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 finised, 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, then to memory, leaving my wake to guide me. The wake of a racing single is a slim skid mark spat from the stern. Equal power, port-and-starboard, centers the wake within a V-shaped pattern of wavelets generated by the bow and hull. Balanced sculling keeps the wake centered within the V and makes for a straight course.    

Happily cruising along some 350 strokes from the dock, I notice the once fair-weathered white cloud morphing into a sinister, fast-approaching black mass. The temperature plunges. A stiff breeze pushes from it, chilling my sweat like ice. The lake stirs. This is not good.

I am 35 years old, in my eighteenth 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 would cost me my bearing. I need to head back to safety before things get worse.

Light rain begins to fall. I hold water centered within the V and immediately make a river turn. Countless times I have practiced this maneuver, a series of alternating short strokes – row one on port, back one on starboard, repeatedly until the boat spins exactly 180 degrees. Precision is critical today for it alone will set the course. I count the strokes as I know exactly how many it takes for a 180. I am confident I am pointed at the post, or nearly so.       

A single shell is a “blind boat”. Humans don’t have cartoon necks for a 360-degree swivel, so we have a blind spot back there. Even with 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. 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 clear the blades high off the water to not slap the waves on the recovery, shorten the length of my stroke and reduce the rate to 16-18 / minute. The tempest eats my wake unseen. Luckily, the wind helps me by hitting me straight-on, slowing me but not pushing me off course. Still, it’s a long slog.

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

Eventually the dark cloud sails east, the water calms, the wind eases, the rain slackens. The air warms. 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, exchange 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 flip overboard – could have left me out there alone on 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 the unacceptable. 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 a fool.

I grow to row another day. Many days. Sculling is a practice both art and science – like my profession, like life. I am arrogant enough to strive for perfection in all of it and humble enough to accept falling short. The challenge is its own reward.