From Robmir
Lake Pocaset, Wayne, Maine
August 1, 2024
The rivulets on my cheeks were not from the summer rain falling on the lake, as I look ahead, across the sunporch, past the generational fir trees to the cove where the osprey dine. I had arisen at 8 and left the cottage softly, leaving Kristin and little Pippa to carry on sleeping. I clutched my shorts, iPad, Chacos, phone, and the volume that had captured my heart and soul: The Boys in the Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. No, I’ve not yet seen the film. Yes, I am a Husky, class of ‘77. No, I never rowed or competed in any other collegiate sport. Yes, I am one who, in the way of Walter Mitty, try to come close to experiences such as this. As a Presbyterian pastor, I am vicar who at times surrenders to living vicariously.
My heart’s desire is that the thrill I experienced as read of the .625 seconds between between the winning American boatful of Huskies and the fractional edge over both the Italian and German teams would resound in my dreams and meditations for some time. “There is no folly in this endeavor.” Though I am not what folks used to call a Calvinist (I’m not sure anyone is worthy or unworthy of that title in post-Christian times), it did flit through my brain that some from days gone by would call this kind of humanist endeavor (athleticism, patriotism, sportism, Huskyism) folly compared to achievements in the realm of Spirit.
For Hitler and his Nazis, the games in Berlin were to serve two purposes. The first, to create a patina of civility and internationalism in a country which would, within months after the games ended, begin chewing up land and the bodies of men, women and children to create a Reich which would never again be defeated. Doing this would serve the second and concurrent end of proving the dominance of the one pure Aryan race.
This project, which created a facism so robust that there are politicians seeking to emulate it as I strike these keys, was obscured by the endeavor and pursuit of rowing excellence. There was nothing pure about the combined pedigree of the ‘36 Husky varsity-eight. From a city which had yet to achieve cultural prominence. Poor and poorer in the shadow of the continuing Depression. Striking only in each boy’s determination to stay rowing and the quality of the team’s leadership: a national champion coach and a world-class boat builder.
Each individual’s training and strength and style was essential. But even more was their willingness to rest their capacity to endure, to carry on, on the back and shoulders and legs and arms of the man fore or aft in the 24-inch-wide shell of the Husky Clipper.
When the eight oarsmen and their coxswain found their swing, the boat moved over the water as if on a sheet of glass. I have experienced moments of swing in a variety of endeavors. Perhaps most often in the realm of making music. But I want more.
Heaven help the foes of Washington, which now will include Wisconsin and Iowa on a regularly basis. Oy vey. But that’s another story.
