A Saturday Morning Row..

Saturday the 12, 8 am, 2009

My son David and I woke up at 7:30 to go to the boathouse for a little bit of sculling. Aviron Lachine Rowing club has existed in one form or the other since 1863, on the shores of Lake St. Louis, not far from the site of one of the oldest existing Hudson’s Bay fur trading posts, a relic from the not too distant past.While heading to the lakeshore we could already tell it was going to be a great row as the lake itself was like a mirror. On mornings like this your active mind can truly believe in such magical beings as water sprites or the lady of the lake.  The water is so calm you half expect it to erupt with something wonderful.

We got to the boathouse and we took out our oars and layed them gently on the dock. We could see steam rising off the lake like tendrils of energy reaching upwards towards the morning sky.  This would be our first father / son row of the summer, as David has been coached all summer long for high performance rowing, leaving little time for mortals the likes of I.

We got into our rowing shell and made towards Dorval island, a water trek of five and a half kilometers each way.  If you’ve ever rowed and experienced the thrill of your shell lifting itself off of the water as it glides towards it’s frontward trajectory you would have borne witness to such a beautiful orchestration of physical and mechanics that Saturday.  It was as if the boat had wings like the Vikings of yore. David was in the bow and I assumed catch.  Each set of strokes as we made towards Dorval fell into a rythmic cadence with nary a ripple caused by our blades.  All you could see in our path was a trail of tiny circles and a straight, purposeful line in the receding waters.

For the last 1000 meters my son challenged this old man to race the finish to the end of Dorval island.  There was no thought of refusal. David rowed a perfect course and this morning belonged to him. We slowed down to a crawl and on his signal performed a racing start with ten fast strokes followed by a rising crescendo of leg punishing laps where our arms morphed into oar extenders and the mind shuts off to ignore the pain in your calves and the straining of your back.

With less than  two hundred meters to go I thought that air was a foreign concept.  No amount of gasping would allow me to fill my starving lungs.  This was the exact moment David chose to call for doubling our pace. We finished the final dash and sat there gasping in our shell. In far too soon a time, we turned our double shell around and headed back to the dock.  Another five and a half  kilometers rowing in tune with the lake, while passing the ducks, the cormarants and a majestic blue heron (who took umbrage to these lesser creatures  passing through his domain). We made  our our way past familiar landmarks  who on this morning contributed to our return as distance markers.
We got back to the dock and in unison stepped out of our rowing shell, certain we had rowed a perfect morning. While we gave ourselves the traditional Lachine rowing club handclasp for sharing a a good row, I couldn’t help but be in awe of this man-child who I introduced to rowing three short years ago and who has now surpassed his teacher. The morning was perfect and it is  to this young man, my son whom I gratefully dedicate it.