At the helm with Penn crew

Greg Myhr’s first words fill me with dread.

Apparently, the purpose of my visit to this morning’s practice is to “get an idea for what it’s actually like to pilot a 16-foot craft that weighs almost a ton when all the guys are sitting in it, and you have a rudder about the size of a credit card,” the men’s heavyweight coach says.

I’ve seen rowing practices and races from the water before, but today’s experience will be brand new. After observing the team’s workout from the coaches’ launch boat, I will temporarily replace the coxswain in one of the boats and guide it home — at least for a while.

Although I get on well with Coach Myhr, it is clear that he doesn’t trust me to navigate the Empacher’s $50,000 price-tag under the multiple bridges we will pass along the way.

A wise choice, as my sole rowing experience before this spring was watching Matthew Pinsent cry like a baby after Great Britain won Olympic gold in Athens six years ago.

One of the unique things about rowing is that the teams have to share their practice venue (i.e. the Schuylkill River) with a variety of other users. By the time they reach the starting position, the boats have already negotiated their way past several other school teams, lone boats of middle-aged women and multitudes of horny geese.

Though it’s just past 7 a.m., the sun is out, and several oarsmen have opted to work on their tans as well as their rowing. (I am suddenly conscious of the vast physical gulf between sportsmen and sportswriters and feel an urge to hit the gym.)

Today, all six varsity boats from both men’s teams are racing against each other in a series of 1500-meter pieces, three quarters of competition distance.

At the end of the first race, I transfer to lightweight coach Nick Baker’s launch. Although the heavyweights should win by default in this contest, Baker is not at all pleased by how far behind his rowers finished.

The boats once again row up to the start line, and the second race gets underway. Baker chastises his varsity eight crew for paying too much attention to the other boats and urges them to trust coxswain Jason Bernstein’s directions.

There is improvement in the last two races, and as the boats return to the dock, Baker hands me back over to the heavyweights.

Myhr introduces me to the varsity boat, which I will cox for a stretch of the return journey. I meet my first goal of not falling overboard as I transfer to the racing vessel.

I’m the smallest person in the boat, but there’s precious little room, and the seat is rather low in the water for my taste. I smile nervously at the eight muscular guys in front of me and come to grips with the mechanics of the task ahead.

While I’ve piloted boats before, the Empacher’s steering mechanism is new to me. On either side of me are wires that control the rudder. Myhr tells me that when I push the left-hand wire forward, the boat will go left and vice versa.

Myhr orders the crew to start, and my respect for rowers instantly grows.

The rhythm of the boat is utterly different from the steady engine-powered ride of the launch. The impact of every stroke is comparable to being rammed by a dodge ‘em car at a fairground, and I am awed by the sense that this boat owes every ounce of its considerable speed to raw muscle-power.

The pressure has been getting to me. Not only am I the only person in the boat that can see where we’re going, but I know I’m under the critical eyes of the coaching staff and coxswain Halley Sloane, whose seat I’ve taken.

I follow Myhr’s steering instructions and begin to get the hang of it. Little force is needed to shift direction — the rudder underneath me is served well by the energy of the oarsmen.

“I like your style better than Halley’s,” somebody calls.

I realize he’s probably referring to the fact that I’ve been too busy trying to not steer the boat into shore to say anything, and coxswains aren’t supposed to be silent. Still concentrating on my steering, I can only muster some lame insult about how the guys row like they’re from Dundee (in the part of Scotland where I’m from, that’s not a good thing).

A couple of minutes later, my shift is over. I’m pretty sure I can take the bridges, but Sloane’s hand is already outstretched to help me onto the launch, so evidently she doesn’t agree.

Safe in the knowledge that I have not crashed or sunk one of the athletics department’s most expensive pieces of hardware, I relax and enjoy one of the most beautiful views in Philadelphia as we approach Boathouse Row.

I’ve met my own criteria of not screwing up, but I’m anxious to seek a rower’s opinion.

“There’s so much potential Stuart, join us!” says Sloane. “This DP thing? Please! Coxing is so much better.”

Though it’s been a long year for the heavyweights, I’m pretty sure they’re not that desperate.

Now when does Pottruck close?

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