I can't stop thinking about rowing. I blame <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16158542-the-boys-in-the-boat" target="_blank">Boys in the Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics</a>.

I grew up sitting on the banks of the Willamette River watching crew races. I loved going out in the launch in the grey early mornings with my dad the varsity crew coach at Oregon State University. I remember the switch from the classic blade to the chopper blade and my dad carefully painting each in Oregon State’s three colors: orange, black and white.

When I was in third grade, my dad woke me up on Saturday mornings to teach me how to row. I laid out my clothes the night before. My sweatpants with elastic around the ankles (or stirrup-pant leggings), a t-shirt and an oversized OSU sweatshirt—usually crew but really just about any sport. We’d drive to the docks and many of my dad’s older college rowers would be there puttering around the shop, working out or going out on the water themselves.

We went out in a double. I was too little to carry the shell down to the water and my dad would only let me carry one oar at a time. I was under strict instructions to carry it carefully and not to let the blade hit or even touch the ground. In the boat, I wore my tennis shoes inside of the toe-less shoes screwed into the boat because my feet were too little. I’d also been warned and re-warned about just how thin the hull of the boats are—you never but your foot on the bottom of the boat. It will go right through. Meaning you will have your foot in the river and your dad will be very upset. Rowing equipment is not cheap and a certain reverence needs to be shown to the sport and the equipment.

Going out, I knew that my dad was placing a lot of trust in me. Today, I can’t remember if I was the one wanted to go out or if it was my dad who suggested we go out together.
What I do remember is sitting in the shell in front of my dad with oars in both of my hands. I couldn’t see him but he gave very clear directions coaching me through the minutiae of rowing in a racing shell. He taught me to row word by word.<!--more-->

My dad learned to row in college at Washington State University. He’s fond of saying that rowing is the only varsity sport that one can pick up in college, that you don’t need to have previous experience. He purchased his own scull after college from George Pocock for $900 in 1974 making it among the last boats that Pocock built.

This winter the book Boys in the Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics by Daniel James Brown was published. Before Christmas my dad got a hardcopy from a friend. Then he made my mom read it. Then I after the New Year I snagged it. I’ve been meaning to read it since but not until this past week did I get around to it.
I am so glad that I did.

The book is beautifully written. The descriptions of the University of Washington rowing program are detailed and seem to draw heavily on journals and coaches notes. The discussions of life in Seattle during the Great Depression are stark. It is pretty amazing that most of the boys who grace the pages of this book are at university not to mention rowing. What’s more, the odds against which the freshman, junior varsity and varsity boats are up against seem at times insurmountable.

That these boys are together in a boat—one coached by Al Ulbrickson and made by George Pocock--already seems awfully lucky not to mention the fact that they are winning the few races they enter and that these boys from Seattle might have the chance to row in the 1936 Olympics seems wildly improbable.

That’s what this book is about how the improbable became possible and the men, the training, the races, the mental strength a sport like this requires and the obstacles, largely financial, that these men had to overcome to get to Berlin.

The historic races are lively and engaging. In large part this is because as a reader you’re given multiple points of view that of the rowers, the coach and the spectators. These points of view help build the tension in the narrative. I loved it.

Now here’s the thing, watching a close race from the banks can be exciting but often only lasts for seconds as the boats blow by in the water. As a spectator, there’s a lot of waiting and if you’re lucky a picnic blanket and a sandwich to eat. In the Pacific Northwest, on the west side of the Cascade Mountains you’re also lucky if the sun is shining as spring often brings not-cold-but-not-warm cloudy rainy days. I’ve spent plenty of hours waiting around for races to start and to finish and younger me wasn’t very impressed.

I think in large part that’s why I put off reading the book. I mean, how good can it be?! It’s a book about rowing. It turns out really good.

Daniel James Brown’s writing is page turning. The pacing is excellent and the way he brings these men and the art of rowing to life is beautiful. I didn’t want to put the book down. I knew the outcome of the 1936 Olympics and I was still turning page after page, disappointed when my bus dropped me off at work because I’d have to wait until lunch to read the book again.

And that single racing shell built by Pocock for my dad? He still has it. It’s hanging in my parent’s antique store in Walla Walla—a functional work of art.