The narrow, pointed bow of a racing shell slices the surface of the river, blue and calm. Two sets of oars catch the water, not exactly in unison, and the boat lurches a bit.
On a nearby dock, a man cups his hands around his mouth and bellows —
“Give me a power twenty!”
The two scullers — one tall and lean, the other shorter but more muscular — start putting their backs into it. But something is still amiss. The tall one, Dean Stockton, sees what it is and shortens his stroke. Now the angle of his oars matches that of his shorter partner, Curt Hutton, and they start to glide, swiftly and smoothly, for the first time.
The man on the dock paces slowly, following their progress. Then he stops, folds his arms, and nods.
The scullers continue in perfect synchronization — catch, drive, feather, recover — and the shell gains speed with each stroke. Their seats slide up and back as they bend and straighten their legs. Their eyes brighten. Smiles appear and grow on their faces.
When they finish the twenty power strokes, it’s as if they have crossed a finish line. Their oars come up and the shell continues to glide.
Curt, the pace setter, looks over his shoulder at Dean and lets out a whoop.
It’s that summer between the end of high school and the start of something else. Curt and Dean are best friends. Rowing in harmony is an experience they will never be able to describe. But then they won’t really need to. Not to each other.
From the coming-of-age novel Combustible, by yours truly.
