Rowing on the Charles River

How I long to be on the water again. To feel the wind against my back. To see the “Brutalist” buildings of Harvard, the leafy green trees, and the runners in neon whizzing by in a blur. I exaggerate of course as I have never moved fast enough under my own power to blur something. To hear the bells of the bicycles, the insistent honking of cars and, rarely, a train rumbling across the bridges overhead. I miss seeing the herons in flight and the cormorants bobbing on the water - their golden beaks looking surprisingly friendly to spite their jet black bodies. I have been known to greet them as I pass. I even miss the sight of the setting sun burning into my eyes as I squint my eyes half closed hoping against hope that I don't hit anything as tears stream down my face. I miss the feeling of passing under the stone bridges and how the water becomes suddenly still, the air ten degrees cooler, and the splashing sounds echoing around me. I miss the feeling of my muscles working together. From my feet to my calves to my quads then abdominal muscles, back, and arms -- for that is the way you are to row. “Legs back arms. Arms, back legs.” we chant. I even miss the pain as the oars bite into my tender hands beginning another season of building calluses. I miss the splash of the water. The sound of the oars dipping under the surface and whooshing towards the front of the boat. Although to be honest I'm not quite strong enough to whoosh. What’s weaker than a whoosh? A swish? I even miss the smell of the stagnant river, the cars’ exhaust, and the diesel fumes of the passing trains. I miss the feeling of breathing hard and my heart beating fast - particularly when I fear that the ferry will crash into me or when I see dark ominous thunderclouds gathering overhead. I miss the sound of the fisherman yelling at me for I have tangled my boat into his line. The water from my bottle stored in a sock at my feet tastes clean and clear - no matter the film of bluegreen algae water clinging to the lip of the Nalgene. Hasn’t killed me yet. I miss the tinny electronic boom of the coach’s megaphone telling me that I should probably move faster.

And all you would have seen, as you walk across the University Bridge is a woman in neon pink, ponytail pulled through a ratty black hat skimming smoothly across the water of the Charles River in a bright red rowing shell. Whoosh, swish. But maybe she would greet you too.