by Pip Harry
‘Thanks, Sam. You will too.’
He jumps to his feet and heads back to his laptop.
‘Hey, Leni,’ he says, looking over the top of the computer. ‘Why’d you send me a friend request?’
‘Because I want to be your friend, I guess.’
‘Oh. Good. ’Cos I want to be yours.’
We put our heads down and silently study together. Later in the day I get a notification on my Facebook page. You are now friends with Sam Camero.
It gives me a head-to-toe thrill and I instantly forget he took his sweet time replying to my request.
Cristian
It’s a hot morning on the river. Nobody’s had a good night’s kip. Especially not me. I’ve been so racy and jumpy it’s hard to get more than five hours a night. I was the first out of bed at our house, agitated and ready for a big session. When Patto breaks us into pairs and starts doing boring catch drills I want to explode. I’d rather be smashing out 10 kilometres on the ergo or running the tan. This isn’t a workout. Adam feels the same.
‘Bor-ring,’ he groans in front of me.
I jiggle my knees, waiting for my turn to row. It’s agonising. Usually I would drift along, half asleep. Lulled by the drag of my blade over the surface of the river. This new pepped-up me doesn’t like to sit still.
Finally I get a turn and Adam and I go for it, bashing it along. Pulling heavy on the blades.
‘Relax guys,’ says Patto. ‘It’s technique work. No need to break any oars.’
We drop it down a notch but later we have a real crack at the hard pieces. Doing power twenties as if we can lift the middle of the boat out of the water. Patto is pleased.
‘Nice work out there you two. Keep rowing like this and I won’t be able to keep you in my boat.’
‘That’s the idea,’ says Adam.
I head for the showers and Westie calls out to me across the room. He’s giving Sam an extra erg session. Looks like fine-tuning of technique issues. Word is Sam’s having trouble with his catch. He certainly looks miserable with all the extra coaching attention lasered on his back.
‘Poppa! Over here!’
One good thing about rowing in the seconds is I don’t have to see as much of Westie. I drag my feet over to him.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Relax Cristian, it’s good news. The school wants to name the new racing eight after your father. The Vasile Popescu.’
‘That’s amazing. He’ll be so happy.’
‘It certainly is an honour. We’ve had our issues, but he’s achieved great things in his own rowing career and has a long service here at the club. Take this for him. I was going to give it to him personally, but he disappeared off down the river with his crew.’
Westie hands me a thick cream-coloured envelope with my dad’s name on it.
I know what’s inside. An invitation to a boat-naming ceremony. I’ve already been to a couple. We dress up in full uniform and stand around as the boat’s new name is unveiled and a bottle of champagne is smashed over it for good luck. There’s usually pretty good food and, at the last one, Adam and I nicked off with a couple of beers and sat on the roof of the gym, watching the sun set. This time it’s our name on a boat? It’s hard to believe.
Westie looks me up and down. ‘You’re looking trimmer. Patto says you and Adam are rowing well, too. Keep it up.’
It’s the closest to a compliment that I’d ever heard from Westie.
‘I will. I want my seat back.’
‘Earn it and it’s yours.’
Penny exits the girls’ change rooms and we make eye contact. She’s showered and dressed and I’m stinky and blotchy.
‘Good row?’ I ask, trying to keep my distance so as not to overpower her with my guy stench.
‘Nah, not really. Too much drama.’
‘Rachel and Leni drama?’ I ask. Everyone in the boatshed knows they’re not getting on.
Penny nods, lowers her voice. ‘They had a massive fight just now. I hope they sort it out soon. It’s starting to affect our rowing.’
‘I’ll talk to Leni. Try to get her to back down a little. You know what she’s like.’
‘Talented, intense and always right,’ Penny says, and I nod in agreement.
Penny puts her hand on my arm and my next sentence catches in my throat.
‘You look fit, Cris. You’ll be back in the firsts soon. Everyone thinks so.’
She pulls a loose strand of hair behind her ear and keeps her hand on my arm a little too long to be just friendly. I’m about to ask her for a before-school coffee when Aiko bounces over.
‘Come on, Pen. We’ll miss the 8.22!’ Aiko says, dragging Penny away.
‘Bye Cris,’ says Penny, giving me one last, possibly interested look, before being swept off to the tram stop.
I clap Adam on the back in the change room as he adjusts his tie in the mirror. The other guys in the crew rag on him about how much time he spends on his looks. He’s always fiddling with hair, skin, uniform. Even his socks have to be pulled up the right way. He’s always been a bit obsessive.
We’re alone and it’s safe to let our guard down.
‘Westie told me I’d lost weight. Penny said I look fit, too.’
Adam grins. ‘I told you. It’s working.’
Adam flexes his arm, showing off a growing bicep.
‘Check this out. Pure muscle. Extra erg at lunch?’
‘Hell yeah,’ I answer.
At home, I give Dad the invite to the boat-naming ceremony. He pretends he’s not very excited. Later on I catch him moving all the takeaway flyers from the fridge to stick it up with a magnet. I’m proud of him. So is Leni and Mum. It’s a big moment for our family.
Leni
We’re racing today – a smallish GPS regatta to see how everyone is placed before Christmas. Exams are done and dusted and we’re all back on the job. Ready for a big fitness haul over the summer break. Rachel sits in front of me in stroke. I watch her blonde ponytail bounce up and down as we take the transit lane to the start. I don’t like the view. Sitting behind her in training has been tough. I feel demoted.
‘Let’s smash this race!’ says Aiko, pumping us up. ‘Forget about training. Racing is a different ballgame.’
‘Good luck,’ I say to Rachel’s back. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to her since we had that big fight after training.
She turns around, looking surprised. It’s been super tense between us, but I want to make it right before we race together. Laura keeps hammering into us that we’re a team.
‘Thanks, Leni. Back me up?’ she says, smiling.
‘I’ll be right behind you.’
‘I know you will.’
We row okay, better than expected. We come second in the heats and third in the final. St Ann’s gets us again, as well as Melton Girls. I hate to admit it, but Rachel is a natural in stroke seat. Her rowing is neat and precise and her rhythm is relaxed and unhurried, a bit like her. I’m keen to get back in the front seat, but a part of me feels like a weight has been lifted now that I’m not setting the pace.
‘I don’t know how Melton got away from us in that race,’ I say to Rachel as we head for the school tent after our final. We have bronze medals around our necks. It’s nice to have jewellery, but it’s the wrong colour. I take mine off and shove it into my backpack. ‘We should have been well ahead after the effort at the 500-metre mark.’
Rachel bites into her medal and grins. She’s in weekend mode, having changed into a flippy skirt and cute singlet. ‘Who cares? We got ourselves a bit of bling for the trophy cabinet. You heard Laura, third is good for us at this stage of our training. We just had a major seat change. Enjoy it, Leni.’
I try to relax and forget it, but I can’t let it go. It’s hard for me to enjoy being beaten by two other schools.
Mum waves at me from a bike. She prefers to ride along watching races, than sit in a deckchair with the other parents.
‘Third! Fantastic, Leni!’ she shouts. ‘Just going to watch Cris, then let’s meet at the trailers.’
‘Your mum is amazing,’ Rachel says. ‘Have you ever worn her Olympic medal?’
‘It’s framed.’
‘Oh. Still, having an Olympic gold medal in your house. Must be inspiring.’
‘I suppose so.’
I see that gold medal every day. It makes me feel like I have so much to live up to.
‘Don’t take it for granted that your olds are here. My little brother has behavioural therapy on Saturdays. It’s expensive, so my dad works weekends to pay for it.’
‘Therapy for what?’
‘He’s autistic.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Riley’s awesome. I love him heaps.’ She smiles. ‘I don’t tell many people though.’
So this was Rachel’s life. An autistic brother and parents too busy to watch her race. Maybe I should let her in on some of my problems. Tell her about how those medals in my house really make me feel. How unsure I was about Adam. I think about what Laura said to me in the car. Let them in a bit. Was this what she meant?
We sit down together and watch a few races from the bank, cheering on Cristian and Adam as they easily win the second division in their eight.
‘Smart Snax?’ Rachel says, handing me a bag of nuts and fibrous bits.
I take a handful and make a face. ‘Tastes like tan bark,’ I say.
Rachel laughs. ‘Exactly.’
I take another handful and chew hard. We smile at each other.
I like the sharing bit more than the eating bit.
The first crew trails over the line fourth. A disappointing result for them. Sam looks upset and bangs his blade on the surface of the water. I guess he doesn’t like to lose either. He looks towards the bank and I feel like he’s staring straight at me.
‘Firsts have some work to do,’ comments Rachel. ‘But I do like to watch them. Sam Camero is hot.’
Adam comes up behind me and gives me a hug. He and Cristian are on fire. Both of them seem so determined to get back in the firsts. It’s all they ever talk about and they train together in the gym every day.
‘Do you want to come to my beach shack for the weekend? Would your parents let you stay over? Kitty and Dad will be there.’ Adam’s family owns the biggest beach house at Portsea. So big it has stables.
‘Stay over?’
We’ve never had a sleepover before. It makes me nervous.
‘Yeah. Separate rooms, of course.’
‘I can’t,’ I say, relieved. ‘I promised Dad I’d help him with the boats.’
I was glad to have an excuse to avoid Adam’s house with its dark media room and endless bedrooms. The cold, beautiful pool that no one ever seemed to swim in.
Adam seems irritated.
‘More time on the river? We’ve been here all morning. Come over. You won’t regret it.’
The last part he whispers sexily in my ear and it gives me the shivers, but not in a good way.
‘I can’t. I promised. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay, Leni, go be a grease monkey,’ he tries to make the moment light, but I feel like I wrecked it. ‘I’ve got to go and boat load, I’ll call you,’ he says.
My body relaxes when he retreats. The weight of sexpectation lifting.
I love tinkering with the boats and being around Dad when he’s so focused and still. When he stops to explain things to me in a quiet, patient way. Passing on knowledge he’s learnt over decades. Secret rowing business. I love the smell of the sheds – oil and WD-40, mixed with sour possum piss.
The boats are up on slings after racing, washed and ready for their pit crew.
‘Run your hands over the boats,’ Dad says to Cristian and I.
I jump up to start, but Cristian lags behind. He hates this as much as I love it.
We go through the boats carefully, checking for tiny holes, squeaky slides or loose bolts. Most of the team doesn’t know about the fine-tuning that goes on behind the scenes. They get in the boat and expect it will be tweaked to perfection. They have no idea Dad has been adjusting so the equipment matches their legs, arms and body weight, even their rowing style.
Dad knows these boats. Knows their insides the same way a surgeon knows guts, veins, hearts and weak valves. There’s no boat he can’t make sing. Even the heaviest, waterlogged old tub.
‘Can I go upstairs?’ Cristian says in a whiny voice. ‘I’m knackered. I need to lie down.’
Dad looks up from his screwdriver. Frowns.
‘Go.’
Dad and I are used to Cristian bailing on the hard work, playing with his phone and then passing out on a training mat.
‘Good racing,’ says Dad.
‘Beating second crews? Big deal.’
‘It’s still a win,’ says Dad. ‘Lift your head up. Smile.’
Cristian looks glum. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes. Dismissed.’
We work better without Cristian’s sulky, negative vibes hanging around.
‘I don’t understand. He’s up. He’s down. Happy, angry, sad. I worry, Elena. I want you and Cristian to be happy. Are you happy?’
I shrug. The honest answer is not really, but I don’t want to worry him.
‘Of course. Cristian’s fine. He misses being out of the firsts. It’s hard for him.’
‘Talk to him. Make sure he’s okay. Sooner he’s back in the firsts, the better,’ says Dad.
I sit on a sling and watch as Dad measures out the rigging, tinkering with the pitch, height and gearing.
Dad’s smudgy glasses have slipped down his nose. He takes them off and lets them dangle round his neck on a makeshift string holder. He has a tool belt around his belly, and his shirt is full of holes. Mum tries to make him throw out his old rowing clothes, but he sneaks them out of the ‘For St Vinnies’ bags and back into the closet.
‘Elena, come here,’ he says in Romanian. I can understand, but not speak the language. ‘Hold this.’
He gives me a fistful of rubber washers. ‘What I’m doing now is rigging the boat higher. This crew does their training in rough water, and this will allow them to sit up higher, their blades to clear the water.’
I’m reminded again how precise this sport is. Most people think we get in and heave the oar through the water with our arms. They don’t get the tiny measurements that count for everything in a race. I look over Dad’s shoulder as he gets out a screwdriver and moves a foot stretcher to accommodate a tall rower’s daddy long legs.
Dad lets me screw all the loose bolts back in, coming back to give them the final, heavy tighten. I like knowing my dad has been the last person to touch my boat and his strong, tough hands have made sure nothing will come unstuck.
‘Knock off?’ Dad says. There are sweat patches on his back and under his arms.
I get us both a drink from the vending machine and we sit on the bank and look at the water. There’s not a ripple of wind and the light is a soft gold.
‘This reminds me of the day I first got in a boat,’ Dad says.
I let him tell the well-worn story again, enjoying the familiarity.
‘I was supposed to go to soccer training that afternoon, but my cousin was short a rower and he convinced me to go down to the lake and row with his crew. It was like this. Perfect spring day. No wind. I had no chance. The minute I got in the boat I was hooked. It was almost the same way I felt when I met your mother.’
‘… and you never played soccer again,’ I finish.
‘Silly,’ Dad says. ‘Could’ve made a fortune if I’d kept kicking a ball.’
Cristian
I hate boat maintenance
. It’s grimy, messy and fiddly and I don’t get it. All the little pieces are a complicated puzzle. It hurts my brain. Everything hurts my brain. For sure I’ve screwed up my end-of-year exams. I’m enjoying the calm before the storm of results coming out.
I’m lying on a mat, in the dark, quiet shadows of the gym room. Everyone’s gone home after the regatta so I’ve got the place to myself. It’s spooky here. A possum scratches in the ceiling somewhere, its paws screeching as it runs along the iron beams, leaving behind telltale droppings. There’s beer behind the bar and I’d love one, but it’s locked up so I’d have to commit a felony to get at it. I’m breaking enough rules already.
I had my first kiss here. A few steps away, sitting on the bench press table. The girl was Sally Naylor – daughter of Dad’s old crew member, Ferg Naylor. She’s better looking than her old man.
We were both thirteen, tall and stocky like the kids of rowers are. I was showing off and pushing a barbell off my chest. The weight was too heavy and I ran out of muscle, the bar collapsing on top of me. Sally had to rescue me by pulling it off my ribs. I pulled up my T-shirt and there was a red mark that would later become an impressive bruise. She ran her hand over it and said ‘ouch’.
I took the opportunity, even though her dad was a few metres below us manning the sausage sizzle, to kiss her. I used my tongue, because that’s what I thought you were supposed to do, and she reared back like a scared pony and ran off. She wouldn’t look at me again until we were fifteen, then we went out for two weeks and she dumped me for being too keen. Didn’t she want me to be keen?
I don’t get girls. Still.
Thinking about Sally I get wood. I consider going into the men’s to do something about it, but I can’t be bothered so I picture Westie’s ugly mug until it subsides. Instead of stroking myself I take a few lazy pulls on the rowing machine. Then I rev it up to full power, to see what’s there. The readout is better than anything I’ve been doing for months. I sit up taller and let it rip for 1000 metres, amazed by the time. Smiling, I put the handle back, letting the wheel spin out, my heart beating hard. I get up for a look around the room.
This boatshed is a shrine to Dad and his rowing mates. On the wall is an honour roll of past Australian champions. My dad’s old crew takes up six lines. His name painted in gold ink. I stare at it and run my hand over his name. Vasile Popescu. Will my name ever make it onto a wall? I doubt it. The space is for Leni, one day.