Hellooooo, Cincinnati

 

            by Zoe Janachek

 

 

            I twist around in my seat click, pop, click.
            “Whoa! Was that your back?” Annie asks with a shocked look on her face.
            “Yep.” I twist around one more time to see if I can work out any last kinks.
It’s a perfect morning. The sun is rising, shedding its orangey red reflection onto the water of the Oakland estuary which is unusually flat and still. 
            “Shira, what time is it?” I asked.
            “6:45,” she yells back.
            “Okay gir-” the megaphone squeaks and cuts out. Derek knocks it against the side of his motor boat, “Hello? Okay much better. Alright girls, last piece of the day. About two thousand meters. Make it good, focus on the rhythm and swing. Make it count. One week till nationals.”
As we row back to the boathouse I think about the city surrounding us. Alameda to our right and Oakland to our left. Most people are hitting the snooze button, ironing work shirts or pouring their first cup of coffee. I wonder if the thunder of our oarlocks, the chaaa of our exhale and our coxswain yelling “IN TWO, THAT'S ONE, TWO! LEGGGGGSS, PRESSSSSS!” have woken the inhabitants of the estuary houseboats. They must be used to it. The Strokes have practiced on this body of water for years. After all, rowers  are known for their early morning practices. We’ve coined the phrase “Rowers do more before 8 am than most people do all day.”
            Growing up I played softball and basketball. Okay, I don't know if I really played. I should say I was a bench warmer in softball and basketball. Looking back, I think I made bat to ball contact about 12 times in my 2 seasons of softball. Basketball was a different story: I could make the shots I just couldn't get my chubby little body up and down the court fast enough. After two failed attempts at finding my athletic groove I was beginning to lose hope. I switched schools in eighth grade and had an opportunity to play volleyball, but I decided to save myself the embarrassment. The “new kid” title was good enough. I didn't think I needed “bench warmer” in addition. 
            When it came time to choose a high school my parents and I decided that I would attend Berkeley High. This decision was a big deal to me. I had attended small private schools since kindergarten. I was ready for this change, I was excited, I was...horrified. My mom was the first to approach me with the idea of joining a sports team at Berkeley High.
            “How about crew?” she asked.
            “Huh?”
            “Crew, rowing...you know! You’ve seen it in the Olympics.”
            “Uhh okay, I’ll check it out.”
            I really had no intention of checking it out. In a twist of fate a tall brunette in a “Berkeley High Crew” sweatshirt approached me at freshmen orientation.
            “Hello! You should join crew. It’s really fun and a great way to meet people.”
 She handed me a flyer and walked away. The flyer stated a time, date and location of an informational meeting, “in the erg room” it said. What the hell is an erg? I put the flyer on the refrigerator at home. And a great way to meet people resonated through my head. Berkeley High was going to be a lot bigger than the schools I was used to. Maybe meeting a group of people and being part of a team would be a good idea.
            “Except I’m so bad at sports,” I would tell my mom.
             “Crew is unique. Maybe you’ll have a better experience.” She was right, maybe this experience would be different, after all what did I have to lose (besides a little pride).
            The day of the meeting had arrived. I searched the campus which felt like New York City compared to the tiny private schools of my past. I was lost. I spotted a middle aged women in a Berkeley High Crew sweatshirt.
            “Excuse me? Do you know where I can find the...uh...erg room?” I felt embarrassed, was I supposed to know what that was or where it was located?
            “Oh yes, the meeting is actually being held on those yellow bleachers by the football field,” she smiled.
            “Thanks!” I said.
            I approached a group of girls sitting on the bleachers and experienced that moment of panic you sometimes feel when you walk into a new room. I began the frantic search for a familiar face. Finally I spotted Emma and Rosa, twins I had known since I was eight. We exchanged hellos and sat waiting for the meeting to start. The coaches approached. A five foot something brunette women and a tall attractive man, Melissa and Keith. They spoke about crew and how it was hard work but a lot of fun. There would not be cuts because we were novices (first year rowers). We would all have a couple weeks to try it out and see if it was a sport we would like to pursue. The coaches led the group across the parking lot to the erg room. A dark, musty, dirty room filled with ergometers (rowing machines) and boxes of desks and chairs. Half gym, half storage room. We watched a video of some professional rowing on an old beat up TV. I was sold. To this day I’m not sure why a musty room of workout equipment and strangers made me think “Yeah I’ll try this,” but it did.
            We returned to the erg room later that week. The workout was simple. We ran a mile and then we had an introduction to erging. None of us had ever used an erg. It’s that funny machine you see at the gym but never touch. We were told erging was a huge part of a rowers life so I figured I better get used to it.
            A few weeks later we had our first trip to the boathouse. Our entire team piled onto the BART train and then walked from the Lake Merrit station to Jack London Aquatic Center (JLAC). The boathouse was intimidating. The boats were huge and looked very heavy. They were stacked 6 high, the top rack almost reached the ceiling. How are we supposed to get those down? We practiced carrying the oars, coaches motorboats and boats we would eventually row in (called shells). They were heavy. We lifted a blue shell called “The Title IX” off the shoulder high rack. We awkwardly balanced it on our shoulders. I just kept thinking  please don't slip, please don't slip.
            The day of our first water practice had finally arrived. We carried the boat down to the dock and carefully placed it in the water. We stepped into the boat, sat in our seats and slipped our feet into the shoes. Melissa pushed us away from the dock and hopped into her motor boat. We floated in place for a few minutes just to get a feel for the boat. I held the oar handle in my hand. The whole situation felt awkward. I was out of my comfort zone; floating in some of the dirtiest water I’d ever seen. As we sat there I looked into the water which glinted with oil and was spotted by plastic bags and bottles. I would not wanna fall into this. Melissa pulled her motor boat along side us. An “eight shell” seats eight rowers and a coxswain. Each pair took turns rowing. Oars clashed, the boat tipped side to side, it was total chaos. We rowed around a little and pulled back into the dock; we had survived our first water practice.
            The quality of our rowing improved with each practice. I started to concentrate more on rowing and less on how much I didn't want to tip into that gross water. Our land practices improved too. Our erg scores began to establish a sense of who was strongest. The girls who pulled good erg scores and had good technique on the water were in the ‘A’ boat and the levels progressed down to ‘B’ and ‘C’. 
            Every night when I arrived home from practice my mom would be in the kitchen preparing dinner.
            “I’m home. Mmmm smells good, what's for dinner?”
            “I don't get a hello? Just what's for dinner,” my mom laughed.
            “Oh sorry, I’m starving and hyper...endorphins I guess...”.
            “Oh yeah? Did practice go well?”
            “Yeah! Mom, it was so exciting, I did really well on my erg piece, I’m gonna be in A boat for the race this weekend!”
            “That's great Zo! I’m so happy for you!”
            I couldn't believe it. I was good at a sport. The kid who couldn't keep up with the basketball team and dropped every fly ball was one of the best on the team.
             About four months into the season I noticed a change in my attitude. I was unhappy. I was grumpy. I was agitated. I was initially excited to make ‘A’ boat but that's where the accomplishments seemed to stop. I felt like I needed to take on more challenges. I felt like I wasn't being pushed. And I wanted to be pushed, I figured that was the only way I would reach my potential.
            There are three crew teams that call the JLAC boathouse home: Berkeley High, Oakland Strokes and Jack London Junior Crew. The Oakland Strokes crew team is a private rowing club which consists of high school students from bay area high schools. They were a very accomplished club. And, just in case you ever forgot how good they were a glance up at their shiny trophies and medals always served as a good reminder. I would watch the Oakland Strokes; tall, toned, athletic, young men and women as they strutted around the dock as if they owned it. There was something very appealing about their attitude and presence. They were good and they knew it. That must be a great  feeling.
            “Mom, I’m home!” I slammed the door.
            “Wow, was the slamming necessary? What's wrong?” her faced turned from sarcastic to sincere.
            “I hate Berkeley High crew, I wanna switch to Oakland Strokes...” I insisted.
            “Uhhh okay...calm down, lets talk about this a little.”
            I told her my feelings about the situation. She saw my point and agreed. I had discovered a sport I loved. I wasn't going to waste time goofing around when I could be improving. My mom and I did some research. She made some phone calls.
            “Okay Zoe, I talked to the novice coach, her name is Beth Anderson. She said she’d love to meet you. Find her after practice on Saturday.”
            “Okay, thanks mom.”
            Saturday practice had arrived. As my team mates huddled and gossiped, I slipped off. I felt like a spy on a secret mission. I peered into the Strokes bay, no women coaches in sight. I started to walk away. Plan B plan B...hurry! Before someone sees you sneaking around.
            “Excuse me? Can I help you find something?”
I slowly turned around. A tall man in a Oakland Strokes t-shirt was staring down at me.
            “Uhh, yeah, do you know where I can find Beth Anderson?” my voice quivered.
            “Yeah she's upstairs.”
            “Okay, thanks!” I sprinted away.
            I found Beth. She explained to me that she would:                       
            “...love to have you on the team but we have to make it clear to your old team that you came to us, we didn't recruit you. We don't want any bitter feelings cause they think we’re stealing their rowers.”
            I promised I would make it clear that it was my choice. I spoke to my coaches on Monday and my first practice with strokes was Tuesday at 5 am. My old teammates bombarded me with painful questions. “Did you switch cause you think you’re too good for us?” I following months we’re socially awkward and I was hurt by statements that they made. But, I knew I had made the right decision.
            Week by week I grew to be friends with my new teammates. I learned to push myself, I learned to push my team mates, I learned I was capable of much more than I ever imagined. The season ended well. I had a new group of friends and a new sense of confidence. To be completely honest I don't remember very many other details from my novice year with Strokes. My more recent experiences have pushed those memories out of my mind.
            The fall of my sophomore year I returned to the boathouse. The mood was very different from how it had felt when the season ended the previous spring. No longer were we carefree novices. We were now trying out for Oakland Strokes varsity. My first emotion associated with varsity was fear. My new found confidence from the pervious season was snatched away. I was sure, I was going to get cut. There are girls on the team who have won national championships...why would they want me? The first three weeks of practice was the try out period. I began every practice with butterflies in my stomach and ended every practice with a feeling of uncertainty. Three weeks from the start of try outs we gathered after practice. Coach Derek spoke about what he had seen in the past 3 weeks. He said:
            “I’m excited to see what we can accomplish this season. However in order to accomplish success like we have in the past I need to be confident that everyone on the team is gonna give 110%  every minute of practice. You’ve all done great work during these past three weeks. Good work girls. Rachel, Allan and Sara...can I speak to you in private?”.
The three girls walked over to him. The rest of us froze. We looked at each other awkwardly. Oh my god...whats going on? We attempted to act less interested. It was impossible, we all watched out of the corner of our eyes. As the girls dispersed from there little meeting you could see tears running down Sara’s cheeks. They were cut. The rest of us felt sorry but secretly breathed a sign of relief.  At least it wasn’t me.  
            The first months of crew were tough. I was easily discouraged. I’ll never be as good as these girls. Then, slowly I began to realize that I wasn't expected to be as good as they were. This was the fourth year of rowing for some of these girls. Instead of comparing myself to them I started to ask them for advice. I figured that their advice would eventually lead me to their success. Slowly, I became more comfortable amongst the varsity squad. They gave me a nickname which to me, was a sign of acceptance; “TZ” short for “Tan Zoe”. I began to recover the confidence I had lost during the try out period. I began to improve. One day in November Derek pulled me aside.
            “Hey TZ...can I talk to you?”
            “Yeah!” Dammit! What did I do wrong?
            “Here, follow me,” he walked toward the back of the boathouse and stopped in front of          the scale.
                        “Take your shoes off and hop on,” he said. He adjusted the old rusty doctors   scales until it was balanced.
            “One thirty seven....Do you think you could lose some weight?”
            What the hell? Someone pinch me...is this happening? Am I actually too fat to row?
            “Yeah, probably.”
            “Okay, cause I was looking at your erg scores and I was just thinking that you have the potential to be a great lightweight rower. I don't want you to stress yourself out over dieting but if you can lose the weight I think you could have a great spring season as a lightweight.”
The butterflies in my stomach disappeared. Potential. Great lightweight.  We spoke about healthy ways to lose the weight. He told me that he’d keep tabs on my progress and that I should come to him anytime with questions. Derek and I grew closer. He remains of the most influential people in my life. He was a constant source of encouragement. At times, when I felt I was about to hit a breaking point in crew or school or life in general he was always there for support. Not only did I want to succeed for myself and my teammates but also for “D.”
            I took on the challenge of becoming a lightweight. The first three pounds disappeared easily. The second four required a little more work and will power. I found support among my lightweights teammates. Being a lightweight was a great exercise in trust and team work. We weren’t losing weight for ourselves, we were losing weight for each other. If one person didn't make weight, the boat couldn’t race.  If one person had to do a sweat workout to lose a pound or two of water weight before weigh in we all did it. I loved knowing that we would never let each other down.
            The bulk of the season was successful and fun. As regionals approached the butterflies returned. Finishing top 3 in the final at regionals would qualify us for nationals. We qualified for the final in the lightweight 4 and nationals was one step away. As we rowed to the start line for our final I was nervous. I was tired. Doubts began to creep into my mind. As we sat in my start position waiting for the official to call the start I wanted to scream or cry. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes Julie was turned around and smiling at me.
            “We got this TZ. Lets just have a great race. The outcome doesn't matter. We just gotta do it.” She turned around. I took another deep breath and sat ready. The official picked up her megaphone.
            “Event number twelve. Women's lightweight 4 final. Capital, ZLAC, Oakland Strokes, Marin, NorCal, Berkeley High. Boats are aligned. ATTENTION.....GO!”
The fear left my body and was replaced my adrenaline. This was it. You could hear the other coxswains but I focused my hearing on Shira's voice.
            “Okay girls this is it...we’re in the forth place postion..do this for yourselves, do this for each other, do it for everyone cheering for you on the shore...eyes in, heads up...send the boat, press the legs...you’re lungs are burning your legs are throbbing but this is what we live for girls...this is what makes us fucking oakland strokes! yes, yes girls we’re moving, we’re third, we’re third! who wants to go to nationals! yes!...we’re approaching the sprint, whatcha got? get me on the catches...blades in...sit up...quick! send! press off! I wanna see you fly! who wants it?”
            I kept my eyes glued on Julie's shoulders. Her shoulder muscles twitched and flexed out of the sides of her orange and green unisuit. We were so tired. But we weren’t about to give up, not when we were so close. I focused back in on Shira’s voice.
            “Girls you can feel the medals around your neck! you can her them cheering on the shore...ready to fight to the end? get angry! last 100 meters!...yeah oakland you can hear them cheering for you girls! this is it! last 5 strokes, hook five, legs four, press three, hook two, one....paddle...fuck yeah girls.”
            The post race moments are blurry with fatigue. I remember crying and hugging Julie. Both of us covered in tears and sweat and sunscreen and water. I reached back and high fived Lila, and smiled at Maso and told Shira she was the best. We paused from our celebrating.
            “Good race all crews on three. One, two, three,” Shira instructed.
            “GOOD RACE ALL CREWS!” we shouted.
            We rowed back to the shore and got out of the boat. The cold water of Lake Natoma felt good against my burning legs. We lifted the boat out of the water and carried it back to our tent. Parents clad in orange and green clapped and my mom yelled “Yeah oakland!”
            I understand that third place may not be the most impressive position, but up there on the medal stand, arms linked with four of my best friends each with the weight of the bronze metal we had sweat, dieted and pushed through pain and fatigue for was one of the best moments of my life.
            We spent the following weeks practicing for nationals. We understood that our third place position would make us the underdog at the event but the experience was worth it. Julie also rowed in the varsity 8 that qualified for nationals so Annie took her spot in our 4. I moved up into stroke seat. My job as stroke seat was to set the rhythm and leads the boat. It was a big responsibility, but I was up to the challenge. We practiced hard. Despite the fact that we would be labeled the underdog we wanted to do our best. We would be competing against seventeen other lightweight fours from all parts of the country. I was excited to see where we would ranked.
            As the plane approached the Cincinnati airport Shira turned on her camera and hit the video recorder button.
            “Say something,” she instructed as she pointed the camera towards Lila and Annie who were sitting in the row behind us. Annie and Lila whispered, laughed and then, turning toward the camera with a straight faces and arched eye brows said, “Hellooooo Cincinnati” and then burst out laughing.
            We arrived at the race course on Harsha Lake and unloaded the boat trailer. Our boat was brand new. It’s green paint sparkled in the sun. It was beautiful. Since we where the first crew to row in it we had the privilege of naming it. After much debate we finally settled on “The Juice Box” chosen in honor of an inside joke between the five of us and Derek. The race course was beautiful. The sides of the course were lined with thick green foliage and the Ohio humidity hung heavy in the air. The sun beat down as we lathered on sunscreen, yet that smell which hints at the oncoming of rain could be sensed around us. Green hills undulated above the beach of the race course. The hills were specked with boat trailers and colorful boats. The country’s best young rowers strutted around with see you at the finish line expressions. In between races we would sit in the shade of our boat trailer or in our van and admire the attractive male rowers. Our favorites were the buff boys in purple shirts with STUD MUFFIN in bold pink letters: jokesters for sure. My teammates and I took advantage of every opportunity to embarrass each other. Annie, Lila, Derek and Shira would make a point to wave and say hello to my ex every time he was in sight. One afternoon after weight in we returned to the van for our usual post weight in snack: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. As I dug a spoonful of peanut butter out of the jar I spotted a boy from another team who I had been admiring all season.
            “Oh! Annie look! That’s Allen! The pacific coxswain. Isn’t he hot?”
            “Oh TZ, you’re so boy crazy. I don't even see him. Where is he?” she asked.
            “Is this the one you always talk about?” Lila laughed.
            “Ohhhh, I see him,” Derek said. I could sense mischif in his voice.
Great, my coach knows my crush, that's embarrassing. Derek opened the door. What's he doing?
            “ALLEN! ALLEN!” Derek shouted across the parking lot.
Allen turned around with a puzzled look on his face.
            “Allen, could you come over here?” Derek asked.
            “No Derek, not cool!” I shouted.
Allen approached the van. Shira opened the back door.
            “Hey Allen. How are you? I’m Derek. This is the Oakland Strokes lightweight 4 and that kid right there in the back seat is...well I guess her real name is Zoe but we call her TZ, short for Tan Zoe...cause she's tan. Yep, we’ll we just wanted to say hello and good luck. And, TZ just wanted to meet you.”
Kill me now, just put me out of my misery.
            “Hi,” I squeaked.
            “Hi, uhh, well nice meeting you. Good luck. Talk to you later,” he awkwardly backed away from the van and walked away.
We all bust out laughing. I was so embarrassed but it was so funny that I couldn't stay mad for very long. The weekend contained many awkward ‘Allen encounters’, many PB&Js, and many races.
            Sitting in the shade of our boat trailer after our heat I received one of my mom’s many post race phone calls.
            “How did the heat go?” she asked.
            “Well, it was close but we qualified for the petite final,” I told her.
            “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you. You’ve achieved so much this year.”
We chatted for a few more minutes. She wished me luck in the final and I hung up the phone.
The next day brought rain and our final. We didn’t win any medals that weekend but we didn't need them to know we had accomplished something great. On a personal level I had transformed from a girl nobody (including myself) ever imagined would succeed in athletics to a young women whose athletic achievements created big dreams for the future. As we sat on the shore and cheered on the Oakland Stokes men’s and women’s eights I felt engulfed in a community of the nation’s best rowers. I realized that it was not only a community that I belonged to but a life style. “Crew is life...everything else is just details.”