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Nightswimming (story)
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Alistair
May 17, 2012, 1:02:09 PM5/17/12
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When I'm old, I mean properly old, when I'm so old the skin on the back
of my hand is like rice-paper and my searching rheumy eyes don't
recognise you or me, this is will be the only story I will tell. And
you won't believe me; or, maybe you will: but you won't care because
everyone's got a story.
This is mine.
I'm tucked up, wrapped up in the bows of my four and down and the sharp
end I can see my toes where the team boatman Russ has put an extra piece
of plastic to give me something to press against. The bulkhead is too
far away for my short legs, so I'd improvised by stuffing an old
basketball down there, but Russ insisted on a proper solution.
I dip my hand in the water, reaching awkwardly over the side of the
boat. The sun is so bright it turns the plastic shell translucent: I can
see the shadow of the water through the shell, about the height of my
scrawny body, running down towards the number-plate at the very tip. I
can see the shape of its ripples.
"Two minutes." A staccato, electric voice.
Down here I can feel everything. Every tiny movement from the four guys
behind me, every twitch of muscle, every turn of the wheels on their
seats: I can feel it all. I can't see them but I don't need to. I can
tell you the stuff you can see - whose hands are too high or too low,
who's late or early on the entry or release. But I can tell you too the
stuff you can't see. Who's pushing, who's slacking, who's brain is
talking to the man with the hammer.
Right now I can feel the stake-boat boy's hands gripped around our
stern ten metres behind my head. The boat shudders slightly as the four
rowers slide forward, a little wobble as their blades square and they
rebalance. I press the switch on my coxbox, hold it down for a second,
and the numbers flick back to zeroes. Zero rate. Zero time. Six
minutes, I'm going to be World Champion.
"Boat's centred. Be ready." That's all I need to say. This is where I'm
at my most useless, I can't see the starter at all. But that's okay.
Look left. Look right. Try to remember, those other five heads poking up
out of their shells, the colours, the breeze, the slap slap of the water
against the hull. Try to remember, store it away for always. You were
here. Now look forward, the line of buoys straining into the horizon.
Swing the rudder about one last time, left, right, because that's what
pilots do isn't it? Then bring it centre too, centre with the number
plate with a big number 4 which is just a tiny strip to my eyes, centred
with the triangle of buoys, centred with the bow ball, centred with
everything. We're ready.
And then, muffled but unmistakable, from two kilometres away drift the
strains of the Star Spangled Banner. They're having a medal ceremony.
Everyone can hear it. I wonder what the protocol is. Do we wait? No,
surely not. We've already had the countries called over. But not waiting
seems equally wrong. I'm dimly aware that the Americans in lane one will
be enjoying that. I'm cross. It's an unfair advantage. It seems to take
ages. "O'er the lannnnnd of the free and the home offfff thhhhe
braaaave." You can't actually hear the words, of course you can't, just
the music. It would be lovely if it wasn't. Fuck right off America. That
wasn't in the script.
"Little tap Graham." I'm not centred any more. Fucking Americans. Right,
as you were then.
Let's go. Let's just go.
And then we're off, game on, and Jonny Singfield's at stroke with Jonny
Searle behind him, and there's quite a headwind and so I know we're not
going to win this by 250m but I'm okay where we are. Start's good, we're
right in the pack, we know the last 600m of the course is in wind
shadow, so I'm going to keep us in the pack to then, I'm okay, we're
okay, then we're going to blast them wide open, it's going to be like
Barcelona all over again, I'm going to blow them apart, but till then
we're going to just do what we do.
And now we're at 500m and the boats on either side are about 3/4 ahead,
I'm sitting somewhere on their stern canvases, that's okay though, I've
done this so many times, they're over-rating us, they're caning it,
we're not, I'm on top of this and I'm just talking to the boys. We're
probably last. I don't care though, can't be more than 2 seconds off
first. We're not going to try to win this in a headwind, just wait,
patience.
Rate's a little low now at 750, dropping off, I want a couple of pips,
starting to feel a little sluggish, wind's strongest here. Come on you
two in the stern. I want more rate. Don't want to fall off this, don't
want to have too much to do. But it's okay. I can still see them, all
the boats, I've got Italy on my right on lane five, Argentina on six,
and on my left I've got the Germans and then the Romanians on the other
side and I don't even have to look, we can beat them, no question.
They're all churning away I'm in control, I'm in total control of this.
I know exactly what we can do, and I'm calm. We'll squeeze up a little,
and then flatten them with two minutes to go.
Now here comes 1000m. I'm going to be World Champion. I get ready to
change the tone of my voice just a little, the racing's going to start
soon, the real stuff. Big island to my right, lots of trees, here we're
the furthest from the bank, bit of a wind shadow. Start to get harder on
the crew. Keep that pace going. We're still a length behind everyone
else, spread out across the lake. One or two just starting to fall
back. Come back to me. That's it. I'm going to reel you in, all of you.
And then something catches my eye. For a second I'm too stunned to know
what to do. The boat on my left, lane three, he's about a length ahead.
But I can see another hull, a black hull emerging from beyond his bows,
something way over in lane one. I can see the oarsmen over the top of
the small bit of bow canvas I can see, now it pushes through, now I can
see all of it.
Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Oh god no.
That'll be USA. Rating about 44. I hadn't seen them, hadn't spotted
them. I couldn't, not from down here. But they're not just ahead. If I
can see them that's got to be ten seconds ahead, maybe more. And
increasing. (The tv timings confirmed it was just over 10s at 1000m.)
I want to be anywhere else. I want time to stop, but time just got a
whole lot quicker. I have three minutes, less to fix this. I don't know
if I can. Say something. Just tell it like it is, you do not have time
for explanation. What the fuck words am I going to use now? I can't do
this. Do this.
I speak slowly, outside the rhythm. "Okay, picked up USA, lane one,
they're going to be the ones, I'm looking maybe three lengths." I repeat
it, slower, clearer. "That is, three lengths to USA on strokeside, on
lane one it's USA in the lead by open water." What the fuck are they
going to think of their useless, useless coxswain? Can't think of that
now. Short pause. Faster words, tone change, still outside the rhythm,
they will hear this: "We need to attack. We're going to go here. We are
going to go, and we're going to go here." That's the race plan out of
the window then. They'll understand that.
And now the words are tumbling out. The words, that's what I use, that's
all I can use. And I don't care about the other boats now, I know
they're not going to be with us by the end, everything's about us and
the Americans. We're fast, we're as fast as any other boat in the GBR
team on gold-medal percentages, the USA can't maintain that lead. And
they're not. By the time we get into the wind shadow, about 600m,
there's only about half a length of open water between my bow and their
stern. Their rowing is going. At about 400m we get overlap and for a
moment we can do this. I've seen Jonny Searle do this. And now here is
the 250m and how are these marks coming up so quickly and now here's the
red buoys and I'm barely level with the stroke man and the finish line
is rushing forward, and I'm not giving up but I just want the world to
stop. I want everything to stop right now because I know what's going to
happen, so just stop. Just please stop.
They cross the line, we cross the line a second and a half later. And I
know we've lost, but I think for a crazy second maybe there'll be a
miracle, maybe I've seen it all wrong, maybe the angle's deceptive. And
it's not because I want to win, it's because this is all my fault. I
could have stopped this. I've never screwed up before, I should have
seen them, I could have gone earlier. I want one of my crew to turn
round and tell me, to shout at me, but they're just slumped over their
oars and that's worse, what have I done to them? I'm sitting up, looking
backwards, holding onto Graham's lycra, looking up at the great
electronic scoreboard which will show me in precise digital detail to
the hundredth of a second just how badly I've fucked up the entire year.
They put their trust in me. I've completely let them down.
A few minutes later we get out of the boat. I'm searching my crew's
faces, but they betray nothing but exhaustion and the rictus stare of
the defeated. We shake hands with the Americans, they raced well, well
done, and I see Jonny Searle with his arm around Jonny Singfield and my
awful day gets even worse as I realise this big, big man is crying. And
trying not to. We all line up, and I listen to the Star Spangled Banner
for the second time that day.
David Tanner the team director comes over like the headmaster and says
in a business-like fashion we have to go for press interviews but
there's no-one holding our boat anymore so I stay here at the bottom of
the finish line stand. I don't want to talk to anyone anyway. I sit on
the damp wooden slats of the dock and drop my feet into the hole where I
lie, slouched forward, my new medal falling from my neck and draped over
my thighs. Like everything else in this sport it's designed for someone
twice my size.
And for the first time since I was a child I have the feeling of tears
sliding down my face. Unfamiliar, unexpected. I'm glad no-one can see
me. I watch them, in a trance, drop splat splat splat onto the hot floor
of the boat where they sparkle for a second before vanishing forever.
of my hand is like rice-paper and my searching rheumy eyes don't
recognise you or me, this is will be the only story I will tell. And
you won't believe me; or, maybe you will: but you won't care because
everyone's got a story.
This is mine.
I'm tucked up, wrapped up in the bows of my four and down and the sharp
end I can see my toes where the team boatman Russ has put an extra piece
of plastic to give me something to press against. The bulkhead is too
far away for my short legs, so I'd improvised by stuffing an old
basketball down there, but Russ insisted on a proper solution.
I dip my hand in the water, reaching awkwardly over the side of the
boat. The sun is so bright it turns the plastic shell translucent: I can
see the shadow of the water through the shell, about the height of my
scrawny body, running down towards the number-plate at the very tip. I
can see the shape of its ripples.
"Two minutes." A staccato, electric voice.
Down here I can feel everything. Every tiny movement from the four guys
behind me, every twitch of muscle, every turn of the wheels on their
seats: I can feel it all. I can't see them but I don't need to. I can
tell you the stuff you can see - whose hands are too high or too low,
who's late or early on the entry or release. But I can tell you too the
stuff you can't see. Who's pushing, who's slacking, who's brain is
talking to the man with the hammer.
Right now I can feel the stake-boat boy's hands gripped around our
stern ten metres behind my head. The boat shudders slightly as the four
rowers slide forward, a little wobble as their blades square and they
rebalance. I press the switch on my coxbox, hold it down for a second,
and the numbers flick back to zeroes. Zero rate. Zero time. Six
minutes, I'm going to be World Champion.
"Boat's centred. Be ready." That's all I need to say. This is where I'm
at my most useless, I can't see the starter at all. But that's okay.
Look left. Look right. Try to remember, those other five heads poking up
out of their shells, the colours, the breeze, the slap slap of the water
against the hull. Try to remember, store it away for always. You were
here. Now look forward, the line of buoys straining into the horizon.
Swing the rudder about one last time, left, right, because that's what
pilots do isn't it? Then bring it centre too, centre with the number
plate with a big number 4 which is just a tiny strip to my eyes, centred
with the triangle of buoys, centred with the bow ball, centred with
everything. We're ready.
And then, muffled but unmistakable, from two kilometres away drift the
strains of the Star Spangled Banner. They're having a medal ceremony.
Everyone can hear it. I wonder what the protocol is. Do we wait? No,
surely not. We've already had the countries called over. But not waiting
seems equally wrong. I'm dimly aware that the Americans in lane one will
be enjoying that. I'm cross. It's an unfair advantage. It seems to take
ages. "O'er the lannnnnd of the free and the home offfff thhhhe
braaaave." You can't actually hear the words, of course you can't, just
the music. It would be lovely if it wasn't. Fuck right off America. That
wasn't in the script.
"Little tap Graham." I'm not centred any more. Fucking Americans. Right,
as you were then.
Let's go. Let's just go.
And then we're off, game on, and Jonny Singfield's at stroke with Jonny
Searle behind him, and there's quite a headwind and so I know we're not
going to win this by 250m but I'm okay where we are. Start's good, we're
right in the pack, we know the last 600m of the course is in wind
shadow, so I'm going to keep us in the pack to then, I'm okay, we're
okay, then we're going to blast them wide open, it's going to be like
Barcelona all over again, I'm going to blow them apart, but till then
we're going to just do what we do.
And now we're at 500m and the boats on either side are about 3/4 ahead,
I'm sitting somewhere on their stern canvases, that's okay though, I've
done this so many times, they're over-rating us, they're caning it,
we're not, I'm on top of this and I'm just talking to the boys. We're
probably last. I don't care though, can't be more than 2 seconds off
first. We're not going to try to win this in a headwind, just wait,
patience.
Rate's a little low now at 750, dropping off, I want a couple of pips,
starting to feel a little sluggish, wind's strongest here. Come on you
two in the stern. I want more rate. Don't want to fall off this, don't
want to have too much to do. But it's okay. I can still see them, all
the boats, I've got Italy on my right on lane five, Argentina on six,
and on my left I've got the Germans and then the Romanians on the other
side and I don't even have to look, we can beat them, no question.
They're all churning away I'm in control, I'm in total control of this.
I know exactly what we can do, and I'm calm. We'll squeeze up a little,
and then flatten them with two minutes to go.
Now here comes 1000m. I'm going to be World Champion. I get ready to
change the tone of my voice just a little, the racing's going to start
soon, the real stuff. Big island to my right, lots of trees, here we're
the furthest from the bank, bit of a wind shadow. Start to get harder on
the crew. Keep that pace going. We're still a length behind everyone
else, spread out across the lake. One or two just starting to fall
back. Come back to me. That's it. I'm going to reel you in, all of you.
And then something catches my eye. For a second I'm too stunned to know
what to do. The boat on my left, lane three, he's about a length ahead.
But I can see another hull, a black hull emerging from beyond his bows,
something way over in lane one. I can see the oarsmen over the top of
the small bit of bow canvas I can see, now it pushes through, now I can
see all of it.
Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Oh god no.
That'll be USA. Rating about 44. I hadn't seen them, hadn't spotted
them. I couldn't, not from down here. But they're not just ahead. If I
can see them that's got to be ten seconds ahead, maybe more. And
increasing. (The tv timings confirmed it was just over 10s at 1000m.)
I want to be anywhere else. I want time to stop, but time just got a
whole lot quicker. I have three minutes, less to fix this. I don't know
if I can. Say something. Just tell it like it is, you do not have time
for explanation. What the fuck words am I going to use now? I can't do
this. Do this.
I speak slowly, outside the rhythm. "Okay, picked up USA, lane one,
they're going to be the ones, I'm looking maybe three lengths." I repeat
it, slower, clearer. "That is, three lengths to USA on strokeside, on
lane one it's USA in the lead by open water." What the fuck are they
going to think of their useless, useless coxswain? Can't think of that
now. Short pause. Faster words, tone change, still outside the rhythm,
they will hear this: "We need to attack. We're going to go here. We are
going to go, and we're going to go here." That's the race plan out of
the window then. They'll understand that.
And now the words are tumbling out. The words, that's what I use, that's
all I can use. And I don't care about the other boats now, I know
they're not going to be with us by the end, everything's about us and
the Americans. We're fast, we're as fast as any other boat in the GBR
team on gold-medal percentages, the USA can't maintain that lead. And
they're not. By the time we get into the wind shadow, about 600m,
there's only about half a length of open water between my bow and their
stern. Their rowing is going. At about 400m we get overlap and for a
moment we can do this. I've seen Jonny Searle do this. And now here is
the 250m and how are these marks coming up so quickly and now here's the
red buoys and I'm barely level with the stroke man and the finish line
is rushing forward, and I'm not giving up but I just want the world to
stop. I want everything to stop right now because I know what's going to
happen, so just stop. Just please stop.
They cross the line, we cross the line a second and a half later. And I
know we've lost, but I think for a crazy second maybe there'll be a
miracle, maybe I've seen it all wrong, maybe the angle's deceptive. And
it's not because I want to win, it's because this is all my fault. I
could have stopped this. I've never screwed up before, I should have
seen them, I could have gone earlier. I want one of my crew to turn
round and tell me, to shout at me, but they're just slumped over their
oars and that's worse, what have I done to them? I'm sitting up, looking
backwards, holding onto Graham's lycra, looking up at the great
electronic scoreboard which will show me in precise digital detail to
the hundredth of a second just how badly I've fucked up the entire year.
They put their trust in me. I've completely let them down.
A few minutes later we get out of the boat. I'm searching my crew's
faces, but they betray nothing but exhaustion and the rictus stare of
the defeated. We shake hands with the Americans, they raced well, well
done, and I see Jonny Searle with his arm around Jonny Singfield and my
awful day gets even worse as I realise this big, big man is crying. And
trying not to. We all line up, and I listen to the Star Spangled Banner
for the second time that day.
David Tanner the team director comes over like the headmaster and says
in a business-like fashion we have to go for press interviews but
there's no-one holding our boat anymore so I stay here at the bottom of
the finish line stand. I don't want to talk to anyone anyway. I sit on
the damp wooden slats of the dock and drop my feet into the hole where I
lie, slouched forward, my new medal falling from my neck and draped over
my thighs. Like everything else in this sport it's designed for someone
twice my size.
And for the first time since I was a child I have the feeling of tears
sliding down my face. Unfamiliar, unexpected. I'm glad no-one can see
me. I watch them, in a trance, drop splat splat splat onto the hot floor
of the boat where they sparkle for a second before vanishing forever.
sully
May 17, 2012, 2:03:32 PM5/17/12
to
Carl
May 17, 2012, 6:23:04 PM5/17/12
to
On 17/05/2012 18:02, Alistair wrote:
<snipped, but go back and read it over & over again>
Cheers -
Carl
--
Carl Douglas Racing Shells -
Fine Small-Boats/AeRoWing Low-drag Riggers/Advanced Accessories
Write: Harris Boatyard, Laleham Reach, Chertsey KT16 8RP, UK
Find: http://tinyurl.com/2tqujf
Email: ca...@carldouglas.co.uk Tel: +44(0)1932-570946 Fax: -563682
URLs: www.carldouglas.co.uk (boats) & www.aerowing.co.uk (riggers)
<snipped, but go back and read it over & over again>
>
> And for the first time since I was a child I have the feeling of tears
> sliding down my face. Unfamiliar, unexpected. I'm glad no-one can see
> me. I watch them, in a trance, drop splat splat splat onto the hot floor
> of the boat where they sparkle for a second before vanishing forever.
>
>
Bravo! That's a masterpiece!
> And for the first time since I was a child I have the feeling of tears
> sliding down my face. Unfamiliar, unexpected. I'm glad no-one can see
> me. I watch them, in a trance, drop splat splat splat onto the hot floor
> of the boat where they sparkle for a second before vanishing forever.
>
>
Cheers -
Carl
--
Carl Douglas Racing Shells -
Fine Small-Boats/AeRoWing Low-drag Riggers/Advanced Accessories
Write: Harris Boatyard, Laleham Reach, Chertsey KT16 8RP, UK
Find: http://tinyurl.com/2tqujf
Email: ca...@carldouglas.co.uk Tel: +44(0)1932-570946 Fax: -563682
URLs: www.carldouglas.co.uk (boats) & www.aerowing.co.uk (riggers)
Steve Giddings
May 18, 2012, 7:33:40 PM5/18/12
to
>
> read more »
This is an absolutely wonderful account. So few get to this level of
accomplishment in any venue.. (I am not including myself on that short
list,)
Thank yo so much for this remembrance
Steve Giddings
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