Daniel J. Boyne - The Seven Seat: A True Story of Rowing, Revenge, and Redemption

It was our first race of the spring season, and for many of us it was our first real regatta. The Head of the Charles hadnt really counted, for despite all of its history and spectator appeal, that chaotic obstacle course was simply a race against the clock that just happened to have other crews in it. By contrast, the spring regattas, with their side-by-side format, oered an intensity and conclusiveness more akin to a boxing match, where victory was less open to debate. To me, the pugilistic metaphor was even more appropriate: Trinity might be going head-to-head with Coast Guard, its archrival, but I was going toe-to-toe with Samuel Caluso, the bully who had made my life miserable back in high school.

So what did this guy do to you again? Dak asked. He and I were sitting together on the bus ride south, toward New London and Long Island Sound.

He basically tortured me, I mumbled. He saw himself as a much better athlete, because I ran cross-country and he played football.

But now youre an oarsman, Dak said, grinning.

Yeah. And so is he.

Well, well see about that! Dak said.

Dak was the most reserved, humble guy on the frosh light squad, and he was our stalwart captain. In part this was because of his prior rowing experience at Exeter, a New England prep school known for producing excellent oarsmen, but also it was due to Daks calm demeanor and evenhanded, intelligent opinion on almost any subject. He had a deep, basso voice that made you believe every word that came out of his mouth.

Im going to let you in on a little secret, he said, lowering his voice. When I was a senior at Exeter, I was quite a bit heavier than I am now and not in very good shape. Not one of my old teammates would recognize me now or believe that I could ever make it as a lightweight. Anyway, back then, I lost a seat race to a guy who was much bigger and better than me, and it was totally embarrassing.

What was the other guys name? I asked.

Jon Smith, he said.

And where is he now?

He rows heavyweight crew at Brown.

Well, now youre a Trinity lightweight! I said.

Well see about that, too, Dak said. After all, we still have to weigh in!

We both laughed. With his deep voice and measured way of speaking, Dak had a way of instantly making you feel better.

Just three days before, he had come to my dorm room and coaxed me out of a forty-eight-hour delirium. Halfway through spring break, Id picked up an intense flu that quickly burned through my body and left me with no strength. For days afterward I felt so leaden I couldnt even drag myself over to health services. Then Dak appeared, bearing a cup of hot chicken soup from the dining hall.

How are you feeling? he asked.

Not great, I croaked, my voice scratchy and my brain abuzz with fever.

So I gather. But heres the thing. Weve got Coast Guard coming up in a few days, and we cant race without you. The new boat sucks without our old seven seatwe cant even seem to set it up!

Who is subbing in for me? I asked, sitting up and taking a sip of the soup.

Charlie actually sat in once. But mostly Bill Windridge from the JV lights.

Oh no, I said.

Oh yeah, Dak said. Its really bad. And Windridge talks all the time

OK, I said. Ill be there tomorrowrain or shine.

The next day I took a handful of aspirin and forced myself up. I felt oddly disconnected from my body, as if I were wearing a snowsuit saturated with water. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, just from the eort of walking to the car. I was still weak, but I didnt let on.

As soon as I got in the boat and started rowing again, however, my spirits instantly lifted and my senses came alert and clarified in the open air. I didnt have much strength, but as I fell into rhythm with the rest of the crew, I slowly felt my body begin to regenerate, like a car with a dead battery getting a jump start. And when the Schoenbrod began to make its familiar gurgling noise, everyone knew that we had our mojo back.

Heidi called out, Weigh enough, and when we feathered our blades out of the water, the boat set up like a rock. It ran out, perfectly balanced, for a full minute, just as it had the first time we had rowed in it. Charlie had been following us once again, just to make sure I was going to be OK.

Welcome back, Dan, he said. I guess the boat likes you!

Yeah, Bill Windridge sucked! Wean said.

Everyone laughed. That was about as good as it got in terms of brotherly love from the guys on the team. After all, we had a job to do, and there was no time to be wasted on the trivialities of aection.

As we headed south, toward Long Island Sound, I was returning to the little shoreline towns of my childhoodOld Saybrook, Guilford, Branford, Westbrook. Our bus banked a left onto coastal I-95, crossing over the broad mouth of the Connecticut River and then the Thames, traversing the same route that my sister and I had once taken on our way to daily sculling lessons at Blood Street Sculls. Not far beyond lay the Mystic River and Mystic Seaport, where wed gone to sailing camp as kids. As the sea air wafted in through the open windows of our bus, some of these memories returned to me. There was something magical about the ocean, and just the smell of it began to get me excited. To be out on the sea, in a boat of any sort, always promised an adventure, although today our trip was directed toward a single purpose.

We were certainly going to the appropriate place for a water-borne battle. Both the Groton naval sub base and the Coast Guard Academy were tucked away just inside the mouth of the Thames, flanking each other on either side of the river. I spotted one of the Coast Guard gunboats as we went over the Gold Star Bridge, as well as a classic training vessel called The Eagle. Both were painted white with a trademark red and blue stripe running diagonally down the bow. They looked grand. By now everyone else was peering out the window, starting to get excited for our first spring race.

In the rowing world, the Thames was known to many as the site of the Harvard-Yale Regatta, the oldest intercollegiate competition in the country. Nobody in our freshman crew really knew or cared about that race, though, for it was an exclusive rivalry that didnt include us, or for that matter the local crews who plied the Thames every day, including Coast Guard and Connecticut College. To them these two Ivy League schools were merely summer tourists who came and went, occupying their prime river real estate, or camps, for only a week or so. As we pulled into Coast Guard, the austere-looking gated campus certainly didnt evoke a relaxed summer camp atmosphere. We quickly spotted some cadets in full dress uniform, drilling in formation on the playing fields. It was a bit intimidating to those of us from the laid-back liberal arts campus at Trinity, and we suspected that the rules here were dierent.

As soon as we got o the bus, we felt the bite of the sea breeze coming o the water. Charlie walked over toward the river to check out the conditions and to shake hands with head coach Bill Stowe. The Thames was a much wider swath of water than we were used to back in Hartford, and bearings would have to be taken from buoys more so than trees or other landmarks. Heidi marched o to the coxswains meeting to get the exact details, while the rest of us wandered over toward the boathouse to weigh in.

Packed inside the small locker room like a bunch of cattle, the lightweight teams stood around and waited for their turn to get weighed. There were some old Head of the Charles rowing posters on the wall, and the peppermint scent of tiger balm liniment and the must of dirty laundry intermingled in the room, creating a nauseating eect.