Alumni
"Going back, going back to Nassau Hall..." Yes, I went back, driving from Providence to Westchester, then on to Princeton in the morning in time for the morning races. It was kind of cold, standing in the rain and mud. Fortunately, there was no wind and the water was flat calm, really quite lovely conditions for the oarsmen, just not worth a bean for the spectators. Only the Steward's Enclosure at Henley Royal Regatta makes watching crew races interesting, anyway.
Four of us came back to the boathouse for the dedication of the Spirit of 72 shell. The women's varsity crew row this new, state-of-the-art Resolute eight oared shell, and the boat we helped to Christen is neither virgin nor vanquished, if that makes any sense. The women have not lost in it all spring and are ranked number one in the country going into the sprints two weeks from now. The crews around the years 1971-2-3-4 have donated enough money to endow the rowing program with a new shell every three years. And the crew that has the most need of a new one will get the new boat, whether it is lightweight, heavyweight, women's or men's. It is a novel concept from a novel time, the early 1970s, when coeducation began in earnest at Princeton the women's crew began. Princeton was at the forefront regarding lightweight crew as well. It is a modern idea for the traditional men's sport. "Well rowed," as they say along the banks of the Thames.
We four, veterans of two to four years practice together, times two hours, times six days a week for most of the academic year, know one another well and not at all. It is so bizarre. When you go into competition together, whether it is to make the first boat or on a 500 meter piece, or when racing against other boats on the Harlem, or the Charles, or the Schuykyll Rivers, or on the ergometer, you share an intense experience. It must be akin to going into war, but I haven't done that. A fairly intense bonding occured. No one was killed or wounded, although many egos were dashed and abused. I know so much about each one of these guys from my position as coxswain, coaxing, coaching them. I used to know about how much they'd wish to hear from me and how far I could go sharpening their bladework, pushing them for a bigger puddle. We had some very good, fast crews. And we defeated almost everyone we raced against those years. Yet I do not know what they do, the names of all their wives or children, or how they feel about life, politics or things in general. But I like seeing them. They are great guys to have known, spent all that time with then, and now.
Next week I go from college to school, with the dedication of the new boathouse at Kent. Who will choose to return? You can only guess. The absences remain the most surprising. Who does not come back, who among us does not reflect on a time and place that were most generous to us? I have never quite understood whether it is a sentimentality that shows a backward or a forward looking person, someone who is busy with a full life, or making busy with an emptier one? Is a kind of wistful mourning, or a celebration? I am going back, as I often have, because these things are unique. You never know what you miss, for one thing. And your presence, in whatever way, whatever shape or form you are now in, ancient and decrepit, or filled with vim and vigor in sprit or in body is so special. People ought, I think, to hunger for such events, though not all do. People ought to enrich each other's lives through coming back, going back and mingling. Even a slight smile of recognition, a hello. We live in disengaged, surperficial times. Are these old acquaintances n'er forgotten just to wilt and rot upon the vine, or are they the rarest fruits of human connection that we must cherish, worship and enobile with our presences?
Four of us came back to the boathouse for the dedication of the Spirit of 72 shell. The women's varsity crew row this new, state-of-the-art Resolute eight oared shell, and the boat we helped to Christen is neither virgin nor vanquished, if that makes any sense. The women have not lost in it all spring and are ranked number one in the country going into the sprints two weeks from now. The crews around the years 1971-2-3-4 have donated enough money to endow the rowing program with a new shell every three years. And the crew that has the most need of a new one will get the new boat, whether it is lightweight, heavyweight, women's or men's. It is a novel concept from a novel time, the early 1970s, when coeducation began in earnest at Princeton the women's crew began. Princeton was at the forefront regarding lightweight crew as well. It is a modern idea for the traditional men's sport. "Well rowed," as they say along the banks of the Thames.
We four, veterans of two to four years practice together, times two hours, times six days a week for most of the academic year, know one another well and not at all. It is so bizarre. When you go into competition together, whether it is to make the first boat or on a 500 meter piece, or when racing against other boats on the Harlem, or the Charles, or the Schuykyll Rivers, or on the ergometer, you share an intense experience. It must be akin to going into war, but I haven't done that. A fairly intense bonding occured. No one was killed or wounded, although many egos were dashed and abused. I know so much about each one of these guys from my position as coxswain, coaxing, coaching them. I used to know about how much they'd wish to hear from me and how far I could go sharpening their bladework, pushing them for a bigger puddle. We had some very good, fast crews. And we defeated almost everyone we raced against those years. Yet I do not know what they do, the names of all their wives or children, or how they feel about life, politics or things in general. But I like seeing them. They are great guys to have known, spent all that time with then, and now.
Next week I go from college to school, with the dedication of the new boathouse at Kent. Who will choose to return? You can only guess. The absences remain the most surprising. Who does not come back, who among us does not reflect on a time and place that were most generous to us? I have never quite understood whether it is a sentimentality that shows a backward or a forward looking person, someone who is busy with a full life, or making busy with an emptier one? Is a kind of wistful mourning, or a celebration? I am going back, as I often have, because these things are unique. You never know what you miss, for one thing. And your presence, in whatever way, whatever shape or form you are now in, ancient and decrepit, or filled with vim and vigor in sprit or in body is so special. People ought, I think, to hunger for such events, though not all do. People ought to enrich each other's lives through coming back, going back and mingling. Even a slight smile of recognition, a hello. We live in disengaged, surperficial times. Are these old acquaintances n'er forgotten just to wilt and rot upon the vine, or are they the rarest fruits of human connection that we must cherish, worship and enobile with our presences?
posted by Stonechuck at 9:52 AM
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