It is summer now, and I have been up to much, including being accepted into the upper classes of England, on a trip to the Henley Regatta with the Sabra. I wore a colonial beige suit, borrowed, with a club tie. One of my rowing coaches gave me the two V.I.P stewards’ enclosure tickets, which I displayed in the sun on my button, like a true Englishman.
You may have noticed that a month has gone by, without a fourth day account for May Bumps 2006. Well the events of the final day have only now moved far enough from my mind’s eye, to enable me to recount the drama and agony of those final, brutal moments.
Day 4- May Bumps 2006
With the adage ‘lucky crews up 4, great crews up 3′, I made my way to the boathouse. We were to be chasing an Emmanuel boat who were half decent sloggers, and being chased by the relatively strong Jesus boat who we had stormed away from on day 1, but who had bumped everyone else in front of them subsequently. It was torridly hot, and I lapped up the sun. The master, two coaches, and Crazy Dave all bank-partied us, and the canon went off.
We got a very good start, with whistles after a minute or two. This continued, however, without decent overlap. The sun grinned down relentlessly, and soon we were into a long chase, past the Plough, and on through the grandstand with hundreds of people on either side, including my barking pup. Onwards we continued, past the three minute lactic acid build up, and round the corner. We began to lose site of Emmanuel.
And then an amazing thing happened on the long reach, after 6 minutes or so. Our extra training came into play, a few of us shouted, and we pushed for ten. Then we did this again to wind up the rating and, more importantly, the strength of stroke. We were on for a late bump- a rare commodity in our division. We continued catching them, to within a length, and then half a length. A bump after such a long time just before the end of the course is something I have never done, and would be magic. They were dead in the water, and we came steaming up to their stern. We had continuous whistles and the exilerating moment of knowledge that a bump was inevitable came about. I glimpsed their stern, and our canvas overtook their own one. I could feel the breath of their cox from my number three seat. I saw excited faces on the bank, and then our cox called us to hold it up and stop the boat. This was a signal that we had bumped, and were to stop our momentum so that the bumped boat was not smashed. I let go of my oar slightly and celebrated with my hand in the air. HOLD THE BOAT UP, our cox called again, and we came to a stop.
And then, like a vile mist descending, I heard confused voices, and the cox telling us to carry on rowing again. I glanced behind, and the Emmanuel cox had not conceded. While we had held it up, they carried on rowing, and there were no umpires near enough to guarantee the bump (literal contact) had taken place. Our cox claimed that she heard shouts telling her to stop from the bank. Misery filled my bones and we tried pathetically to try and catch them, having come to a near stop ourselves. We rowed over, I glared at the Emmanuel boat, and screamed at our cox. I was furious, along with the New Zealander, while others in the boat were more phlegmatic. I was too angry for phlegmatism, having been robbed of a classic, late bump.
From this day onwards I will never listen to a cox telling me to hold a boat up until I can smell the splintered wood of the opposition stern. From this day onwards, in the mind and hearts of we eight rowers, we will know that we went up 3, no matter what the Emmanuel cox can claim: the sign of a great boat.