Head of the River by Pip Harry Page A

precise this sport is. Most people think we get in and heave the oar through the water with our arms. They don’t get the tiny measurements that count for everything in a race. I look over Dad’s shoulder as he gets out a screwdriver and moves a foot stretcher to accommodate a tall rower’s daddy long legs.
    Dad lets me screw all the loose bolts back in, coming back to give them the final, heavy tighten. I like knowing my dad has been the last person to touch my boat and his strong, tough hands have made sure nothing will come unstuck.
    â€˜Knock off?’ Dad says. There are sweat patches on his back and under his arms.
    I get us both a drink from the vending machine and we sit on the bank and look at the water. There’s not a ripple of wind and the light is a soft gold.
    â€˜This reminds me of the day I first got in a boat,’ Dad says.
    I let him tell the well-worn story again, enjoying the familiarity.
    â€˜I was supposed to go to soccer training that afternoon, but my cousin was short a rower and he convinced me to go down to the lake and row with his crew. It was like this. Perfect spring day. No wind. I had no chance. The minute I got in the boat I was hooked. It was almost the same way I felt when I met your mother.’
    â€˜â€¦ and you never played soccer again,’ I finish.
    â€˜Silly,’ Dad says. ‘Could’ve made a fortune if I’d kept kicking a ball.’
    Cristian
    I hate boat maintenance. It’s grimy, messy and fiddly and I don’t get it. All the little pieces are a complicated puzzle. It hurts my brain. Everything hurts my brain. For sure I’ve screwed up my end-of-year exams. I’m enjoying the calm before the storm of results coming out.
    I’m lying on a mat, in the dark, quiet shadows of the gym room. Everyone’s gone home after the regatta so I’ve got the place to myself. It’s spooky here. A possum scratches in the ceiling somewhere, its paws screeching as it runs along the iron beams, leaving behind telltale droppings. There’s beer behind the bar and I’d love one, but it’s locked up so I’d have to commit a felony to get at it. I’m breaking enough rules already.
    I had my first kiss here. A few steps away, sitting on the bench press table. The girl was Sally Naylor – daughter of Dad’s old crew member, Ferg Naylor. She’s better looking than her old man.
    We were both thirteen, tall and stocky like the kids of rowers are. I was showing off and pushing a barbell off my chest. The weight was too heavy and I ran out of muscle, the bar collapsing on top of me. Sally had to rescue me by pulling it off my ribs. I pulled up my T-shirt and there was a red mark that would later become an impressive bruise. She ran her hand over it and said ‘ouch’.
    I took the opportunity, even though her dad was a few metres below us manning the sausage sizzle, to kiss her. I used my tongue, because that’s what I thought you were supposed to do, and she reared back like a scared pony and ran off. She wouldn’t look at me again until we were fifteen, then we went out for two weeks and she dumped me for being too keen. Didn’t she want me to be keen?
    I don’t get girls. Still.
    Thinking about Sally I get wood. I consider going into the men’s to do something about it, but I can’t be bothered so I picture Westie’s ugly mug until it subsides. Instead of stroking myself I take a few lazy pulls on the rowing machine. Then I rev it up to full power, to see what’s there. The readout is better than anything I’ve been doing for months. I sit up taller and let it rip for 1000 metres, amazed by the time. Smiling, I put the handle back, letting the wheel spin out, my heart beating hard. I get up for a look around the room.
    This boatshed is a shrine to Dad and his rowing mates. On the wall is an honour roll of past Australian champions. My dad’s old crew takes up six