In the summer of 1978, my sports minded sister got me into something new. She'd just returned from her first year at Mount Holyoke College with a mouth full of strange "crew" jargon.  The new rage on campus was rowing and she was completely taken with it.  So much so, that she planned to row straight through the summer by joining a local club.  Naturally, she would need a training partner...

I had nothing better to do, having just suffered through a rather anti-climatic high school graduation.  Besides, I knew there was little choice.  This same recruiting drive had happened once before, when Shawn had gotten involved with cross-country running.  As her younger brother, there was no escape.  I'd become a runner; now I was to row.

More so than most activities that I got myself into, my sister's choices were always a bit Spartan.  The rowing business proved to be no exception.  In fact, with its many ascetic demands, it appeared to be a perfect form of ritualized self-punishment.  The first requirement was to wake up at 5 a.m., so we could drive out to the boathouse and be under way by sunrise.  The lake was generally calmer then, devoid of power boats and other wake-producing nuisances.

Sleepy-eyed, I began my sculling lessons.  Single "sculls" were one-person boats, as opposed to the eight or four-person "sweeps" that my sister had rowed at Mount Holyoke.  In those boats, each rower held a single, twelve and a half foot oar.  The oars in sculling boats were still fairly long, but short and tapered enough to allow for control in each hand.  Still, the overall body motion was similar, and Shawn easily made the transition from sweeping to sculling.

She was put in a sleek, ten-inch wide shell, which seemed to skim over the water like a flying carpet.  I was put into a "wherry," a shorter, stouter craft, which in comparison looked and behaved more like a camel.  I was shown how to get in and out of the boat, told to use my legs when rowing and to keep my left hand slightly higher than my right.  How absurd, I thought to myself, that one's hands had to overlap in the first place.  And what was this silly business with a sliding seat?

Somehow, I overcame my initial suspicions with these odd encumbrances, and ventured out onto the still lake.  Like most other brothers, I assumed that if sister could do something, it would certainly be a cinch.  This was the first of many wrong assumptions.  Shoved out onto the water like a child forced to swim, I took my first tentative strokes, first just using my arms and back to get used to the strange cross-over my hands had to make.  The boat putted along, and all seemed well enough.

Then I tried to make sense of the sliding seat, which extended the length of the stroke and theoretically allowed one's legs to be employed.  The wherry protested at this effort.  One of my oars dug deep, and the boat quickly pitched to that side, nearly dumping me into the lake.  I stopped, a little shaken, and tried to begin again.  The next attempt was better for awhile, but then I started paying too much attention to my oar blades and my hands began to know against each other. Toward the end of the outing I had bloody knuckles, and to top off the morning my seat came off the runners just as I was trying to pull into the dock.  I rammed the little makeshift pier head on, feeling not a little unlike the hapless Mr. Toad in The Wind in the Willows.

The boat was simply not behaving instead of carrying me like a good beast of burden, it bucked and tried to throw me off balance.  During my next few outings, I gripped the oars more firmly, stiffened my resolve, and decided to apply a little more brute force.  This proved to be foolish, however, for the more rigidly I tried to bend the boat to my will, the more it rebelled.  It was not the boat the needed breaking in; it was me.

The coach, an elderly British man of some repute in rowing circles, didn't seem to take much note of my antics.  I'd spot him across the lake occasionally, trailing a group of experienced scullers.  Because of his bushy white mustache and his big barrel chest I secretly nicknamed him "The General."  His philosophy, I came to find out, was that the basics of sculling were best learned through a process of self-discovery (i.e. trial and error).  Once in a while he would motor by me, shouting something incomprehensible like:  "Don't shoot your tail!" Later, after another more or less frustrating morning, my sister would translate these remarks for me.

"Don't worry," she assured me.  Soon, when I graduated into a real single, all of my problems would disappear.  The wherries were just junky practice boats, and everyone did poorly in them. Hearing this, my pride was temporarily restored, and I struggled my way through the wherry initiation period.  By the end of two weeks, I was still having some problems with balance and steering, but I'd managed to keep dry and luckily no one had seen me run aground on the little island in the middle of the lake.

Encouraged by my sister, I asked The General if I could move into "real" single.  "Do you think you're ready?" he asked me.  I saw him glance down at the bloody scrape on my right hand, and I made no effort to hide it.  Perhaps it would impress him, I thought; my little red badge of courage.

"Sure," I replied.  "I think I'm ready." He nodded slowly.  "As you like," he said rather too casually; as if it was no big deal.  But I knew better, of course, having been filled in by my sister.  Soon I'd be flying along with ease, finally rid of my ornery camel boat.  It was all a matter of getting good equipment, and moving into the coach's inner circle.  Now that I'd persuaded him to give me a chance, it was up to me to give a good impression.

So I began my first trip in a real single. I paddled away from the dock, arms only-just as I had my first time in the wherry.  The boat indeed felt much more responsive; some ways for better, some ways for worse.  It certainly went much faster, without as much effort on my part; but it was also a lot less forgiving.  I reached this conclusion just a stone's throw from the dock when I took a deep stroke with my starboard oar and got pitched neatly into the lake.

I surfaced, unscathed, but a little disoriented.  It all happened so fast that my mind felt a turn behind my body.  My boat was still floating upright, as if nothing had happened, but I was somehow no longer in it.  Naturally, my first instinct was to get back in, but I soon found that this wasn't so easily done without the use of a dock.  I looked around me and not a soul was to be seen, so I floated hopelessly beside the shell and started to go over my options.  I'd just about decided to try and swim back to the dock, when The General suddenly appeared in his ridiculous little launch.

"Caught a crab, did you?  he said dryly.  I was silent, wondering whether he had come over to offer assistance or to upbraid me with some weird British wit.  As we motored back to the dock, with the single in two, I desperately tried to figure what what had happened, and what it meant to "catch a crab."  Later that morning, my sister explained it to me, and I held less of a grudge against The General. Instead I began to reassess my own approach to the sport; my overambitious expectations.  I decided to go back to the wherry for awhile, and return to the real single when it was truly time for me to handle it well.

In the years that followed, I eventually figured out how to scull more and more proficiently, under the erratic tutelage of various coaches and veteran scullers. Some ten years later, ironically, I was asked to serve as the director of the recreational sculling program at Harvard University.  Before my appointment was official, I confessed to Harvard Crew Coach Harry Parker that "I really wasn't an expert on sculling."  "Don't worry," he said.  "No one is."  Over a decade later, after teaching countless other scullers how to enjoy this unique activity, I finally feel like I have some valuable thoughts to contribute for those trying to make more sense out of the sport. What follows is a preview of some of the subjects I'll discuss in my upcoming book, Essential Sculling.

Preconceptions

I often tell beginning students about my own uncertain entry into the sport both to put them at ease and to reaffirm that learning how to scull can indeed be more a trial of one's physical ability.  I also tell the story to illustrate several common preconceptions that novices often bring with them when they show up for their first row.  Some of these have to do with the physical aspects of the sport, like fitness, equipment, and technique; others have to do with things like attitude and coaching style.  Before you learn anything about the sport you will do well to leave as many of these preconceptions on dry land as possible, so they won't impede your progress on the water.

The Efficiency of Trial and Error

Like myself, many novice scullers are taught "everything" in one sitting, and then sent out on the water to figure it out.  This is somewhat reminiscent of the "let's see if doggie can swim" experiment, where the family pet is tossed into the local pond for the first time.  In most cases, Rover starts dogpaddling with great ease and enthusiasm.  Sculling, however, isn't dog-paddling, and this "sink or swim" technique can be quite traumatic to all but the hardest types.  Having been instructed this way myself, I can say that is isn't always a complete failure; but it is certainly far from ideal.  What generally happens is that a few people do fine, some do terribly, and most get caught up in a kind of purgatory of mediocre rowing from which they will always be struggling to unlearn bad habits acquired by having to "make do."

While some trial and error is a healthy necessity, too much can truly inhibit sculling well and enjoying the sport. Some good instruction can not only spare you some embarrassing and frustrating moments, but also direct the course of your progress in a smoother, more sensible manner.

The Myth of the Self-Taught Sculler

If you ask an experienced older sculler how and where they learned to scull, many will give you a rather vague answer like: "I don't know...a little here, a little there...mostly on my own, I suppose. "This isn't dishonest; it just reflects the fact that most people don't collect their rowing knowledge from a single source, or in a particularly conscious, orderly fashion.  It also reflects the fact that learning takes place in a variety of ways: by watching, listening, feeling, doing, reading, and discussing.  The first three on the list, which are passive skills, can often have a more profound effect than the latter three, and some people make better use of them than others.

I have one sculler, for example, who learns most effectively by watching video tapes of himself juxtaposed with tapes of great scullers.  He claims he taught himself to downhill ski this way.  For this type of person, a coaches' words of advice are, in a sense, the least efficient way to learn, especially the way that some coaches try to use them-creating a visual image that may make sense from the coaching launch, but is of little use to the rower who can't leave his/her body and look down at themselves from above.  What most students need is to feel what is correct and measure it against an internal visual picture they develop of themselves.

Some people are better at developing this kinesthetic-visual connection than others, but no one I know does it entirely alone.

Coaches and Coaching

I'm not trying to build up or discount the role of the coach, but rather to make the point that a good instructor not only provides initial encouragement and advice, but, ultimately, the means by which you can evaluate your own rowing.  If you aren't improving on your own after spending a season or two with a coach, something is definitely wrong; either you aren't taking the lessons and making proper use of them (i.e. practicing), or your instructor is somehow not getting the right information to you.  Most people either blame themselves, or blame their coach, but the reality usually falls somewhere in between.  No matter how talented either of you may be, sometimes it's just a bad combination.

With this in mind, the best coach for you isn't necessarily the most highly touted sculling pro with the gold medal around his/her neck.  That person may be so into their own head that they can't get into yours, or their verbal skills may be rather lacking.  On the other hand, you may learn a lot from that same person by simply rowing beside them silently and watching how he composes himself.  In this respect, even if you don't live in a rowing mecca, where you can pick and chose from whom you learn, you can be clever about how you learn.

Unlike crew coaches, sculling instructors are there to help you along your way toward a greater understanding and appreciation of the sport, not necessarily to hold your hand or provide motivation. Good scullers may not be self-taught, but they are certainly self-motivated.  Chart your course of your own sculling career, and trust your instincts as to what and who it is that can best help you get to that destination.

Attitude and Athleticism

The quality and nature of your instruction has a lot to do with the kind of person you are-and how ready you are to receive tutelage.  Some scullers, for example, are virtually "uncoachable."  Many of these people are excellent athletes in other sports, who come to rowing with a lot of preconceptions and pride.  They generally need to go about things much the way I did, and get a fair amount of dunkings before they sober up and start learning.  Others, who are unpretentious and even unathletic sometimes present the coach with a much better "clay" to work with and mold.  In the middle is the rower who is learning largely on his/her own, using the coach as a person who simply confirms ideas that he/she already suspects to be true.  Remember, from a coaches' standpoint, it is often the kind of enthusiasm and receptivity that you bring with you that determines the quality of assistance you will receive.

Age

Ever wonder why your fifteen-year old son or daughter seems to be learning a lot faster than you, or why that old guy pushing eighty continues to leave you in his wake?  Sculling honors both youth and experience.  The paradox of the sport is that it can be learned and enjoyed in an hour or less, yet its subtleties require several seasons, if not years, to master.

Many young people have the ability to watch and imitate the sculling motion without going through the rather messy process of thinking about what they are doing before they do it, or as they are doing it.  An adult learner says, "wait a minute, I've got to think about this first," while a younger person, particularly one with less caution or inhibition, just dives right in and imitates, just like my skiing friend mentioned above.  It's the same with many physical activities-kids sometimes get off to a definite advantage because of their spontaneity, fearlessness, and unconcern with being able to analyze things as they do them.

The difference with sculling, I've found, is that inevitably, adults can better advance their skills by putting their analytical skills and discipline to work.  This is how veteran scullers become so efficient-most are wiley and in great physical shape.  So relax.  Depending on your fitness level, intelligence, and patience you will eventually catch up to your kids and end up with a fuller understanding of what it is that you are doing.  Does this matter?  Certainly not to kids, who just want to immerse themselves in the joy of the motion.  But to adults, who like to stand around and talk about what they do, or even instruct others, it is important.

Clubs

One of the biggest obstacles to learning how to scull is finding a place to learn and practice it properly.  While more and more "community" programs have recently formed, some of the "elite" attitude that may have developed with the institution of "amateurism" in rowing still remains embedded in the membership of various private clubs around the country.  These clubs often occupy the prime real estate that is now much harder to come by, either because of cost or waterfront building restrictions.  In school and colleges, too, until quite recently, rowing has been restricted to those well-heeled private institutions which can function much like private clubs.  Slowly but surely, this is changing.  Doors that were once closed are opening, and new means of providing public access are being developed.

The rebirth of recreational sculling, particularly that done on ocean and lakes, has also served to bring rowing back into the mainstream that it once enjoyed.  A recreational boat is not only more affordable than a traditional scull, but considerably easier to learn how to use.

Camps and Camaraderie

For those who scull in virtual isolation, sculling schools, like the Craftsbury Sculling Center and The Florida Rowing Center, are often the best way for both beginning and intermediate scullers to immerse themselves in the sport for a week or week-end.  Video-taped critiques, a qualified stable of both visiting and veteran coaches, and a full gamut of sculling equipment are the hallmarks of these fine programs.

One limitation of camps is that they generally provide an overabundance of information within a very short period of time; certainly much more than the average beginner can process.  Bombarded by lectures, demonstrations, and films, most campers effectively stop listening after the second day-not because they don't want to learn, but because their minds and bodies are simply on overload.  What they need, and what a camp can't give them, is simply time.  Time to think over the concepts and try them out on the water.  Time to absorb knowledge from different sources and gradually make sense of it on their own.

In this respect, sculling is more of an art than a science.  It is a practice that involves a personal interpretation of general principles.  This is true not only because we all think differently, but because our bodies have different strengths and weaknesses which dictate the way we move most efficiently.  If you watch any two scullers, from the recreational level to the Olympic level, you will see different interpretations of "technique."  This isn't all that mysterious, but coaches and rowers spend countless hours debating the merits and demerits of one view versus the other.

Equipment

I'll say more about this in my book, but right now I want to underline the fact that the quality of your equipment is not directly related to the quality of your rowing.  As you saw from my own story, most people operate under the mindset that a "better boat" will make them into a better sculler.  This is one of the biggest misconceptions among beginners and intermediate rowers alike.  You make the boat look good, and not vice-versa.  Along these lines, buying a boat isn't like buying a car.  Getting an expensive, top-of-the-line model doesn't guarantee you either prestige or performance.  You will not only look and feel foolish in a boat you can't handle, but, it can truly make your sculling suffer.  Don't feel like you have to buy something right away, before you educate yourself in the sport.

Most sculling schools like the ones mentioned above also provide the novice or intermediate sculler with an opportunity to try out many of the various brands of boats on the market, and thereby make a more informed purchase.  The Durham Boat Company, located in Newmarket, NH, began its introductory sculling lessons for this very reason.  "So many people who had never even rowed before would call up and want to buy a boat," explains owner Jim Dreher.  "We decided to offer lessons so that they could make an intelligent choice."  For several years now, in addition to making their own boats and oars, the folks at Durham offer weekend programs for those just getting started.  "Once people are taught the basics," Dreher adds, "much of the rest is just a matter of going out and practicing on their own."

Maybe so.  Unlike sweep rowing in team boats, scullers can get away with being slightly eccentric in their interpretation of basic technique; and many mysteriously learn to move boats well in spite of these idiosyncrasies.  Even so, it still helps to be able to enjoy the company of other veteran scullers-to row with them, to debate matters of technique and rigging, or simply to sway stories.  For despite all the single-mindedness it requires and the solitude it offers, learning to scull is as much a social process as a physical one.  Most of us will always remember our first coach (for better or worse) and our most dreaded opponent, as well as those fleeting moments of magic on the water to which we always return.

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