I can’t remember exactly why I started to look for a rowing boat, or looking for very long before I found one; more vivid is the long, hot drive to collect it.

Herrick began as a decompression project, an act of creation to help process the devastation of our most recent expedition into Afghanistan, and she was named after that operation. Though neither I nor her maker are boat builders, I’ve come to appreciate the care he took to instantiate heavy memories into a light, nimble craft that barely dips a toe in the water.

Navigating the sea is always a balancing act between hull, water, wind and wave, and when rowing, balance also needs to contend with moving weight, strength and resistancethrough the stroke. Over and over again, a rhythmic cycle of challenges to achieve a lane of silently-swirling, symmetrical eddies.

The stroke begins when the oars bite,
And the body responds to the tension between blade and water,
Legs extend, spine uncurls, lats engage, arms draw back,
Catch, drive, finish, recover,
Transition turns on the smooth transmission of power,
First matching, then accelerating the boat’ speed,
And every muscle pulls in turn to drive,
As the lungs fill with salt air before the oars flick free from surface tension,
Turn flat, slice back, exhale, and bend forward,
While the gaze rests on birds perching atop flooded marsh land.

Brute strength is no substitute for fluid movement that strokes blades through water. Sure, a hard drive will produce a lick of speed, but at the expense of silence and steady breath; rather a fluid cadence and constant rhythm, that flows smooth water around Herrick’s hull. I like to feel the photons end their journey upon my skin, as I pull a golden thread from the sun, a stream of solar particles connected in common cause on the longest day.