Get back in that boat...
It was a bright, breezy mid-Saturday afternoon on the last weekend of April, 1997. A young 23-year-old was feeling incredibly anxious. His heart was pounding, almost fearfully, as he waited opposite the Fulham Football Ground in London. He was waiting for the moment. He could hear the worried voice of his grandmother, echoing through his mother: ‘Uh-uh. Why is he rowing? Boy, that water is dirteee. He don’t want to go falling in…’
He was a novice sculler, sitting afloat on the River Thames on a thin, 30cm wide, 8-metre-long piece of pale blue carbon-fibre. He was trying to stay balanced with nothing to hold onto but 2.9-meter-long oars (called sculls). Compared to his morning race, his stress levels had skyrocketed—just like the incoming, bumpy, rolling high tidal waters. This time, there was more of it, adding an extra 5-7 meters of depth and increasing the width of the river.
To make matters worse, an armada of large, pristine pleasure craft (aka gin palaces, in river speak) had just passed by, heading downstream toward central London. These craft weren’t slowing down for anyone, leaving behind large, bouncy wakes of rolling waves, now rebounding off the banks. Combined with an increasing blustery breeze, the novice thought, How on earth will I survive this?
This moment was his afternoon final. It was his third official, side-by-side race since learning the sculling basics the previous October. He was up against a more experienced rower from Imperial College. They would be started near the middle of the river, not far from Fulham’s Craven Cottage, racing side by side, this time going upstream for 1400 meters, finishing shortly after Hammersmith Bridge.
Flashback to Ten Years Earlier
Ten years earlier, this novice sculler would never have imagined himself as a natural sportsman. Many young kids fall into rugby, football, or running with absolute ease, ‘naturally gifted’ as if their brains and bodies were genetically designed, pre-programmed for it. But not this 23-year-old.
He grew up in tough 1980s northern England, where gym and physical education methods were from an older, more primitive era. This wasn’t a time for nurturing skills or understanding. Patience and helping discover other strengths were in short supply.
If you weren’t good or tough enough, or if you appeared incapable, you were sidelined, forgotten, or picked last. If you couldn’t climb that rope, jump far enough, vault the horse, control the ball, or run fast enough, eyes would roll in despair.
This young man had been overweight during his teens. Growing up with, and being influenced by a single mother who was sometimes more focused on new-age spiritual pursuits than on down-to-earth real-life matters, he never really understood the concept of being fit or athletic. During his teens, there was no father figure around to help with sports or outdoor activities; or resilience…
To make matters worse, he was often mocked and teased for his shape and ‘squidgy bits.’ Clumsy, somewhat awkward, and uncoordinated, he was a late starter in most areas of his life. He was definitely not an athlete. In a school year of 150-200 pupils, he usually finished third from last in the regular cross-country running races.
Enter Rowing
By 1994, he had stumbled into rowing, partly by accident - or was it fate? A family friend suggested he give rowing a go during his first year at university. The university rowing club wasn’t highly competitive; it was more of a ‘get into the sport and experience’ environment, led by a fatherly coach who had good ethics and a belief in equality in sport, especially for those underprivileged or culturally disconnected from such expensive pursuits.
In his first two years of rowing, this novice sculler practiced on the river two afternoons a week and did circuit training on Monday evenings. It wasn’t much compared to the average rowing club’s regimen.
He usually spent time in the safer boats - the sweep eight or the coxed four. But each time he visited the Chiswick Boathouse, he would watch and admire the beauty and skill of the single scullers ‘pond skating’ their boats up and down the Thames with ease. He admired how they rowed alone in these ridiculously thin boats, looking graceful and never seeming like they would fall in.
For two years, he said, ‘No chance’—there was no way he’d ever take to the single scull. It was too precarious – the boat never looked safe enough! Who else would look after you once you was released on your own from the banks of the river?
In 1996, at the beginning of his third year, a very tall 6’6” student joined the university rowing club. This guy didn’t know how to row - he was a raw novice - but within a month, he was already heading out onto the water in a fine single shell.
WHAT? He’s only just joined the club, never rowed before, and within two months he’s being spotted as far as Kew Bridge, 2km from the base club - not just in a tub-boat (a wider-bottomed sculling boat for beginners) but in an actual single scull!
If he can do it with virtually no rowing experience, why can’t I?
Back to April 1997
Fast forward to that Saturday afternoon in April 1997 - the novice sculler, with just seven months of single sculling practice and limited hours behind him, was called to the start of the race final against his Imperial opponent.
The water was terrible, more akin to the North Sea than a pleasant park pond - bouncy, white-capped waves created by the wind. He cursed those gin palaces; he cursed the race umpires for going ahead with the race, and he cursed nature itself - the wind, the water, the waves, and the vast, steadily filling tidal Thames. He hated them all…
“Attention, set, go!” the race began.
‘Three-quarter slide, half slide, another half slide… wind up the rate, quick hands, lengthen out,’ he thought, trying to follow the technical calls he’d practiced.
But they were gone. Gone. Gone. They didn’t exist anymore. They weren’t relevant. This race was all about survival. Survival of the most competent. Who could cover 1400 meters on these choppy waters without making a mistake?
Halfway through the race, the novice sculler was still struggling, gripping the oar handles so tightly that his forearms were tightening with pain - a common novice error. He realised he was never going to win this race. It was just a matter of getting from one end of the course to the other.
He glanced over at his opponent, who was ahead but not far away. This was a fitter, leaner athlete, but he too was struggling with the conditions, sculling at quarter slide*, not full. But the 23-year-old just couldn’t close the gap.
*In rowing, there is a sliding seat on rails - the aim is to row at full length, or full slide, to maximize the effectiveness of the legs, body, and arms. By doing so, you create more run on the boat, covering distance in a shorter time.
As they approached the famous landmarks near Hammersmith, the Harrods Depository building and the iconic Hammersmith Bridge, the river worsened. Big white-capped waves were crashing over the stern and bow of the racing singles. Other passing boats created more waves, more chop.
In the boat, you slide forward, compressing your thighs to chest to put the ends of the oars (the spoons) into the water. Today, it felt precarious - like teetering forward over the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold onto. The boat would lurch, the oars catching the waves unevenly. One oar would connect with the water, while the other felt like it was still catching air.
Then it happened.
The 23-year-old caught a wave with his oar. He lost control of one of the handles. The boat lurched over. He fell into the murky Thames.
That moment was like slow motion - the longest seconds of his life.
He heard a loud cheer coming from the bridge. The 23-year-old just felt…
An orange lifeboat sped to help. The next moment, all he knew was that he was being pulled from the water and sped back upriver to his rowing club - back to base.
What were his feelings? They were a cocktail of pure embarrassment, anger, frustration, hurt, and pain (but from where?). Not only was he soaked in his rowing kit, but he was also severely wounded mentally and emotionally - feelings of insecurity, of being watched, observed, and laughed at. These were feelings from his own mind…
He was a sensitive young man who had experienced a few traumas in his early years. He’d had an extraordinary upbringing – stories for another time.
Many times, he had been bullied during school. On the local estate where he lived, people were ignorant of his skin colour, his background. Over the years, he had been called all sorts of disgusting names since the age of six. He was victimised, mocked, scorned, laughed at. At age 16, a bike was stolen from him at knifepoint. On another occasion, a gang attacked him, throwing a stick that busted open his eyebrow, requiring 14 stitches. He later had to face and identify his smirking persecutor in court.
Go through the trauma again…
It all came to the surface - the pain, the embarrassment, the deep hurt, the rejection from his biological father. The rejection from the world around him. It felt like the whole world was mocking him, ridiculing him. ‘You’ll never make this – you’re not capable. Why are you bothering to attempt?’
The emotions were welling deep inside. He wanted the world to swallow him up. He wanted to cry.
He spoke to himself:
‘I’m never ever going to do this again. I’m quitting rowing, sculling…all of it. I hate it all. I hate the wind. I hate the water and waves. I HATE this sport!’
He sat there, head held in hands, in the changing rooms back at the rowing club, feeling pathetic, his ego shattered, planning his escape - never to return.
Then a voice spoke: ‘You’ve been in the sink, haven’t you?’ An older chap was in the room at the same time.
‘Yes,’ the 23-year-old replied feebly. ‘I was racing at Hammersmith Amateur Regatta and fell in. The water was awful.’
The older man listened and then replied:
‘Tomorrow…I want you to get back in that boat. Not the day after, not next week. TOMORROW.’
That was all that was said.
The next day… I got back in that boat and sculled up beyond Kew Bridge.
In the years that followed, I competed in many single sculling races. I wasn't a standout; but I won many heats, quarter-finals, and semi-finals. On a number of occasions, I even claimed victory in the final race. But for all the joys of winning, it was the journey that mattered…
By 2001, I found myself racing at the National Championships. There, I faced competitors who might have been fitter or more experienced than I was. I raced against a future Olympic gold medallist and seasoned ex-Boat Race 'Blues.' Along the way, I lost many races, but I kept going, despite not being the 'model athlete.'
Now, twenty-seven years later, I still have that love-hate relationship with the elements. The wind, the battering rain, the unforgiving terrain, and the choppy waves - they still test me. These elements are reflections of my deepest fears, my angst, my past, and my inner pain. They remind me of what I need to conquer.
But on other days, nothing compares to the pure enjoyment of a ‘zen scull.’ This is a moment on the river or lake when the water is undisturbed - a virtual millpond. The current is slack, there’s hardly a breeze in the air.
In these moments, you’re completely at one with nature, at peace with yourself, with no one else around. It’s just you moving in harmony, creating a smooth, efficient rhythm in tune with the elements of the moment.
It's just you, pressing steadily, connecting oar blade to water, then releasing - you’re no longer fighting or resisting the elements. The feeling is like reaching Samadhi or nirvana.
Nature, in all its harshness, is also my friend and teacher…
I’ll never forget the words of that man in the changing rooms at Thames Tradesmen’s Rowing Club. I can’t recall his face, and he may no longer be around, but his words were crucial in that moment. They sparked resilience in my mind, in my soul.
Without that moment, I wouldn’t be where I am today—I wouldn’t be loving what I do.
Thank you, Mister…whoever you were. You taught me a lesson I carry with me always.
“I am not concerned that you have fallen – I am concerned that you arise.”
Why am I sharing this experience?
This story is for all of you…
Who feel as if all the odds are completely stacked against you.
Who’ve finished dead last in your first-ever sporting event or tripped up and fell at the first hurdle.
Who avoid returning to a parkrun event because you feel too embarrassed, too unfit, or afraid of being seen walking, overtaken by someone else, or getting a worse time than your personal best from years ago.
Who struggle with social anxiety, fearing what others might think or say.
Who feel like imposters among more capable athletes.
Who know you still have something to prove to the world.
Who’ve been put down, belittled by teachers, parents, relatives, friends, or colleagues - told, ‘What are you doing that for?’ ‘You’re not good enough; you’ll never make it.’
Who suffer from self-limiting beliefs rooted in a past long gone.
Who have big goals, dreams, and aspirations, but tend to stop as soon as the first obstacle comes your way.
YES YOU CAN! – that’s all I’ll say for now. GET BACK IN THAT BOAT!
If you need help building resilience, conquering your own demons, and taking the steps to overcome the major challenges in your life, you know who to meet up with. It’s never too late…
