Course Correction by Ginny Gilder Read Free Book Online Page A

ending with my physique, there were reasons aplenty. But I knew rowing and I were made for each other.
    So much so that I could ignore the obvious, my skimpy athletic background, my shrimplike stature, my nonexistent conditioning, minimal strength, and, oh yes, my asthma. I barely registered its existence, as I’d not suffered an attack since I was a high school sophomore, an eternity in teenage years, and I no longer used medication. I was fine. I could do this.
    I didn’t know why rowing held so much allure. It just did. It gave meaning to every day, structured my time, and helped me focus. I didn’t have all afternoon to fritter away after attending my classes: I had to finish my homework so I could hoof it to practice for two to three hours. I didn’t have to talk to connect with other people; I just had to show up and learn. I didn’t embarrass myself academically and maintained my grades, and my heart leaped at the chance to get into a rowing shell every afternoon, rain or shine.
    As the fall progressed and the leaves tumbled onto the surrounding streets, and into the lagoon’s disgusting water, I finally took my first hard strokes. I caught my first crab—losing control of my oar when I was late getting it out of the water—just a split second after everyone else. The blade stuck fast in the water while the boat kept moving forward, and the oar handle punched me in the stomach. It hurt, but not for long.
    I learned to row as the late afternoon sunshine turned to rosy dusk progressively earlier, as autumn moved toward winter. I learned the feel of the boat when we closed our eyes with our oars balanced during the recovery, skimming the water like geese, letting the boat run out. I secretly reveled in the sense of shared purpose that slowly emerged among the girls on the team. There were no cuts that fall, no varsity or junior varsity rankings; everyone who wanted to row was welcome.
    Six weeks into college, I was competing. Nat entered several crewsin the Head of the Charles regatta that had sucked me in the previous year in Boston. That day, I had unknowingly witnessed the tenth anniversary of the biggest one-day rowing event in the world, a three-mile race whose course wended its way upstream under six bridges, with four major turns.
    This year, instead of watching starstruck on the shore, I rowed starboard in a women’s eight, a mixed crew of experienced and novice rowers. I wore a Yale Women’s Crew sweatshirt over a simple cotton racing shirt. I felt the chill of the autumn air spike the sunshine as we rowed downriver to the widest part of the Charles, known as “the Basin,” to warm up. I listened to the commands filling the air as dozens of shells organized themselves single file according to bow numbers, and followed my coxswain’s directions as we headed in the long line of string bean boats to the starting line, marked by big yellow buoys. In keeping with the format of a head race, we maintained a distance of several boat lengths behind the crew in front of us as we worked our power up to full pressure about ten strokes in advance of the line.
    The starting official, Ed Singer, greeted us in a deep voice that boomed across the open water: “Yale University, please approach the starting line. Coxswain, bring your crew up to full power. You are crossing the line. Have a good row, ladies.”
    We’re off! I matched my timing with the rower in front of me, but it was hard to contain my excitement and not rush up the slide or yank my oar through the water with giant rip-roaring jerks of glee. The race was going to be long, over fifteen minutes, maybe as long as twenty, and I reminded myself I had to pull hard the entire way.
    Less than a quarter mile into the race, our coxswain pointed us through the first bridge, a double challenge: a combined railroad bridge, with tracks going at one angle, and a roadway bridge at a different angle, each with its own