This is what it's all about. I'm seated between Lis Nielsen (left) and Jennie Evans. Photo / Lewis Gardner
Over the summer Chronicle reporters have been trying their hand at something new, under the supervision of experts.
Today, Laurel Stowell tries rowing on the Whanganui River.
I like the cold, muddy smell of the river, the splash and gurgle as the oars slide in and then the surge and glide of the boat.
Rowing is harder than it looks but being actually on the water is as good as I remember it.
Not that I had much time to notice, in a novice rowing session with the Union Boat Club.
I've rowed a dinghy a lot, and I like the steady, predictable, rhythmic relationship between effort and movement.
You have your back to the destination and it would be better if you could see where you were going. But it's good.
I've watched crews racing on the river. Passing by on winter mornings I've seen the mist rise and heard the megaphone voices of coaches.
I've been sailing with my dad and brother, and I had a go in a waka ama at one Pākaitore anniversary.
I've paddled the Whanganui from Taumarunui to Whanganui in a Canadian canoe, in three separate trips.
So when I was cycling the Timber Trail with friends and met Jennie and Bob Evans at Blackfern Lodge and we got talking about rowing the river, I told them I'd always wanted to try it.
Bob said to come to the Union Boat Club and he'd take me out, anytime.
In the years after that I thought about contacting him every summer, when the weather warmed and the river looked inviting.
Getting an experience to write about for the Chronicle became my perfect opportunity.
My contact told me to head on down to the Union Boat Club at 8.30 on Sunday morning for the club's allcomers meet.
The sky was blue, with scudding clouds and a light breeze. The river was brown and still.
It was a good morning for practically anything. On my way I passed a regatta under way at Aramoho, petrolheads converging at Caroline's Boatshed, waka ama paddlers gathering at their slipway.
At the Union Boat Club a little black shag was standing on the pontoon and club captain Peer Nielsen was waiting for me.
Their Sunday morning sessions are always open for casual paddlers, he said. It's easier for them to accommodate people with some experience, but he or Bob will always find a way to give newcomers a try.
Peer laid down a few rowing basics. If the boat flips, stay with it, he said. You can't wear a lifejacket while rowing but there are flotation aids under the seats.
The boat has compartments of air, it will not sink and you can swim it to shore.
Don't let go of your oar handles was number two tip. They act a bit like outriggers to stabilise the boat. Point three - do most of the work with the big muscles in your thighs.
I'd been told not to wear loose and potentially flappy clothing. From what I could see no one was taking their cellphone aboard a boat, and it would be no place for my hearing aids.
What I hadn't been told was that I needed socks. Each rower puts their feet into a pair of shoes attached to the boat, and the socks insulate against possible athlete's foot. Lis Nielsen lent me some spare socks.
It was time to carry the four-person skiff to the water and get in. Everyone helps with the overhead carry. I wasn't much use.
New rules arise - don't stand on the boat base. Only on the white plastic bit above. Put your socked feet into the shoes and your buttocks into a black plastic seat that slides back and forth.
Fasten your scull (it's not called an oar unless you are using only one of them) into a swivel attached to a rigger, close the gate and screw it securely in.
We were in a four-person rowing skiff, called a quad. I was number two in the boat. Number four was in charge. All of us had our backs to the destination. Peer got into a single scull and rowed alongside.
You have a scull in each hand. You hold them lightly, with your fingers and not your palm, and you keep your thumb on the end of the scull to keep it pushed right up against the swivel.
Then I get to dip my oars in rhythm with Jennie, who sits ahead of me. Lis says, "I think we've got a natural here." Which is encouraging.
But it's only stage one.
The scull has to be turned so that the blade is flat to the water between strokes. It's called feathering. There should be an easy roll of the fingers to make this adjustment, I was told, but my typist hands wouldn't do it.
We rowed upriver, trying a half-push along the seat first, then a full one. I discovered I'm not long enough to push all the way from one end to the other. When we tried the full push with feathering it was "Help!" So much to coordinate.
I could already feel the work I was doing, however pathetic, in my knees and thighs. Real rowers feel it in their hands too, with blisters. People who can't manage feathering with that easy swivel of the hand feel pain in their wrists.
By then we were well over to the eastern side and I was starting to be entranced by the dark brown of the water and the green of the bank.
It was time to finish, and I had only just got the full feeling of the powerful surge through water when four people row strongly together. Mostly I was messing that up.
But I do want to try again, when there is less time pressure, and with a very patient teacher. They tell me rowing works best when you are relaxed, and you just allow yourself to get into the rhythm.
Peer says it's more complicated than it looks, and it takes at least 10 tries to get it somewhere near right. Even people who have been rowing for years are still aiming for the perfect stroke, he said.
They tell me being out on the water is the good part, which makes the considerable before-and-after boat work worthwhile. They tell me there's friendship and satisfaction when a group works together well. I did manage to feel the surge of power, briefly.
I had better have another go.
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