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Jolly Boating (Caning) Weather
First VIII Whipping Boy
Story Note: "Jolly Boating (Caning) Weather" is the series name of what will be two or three stories that will focus on crew or rowing athletic endeavors within my fictional world of "Dreading Eton." The stories will not directly feature Dreading Eton's characters, Barrett Campion and his British mates, but will feature other boys who may have been at the college at roughly the same time in that fictional world.
Series Introduction: Don't you love irony? I do. For instance, I find it ironic that one year ago, I was vacationing just off shore of Bellingham, Washington, U.S.A, while merely 40 miles directly west across the sound to Vancouver Island was the school home of the Shawnigan Lake School first Eights (more commonly, VIII) who was at the same time, domiciled overseas in Great Britain at Henley-On-Thames. There, the Shawnigan Lake VIII awaited their destiny to prevail over the Eton College first VIII in the finals of the Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup at the 2008 Henley Royal Regatta. I was oblivious both to rowing and to that stroke of geographical fate, then anyway.
Now, one year later, I was doing another bit of internet Googling about Eton College and discovered the text of a very inspirational speech given to a group of Shawnigan Lake masters by the rowing cox of that 2nd place 2008 Eton College first VIII, Freddie Foks. The subject of that speech was Mr. Foks' comments and recollections about that race. He was very gracious and even admiring of his Shawnigan Lake adversaries with his remarks, but the extraordinary thing about it for me was that Mr. Foks had just finished up nearly a full gap year at Shawnigan Lake School, the source of his bitter defeat.
Why Freddie Foks had spent a year at Shawnigan Lake after what had happened, I'll never know; only perhaps that it seemed to make a statement about the very mature nature of rowing at the extremely high level of competition that schools like Shawnigan Lake, Eton and a myriad of other elite British, American, Canadian and Aussie schools can and must muster to reach a crack at that final Sunday race.
The point of all this is that writing male/male spanking fiction about Eton College must at some juncture pay homage to sporting activities at Eton. To that end, there should be no doubt that though there are many great athletic sports to consider at a place like Eton, you must give the tip of the hat to rowing as the premier school athletic endeavor.
Why rowing? Well, the highly prized worldwide prestige of winning at the Henley Regatta for one, but more specifically at Eton, The Procession of Boats, The Eton Boating Song, The Thames river itself and last, but definitely not least, Eton's Dorney Lake rowing facility, home not only to the world's largest boat club, Eton College Boat Club, but now also the rowing host to the 2012 Olympics.
Then there are also the many colorful and intriguing descriptions that I have garnered about the sport that attracted me. Rowing is described as elitist, but if so, it is strange to want to be elite about something that amounts to physical and emotional "blood-sport," especially so in order to reach the kind of consistent performances over the long stretch of time that it takes to finally get a chance to win a cup at Henley.
Frankly though, It was Freddie's descriptive speech that did it for me and especially so his casually intense mention of the thousands of combined hours of training required of school-boy rowers over ten of twelve months in each of the four years preceding just that one chance at one race, in your last school year, for all the glory of being a true and internationally recognized school-boy champion.
I shall desist further description of the true nature of the rower and their mysterious leader, the coxswain (pronounced "cox-in"), in favor of forwarding to this first story, "First VIII Whipping Boy," and let the story tell you more about my impressions of school-boy rowing. And oh yes, for those that are interested, the link to Freddie's speech: http://alumni.gocowichan.com/?p=1942 Please do enjoy!
Story Factoid: As of Thursday July 2, 2009 at 10 minutes to 8PM at Henley-On-Thames, three real life updates that connect in fun ways to this story must be mentioned. Firstly, the Eton College VIII seem hell-bent to obliterate all school-boy opposition into the finals of the Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup on July 5 in order avenge their 2nd place loss to Shawnigan Lake from Canada as noted above; secondly, I was able to listen via Regatta Radio (87.7 AM locally in Henley-On-Thames or as I did, on their live internet feed)to a thrilling live interview with Eton College's Headmaster Tony Little, who waxed eloquently (with a very deep charismatic speaking voice I must say) about his rowing VIII boys and thirdly, former 2008 Eton first VIII coxswain Freddie Foks has been located working for Regatta Radio and as revealed via the radio producer's live interview, Freddie is looking for work in London having failed to gain entrance to Cambridge. Thus, the afterlife of an OE or an OE coxswain is never certain! I shall update after the July 5th finals at Henley.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Ten!" I said a little more quickly this time, the sting and burn from the ninth cane stripe across my bare breech not quite subsided yet, but wanting to get on with it despite the pain and finish my dozen assigned cuts, my mind already refreshed and fit for the effort put in by both of us on behalf of the team. By us I mean me, an Eton College Eights (VIII) oarsman or rower and receiver of said pain, and my cox and Eton first VIII teammate, the giver of the pain, the rest of the lads amused benefactors, point in fact.
The cane's whistling tenth strike was close at hand and seared across my arse, my face wincing up good. God it hurt a lot by now! And now I wished that I had done my job correctly in the first place and not put my poor bum at risk once again, but I guess it was worth it. But that's also what happens when you make a pact with a devil.
Parker Susten-Marks or just Marks, our first VIII coxswain (and said devil) had quickly become an expert caner over just a few months spread of time, thanks to me. So what was this all about anyway? Was I in trouble and taking an earned punishment, the kind that was certainly not uncommon for any year of Eton College pupil in my days there? No, I was not. The canings were in fact a kind of ritual motivational agreement thing between Parker and I, a clever suggestion that Parker had made of me based on an accidental observation that he had made one evening in my House room.
Nobody but one's House Captain or other prefect designee was supposed to be able to cane another boy, officially that is. But once my own House Captain and the Captain of Boats found out why Parker needed official permission to cane me from time to time, well, let's just say that I became Parker's singular and official target for said treatment when called for and with both Captains' rich blessings, Dr. Barnes as well.
Let's just say that the powers that be preferred me and my fellows at top form if Eton was to have a proper crack at Henley and if that meant a sore arse for me besides sore arms and legs during training, so be it.
I sighed, the last burning sting subsided, "Eleven!" I said, relishing when the full dozen would be done.
Most of my fellow oarsmen were into their second training set by now, some spurred on by the sight of me in front of them, but otherwise totally ignoring my bare bum positioning squarely over the back of the chair. They were as they were supposed to be, enveloped in their own painful struggles to please the time-keeper, our coxswain, and just get the work done for that day.
If my odd effort pleased and made it better for them, fine. In any case, the cane swooped and cut my eleventh low across my sit spot. Oh that hurt again! Marks had already made his point and my mind was well lit up for my purposes by now as well as my arse, as intended. I shouted out the final cut, and it arrived, thank God it was done, that time anyway!
* * * * * * * * * *
But let's head backwards a few years, in fact all the way back to my first Queen's Eyot double oared sculling days on the Thames in my F Block year. I had tried dry-bobbing or cricket playing my first year. It was OK, but not really my thing. My Dad had attended Eton College years before and raved about wet-bobbing or rowing. I didn't think that was something I wanted to do. Maybe I was just asserting my independence from my father, something he actually encouraged. It was also what Eton College was really about, being your own boy from the first day you stepped into an Eton school and asserting your own path through your school life at Eton.
But two-oared singles sculling over a short languid stretch of the Thames quickly lead to F Quad sweep rowing, also termed one-oared four man team rowing, the highest allowed as a F Blocker, that is until your first summer, then look out. Show some promise and Dr. Barnes, the overall rowing director in general as well as the first VIII coach, would come knocking on the door and take advantage of boys like me, boys who both quickly fell in love with VIII rowing as well as seemed to be exceptionally good at it. It's very flattering really, with all the attendant Eton College rowing tradition and history, not to mention my father nearly shouting a war whoop of joy over the phone when I told him of my interest and that I was to become a Junior Colts VIII rower.
Fast forward then past months and years of arduous physical training and oarsman practice to about mid-way through the Lent half of my C Block year and my place on a 2nd VIII upper boat and by whatever voodoo witchcraft that Dr. Barnes had conjured, he had finalized who would occupy the vaunted first upper boat, the Eton College first VIII that would intensely train together the entirety of their final B Block year. The goal of that shell was an invitation to the following July's Henley Royal Regatta and into the international school-boy's rowing madness to try and capture the trophy of all trophies for their school, that year's Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup.
Yes, I had been one of the chosen first VIII oarsmen. I'd never heard my father sob a bit over the phone before, he was so proud of me for having gained that rare appointment, not even to mention the automatic gala performance in a traditional 4th Of June Procession of Boats first VIII shell just a few weeks before a chance at reaching that final Henley Sunday's VIII career race. It was guaranteed to be a banner year for sure.
At any rate, nothing would ever be the same for my final Eton College year. As my C Block Summer Half came to an end, that year's first VIII having placed a disappointing third for the cup at Henley's, Dr. Barnes then threw all of his and the focus of his new first VIII crew which now included me, into picking just the right cox to lead our on-water efforts.
Dr. Barnes was a magnificent coach and teacher of VIII rowing, but he could neither row for the oarsmen, nor coach and lead us during any actual race. That was what the coxswain was for, a B Block boy with not only the diminutive physical size required to keep down the shell's weight to a minimum, but a singular special creative talent for leadership and developing the necessary on-water coxswain's skills as well as the courage to demand the respect needed from oarsmen to cox. That was not even to mention the ability to find out what made each of his oarsmen tick to get the best out of each and every one of his oarsmen both in and out of the water.
Enter Parker Susten-Marks. There were three boys in mind for the first VIII cox. Dr. Barnes anointed the candidates then left the final choice to me and my fellow first VIII oarsmen. But how do you choose such a boy? Nobody could tell us, not even the prior year's crew. It was just one of those things and as Dr. Barnes would say, "You'll know him when you see him."
Well, in our case, we knew Parker when we heard him, not saw him. All three boys had coxing experience of some kind over the prior three years, but that was just technical proficiency. We needed something a lot more from our cox, but none of just knew just what that was until after a few consecutive days running, each of the candidates came in to the Dorney Lake training center and conducted an indoors erg-machine practice each.
Talk about dullness from the first two boys. All I and my fellow oarsmen could do was feel as if finding a cox might never happen and we were getting very anxious. An anxious oarsman is a poorly performing oarsman, both indoors and out on the water.
Then entered Parker that third day. He had learned a trick or two from a very successful Harvard University cox from America. Americans and British sometimes could never be in agreement about sporting issues, but in this case, the American's coxswain methods proved to be a Brit's answer.
Parker put a music CD into the center's otherwise dull background music and lit the place up with not only high energy and erg-machine rhythm matching music, but his own high energy and witty banter, all in close concert to what we needed to focus while slogging away on those hateful erg-rowing machines. It was a marriage to be sure between oarsmen and their new cox. It was quite obvious that Parker Susten-Marks wanted that Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup every bit as much as we did and was willing to do anything to help us all get a good crack at it.
But honeymoons can end quickly between the new cox and his oarsmen and especially with high strung athletic teenagers as we all were and especially when after four years of training, the final year's hard work became very dull and mind numbing business, the burning pain in our legs seemingly even more distracting than in years past.
That is when Parker really started to earn his keep. He became what sometimes is really needed, a bit of a tyrant. But that is also when he took to heart the need to really dig and find out what each of us might individually need from him, if anything, to get the final year's work done and nail down for us all, an appointment with destiny.
Many of my fellow first VIII needed nothing. Somehow, their minds and bodies stayed in perfect sync and just did it all on their own and they self-motivated. After that, some needed a gentle lead and Parker never got verbally aggressive with those boys, in training or certainly not in a racing shell. I seemed to be the exception to all of that.
I had no idea why I needed to row, it was just what I had to do in college. My father could not tell me, he just said, "it's what we Stevenson men do." I finally gave that search up and accepted the need, but was struggling to reach my newly increased erg-training goals nonetheless and some too on the water, not good. I was rowing 7nd position, starboard side oar, just in back of the eighth seat position, port oar or stroke position, and starting to really fret about my rowing and fretting never helps a rower reach a goal.
One afternoon, I finished my erg-training at Dorney Lake, my times barely reasonable, yet again. Parker looked at them and me. I think he was kind of lost for what to say to me and that frustrated me even more, not to mention I was on my way to see my House Captain. I had fucked up a biology exam very early in my B Block autumn Michaelmas half and got myself a rare Rip. I was headed for a good caning from my House Captain for it, just something we did in my House for academic problems and motivations over my years there.
I accepted my punishment for the Rip, that was not the problem. I had got a bit complacent and academically lazy, but part of it was worry over my rowing times. I was not coordinated and balanced in my year yet and needed to be, almost desperately so in order to be able to take my school studies in hand as well as row at a very high level as the team needed.
Well, my House Captain predictably ripped my arse a good dozen late that evening. Oh my god, how that little session hurt the ol' bum. I had been punished, caned, over my prior several years a couple times, never for anything very serious, but my House Captain kind of liked his work I think, he never let up on any cane cut.
Nonetheless, I took my strokes once again then headed back to my room. Ordinarily, I would have a good wank just to unwind from all the built up tension and pain of punishment and forget about it, everyone else involved would, but this time seemed different. I did not feel whole as I usually would after a good beating and I didn't know why.
Nevertheless, being a common horny Eton boy, I worked up a head of steam and was alone in my room laying flat on my back on my bed, getting a good boiling up of the ol' juices when who should waltz into my room quite unannounced? Yes, Parker Susten-Marks, my cox.
"Oh, sorry!" Marks said with a bit of a knowing smirk.
I stopped my personal stroking and looked up at him. Though I was not shocked to have an intruder at such a time, in as much as such unexpected intrusions into very personal moments were not as uncommon as one would think among us boys in our rooms, Parker's presence was still an unpleasant reminder that I was not doing well with my erg-times.
It kind of took the wind out of my sails, a little any way. I had after all kind of stomped out of the training room at Dorney Lake earlier and figured I had a lecture of some kind coming from my cox for having done so.
"It's no problem Marks, I'm sorry for having left the center as I did, but I was kind of preoccupied," and then I turned over and showed Parker my caning stripes.
He smiled, "Nicely done there. Why?"
"A bloody Rip. I've been out of sorts lately in some of my schools and at the center, as if you haven't noticed."
"I have and I wanted to discuss it, but I can come back later."
I sighed. Parker had helped smooth of several of my fellow Oarsman's bumpy times in his various inscrutable ways and was proving his worth to the team. "No, don't leave," I replied and furtively touched my still erect member. Parker sat, "Don't stop or mind me then, you'll need a good wank after that thick set."
Funny, wanking in front of Parker seemed not a problem as I might have expected. I closed my eyes and settled back to my efforts, slipping my hand under my bare bum to feel my still very sore stripes. I didn't need to imagine anything, just feel my punishment and off I went, spraying up to my chin as Parker sat watching. Then I sighed and opening my eyes, looked over at him, feeling a lot better, about my Rip anyway.
"I wish rowing problems could be as easily smoothed over by a good caning, it always seems to help get me motivated for academics, "I mused and it was true actually.
Parker got a funny look on his face, "I wonder."
"You wonder what?" I replied.
"If I threatened that you would get a good hard thrashing if you didn't get your times down, would it help?" he answered with a small demonic (coxswain's) smile.
I lay there a moment, using a small towel to clean myself up a bit, but still naked on my bed. Wasn't he just teasing me? But might it actually help me? But wasn't that a very strange and off-beat motivational tool for an oarsman? A caning hurts, really bad. Why should I want that as a tool to focus my rowing efforts? And yet it made a certain kind of sense. Maybe I needed that kind of threat to get my motor going.
"I'm not sure, maybe," I finally replied.
"I'll have Bernston (our Captain of Boats) come down to the center next practice and bring his cane. Maybe if he just brandishes it about, it would help, " Parker replied in a way that I was not sure if he was serious or not. That was part of what was really fun about Marks, he knew when to keep us oarsmen off guard and not tell us all of his secrets.
Sure enough, Henry Bernston, our esteemed Captain Of Boats did show up the very next practice, and did bring his senior cane. Henry should have been one of our oarsmen on the first VIII, but had suffered badly sprained ankle from a bicycling accident just a few months before and Dr. Barnes had to replace him.
We all liked Henry, he was one of us and knew how hard the work we were doing really was. Anyway, just seeing his cane made me blush and work harder that day as Marks took full advantage. The music was blaring away as usual and he was marching up and down the line with his usual witty sayings and chants and then would say something to each oarsman in whichever vein that he thought would help.
Well, he got to my station and naturally leaned over, "Don't you let up Stevenson or I'll haul your bum off the machine and have Bernston play a tune on it with his cane! MOVE IT!" he grinned and backed off. I moved my bum and my legs and my arms. It was actually kind of comical, even to me, how I responded right away. My mates all looked at me and grinned, too breathless to say anything just then anyway, but I got a lot of good natured ribbing for it later, the kind that a boy doesn't mind at all.
A week later however, my coxswain had to take a much more serious path with me. I was in some kind of weird funk and falling a bit too far off my times for his tastes on my first set. I finished, but not happily and when I got off the machine, I walked out of the center outdoors with the rest of my mates for a breather, but stayed off by myself.
I actually felt significantly discouraged, if not a tad despondent. When you think of it, and I thought of it a lot, there were hundreds of boys on three continents that were at any one time in most any 24 hours period working their bums to shreds to improve their erg-times and give their teams their very best, Henley was that important to them, even in their fall or autumn terms. I was not feeling that burn to win and that really felt very bad to me.
It was then that Parker Susten-Marks really showed his mettle. He came up to me and just stood there a moment, then put his hand up on my shoulder, "You know, all you have to do is ask Stevenson. I know you're in a bad rut lately and it wouldn't hurt if you could just give into it."
I furrowed my brow, I knew what he meant and at that moment resented it, "You mean I'm just supposed to warm up to the idea that maybe I do need my bum whacked about by Bernston in front of my mates to get me motivated? Fuck off Marks, that's not going to happen," and I turned and stomped back towards the center doorway and immediately felt like a total and utter out of control arsehole. It was really getting bad if I could resort to calling a teammate, any teammate to fuck off, much less one that was simply doing his job correctly.
I stopped and waited for everyone to pass by me and get back inside before I turned to look at Parker. I had decided to apologize to him, but not if he was going to cop some kind of attitude with me. It was what I would call later my own little turning point as an oarsman in relation to his coxswain. Instead of flashing me anger, attitude or a smirk, he just walked up to me and looked a bit saddened. It disarmed me. He almost passed by me, but I stopped him,
"I'm sorry Parker, I apologize, but I'm not myself and I need your help, please? I'll do anything, caning, running naked about the streets of Windsor, anything!" and I was finally dead serious.
"Well, I think we'll spare a few women swooning over your spectacular naked body and stick to what we know best. Just take a few extra minutes outside here and relax. I'll call Bernston, OK?"
I felt so immature, stupid and ridiculous. Caning? I was to be caned to get motivated to row harder? What would my mates think inside there? Brandishing a cane like a clown or threatening to cane is one thing, but I was to be caned in front of the lot of them? That was when I just had to trust not only my own instincts, but Parker's as well.
Still, it was kind of fun watching Henry Bernston piling out of a car driven by Dr. Barnes himself and running at me with his cane in hand as if there was a fire to be put out at the center and the cane was a fire extinguisher. He ran up to me at full speed then stopped, panting a bit,
"Marks said it was an emergency, that you were having a crisis and needed my assistance!"
I nearly fell over laughing. Maybe actually that's all it really was, a lack of humor for my strange predicament, but I was committed to it now and even thought that the sight of a fellow oarsman getting a good hard caning in front of them all, might prove a bit enlivening to some of their times as well.
I walked in, Bernston close behind. I was already about ten minutes late to start my second set, but that was not important. Parker came right up to Bernston, "What took you so long!? Get to it man, this oarsman needs a good thrashing if he's to get his times improved!"
Henry had his own humor about the thing however, "I'll not be having Dr. Barnes driving me down Maidenshead Rd. like a damned ambulance Marks, you are going to do the caning. I'll teach you and give you the cane to do it with as well. That way the job is done and Barnes doesn't get a citation for speeding!"
By then, the thought that it should be Parker caning me simply made sense, so that's what happened. For the next few minutes, my naked backside perched over the back of a chair right square in front of my fellow first VIII oarsmen, Captain of Boats, Henry Bernston taught Parker Susten-Marks how to light up my backside with that cane of his.
It was to be a good hard dozen each and every time he did it from that point onwards, but it did work. My arse was on fire as I sat back down to do my second set and as I did so from a deficit of time, Marks got the best enjoyment announcing to the room after the other lads finished up ahead of me, that everyone else's time had improved in just the short time they had witnessed my beating. So, it was either fear of the same fate if their times did not measure up or my painful predicament simply was good entertainment during very dull training.
In any case, I was quickly dubbed their "Little Whipping Boy Oarsman" or even "Red-Rumped Rower," and then proceeded over time to undergo more good natured teasing than I thought I could stand. Actually, I could stand a lot of it and to tell the truth, it brought us even closer together as a team in the coming months than we could have imagined, all because our cox had the good sense to be unconventional and I had the good sense to allow myself "to just give into it," as Parker had suggested.
The following July, that year's Henley Royal Regatta …
I guess by now, rowing for my college had become such an ingrained habit or even a kind of obsession and my teammates such close mates that not winning the Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup seemed impossible. Even my B Block Leaver's Day was almost overlooked for the drama of it being my last official school presence at Eton College academically. Certainly that year's 4th of June Procession Of Boats was not overlooked and something I could never forget. The first VIII trained as hard to make a perfect showing in our shell in front of our parents and gathered Eton College staff and dignitaries as we did to race at Henley that year.
At the least, all of the prior Procession Of Boats performances in which I was privileged to row combined with my five short years at Eton College, rife with all of its traditions of centuries past, had helped to make me into the man I knew I had become.
We knew our first VIII was as ready for Henley as we could possibly be and by means that still fascinated me to no end. My last caning had actually been months before and though I didn't miss the cane, I missed the way it amused my comrades and fellow oarsmen. I missed how gleeful it made Parker to do it, I think because he knew he was doing something extraordinary for the VIII, but also personally for me.
You see, an oarsman's lot is relatively simple. We are the thoroughbred horse that runs the race, the cox is the jockey that rides with us and guides us, but that's all he really is. There's only so much a jockey can do, you see. He can carry the whip (cane) and use it at the right moments (and did) and try and get more performance from his animal (oarsmen), make his calls correctly and then just by any other means, verbally spur us oarsmen down the course.
But the problem is, especially nowadays, there are many shells at our level of competence with school-boys just as enthusiastic as we are. Eton College has excelled in rowing in the international scene for decades and always will into the future, but you can never be assured of any victory when so many want so sincerely and desperately to win a cup at Henley in their final year and make the claim to be a true school-boy international champion and, more importantly still, to win the prize for their precious school, just like we did at Eton.
I can tell you with full assurances that at the end of the race, the finals that Sunday, that I had put every fiber of my being into those last 2100 meters of my Eton College rowing career. As they say, I left it all on the water that day and so did all of us, Parker included. The problem was, it wasn't enough. We took 2nd by just a seat or two, a mere one second of time and change.
I was so tired, so exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally that to not win, almost seemed a mercy. To not have to conjure up humility as we always did when we had won many races that year was a kind of strange relief. I recall being in the stroke (8th seat) position as I had been since mid-Lent half and looking at Parker as he sat in his cox position in front of me as the final result was formed.
He just looked at me, no emotion now and I was afraid to say one word to him because I knew that of all of us, he was going to take the blame and brunt of the loss to himself and not because any of us oarsmen wanted or needed him to or that there was any blame to be had. That is the nature of being the cox, of taking that kind of personal risk and responsibility.
We heartily congratulated the winner and then even Dr. Barnes, Henry Bernston and a host of Eton College well wishers and parents left us alone for awhile to process what had happened.
"You all are the finest men I've ever known," was all Parker could say looking at us all one by one and not lose control. I thanked God I was too numb to say anything to anyone at that moment and other than all of us oarsmen gathering ourselves into and around Parker for a last hug together in a tight group, we all could not find any words to say back to him just then, those would come from each of us in due course.
* * * * * * * * * *
Later, that evening back at the college where we had all delayed final school departure because of Henley, I found Parker in his House, alone in his room packing. I walked right in on him and was glad he was alone. He looked up at me,
"Stevenson, I'm glad you dropped by. Let me ask you, did I do enough?" and my throat tightened for just a moment, then I relaxed. I didn't feel I was qualified to answer his question of self-doubt. I saw the cane that he had used on me many times sitting in the corner by itself. I went over and picked it up. I had actually never handled the thing before, no surprise there, but handling it did spawn an answer,
"Yes Parker, you did it all. You were the best. It was enough, believe me. You did things that were unbelievable. We came in 2nd because that was our fate. That's all."
He smiled, "Thanks, you're a good mate Stevenson," he said and taking the cane from me, swished it a bit through the air a few times, kind of sentimentally and then gave it back to me,
"You should keep this for a souvenir, I can't. It would be too painful of a reminder that despite my best, we couldn't pull through it," and his countenance fell a little. I found it odd that I didn't feel badly at all about 2nd place because Parker had helped me, including with that cane, to give my rowing my very best efforts.
I held the cane once again and smiled, then handed it right back to him, moved to the side and pushed down my trousers and pants, one last time,
"Give me a good six Parker, please. You did so much for me, it's the least I can do to repay you," and then I bent forward towards touching my toes, knowing that using the thing one more time might lighten Parker's mind and give him a bit of well earned pleasure in doing it.
It worked. He hummed a little tune as he grinned and gave me a good hard six, me counting each out before given, just as I had during our training year. They hurt, but the hurt felt good to give something back to Parker and also represented a kind of completion of a circle for my year of good effort that would not have been possible without Parker's help.
So, did Parker Susten-Marks care a little too much about winning? Well, if he did, it was his job to care as much as he possibly could, he was our coxswain after all. I was just an oarsman, a simple rower and his obedient servant. Oh, and yes, I was also the first VIII whipping boy as well, and lest I ever forget its role in my rowing life, I would indeed keep that cane as a reminder of both a wonderful year of rowing and a wonderful friend in Parker Susten-Marks.
Epilogue: You'd be pleased to know that those were not the last moments I had with Parker. After he gave me my last six with the cane, we commiserated only a bit more about the race then dropped the subject in favor of talking about the future. Luck would have that we were to attend the same university the following autumn and decided to be roommates; you know, just like the song from our school said, " … and nothing in life can sever, the chain that is round us now."
I would not crew at university, the drive and will required had left me, but I was content. Parker however was addicted to coxing and found himself a university level shell to boss around. I would simply relax in a comfortable chair on the shore or dock, a cup of hot tea or other cooler beverage in hand, depending on that day's "jolly boating weather," smiling at the familiar scene before me, watching his oarsmen "suffer" under his relentless personality just as I had.
© Copyright PJ Franklin June 29, 2009
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Main Story PageLast updated: June 29, 2009