Not for the Weak of Heart

Crew is a mysterious sport that remained foreign to me until I started dating a rower last spring. Then, naturally, I wanted to know everything about it- hoping to better understand my man's obsession. Yeah, right! I am nowhere nearer to understanding the sport than I am to deciphering the meaning in life. Rowing is one of those things that you have to dive into if you are going to survive. You can't just stick your toe in and try it out- it doesn't work that way.

The athletes wake up at 5 am to trudge down to the boathouse and venture out onto the still water. They row their guts out, eat three meals worth of food, sleep, and then they do it all over again. It is never ending- I don't know how any varsity collegiate rower gets any academic work done, because their free time is spent eating and sleeping. (Kinda like a newborn baby) However grim this lifestyle may seem, these boys are ripped and they would tell you in a moment that all of their blood, sweat, and tears are worth the 6 minutes of glory when they finish a 2K in record speed and perfect synchronization.

Some say rowing is a metaphor for life--it's a sport that relies not merely on talent, but on unmatched discipline rooted in passion. It forces the athlete to "dig deeper" and push his or her personal limits. The athlete must achieve the ultimate balance of rowing independently and in unison.

New to the sport, I am completely naive. I jump at the opportunity to get up at early hours and skip down to the dock to take photos for my blog. I shiver by the water's edge and strain my eyes to decipher who is who in the small skull down river. "Go BU," I shout into the still-dark sky. Oops, that's Northeastern. Never mind.

It's not my fault I got confused. I can't see a darn thing in the fog and the sun has barely appeared behind the Boston skyline. Why does this sport have to be so unconventional? Can't the crew gods mandate race time at a "normal" afternoon hour, complete with ballpark stands and popcorn vendors like other traditional American sports? Of course not. Rowing is not for the weak of heart.

When you watch rowing, you are not a spectator. You are the coxswain, the stroke, the bowman. You are following the eight as it moves along the river edge. You are cheering and screaming and telling them to "Pull!" Your heart is beating fast and you can almost feel the boat move beneath you. And you forget for a moment the early hour, your freezing hands and toes, and the lack of morning coffee. You only have eyes for the boat moving on the water.

At the end of the race, when the horn blows and the oars slow, you look to see the expression on their faces; the deep disappointment and rage that surfaces as the men peel their shirts over their heads and hand them to their opponents. Or, the better scenario, a contagious grin on the face of each rower as he steps onto the dock in victory.

By Catherine Moore, camorous@gmail.com

BU Crushes the Big Green- All Teams Overcome the Weather

Battle on the water, despite the April showers- or whatever they were. With less than ideal conditions, the boys fought off the white caps and pushed through the tough last 1000 meters...Boston University clinched the title for the 4th year in a row. Next year, the same three teams will rondez-vous in New Jersey where everyone agrees, the temps will be warmer. But hey, doesn't matter. Crew is not for the weak of heart.

By Catherine Moore, camorous@gmail.com

Water Warriors

The first morning in October, the Boston University Men's Crew Team trekked out into the cold to the DeWolfe Boathouse for rowing practice. Once out on the water, Coach Tom Bohrer encouraged the boys to "listen to the boat," while Olympic rower and team captain, Meindert Klem, kept the team on track.

By Catherine Moore, camoore@bu.edu

Boston: 9 am Along the Charles River

BOSTON, Mass. (9/15/2009) -- Early morning runs along the Charles River are a simple Boston pleasure. As the old adage goes, you don't realize what you're missing until you force yourself out from under the warm covers. This is the city of Boston at its best. The people I see and the scenes I witness, remind me of the diverse character surrounding me.

At 8:30 am, I head down Commonwealth Avenue, dodging the occasional sleepy student and trying, unsuccessfully, to listen for the ring of a bicycle bell. If I hear the tinkle of the chimes, I might just be able to jump out of the way, before a bike whizzes past, so close that it skims the skin on my left thigh.

Crossing over the BU bridge to the Cambridge side of the river, I pass the Boston University boathouse. Proud of its fine look and gold-edged trim, this morning I hear and see the crew boys pulling up to the dock, after a solid 2 hours out on the water.

The esplanade pedestrian path takes its traveler right along the water's edge, giving him or her a breathtaking view of downtown; silver skyscrapers rising out of shimmering water into a pale blue sky.
As I come to the final bridge before the Museum of Science, I cross over the bridge and pass a filming crew for Ben Affleck's new movie. A group of five to ten men dressed in black shirts that read "Massachusetts Film Crew" load and unload a large truck, camera equipment blocks my way, but I use this as an excuse to pull out my point and shoot and click a few pics.

Up ahead, I almost trip over a homeless man on my way down the bridge steps to reach the Storrow Drive overpass. The gentleman apologizes and, uncharacteristically (I assume) for a runner, I stop and extend my hand in greeting. "I'm Catherine," I say, asking if I can take a picture of him. He shakes his head and puts up a cigarette-laden hand, to block his face. I would rather you didn't, says the man named Husar. "I'm in several books, you see..." He tells me to look him up in Street Soldier, a book written by Edward MacKenzie, jr., Phyllis Karas, and Ross A. Muscato. He says that they allege he is connected to the Irish Mofia and to the infamous Boston gangster, Whitey Bulger. Okay, Nice to meet you sir, gotta keep running!

I pass multiple more street dwellers (6 to be precise) alongside the river, whose presence seems much more peaceful in the serene setting than it would in the middle of Government Center, surrounded by concrete and steel. The men and women I find have built themselves a nest for the night and are snuggled under old blankets or bags of retrieved garbage, asleep and at ease.

When I reach the Boston Sailing School, there are already two folding chairs set out on one of the wooden docks. Up at 7 am, Ryan and David have staked their claim on tanning territory. They are determined to get every last ray of September sun, before "it's too late." Good ole New England advice.

My last stop is the stop I have been anticipating all morning. But, the two Russian fishermen who set up camp on a small embankment along the river are no where to be found this morning. I am devastated. Sure that it was me who scared them 

away, I check two other spots for signs of their misshapen fishing hats and red and white striped chairs, but to no avail. I knew when I spoke to them yesterday, I should never have used the only phrase of Russian I know ("I love you").

Oh well, another morning, another time, another place. Perhaps.

By Catherine Moore, camoore@bu.edu