by Pip Harry
Parents fly the school flags overhead and the younger kids run beside the boats, screaming. Teachers ask for decorum. Police stand at the banks, arms crossed, in case anyone should decide to dive into the water and swim out to the boats gliding by.
‘WE ARE THE HARLEY TEAM, THE MIGHTY HARLEY GRAMMAR TEAM!’ shouts a kid down the front as hundreds of students shout it back at him. ‘AND IF YOU CAN’T HEAR US WE’LL SAY IT IN LATIN.’
This is it. There’s no room for mistakes. No dodgy strokes or missed catches.
‘I’m scared,’ Rachel whispers at my back.
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Now shutup and row.’
Dad rides along with the pack, his own coaching medal swinging around his neck. His third crew just won their A final. He went bananas after the race, but now he’s quiet. Now is not the time to scream or yell. Now is the time to put our heads down, concentrate and get it right. In the transit lane we brush past St Ann’s during our hard strokes, our oars clashing on the bow side. Clack, clack, clack. They look over at us, pull their oars in and try to stare us down.
‘Calling the finalists for the Schoolgirls Senior Eight, Division One,’ calls out the starter.
It’s funny, I’ve been desperate for this moment to arrive, but now I’m actually here, it seems to be moving too fast.
‘I’m looking for Kilcare Grammar in Lane one, St Ann’s in two, Harley Grammar in three, Roberts Ladies College in four and Jubilee High in five. Coxens, I’ll have you move your crews into position please,’ says the starter.
My mouth is dry and I’m terrified. Aiko gets the bow four to touch it up to the start line and finally we are in position.
‘Good luck,’ the St Ann’s stroke calls out to us.
‘You too,’ I echo weakly.
I look along their boat and realise they are made of flesh and bone and ponytails, like us. We can beat them.
‘Sit forward Harley,’ says Aiko, and I snap my eyes in front. ‘Be ready, Leni. Good luck, girls.’
We sit in position, perfectly still, perfectly balanced. There’s a light wind across the course, the sun directly overhead in a cloudless sky. I grip my oar tightly and think only of the first ten strokes. There is nothing more we can polish or perfect. All we have is us nine girls and the next six minutes.
I take one last, deep breath and let it trickle slowly from between my lips.
‘Crews!’
We sit up and dip the tips of our blades into the water
‘Attention!’
I tense up and lightly press back on my toes, ready for the start.
‘Row!’
We pull back on the water and take our quick strokes. Half-half-three-quarter-full. It’s all rush and splash and I try to grip the water as it gushes past. I listen hard for Aiko’s directions over the yelling from the bank and the other coxes.
‘Sit up! Push away! Legs Harley!’
The first 250 metres are a blur as each boat tries to snatch the early lead. We fall a few metres behind and I fight the urge to hurry our strokes. Instead, I hold the pace steady and strong. We can row through in the second half. Let the others get tired and we’ll come home like a train. We’re still a quarter of a boat length behind the lead by the 500-metre mark, but we pull up on St Ann’s and Jubilee falls away with Kilcare and RLC fighting for third. I feel good in second position. Like a jungle cat ready to pounce.
At the 1000, Aiko asks us for an effort and I feel the boat lift up and surge backwards. Everyone has shown up today. Nobody is slacking off and taking a free ride. We move further up on St Ann’s, until we are a canvas short of them. It’s another two-boat battle for the line and we row through the McIntyre Bridge to the snap of dozens of cameras hanging above us.
‘I have the seven seat, give me the stroke!’ yells Aiko and we creep up another notch to level the boats.
This time, I vow to myself. We are not going to lose. I lift the rating again and the crew comes with me. I’m pushing them harder than I ever have. I’m at thirty-six strokes per minute. Pulling each stroke through the water violently. I keep digging deeper for gold, ignoring the burning in my chest and throat.
We go under the final James Harrison Bridge level with St Ann’s. Two hundred and fifty metres left to race. I can hear the announcer excitedly calling the race and the screaming of kids on the bank as they run along beside us, waving our school colours. From the corner of my eye I can see Laura going mental as she pedals fiercely on her bike.
‘Thirty strokes to go! Give it everything, girls! This is it! No guts no glory! Come on!’ shouts Aiko. She’s red in the face and spit flies out of her mouth. She’s leaning so far forward I worry I might hit her in the face with my handle. ‘What have you got left? Give me everything you have!’
I grind my teeth, make a grunting sound and focus on one painful stroke at a time. I remember back to the pain of every run, every erg. Dig deeper I tell myself. This is it. You’ll never be back here again.
The crowd is going crazy, but all I can hear is Rachel in my ear.
‘Come on, Leni! Go mate! Go! I’m here, let’s do this!’
I go, with Rachel right behind – ten perfect, hard strokes. Harder than I’ve ever rowed in my life. St Ann’s slips a few centimetres away from us.
‘We’re moving through them!’ screams Aiko. ‘We’ve got this race!’
There’s a metre in it. If that. I can’t tell if we’ve got them or they’ve got us. It’s so close.
We cross the line with absolutely nothing left. I fall back in the boat, the taste of metal in my mouth, breathing so hard I can’t speak. My head pounds with a blinding headache. I’m dizzy and disorientated but I know this time we won it.
‘Harley Grammer, stroked by Leni Popescu, takes out the Senior Eight, Division One in the narrowest of margins,’ says the announcer. ‘What an exciting race and a wonderful way to finish up a competitive season.’
Rachel grabs my shoulders and shakes them
‘We won, Leni! Get up and take a bow!’
She punches the water, splashing me. I sit up and raise my fist above my head.
‘Yeah!’ I shout.
I reach back and grab Rachel’s hand, squeezing tight and laughing.
As we row our way back to the staging to collect our trophy and medals, I smile so wide I’m not sure it fits on my face and feel a happy so big I don’t know where to put it.
We stand up on the podium. Arms around each other. All nine of us and Laura. I duck my head as an Olympic gold medallist – my mum – hangs the champion’s medal around my neck and gives me a huge trophy. She stands up on the podium and kisses me. Behind her, Dad takes photos and beams. What with his crew and my crew winning, he’s floating a few metres off the ground with pride.
‘I’m so very proud of you, darling.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Now get down and give out the other medals.’
We pose for a photo with the local paper, our school photographer and the Age sports section. Me hugging the precious trophy and everyone else holding up their index fingers. Crossed oars and the river behind us.
‘I was sweating bullets down that home straight,’ says Laura, who hasn’t fully recovered from the race. ‘You guys kept me guessing right until the line.’
All the tension of the past year has disappeared. I feel like I don’t have a single thing to worry about. Penny and I keep grabbing each other and jumping up and down, squealing.
Rachel seems stunned. ‘We actually won. We did, didn’t we? This isn’t some fantasy dream sequence?’
‘We won. We really, really did,’ I confirm.
‘You know what happens now?’ Rachel says, looking at Aiko.
‘No, what?’ says Aiko.
‘Tradition says we have to chuck the cox in the river,’ says Penny.
‘Yes, it is tradition,’ I agree.
; Aiko starts to back away but we drag her towards the river and push her in. She dog paddles around in the weeds. Then Rachel links hands with me and Penny.
‘1-2-3 …’ she says and we run towards the water and take a flying leap off the staging.
‘We did it!’
Cristian
I’d decided I wasn’t speaking to Adam ever again, but when I see him looking like the saddest, sorry sight on the riverbank, I can’t help it. He’s tucked behind a trailer of Harley boats, his head in his hands. He looks up and grimaces. It’s hot and he’s sweating and crying, his face streaked with dirt. I hand him my bottle of water and he takes his hat off and pours it down the back of his neck. He’s short of breath and panting.
I sit beside him on the grass, my anger dissipating.
‘You okay, Adam?’ I ask.
‘Did you see our heat?’
‘Yeah. I’m sorry, I know how much you wanted to get through to the A final.’
‘Maybe the B final is what I deserve. I bailed on a mate.’
‘What happened?’
‘Dad talked me into letting you take the blame after my results came back clear. He got me into the masking drugs, just in case. If I’d known we were going to get tested I never would have left you hanging. Who the hell cares now? All that gear and I’m still a loser.’
‘You’re not a loser.’
‘I can’t wait until this is all over. I rowed like a hack in the heat. Every stroke was an effort. I’m done. I don’t think I have it in me to row the stupid B final.’
‘Then don’t.’ I put my hands on his shoulder. ‘You’ve got to stop living your life for other people, Adam. Fuck what your dad wants. What Westie wants. What people expect of you because of your last name. Do what you want for a change.’
Adam nods, rubs his jaw tiredly and pulls his hat back on.
‘Just one more race. I’ve got to see this through to the end. I’m sorry, Poppa, for all of it. You’re a good mate. I don’t deserve a mate like you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. See you for a cheeseburger later?’
‘Absolutely.’
I stop lurking in the shadows, find our school’s cheer section and stand amongst the rabble. A few of the guys give me sideways looks.
‘Why aren’t you out there?’ asks a Year Ten boy in full face paint and a jester’s hat.
‘I don’t deserve to be,’ I say truthfully.
‘Oi, your sister’s coming down the course,’ says his mate.
They start up a chant and I join in. I feel a swell of brotherly pride as I sight Leni’s boat in the distance. I’m caught up in the banging of drums and whistle blowing.
Come on, Leni, I say to myself, as if I am whispering in her ear. You can do it, girl.
‘Leni! Leni! Leni!’ shouts the crowd.
I see her go for the last push. It’s so close I couldn’t call it. The lead changes back and forth. But as they cross the line, Harley edges out St Ann’s – the crew that’s beaten them all season. I knew she had the heart to get there.
‘Yeah!’ yells the Year Ten kid, slapping me on the back. ‘Your sister rocks!’
I slap him back and smile. ‘She sure does.’
After Leni’s race, there’s a ten-minute medal break and then the boys’ first eight B and A finals. The last races of the day. I can’t get down to the podium in the crowds to see Leni get her reward, so I decide to stay put and watch Adam and my crew finish off our strange season. For some schools it’s no disgrace to race in the B final, but for Harley Grammar it’s considered a whipping.
‘Coming down the course now we have the second last race of the day and more quality eight racing with the Schoolboy Division One B final,’ says the announcer. ‘Leading at this stage by a long margin is Harley Grammar. You’ll all know Harley won the Head of the River last year, so this is rather an upset. Still, they’re rowing very well and look to have this sewn up.’
The cheering on the bank doesn’t dim for the consolation B final. Harley’s cheer master peps up his disciples as Adam and my old crew smashes through the final 250 metres. The sad thing is they finally look like a crew that deserved to row in the A final. Too little, too late, I think. As they cross the line, a hush falls over the part of the crowd that’s closest to the boat. I strain over the tops of heads to see.
‘What’s going on?’ I shout to a guy next to me.
‘Someone’s passed out!’ he shouts back. Who is it? Which seat?
I push my way to the front of our school’s barricade and look out to the crews. In the six seat Adam’s slumped over his oar handle, blade trailing limply in the water. I consider jumping the fence and swimming out to him. I have no idea what I’d do if I got past the cops and the water safety boats. I can’t remember any of my first-aid training. Is it two breaths, one compression? I think wildly.
‘What’s wrong?’ I yell at a teacher near the barricade.
‘I don’t know,’ she says.
Adam falls back in the boat, letting go of his oar, his arms limp, head lolling on Damien’s feet behind him. The cheer section is now completely silent. I run down the side of the bank towards the staging in total panic. Damien is splashing water on Adam’s face and shaking his shoulders. I should be in that seat right now. Would I be doing any better job than Damo? Adam looks unconscious. Sam calls out for help to the bank, waving his arms over his head. It seems to be taking so long to get help out to him. Come on! I think. Rescue him!
Seconds tick past. The crowd of over fifteen thousand is hushed and worried. Me, most of all. Unaware there’s been a collapse, the main race keeps coming down the course. Officials on the bank and the course boats try to stop it and fail. The coxens, rowers and bike packs are completely in their own world. A rescue boat speeds out to Adam, the eights reach the final bridge. Who wins seems pointless now. Why did we spend so much time and effort on it?
‘Eights! We have a medical emergency on the finish line. Rescue! Rescue! If you can hear me please stop racing!’ shouts the announcer. ‘St John’s Ambulance will assess the situation immediately and we have paramedics on their way to the course. Please stay calm in the spectator areas. We will update you as soon as we know more.’
The A final comes across the line. The big race. The race that matters. The Head of the River. The crews look around, puzzled by the silent crowd. This is supposed to be their moment of glory. It’s been snatched away from them.
‘Who won?’ a boy says behind me.
‘Who cares?’ his friend answers, before I have the chance.
The rescue boat speeds Adam back to a landing area on dry land. St John’s Ambulance workers lift him out of the boat but his body is still limp. They start doing chest compressions right away. Mitch is by his side, his brother, too. They look devastated.
I try to get closer, to see if Adam’s eyes are open, but the crowds are huge.
‘Can you move?’ I say, pushing at a group of guys who are rubbernecking in front of me. ‘That’s my best friend! I have to get to him!’
‘Mate, he wouldn’t know if you’re there or not,’ says one and it takes all my self-restraint not to deck him.
By the time I get close enough to see Adam, the ambulance has arrived and paramedics have taken over CPR. I hear his rib crack and flinch. They get out a defibrillator and attach the pads to his bare chest, delivering a shock of electricity that doesn’t seem to do anything.
‘Still no pulse. Let’s get him out of here,’ says one.
Before I can tell Adam to hang on, the ambulance doors have closed and he’s left the area, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
After Adam’s collapse, nobody is in the mood for celebrating. We file soberly out of the regatta and try to find our car in the chaos. I check my phone obsessively, hoping for a text from Adam. Something that tells me he is fine – just dehydrated or heat affect
ed. There’s no word.
‘That time the Harley crew got would’ve won them the A final,’ a St David’s rower says to his mate in front of us.
‘Someone should tell Adam Langley that,’ says the mate.
‘If he’s still alive,’ says the rower.
A ripple of uncertainty crosses my mind. Leni must feel it, too.
‘He’s fine, Cristian. Don’t listen to them,’ she says. ‘Let’s just go home and wait to hear something other than gossip.’
Leni
After the regatta I don’t feel well. My throat hurts and I’m dragging myself around the house trying to get ready for the official Head of the River dinner.
‘Are you sure you’re up to this? You look pale,’ says Mum, putting a palm to my forehead. ‘You’re hot.’
‘I’ll take a couple of Panadol. I think I overdid it in the race,’ I say, backing away from her before she sees my puffy glands and the bags under my eyes. Make-up has only gone so far.
‘You could skip it, you know. Have an early night? It’s been a big day. You must be worried about Adam, too.’
I look at the couch where Cris is lying, his feet up, playing with his phone, Banjo curled over his size twelve feet. I wish I could pull on my ugg boots and join him. Order some pizza for dinner. But duty calls. Dad and I are expected to be there tonight. We are both in the winners’ circle. It’s our moment.
‘I have to be there. I’m the captain. I’m giving a speech.’
‘Okay, well let Dad know if it’s too much. He’ll bring you straight home to bed.’
I’m sitting with my crew at the front of the room. We all look different. Gone are the sweaty zooties and crusty caps, replaced by skirts, dresses and blow-dried hair. The Head of the River cup is placed in the middle of the table and every now and again someone will come by and want to touch it. I can’t take my eyes off it. I can’t believe it’s really mine. Ours.