Nervous, murmured assents from the four newbies.
“Good. The boat is called ashell. The head of your oar is called ablade. How you rotate the oar is calledfeathering. Thecatchis when the blade goes into the water. I want to see clean catches. No flailingaround.Driveis pulling the oar through the water.Laybackis how far you lean while you drive. Got all that? If I call out any adjustments to these terms and you don’t make them, we’re going to have problems. All right, let’s go.”
I frowned. For the guys here who’d never rowed before, this tryout was over before it began. It was clear that—like everything else at Castle Hill Academy—the only goal was to win. “Having fun” wasn’t on the agenda.
An eight-man shell was tied to the dock, with four oars to a side. Coach called out names and seats to form a team, each man sitting with their backs to the front (the bow) of the shell, while Dean hunkered down in the stern with his megaphone, facing forward. It was the job of the coxswain to set the pace, give encouragement, and relay instructions from the coach on race days. Dean Yearwood—who moved fluidly between social groups—seemed put on this planet to be a coxswain.
The first team, comprised of newbies and veterans, shoved off while the rest of us waited our turn. Coach and the assistant puttered alongside the shell in a motorboat, shouting orders and corrections.
A guy beside me—a veteran—crossed his arms and shook his head. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a magazine: exceedingly handsome with light brown skin and dark eyes and dressed in expensive warm-up gear.
“What a bloody shit show,” he muttered in a British accent.
I nodded. “Agreed.”
It was not going well. Even from the dock, it was clear that the chemistry of the eight guys was completely off. Some of them couldn’t control their oars, never mind pull in unison. One actually smacked the guy behind him. Coach Daniels ordered everyone back to the dock and even watching that laborious journey was painful.
“That was the sloppiest bunch of bladework I’ve ever seen,” Coach said. “Let’s hope the next group does better. Sakes alive, it canonlybe better than that.”
He started calling names for the next group, including mine and the guy beside me, Orion Mercer.
Orion held out his hand. “That’s me.”
“Xander Ford,” I said, shaking it.
“Let’s give ’em hell, eh, mate?”
I took my seat at the bow of the shell, my back to the open water. Orion took the number two seat, his back to me. Tucker Hill and some of the other bigger guys took seats three through six—the “engine room,” from which much of the power and speed was generated. Once seats seven and eight were filled, Dean put the megaphone to his mouth.
“Let’s do this, gentlemen. Nice and easy.”
Once we’d pulled away from the dock, Dean gave the word. Blades went into the water, and we all drove back, pushing with our legs against the foot stretchers under the seats in front of us. Within a few strokes, we’d found our rhythm, moving in time to a digital metronome that Dean controlled to keep us in unison. No longer eight men, we became a unit, inhaling into the drive, exhaling through the recovery, over and over. I kept my focus on the middle of Orion’s back, my oar to the left, his to the right. The water glided under us at an impressive speed.
“That’s it,” Coach called from alongside us. “Rhett, watch your layback. You’re leaning too far. Good timing, Knox. Nice form, Orion.”
Rhett…
I hadn’t recognized him, nor he I, but apparently, I was sharing a shell with the other water balloon bully. Awesome.
The water was smooth but made rougher by the coach’s boat swells—likely on purpose, to see what we could handle. I braced my legs, feet pressing hard into the stretchers, thighs screaming as I pulled to keep the boat set.
“Excellent work, Xander,” Coach called. “Just excellent. Okay, that’s it. I’ve seen enough. Next group.”
Two hours later, after rowing bow seat with various combinations of guys, it was clear no one was better than my first group. Back on land, Coach gathered us around again.
“Some changes coming. I’ll post the final team roster on the gym bulletin on Monday morning. If you’re on it, you’ll get an email with further instructions, such as how to order uniforms, the practice and workout schedule, regatta dates, and the like. Okay? That’s all, gentlemen.”
Then the coaches and Dean huddled, but not before Dean shot me a surreptitious thumbs up.
“Bloody good show,” Orion said, clasping my hand.
“Thanks, but I don’t think the rest of the crew agrees.” I nodded to where Tucker, Rhett—tall and pale with wicked black eyes—and a few of their buddies stood off to the side, muttering to themselves. All of them shot me dark looks.
Orion waved a hand. “We’re the best bow pair of the lot, and they know it. They’ll come around.” He grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. “See you at first practice.”
He joined Tucker and the other guys while I pulled on my sweats and gathered my bag. The guys walked past me, one jostling my shoulder. Hard.
“Don’t worry, Brent,” Tucker said loudly. “Your position is safe. Ford here won’t be able to afford the race goggles, never mind the uniform.”
