Rowing Lessons

by Jesse Deupree

Bicycles in Ohio and boats in Maine had a similar place in my childhood: both meant the possibility of freedom, the chance to move and do whatever I wanted without being watched all the time. The first boat that delivered on this possibility was my family’s Dyer Dhow, bought as a tender for our first cruising boat. My father named it Me Go Too. It was the first boat I was allowed to use alone, and use it I did.

Each morning I would go down to the Yacht Club where someone helped me launch it off the dock; my undersized nine-year-old body was unable to manage the weight of a less than nine-foot boat. Once it was in the water, I would set out to sea alone for a day’s adventure, which meant rowing endlessly around the Pool’s inner harbor. I was not allowed to go out the Gut to the outer harbor -- even freedom had limits.

Rowing was the beginning of my nautical education. Even within the confines of a small Maine fishing harbor, a knowledge of depth and current was required to plan and reach a destination, even if that destination was just a salt marsh. One day by chance I discovered and landed on a sand spit that, at this particular stage of the tide, made a wonderful tiny island with the necessary curves and lumps to form the harbors my imagination was always voyaging to. Like the Little Prince on his planet, I strode about my domain for a blissful half hour until the rising tide forced me back into Me Go Too, and left me gazing down from the floating dinghy at my footprints below the water’s surface.

The Pool at high tide. (JH photo)

For days afterward I searched for that island, trying to rediscover that transitory spit and rekindle my imagination. In my struggle to find it, I began to understand the changing tidal patterns, even though I never learned to predict when conditions would be just right for the return of my miniature kingdom. Two weeks is a long time when you are nine years old.

My lessons and adventures were solitary. I learned to row from watching lobstermen and visiting cruisers. Sometimes I liked to sit in the stern and push the oars facing forward as the fishermen did. My slight weight aft did not disturb the trim of my little boat at all. Occasionally I would sit in the bow and paddle stern first, charting my gondola through the canals between the docks and the granite walls of the Yacht Club. 

If there was any distance to cover, I would face aft, put my back in it and try to feather the oars for speed. My memories are diffuse and precise at the same time. I remember the wakes generated by the tips of the oars when I feathered them and then rested them lightly on the water, trying to go as far as possible between strokes, yet can’t recall just how old I was or just what boat I was rowing when a given adventure took place.

One day, though, I have never forgotten. Returning to the Yacht Club at the end of the afternoon, I approached in my standard manner, prepared to grab the dock after a head-on bang with the bow of my boat. Just as I dropped my oars and turned around to reach for the dock, I felt my boat being pushed away, saw the shoe doing the pushing, and heard the gruff voice of Andy Lindsay, the club manager, saying, “That’s no way to land a boat; now circle around and do it right!” I promptly burst into tears, having no idea what the right way was, but now wanting desperately to do it.

I circled out and headed back, trying my best to hear and follow his commands. “Now ship your port oar – no, the other one. Now get your oarlock in. Now drag your starboard oar” (There was only one oar left, so I got that right the first time). “Now push it back.” Despite my tears, my pounding heart and my overwhelming wish ”WHY WON’T HE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE”, I followed his instructions and the boat responded to me. On the third try, Me Go Too swung sharply side-to and stopped smoothly alongside the dock, the oarlock swinging softly and safely against the inside of the dinghy.

 

I’ve never had a problem landing a rowboat since then, and I’ve always been grateful for the knowledge Andy taught me. There was a time I might have told you I even appreciated how the lesson was taught, but I don’t feel that way now. Some spots are still tender.