause they were fucking like rabbits and she was deeply infatuated with the blonde.
Hopping into the backseat, I was hit with a blast of heat and a large yawn ripped the corners of my chapped, wind dried lips. "These early mornings are totally fucking with me," I admitted while scratching my head. "I can't keep waking up at four in the morning."
"Dude, whatever, you never sleep anyways." Tasha chastised as she flung the car into drive, peeling out of the parking lot and around the block at record and law breaking speed.
It was true. Between crew practice at the ass crack of dawn, eighteen credits of pre-law undergrad studies during the day, and the occasional weight lifting session in the evening along with the spontaneous booty calls, I'd be lucky to catch three or four hours a night. A steady diet of black coffee with a heap of sugar keeps me alive, and my roommate, Mark, repeatedly saves me from malnutrition.
"How do you like Carmen?" Tasha asked, adjusting the radio to look for anything halfway decent playing this early in the morning.
"She's fine, but her performance could be a fluke. I get that Haspel seat-raced her and Alice, but I don't like it," I summarized my grievances, my annoyance at Haspel still heavy on my mind. From the look on Dana's face she wasn't too thrilled that her girlfriend wasn't our coxswain anymore either.
Carmen was average height, probably around 5'4", which was honestly the only thing she had going for her right now since normally coxswains are supposed to be five foot nothing. We needed someone small and compact, weighing exactly a buck twenty, no more and no less…. Well, less would be better. Coxswains were dead weight, steering us to the finish line with a small rudder and a microphone. They were our eyes, our coach, our only companion for those painfully long seven minutes of pure, unadulterated hell. And this is why we needed someone familiar, someone who could motivate us and push us to work harder. We needed Alice back.
"She used to row you know. She stroked the varsity lightweight in the fall at uhh," Dana said as she tried to remember which team she rowed for. "uhh … UCLA I believe."
"I don't remember racing her." I replied as I looked out the window, watching as the trees flew by us in a blur. "Why is she coxing now?"
"She fucked up her knee, I think." Tasha stated as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel along with the rhythm of some country song. "I think Rosie was talking about her having torn her meniscus or something."
"Shit." Injuries were fairly common on the crew team. We practiced long hours and there was never an off-season. All you could do was hope you'd last the spring racing season with just a pulled groin muscle or arthritis in your inboard wrist and nothing potentially season-ending.
"I have to admit though, she's fucking hot." Dana blurted out suddenly, turning her head to look at me as we came to a stop at a red light.
I shrugged noncommittally. I hadn't been paying attention to what she looked like, just that she was unwelcomed. "Don't let your girl hear you say that Dane."
"When she runs the press set ten; that shit goes straight to my head. Her fucking voice in the morning is pure sex," Tasha chimed in.
"It's the shitty cox box, not her. That thing is ten years old."
"I don't care. Plus you know how I like a bossy woman." She flashed me her pearly whites and I couldn't help but laugh. She did like them sassy. But all of her talk of Carmen was just for show.
Whether or not she'd admit it, Tasha has been attached since our sophomore year when, then freshman, Alyson joined the crew team. She was a walk-on with zero experience, which normally didn't happen at a Division I school. Most of us were recruited, but Alyson was meant to row. She was taller than Tasha at an impressive six foot one and she had a seat in the Junior Varsity A boat ever since. She has also managed to tame Tasha without even knowing it. For nearly three years, Tasha had been lusting after the fiery redheaded woman, and not even Carmen and her sexy commands would make her forget that.
We pulled up in front of my house and I jumped out, telling them I'd see them later for weight lifting. I had five minutes until class. I busted through the front door, running to my room to pull on sweats and a t-shirt before I grabbed my backpack and leapt down the steps to the kitchen.
Mark was leaning against the counter, coffee mug in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. He had small kitten-like scratches running down his collarbone to his belly button along with a round reddish-purple love bite on his left shoulder. His plaid pajamas bottoms were riding low enough for me to know he had naturally blonde hair, which made me shudder, but in all honesty, I was just happy he was wearing goddamn pants. Living with Mark meant ruefully accepting his frequent and unabashed nudity, as well as ignoring his tendency to hold conversations with me while I was in the shower. If it weren't for the weekend sex marathons with his particularly vocal girlfriend, Francesca, I would still be operating under the assumption that he was gay.
In time, however, I learned that that was just Mark. He would always look and act like he belonged with the hippie hemp kids at UCLA rather than the collar-popping frat brothers at Berkeley. For this, I was grateful. Within the first few months of my freshman year, Mark gradually brought me out of my self-destructive shell, breaking me of the quite reserve that had been instilled in me since birth. I was also grateful that Mark's "hillbilly behavior" offended my foster parents because that meant they never came to visit me at school.
"Bagel," he said, shaking the bag.
"Thanks, Mom!" I snatched it out of his hand. "Tell Fran hi for me," I smirked, nodding to her handiwork.
I sprinted and checked my watch, two minutes past. Fuck it. Today was not going to be my day.