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OLAF’S LAST JOURNEY

By Don Owen Costello

Herman Tufte leads

The motorcade away from

Olaf’s church service

Beside him in his

Tractor’s cab a full likeness

Of his dear Pappa

After them come hearse

Then Olaf’s wife and daughter

Parents and sister

And those also dear

Closely-spaced we crawl along

Half a mile beneath

Hundreds of oar blades

Precisely angled by as

Many rowers from

All of Norway’s clubs

A canopy to ease pain

And devastation  

Over losing this

Fine man who gave his all to

Each and every one

As we pass under

The arches through dampened eyes

I study faces

Of young and old who

Hold their oars proud and steady

To honor Olaf  

His legacy far

Greater than championships   

In how he still brings   

Together good folks

Of all types such as those who

Line the Nykirke

Cemetery road

Hands on hearts with devotion

And deep-down respect

Trailing the Tuftes

Sharing their sadness and grief

Privately we join

Olaf’s last trip past

Where he grew and farmed and rowed

His days on this earth

Stories of hard work   

A homegrown steward of fields

And medals of gold

Left behind for the

Next generations’ challenge

To follow his way

At the Horten Church

Majestic cathedral built

Long before World Wars

Were family and friends

And music and readings by

Famous writers and

Rowing royalty

A real Princess and hundreds

Viewed on TV a

Sad nation cries its

Thanks for managing to be

One of us even

While soaring above

You rose and you roared Olaf

You showed us rowing

In its finest form

Better yet you did so with  

A good-natured smile

Reminding us that

Life’s importance is served best

With humor and joy

© 2026 Don Owen Costello

Posted on by Don Costello · 1 Comment

WE ARE

March 13, 2024

Our friend Thomas catches an early flight from Denver to our regional airport near Coos Bay, OR with a brief layover in San Francisco. Oregon’s south coast is experiencing a wicked storm with cold temperatures, high winds and slanting rain likely to result in flight cancellation – and that’s exactly what befalls Thomas. Stranded in San Francisco, he phones me to discuss options. He’s as eager to come visit Karen and me as we are to see him. How easy it would be for him, though, to book a flight back to Colorado. But easy is not his way. He is a rower. Two hours of texts, emails, phone calls, and long lines net him an evening flight to Eugene and a rental car reservation. He calls at 8:00 p.m. when his flight lands. I urge him to spend the night in Eugene rather than drive 110 miles in darkness over an 1,800-foot snowy summit and down the coastal highway in whipping rain and wind. That’s not his way. He is a rower. He texts that his ETA is 10:25; an hour later he arrives at 10:25. A rower. Following a brief visit, having been up for 20 hours, he hits the hay. Next day begins with bacon and Karen’s great lattes and pancakes, and a walk on the beach with our Irish wolfhound Sean. We spend the day loafing and talking about life – and rowing. Early Sunday morning finds Thomas and me driving in heavy rain to South Tenmile Lake. The road rises and we encounter three inches of snow. We shovel ice from the dock in plates that float briefly like tiny rafts then angle down and vanish. We launch the old Hudson double. Sleet and snow have let up by now, and the water is flat. We row long easy pieces at low power, 18-20 strokes a minute, blades off the water. Relaxed and focused, we find rhythm and balance, like in a dream. Chimneys offer streams of smoke toward sky-borne geese. Hard rain starts up as we arrive back at the dock. We are soaked. We rack the shell and sculls, and enjoy the traditional S. Tenmile post-row meal of chocolate mint Clif bars (aka steak and eggs), then drive home wet and happy and energized. We are rowers.