The following piece was published in the Fall 2024 issue of The Quinobequin Review:

I think of the Charles River as a friend. Like a friend, I can mirror it in ways unbeknownst to me. Like a friend, I lose sense of time when we are together. When I’m rowing on the river, I feel as though I am in flight. The oars are wings. The water is my wind. The amount of light in the sky is time. And I am alive in my boat. 

Growing up, I counted down the days to the Head of the Charles. My parents raced annually with their college crews. When that third weekend in October arrived, I would dress in fall colors and stand on one of the docks alongside the water, waiting for a parent to come soaring past. 

I can remember one particular race. Peering from the edge of the dock, I saw my father round the corner of the river in the distance. His pace quickened as he departed from the flock of boats around him. There was no time for a breath. Rowers in adjacent shells glanced over, and he emerged from the flock in swift steps. I clapped and cheered alongside his college rowing friends, our voices rising in unison and launching into the air like cannons. He soared past us. The finish line loomed and blurred in the distance. With pure focus, the ref’s white flag shot in the air and I knew he had won gold.

We gathered to embrace him after the race with his gold medal in hand. His smile shone, and right then I knew I had to try out rowing.