The bow holds steady, the stern backs down, and so we ease away from the dock.
At least that’s the plan but both of us were reluctant to move.
Even the coach in the launch just sat there. Not looking at us or the rest of the crew – doubles like us, fours and eights making their way down to the dock.
No, she was star-and-sky gazing.
One by one the heralds of the night winked out and gave way to the rising ruler of the day.
Soft pink puffs of cotton announced its grand entrance both above and reflected below.
Nearly six miles later nothing had changed.
Certainly, the sky was bluer, the cotton it’s normal white but the water – the water – it was the water that remained glass.
Shepherded around the course by the coaches, the rowers returned to the dock.
It wasn’t yet 7 A.M.
“Wasn’t that beautiful water?” she said.
Happily tired, we just smiled in reply.
