In August of 1984 I drove from Central Oregon to Sandpoint, Idaho on business. Sandpoint is on the shore of Lake Pend Oreille, so naturally I cartopped my new Ron Owen racing single and Piantedosi sculls just in case.

Work done, one afternoon I pull on my shorts and t-shirt, and drive my equipment down to the city’s marina. It’s a sculler’s dream today: 80 degrees, flat water, no power boats or sailboats moving around, nothing in the clear blue sky but one large friendly white cotton cloud in the west.

I launch my shell off the south end of a long dock. Tying the leathers, I spot a tall white post sticking up from the shoreline 40 meters straight ahead. I imagine a line running from the post through me to the eastern shore miles away. This is my course; the post is my point. The lake is vast and there will be no useful landmarks soon after leaving the little bay that surrounds the marina. Maintaining true bearing will require close attention.     

Following warm-ups, I ease into full strokes of half- to three-quarter power at 23-25 / minute. The white post recedes to a tiny dot, and then to memory, leaving my wake as my guide. The wake of a racing single is a slim skid mark the boat spits to stern. Equal power, port-and-starboard, centers the wake within a V-shaped pattern of wavelets generated by the bow and hull. Balanced sculling centers the wake within the V and makes for a straight course.    

Happily cruising along some 350 strokes from the dock, I notice that the once fair-weathered white cloud is morphing into a sinister black mass that is rapidly approaching. The temperature plunges. A stiff icy breeze pushes from the blackness into my chest. My sweat chills. The lake stirs. This is not good.

I am 35 years old, in my eighth year of rowing, a strong sculler in top condition. Scullers far better than I can flip these 12-inch-wide racing singles, however, and if I turtle there is nobody out here to help me. I am able to right the shell and get back on it, but the falderal of doing so would disorient me and cost me my bearing. I need to head back to safety before things get worse.

Light rain is beginning to fall. I hold water, careful to remain centered within the V, and immediately make a river turn. Countless times I have practiced this maneuver, a series of alternating short strokes – rowing one on port, backing one on starboard and repeating until the boat has spun exactly 180 degrees. Precision is critical today. I count the alternating strokes knowing exactly how many it takes to make a 180 and end up confident that I am pointed straight at the post or nearly so.       

A single shell is a “blind boat”. Humans don’t have cartoon necks to permit our heads to swivel 360 degrees, so we have a blind spot back there. Even having a point to guide us, scullers repeatedly turn our heads this way and that, and rely on peripheral vision. Some wear a mirror or use a compass, but I don’t because I find them distracting. My way will be tested today.   

With this in mind, I set out to the dock some two miles away. As I do, the squall lands hard on me. Stiff wind whips across the water, blasting rain on my back. White crests crash over the coaming, flood the stateroom, and add weight, lowering the oarlocks. I shoot the oar handles sharply downward at the release to raise the blades high enough off the water so they don’t slap the waves on the recovery. I shorten the length of my stroke and reduce the rate to 16-18 / minute. The tempest eats my wake unseen. Luckily, the wind does me favor by hitting me straight-on, slowing me without pushing me off course. Still, it’s a long slog.

Despite the difficult situation I have put myself in, my own doggedness and ability to row in a straight line, and the drum song of thousands of raindrops beating the taut Dacron deck soothe me. I am in state of equipoise, relaxed unafraid and peaceful. I’ve got this.

Eventually the dark cloud sails east, the water calms, the wind eases, the rain slackens. The air begins to warm. To starboard come now the outer reaches of the marina. I am pleased to learn I am nearly dead bang on course! I paddle to the dock, pull alongside, step up and out, remove the oars, lift the shell, roll it, dump the water, and carry the equipment to the car. Teeth chattering, I strip in the parking lot, change my soaked clothing for dry sweats, jump in the car, start the engine, and turn the heater on high. I am exhausted, grateful, exhilarated.

Thoughts of family and friends crash down on me. I cry and cry, like a little boy who has just skinned his knee. Any fluke thing – a loose oarlock, lost oar, rigger bopping my head unconscious as I flipped overboard, losing my way – could have left me out there alone for my last row, my last anything.

Rowing a blind boat comes with some hazard on all occasions, but today I pushed into the realm of unacceptable risk. I did not know the lake, did not know the weather patterns, did not take a clue from the absence of other boaters on what seemed a perfect day. I was foolish.

I grow to row another day. Many days. Sculling is a practice that is both art and science – like my profession, like life. I am arrogant enough to strive for perfection on all fronts and humble enough to accept not achieving it. The challenge is its own reward.   

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