A Novice Finds a Sport that Floats Her Boat


Morgantown Dominion Post
12 July 2009           
By Stefanie Loh          

“You’ll be sore tomorrow.”

Rowing instructor Meg Ayers grinned at me as she zipped by in a weathered motorboat that was once blue but whose scratched and battered hull now looked silver, the natural color of its aluminum core.

Sore tomorrow, huh? Sure. Maybe. I’d worry about that later.

At the moment I was preoccupied with maneuvering my little red bathtub back to the dock, and my knuckles hurt more than any muscle in my body.

The problem was that my oars had not been sized correctly. The handle end of each paddle was about 4 inches too long, resulting in an overlap I’d initially deemed a mild inconvenience, but had since reclassified as an outright annoyance.

Every time I pulled the oars toward my chest, the end of one super-long oar inadvertently hit the knuckles of my opposite hand.

If I tried to raise my left hand to keep it from colliding directly with my right, it messed up my rhythm and resulted in both blades hitting the water at different times.

Arrrgh.

OK, let me back up about an hour and a half ...

Volunteering for adventure


It’s late on a sunny Saturday afternoon when I arrive at the boathouse beneath the former Boathouse Bistro, on the east bank of the Monongahela River. And I’m ready to row.

The Monongahela Rowing Association (MRA) had called the paper earlier in the week to invite a reporter to check out the boathouse and sit in on a Learn to Row class.

I love adventure. I volunteered.

John Duarte, president of the MRA, arrives at 5 p.m. to open the boatbouse.

Since the class started the week before, I’m a session behind. John spends 30 minutes updating me on what everyone else learned in two hours.

First, I get on the ergometer, the rower’s dry-land cardiovascular workout staple. I get a quick lesson starting with “arms-only” — pull the bar toward your chest, then push straight out.

 Then we add the slide. John shows me how to slide forward and use my legs to push back as I pull the bar in toward my chest.

“People think rowing is all an arm movement, but it’s actually all in the legs,” he says.

After that, I spend a few minutes watching select segments of an introductory DVD. John fast-forwards through most of it, but I take in quickhit tips about water safety, how to carry the boat from the boathouse to the dock and how to hydrate properly.

We’ve just gotten to the good part — naming the parts of the boat — when John deems that we’re running out of time and fast-forwards again.

Now I watch the segment on what to do if you fall out of the boat. That’s when it hits me: I could fall in the water?

At that moment, I regret pulling on red basketball shorts and a black running tank. Swim bottoms, Spandex shorts and a rash guard might’ve been more appropriate.

Too late now. Just as the annoyingly didactic narrator starts talking about how to treat hypothermic shock, we’re out of time.

John takes a pair of oars off the rack, shows me how to handle them. And we head for the docks.

An oar in each hand

The prescribed oar-carrying method is to put both paddles on the ground, about a foot apart, with the blade facing forward. Step between them and take one oar in each hand. Watch for obstacles (ack, doorframe) as you maneuver the unwieldy things through the long snaking walkway that zigzags down to the dock.

We arrive at the dock and I place the oars down with everyone else’s. John introduces me to Meg Ayers, our instructor for the day. 

Meg Ayers is 5-foot-5. She has a stern countenance, short-cropped dark hair, a permanent sunglass tan on her  weather-browned face and powerful shoulders from years of rowing. She cuts an imposing figure — until she laughs, a crisp, uproarious melody that catches you off guard every time.

Meg rowed for the WVU crew team from 2002-06 and won the Head of the Ohio in a single scull during her senior season. We’re in good hands. Homegirl knows what she’s doing. The class consists of Elizabeth Duarte, 15 (John’s daughter); Heather Robertson, 33; and Susanne Rasmussen, 58, who signed up on a whim after coming across a flyer for the Learn to Row program. Meg gathers everyone around her and gives us a primer on the basics of rowing.

Hmm, maybe I should’ve watched the entire introductory video.

To ensure everyone has a common vocabulary (my classmates have already had a full lesson), Meg gets people to name the parts of the boat’s anatomy. The long arms that extend outward from the boat are? “Riggers,” Susanne says. Meg points to the contraption that will hold the oar in place. “Oarlock,” my classmates chime, in unison. The little stick-like thing that swings out over the top of the U-shaped oarlock to form a box with the U and secure the oar? “Gate,” the class answers.

Yep. Should’ve watched the whole thing.

 “What do you call this end of the boat?” Meg asks, pointing to the end closest to the foot plate. We all think for a minute. “Stern,” Susanne proffers, breaking the silence. “Were you that person who always sat in the front row in class?” Meg teases her, smiling. (Later, Susanne would admit to me that she was just as overwhelmed as I’d felt, but I was still awed by how her mental rowing encyclopedia was volumes ahead of my own.) Next, Meg demonstrates how to get into a boat and get set to launch. Here’s the game plan: We’ll board the boat one at a time and Meg will hold the vessel in place as we practice basic rowing strokes. After we’ve each had a turn, we’ll embark on the river together.

Row, row, row your boat

Time to row. Suddenly, the group seems a little uncertain. Even Susanne expresses concern that she might end up in the river. “You’ll be fine,” Meg says,

poohpoohing our fears. “This thing’s like the Titanic.” We look aghast, and Meg laughs. “OK, bad example,” she concedes. “But you’ll be fine. Plastic floats.” We disperse to set up our oars. I stand over my assigned vessel and give it a once-over. The Alden Horizon is a beginner’s boat, to say the least. For one thing, it’s made of molded plastic and weighs 60 pounds — that’s pretty much on the Biggest Loser end of the sculling boat spectrum.

The WVU crew team, for instance, owns a single scull that, according to John, is worth about $12,000, weighs a mere 20 pounds and cuts through the river like a torpedo.

I cautiously plant a foot in the middle of the Horizon and transfer some weight onto it.

Suddenly the basketball shorts and tank don’t seem like such a bad choice. This behemoth’s virtually unsinkable!

The fat little boat bobs in the water like a kayak. With its day-glo red frame and royal blue trim, it reminds me of the chunky Fisher-Price tricycle I had as a kid. How hard can it be to stay afloat in a Fisher-Price-colored plastic bathtub?

I grab the oars closest to me — a wooden pair John later informs me are practically antiques — and I fit them into the oarlocks. As per Meg’s instructions, the dock-side oar goes in first, then I set the water-side oar in place but leave it draped across the boat.

I’m first.

Because The Alden Horizon is parked closest to the end of the dock, I get to be the first student in. Meg strolls over, the group trailing behind her. All eyes are on me now. It’s showtime.

 “OK, which end is this?” Meg asks, pointing to the part of the boat closest to the seat. Uhhhh ... “The stern?” Meg raises an eyebrow. Wrong answer. It’s the bow.

Stern equals back of the boat, bow equals front. Rowing is trippy because your back is to the front of the boat. As I was about to discover, that makes it especially

difficult for beginners to know where they’re going since the rower’s frame of vision is focused on territory already covered. “OK, what do you do first?” Meg asks.

Uh-oh. This is how I used to feel when called upon in math class. “Grab both oars?” “Yes,” she says. “But what’s before that?”

I really wish I’d watched the entire video!

“Uh, get into the boat?” Now Meg’s just trying not to laugh. “Good guess. But what else?” I rack my brain. She might as well have asked me to state the law of cosine. “Is this a trick question?” Now she does laugh, and everyone else does too. “The oars,” she hints, then mouths: “Run them out.” I know she thinks she’s helping. But my brain is still processing all the rowing jargon it’s been bombarded with for 15 minutes. Run them out? What the hell does that mean? Light bulb moment! I reach down and push the water-side oar out as far as it will go until it hits the oar collar and the end of the blade dangles into the river. Bingo. “There you go.” Meg’s being encouraging and saintly patient. Now I know what I’m doing. I grab both oars, step into the boat and sit down. I bob on a surprisingly strong river current. Meg says this could pose a few problems.

Rolling river

The river’s in a hurry today. “Usually, you can toss a piece of wood in the water and it’ll sit there for five minutes,” Meg says. Today, that same piece of wood would be 15 feet downriver in half that amount of time.

Plan B: Meg pushes the Horizon (with me in it) down the last 30 feet of dock until we’re at the end, and she’s sitting with her legs dangling in the water while holding on to the stern (see, I learned) of my boat.

I’m facing her with my oars in the water. The Fisher-Price monstrosity feels every bit as stable as it looks.

Square the oars, Meg says.

My brain — terrorized by years of never knowing the answer when I was asked to square anything in math class — takes a couple of seconds to process the order.  

OK, I get it. I rotate the oars in the locks so that the backs of the blades are facing Meg.

First, we start with “arms only,” which is enough for the time being (since the two poles in the water might as well be jousting sticks for all the control I have over them). Like willful teenagers, they float and sink in the water — seemingly at will — and refuse to obey my initial commands.

Going from the erg machine to an actual boat is kind of like bench-pressing with free weights after only using a Smith machine (which guides the bars and eliminates extraneous movement).

The oars add another dimension to the mix. Not only do you have to move them through the water in unison, but you also have to ensure that the blades hit the water at the same time — preferably angled perpendicular to the surface for maximum propulsion.

And that’s just the beginner’s version of rowing.

Later, I learned from Meg that most competitive rowers row “on the feather,” which means that instead of having the oars perpendicular to the water throughout the

rowing cycle, rowers coming out of the forward position (known as “the catch”), rotate the oars so the blades are parallel to the water as they pull the oars in, then rotate them into the perpendicular “on the square” position again right before they dip back into the water. (Was this stuff on the video?) This minimizes resistance, she said, but it also requires coordination and precise timing, which beginners take a while to master.

Thankfully, Meg never mentions “feathering” out and we focus instead on learning to row “on the square.”

I’m getting the hang of it.

With Meg acting as my anchor, we progress from “arms only” to “half slide” — you start using your legs to complement your arms.

Then we go to “full slide” — you pull your body forward until your calves almost touch your hamstrings and open your arms to resemble Icarus with wings outstretched on his way off the mountain. Then you thrust with your legs to drive your body back before finally pulling on the oars almost as an afterthought.         

Meg says your legs should be almost fully extended before you start to bring in your arms.

 “Your legs are what’s generating the force because they are pushing off and propelling you forward,” she says. “The arms are just hanging on.”

My turn ends. I know my stuff.  

Batter up. Student after student takes a seat in the boat until everyone has a turn at paddling in place. Then, with about a half hour left in the lesson, the rowers disperse to their separate boats. Time to launch. I’m excited.

Drift away

“Hold on to the dock until we’re all ready to go!” Meg calls, running toward the blue motorboat she’s left running at the other end of the dock. Will do, coach. I climb back into my little red bathtub. This time the oars don’t feel as alien in my hands. I hold onto the black rubber grips of both oars with one hand and casually rest the palm of my other hand on the dock. The current sneaks up under me so artfully that it takes half a minute before I realize my fingertips are barely grazing the rough dock surface as I drift out on the water. Ahhhh! AHHHH! The ever-alert Meg Ayers happens to look up and notice that the class screw-up is no longer anchored in place. She races over. The Alden Horizon has somehow made a 90-degree turn on its own volition. To my right — starboard side — Meg stands on the edge of the dock that is now about 20 feet away. “Where are you going?” she calls, laughing. “I don’t know,” I say, truthfully.    

The stern of the boat is pointed toward the riverbank. Tree branches and an assortment of other fauna extend welcoming arms to me.

As Meg yells directions to help me turn around (“Use the left paddle only, and give me a couple of hard strokes! Now another one!”), I politely decline the

riverbank’s invitation to moor the boat headfirst, and I find my way back to the dock.

Meg pulls me in, visibly amused.

She flips up a T-shaped dock cleat and reminds me to hold onto it until the entire class is ready to go.          

All about rhythm

We’re off!

All of us this time.

Our flotilla of three boats and Meg’s motor launch is finally drifting downriver toward the Westover Bridge.

Meg has us lift one oar at a time and lean in the corresponding direction to demonstrate that the boat will move the way the rower moves.

Then she sets us free.

I quickly discover that rowing is all about rhythm. Slide in. Pull back. Slide in. Pull back.

I stroke through the water clumsily, but to my amazement the boat starts moving in the direction I want to go. It takes a while for my arms to work the oars in harmony. And in the beginning, my river ride is a jerky one as I laboriously control all the moving parts.

Meg stops by in her “tuna can,” as she affectionately refers to the launch. She watches in amusement as I try, rather unsuccessfully, to keep the oars moving in tandem for more than four strokes at a time.

“Do I look as awkward as I feel?” I call out to her.

“Since you asked, yes,” she says, and I’m treated to another rhapsody of her melodious laugh.

Meg has taught the Learn to Row class every summer for several years now. She also helps to train the WVU novice crew team, so she’s used to helping beginners troubleshoot.

She tells me to quit monitoring my oars — I keep looking right and left to make sure my oars are in sync — and look straight ahead. It helps with balance.

By experimenting, I learn to steer left and right.

Soon, I’m alternating between coasting smoothly downriver and stopping abruptly when my oars get out of sync and I need to reset.

When I’m in rhythm, I find myself enjoying my trip down the Mon. There’s a certain calm that engulfs you when you allow momentum to overtake the need to think about what you’re doing.

I cut through the water, captivated by my surroundings.

I’ve seen the river before, of course — I run on the rail trail regularly — but not like this.

The bold colors of Morgantown’s hilly landscape rise and fall around me, a portrait of lush greenery interspersed with red brick buildings, all set against the azure summer sky

I’m not alone on the water — on a warm Saturday evening, there are three other boats around, plus people fishing from the banks, watching with vague interest as I row past. But the longer I stay in rhythm, the less they seem to exist. Cars zip by on the bridge above me, a steady reminder of city life. But as I steer my little red bathtub through the water, I feel like I’m somewhere else entirely. I pass under the Westover bridge and note that the crew team has marked its territory: “2001

WVU Crew” is spray painted in big blocky letters on the side of the concrete bridge support. Then the boat seems to shift under me. I look out to see that my right oar is no longer hitting the water “on the square.” The rhythm’s been broken. Darn.

TO SIGN UP for the Monongahela Rowing Association’s Learn to Row program, visit monrowing.org or call (304) 282-6523 for information. Meg Ayers is also available for private lessons ($20 per hour). Contact her at (304) 231-4612.           

INTERESTED in the WVU crew team’s novice program? Contact assistant coach Tina Griffith, at tina.griffith @mail.wvu.edu.