©2006 The Chestnut Hill Local

Mount rower reflects on Henley and sisterhood
by Emily Walker

Mount varsity eight cox Jane “J-Baby” Mieczkowski gets a lift from her rowers (left to right) Emily Walker, Megan McCusker, Mary Grace Maggiano, Francesca Crozier-Fitzgerald, Meredith Walsh, Hilary O’Shea, Steph Farris and Meg Kehan.

This is not a piece about winning or losing, nor is it a piece of numbers, statistics or facts. This is a piece about the sun on the Thames hitting your face much differently than the rays on the Schuylkill, the reeds on the banks of Henley gradually sloping into the river as if it were a continuum of nature rather than simply land and water, the swans socializing on the edge of the course, my noticing that the consistency and look and feel of river is different in England, and a few young women coming to Henley to row in perhaps the most emotionally loaded regatta in the world, and trying to make sense of it all.

We left America unceremoniously and arrived in England early in the morning, swiftly loading into a hired van that would drive us the 45 minutes through English countryside (startlingly reminiscent of British literature) from Heathrow to Henley-on-Thames, a quiet and reserved town with an oddly aristocratic air about her. Townspeople instinctively knew that we were American (or rather, that we were “here for the regatta”) and though we tried to win over the English, we soon realized that our American chuckles, accents and habits could no more be hidden than our very American Vespoli boat among the racks and racks of very European Empachers.

Our first race in England was a small, low-key one held nine miles up the Thames from the actual Henley race course – the relaxed, holiday atmosphere belied the stress the team faced upon arrival in Reading, England: Our Vespoli “Rhino” model had not arrived on time, and with an hour and a half before our race, Mr. Kieffer (a man with immeasurable knowledge of rigging and shells) put the boat together. Though the point of our entering the regatta was simply to get a feel for dual-boat racing (Henley is famous for its treacherous course, down which only two battling boats can squeeze.), we more got the feeling for the Henley atmosphere. In England, my impression was that spectators rarely cared much about the outcome of the race, and were not even often related to a rower. Used to the maddening adrenaline rush of Schuylkill races, six boats across and cowbells, air horns and desperate screams for five minutes, the eight quickly learned that one must find her own impetus to win on the Thames, and that she can never count on the crowd: the urge to compete must be within and completely harnessed for the race or she will mentally collapse during dual-boat racing. We lost in the finals on the first day, but on the second day we won in the University finals, and we received a beautiful medal.

After the races, the eight of us and our coxswain, Jane, had to row the boat back to Henley-on-Thames, at times ecstatically fun, but at times a harrowing experience. I wrote in the web log:

“We finally got into the boat about half an hour later, at 11, and began the Long Row. The nine miles of countryside was breathtaking and unforgettable. The trees and the rocks and the water and the leaves and the lilies and the pads are all etched into my mind, each with its unique space as something English, each a bit older and kinder than those one might see in America. To look around myself and see nothing but rolling hills, forests, cows, herons, geese and reeds, perhaps the occasional Englishman in his houseboat, and to row through the locks, forming a brief companionship with their workers, has certainly been one of the most important experiences in England thus far. The nine miles took an arduous four hours. The four hours were at times spent rowing “all eight,” but much of the row was spent at sixes, and if we had to wait for a lock to open, we would simply pull over to the bank, in plain sight of the English countrymen, and lie down in the boat under branches and among reeds.”

We spent the next week diligently practicing and resting our legs for Henley – rowers who had rowed in the infamous race were held in our esteem as demi-gods, and to win the thing renders one as good as immortal in the rowing world. Nervous tension and stress were relieved by a day trip into London, but none of us could deny an underlying awe for the event and a need to “hang in there” until the races were finished. When our coach, Mr. McKenna (Big Mikey) arrived from U.S. Rowing Nationals on Tuesday, cheers of excitement ran through our rented house and we enjoyed a huge dinner with him. His presence served not only to calm us, but to help us rebuild the technical proficiency we had lost with jet lag and tension. By Friday night, after a reception at the English National Rowing Museum and a pep talk from four-time Olympic gold rowing champion Sir Matthew Pinsent, we were all more than ready to race.

Saturday, we were lined up against the English National Champions, and won. Relief swept through the eight, and we quickly went home to rest for our next race, sure to be a tough one, against the formidable Oakland strokes from California. Pre-race tension was at an all-time high, and as is my nervous habit, I shed a few tears reflecting on the year we have had: Head of the Charles, New Jersey State, Philadelphia City, Stotesbury and National Champions. With eight of my best friends rowing with me down the course each time (each time knowing that Henley would be our last race together), the thought of any “last row” was heartbreaking, and truly the end of a chapter in each of our lives. We rowed to the starting line.

Henley’s starting line is a sight to behold. The stake boats are perfectly aligned, surrounded by tents, and slightly behind waits the umpire’s launch, ready to follow the race and make calls on any foul play by coxswains. We lined up quickly – Jane was by this time an expert at the tricky craft of perfectly aligning a boat – and with the loaded cry, “Attention: ROW!” we were off the starting line at 42 strokes per minute. After three strokes, we suddenly felt ourselves drifting towards Oakland, and the umpire began to yell – we then heard a muffled gasp through Jane’s microphone: “Girls, I’ve lost my steering. Drop out starboards, full pressure ports.” We were down a boat length due to the untimely dropout, but something clicked. We settled to a hearty 35 strokes per minute, and refused to scramble. Our computer within the boat told us that we were rowing at splits of 1 minute, 28 seconds per 500 meters, a phenomenal speed for us and one that would herald our fastest race of the year. Our sprint made up for four seats, and the eight felt lighter and stronger than ever before. We lost by a boat length.

As we rowed back to the dock, McKenna looked me in the eye and asked, “Good race?” I smiled, and sheepishly shrugged. He looked at me again, this time glancing at the whole boat. “No. It was spectacular.” Our habitual boat talk made us all teary – we had just rowed our last race together, and we did our last cheer. That was it. Our last race together. No more practices on the Schuylkill, no more Flicks together in the rain, no longer will nine best friends sweep down the course together. Goodbye, sisters, who are ready for college. Goodbye jokes, yearly records, our unique dynamic. As we sat on the grass talking about the race, it was the last time the nine of us would sit in a circle as a whole unit, a band of sisters willing to pull her heart out for the two girls beside her. The Mount’s Unbreakable Varsity Eight has retired. Someday I will tell my kids I was a part of it, and make them laugh about the crazy things the nine of us would do, and make them cry as I describe our victories and defeats. I try to tell myself that whenever God closes a door he leaves a window open, but really, he’s retiring a boat and leaving some seats open. Hey, there’s always next year.

Emily Walker rowed in Mount St. Joseph Academy’s varsity eight at Henley Women’s Regatta this month. She will be a senior in the fall.