FIRST LESSONS ON FIXED SEATS.
If the tiro who aspires to be an oarsman has ever seen a really good
eight-oared crew in motion on the water, he will probably have been
impressed not so much by the power and the pace of it as by the
remarkable ease with which the whole complicated series of movements
that go to make up a stroke is performed. The eight blades grip the
water at the same moment with a perfect precision, making a deep white
swirl as they sweep through; the bodies swing back with a free and
springy motion; the slides move steadily; and almost before one has
realized that a stroke has been begun, the hands have come squarely home
to the chest and have been shot out again to the full extent of the
arms, the blades leaving the water without a splash. Then with a
balanced swing the bodies move forward again, the oar-blades all in a
level line on either side, and, _presto!_ another stroke has been
started. Nothing in these movements is violent or jerky; there are no
contortions--at least the tiro can see none, though the coach may be
shouting instructions as to backs and shoulders and elbows--and the boat
glides on her way without a pause or check.
What sort of spectacle, on the other hand, is afforded by a thoroughly
bad eight? The men composing it have chests and backs together with the
usual complement of limbs that make up a human being; they are provided
with oars; their ship is built of cedar and fitted with slides and
outriggers--in short, as they sit at ease in their boat, they resemble
in all outward details the crew we have just been considering. But watch
them when they begin to row. Where now are the balance, the rhythm, the
level flash of blades on the feather, the crisp beginning, the dashing
and almost contemptuous freedom of bodies and hands in motion, the even
and unsplashing progress of the ship herself? All these have vanished,
and in their place we see a boat rolling like an Atlantic liner, oars
dribbling feebly along the water or soaring wildly above it, each
striking for the beginning at the sweet will of the man who wields it,
without regard to anybody else; eight bodies, cramped and contorted
almost out of the semblance of humanity, shuffling, tumbling, and
screwing, while on eight faces a look of agony bears witness to such
tortures as few except Englishmen can continue to suffer without mutiny
or complaint. It is not a noble or an inspiring sight; but it may be
seen at Oxford or at Cambridge, on tidal waters, and even at Henley
Regatta.
What, then, is the main cause of the difference between these two crews?
It lies in good "style"--style which is present in the one crew and
absent from the other. And this style in the rowing sense merely sums up
the result, whether to individuals or to a crew, of long and patient
teaching founded upon principles the correctness of which has been
established ever since rowing became not merely an exercise, but a
science in keelless racing ships. And here one comment may be added. It
is the habit of every generation of rowing men to imagine that they have
invented rowing all over again, and have at last, by their own
intelligence and energy, established its principles on a firm
foundation. Within my own experience, five at least of these
generations believed that for the first time the virtues of leg-work had
been revealed to them, four thought they had made out a patent in the
matter of body-swing, and six were convinced that they had discovered
length of stroke and firmness of beginning. In the eyes of these young
gentlemen, the veterans whom they occasionally condescended to invite to
their practice were harmless and well-meaning enthusiasts, who might
have made a figure in their day, but who were, of course, utterly unable
to appreciate the niceties of rowing as developed by their brilliant and
skilful successors.[1] Amiable presumption of youth and innocence! The
fact is, of course, that the main principles of good rowing are the same
now as they have always been, on long slides or on short slides, or even
on fixed seats. And, personally, I have always found that the hints I
gathered from such men as Dr. Warre, Mr. W. B. Woodgate, Mr. J. C.
Tinne, or Sir John Edwards-Moss, whose active rowing days were over
before sliding seats came into use, were invaluable to me in the
coaching of crews.
[1] I shall never forget the tone of kindly patronage in which the
stroke of my college crew once observed to his coach, a man about
fifteen years older than himself: "Ah, I suppose, now, they all used to
row in top-hats in your day!"
How is a novice to be taught so that he may some day take his seat with
credit in a good crew? I answer that there is no royal road; he must
pass through a long period of practice, often so dull that all his
patience will be required to carry him through it. His progress will be
so slow, that he will sometimes feel he is making no headway at all; but
it will be sure none the less, and some day, if he has in him the
makings of an oar, he will realize, to his delight, that his joints move
freely, that his muscles are supple, that his limbs obey his brain
immediately--that, in short, the various movements he has been striving
so hard to acquire have become easy and natural to him, and that he can
go through them without the painful exercise of deliberate thought at
every moment of their recurrence.
Every oarsman must begin on fixed seats. This statement is to an English
public school or University oar a mere platitude; but in America, and
even in some of our English clubs outside the Universities, its force
and necessity have been lost sight of. Here and there may be found a
born oar, whose limbs and body do not require an arduous discipline; but
in the case of ordinary average men like the immense majority of us, it
is impossible, I believe, to acquire correct body movement without a
stage, more or less prolonged, of practice in fixed-seat rowing. For it
is on fixed seats alone that a man can learn that free and solid swing
which is essential to good oarsmanship on slides.
I will, therefore, ask my novice reader to imagine that he is seated on
one of the thwarts of a fixed-seat tub-pair, while I deceive myself into
the belief that I am coaching him from its stern. My first duty will be
to see that all his implements are sound and true and correct, since it
is probable that faults are often due as much to the use of weak or
defective materials as to any other cause. I must satisfy myself that
his oar is stiff and of a proper length; that when pressed against the
thole in a natural position it can grip the water firmly and come
through it squarely;[2] that the stretcher is properly set, and that the
straps pass tightly over the root of the toes. I must also see that he
is properly dressed, and not constricted about the waist by impeding
buttons. A belt is never permissible. Now for instruction.
[2] The breadth of beam of an ordinary in-rigged fixed-seat gig for the
use of novices may be stated at 3 ft. 10 in. A line drawn horizontally
across the boat, at right angles from the rowing thole, would be from
11-1/2 in. to 12 in. distant from the aft, or sitting edge of the
thwart. Oars should measure 12 ft. over all, with an in-board length of
3 ft. 5 in. to 3 ft. 5-1/2 in. Breadth of blades 5-1/2 in. to 5-3/4, not
more.
(1) Sit erect on the aft edge of your seat, exactly opposite the point
at which your heels touch the stretcher. The feet must be placed firm
and flat upon the stretcher, the heels touching one another, and forming
an angle of about forty-five degrees. The knees must be bent to about
one-third of their scope, and set a shoulder's breadth apart. Shoulders
must be well set back, the chest open, and the stomach well set out.
(2) Now swing your body slowly forward as far as you are able _from the
hips_, without bending the back, being careful to let your head swing
with your body. Repeat this movement several times without holding the
oar.
(_Note._--The ideal swing is that which takes the whole unbending body
full forward till it is down between the knees. This, to a novice, is
impossible, and the coach must therefore be content to see the first
efforts at swing very short. It is better that this should be so than
that a man should prematurely attain length by bending his back,
doubling in his stomach, and over-reaching with his shoulders, faults
that, once acquired, it is extremely difficult to eradicate.)
[Illustration: FIXED SEATS.
NO. 1.--POSITION AT BEGINNING OF STROKE.
(_This is a stationary photograph. In the movement of the swing the body
will come still further down._)]
The swing must be slow and balanced, for "the time occupied in coming
forward should be the body's rest, when the easy, measured swing, erect
head, braced shoulders, and open chest, enable heart and lungs to work
freely and easily, in preparation for a defined beginning of the next
stroke."[3]
[3] From an article by Mr. S. Le Blanc Smith.
(3) Take hold of your oar, the fingers passing round it, thumbs
underneath, and the hands one hand's-breadth apart. The grip on the oar
should be a finger-grip, not the vice-like hold that cramps all the
muscles of the arm. It is important, too, to remember that, while the
arms are presumably of the same length, the outside hand (_i.e._ the
hand at the end of the oar) has, during stroke and swing forward, to
pass through a larger arc than the inside hand. The inside wrist should,
therefore, be slightly arched even at the beginning of the stroke, thus
shortening the inside arm, but without impairing its use during the
stroke. This arch, too, will give the inside hand a greater leverage and
ease for performing the work of feathering, which devolves mainly upon
it.
(4) Draw your oar-handle slowly in till the roots of the thumbs touch
the chest, the elbows passing close to the sides, and the body
maintaining the erect position described above in instruction (1), but
slightly inclined beyond the perpendicular. I assume that the blade of
the oar is covered in the water in the position it would have at the
finish of a stroke.
(5) Drop your hands; in fact, not merely the hands, but the forearms and
hands together. This movement will take the oar clean and square out of
the water.
(6) Turn your wrists, more particularly the inside wrist, with a quick
sharp turn. This movement will feather the oar.
(7) Without attempting to move your body, shoot your hands sharply out
to the full extent of your arms, taking care to keep the blade of the
oar well clear of the water. Repeat these last three movements several
times, at first separately, then in combination.
[Illustration: FIXED SEATS.
NO. 2.--POSITION JUST AFTER CATCHING, BEGINNING.
(_Instantaneous Photograph._)]
(_Note._--These three movements are sometimes spoken of incorrectly as
the finish of the stroke. Properly speaking, however, the finish, as
distinguished from the beginning, is that part of the stroke which is
rowed through the water from the moment the arms begin to bend until the
hands come in to the chest. The movements I have described are in
reality part of the recovery, _i.e._ they are the movements necessary to
enable the oarsman's body to recover itself after the strain of one
stroke, and to prepare for the next. Smartly performed, as they ought to
be, they have all the appearance of one quick motion. As to the dropping
of the hands, the novice must practise this so as to get his oar square
and clean out of the water. It is, however, necessary to guard against
exaggerating it into the pump-handle or coffee-grinding style, which
merely wastes energy and time. Later on, when an oarsman is rowing in a
light racing ship, a very slight pressure will enable him to release his
oar, the movement and elasticity of the boat helping him.)
(8) You have now taken the blade out of the water, feathered it, and
have shot your hands away, the blade still on the feather, to a point
beyond the knees. In so doing you will have released your body, which
you must now swing forward slowly and at a perfectly even pace, in a
solid column from the hips, as described in instruction 2.
(9) Obviously, if you keep your arms stiff in the shoulder-sockets, you
will eventually, as your body swings down, force your hands against the
stretcher, or into the bottom of the boat, with the blade of the oar
soaring to the level of your head. To avoid this windmill performance
let your hands, especially the inside hand, rest lightly on the
oar-handle, and as the body swings down let the hands gradually rise,
_i.e._ let the angle that the arms make with the body increase. You will
thus, by the time you have finished your swing, have brought the blade
close to the water, in readiness to grip the beginning without the loss
of a fraction of a second.
(10) During the foregoing man[oe]uvre keep your arms absolutely straight
from shoulder to wrist. Many oarsmen, knowing that they have to get hold
of the beginning, cramp their arm-muscles and bend their elbows as they
swing forward, the strain giving them a fictitious feeling of strength.
But this is a pure delusion, and can only result in waste, both of
energy and of time.
[Illustration: FIXED SEATS.
NO. 3.--POSITION HALF-WAY THROUGH STROKE.
(_Stationary Photograph._)]
(11) As you swing, use the inside arm and hand to shove against the oar.
You will thus keep the button of the oar pressed up against the rowlock,
a position it ought never even for a moment to lose; you will help to
steady your swing, and you will go far towards keeping both shoulders
square. Most novices and many veterans over-reach badly with the outside
shoulder.
(12) While you are carrying out the last four instructions, your feet,
save for a slight pressure against the straps during the very first part
of the recovery (see instruction 23), must remain firmly planted, heel
and toe, against your stretcher. During your swing you should have a
distinct sense of balancing with the ball of your foot against the
stretcher. This resistance of the feet on the stretcher helps to prevent
you from tumbling forward in a helpless, huddled mass as you reach the
limit of your forward swing.
(13) As to taking the oar off the feather. Good oars vary considerably
on this point. Some carry the blade back feathered the whole way, and
only turn it square just in time to get the beginning of the stroke.
Others turn it off the feather about half-way through, just before the
hands come over the stretcher. For a novice, I certainly recommend the
latter method. Turn your wrists up and square your blade very soon after
the hands have cleared the knees. It will thus be easier for you to keep
your button pressed against the rowlock; your hands can balance the oar
better, and you will not run the risk, to which the former method
renders you liable, of skying or cocking your blade just when it ought
to be nearest the water, so as to catch the beginning. A good and
experienced waterman, however, ought certainly to be able to keep his
oar on the feather against a high wind until the last available moment.
The movement of returning the blade to the square position ought to be
firm and clean.
(14) As the body swings, your hands ought to be at the same time
stretching and reaching out as if constantly striving to touch something
which is as constantly evading them.
[Illustration: FIXED SEATS.
NO. 4.--POSITION AS ARMS ARE BENDING FOR FINISH.
(_Instantaneous Photograph._)]
(15) When you are full forward, the blade of your oar should not be
quite at a right angle to the water, but the top of it ought to be very
slightly inclined over, _i.e._ towards the stern of the boat. A blade
thus held will grip the water cleaner, firmer, and with far less
back-splash than a blade held absolutely at right angles. Besides,
you will obviate the danger of "slicing" into the water and rowing too
deep. At the same time, I am bound to admit that I know only a few oars
who adopt this plan. One of them, however, is the present President of
the Oxford University Boat Club, Mr. C. K. Philips, as good a waterman
as ever sat in a boat. I am quite firmly convinced that the plan is a
sound one, and I believe if it were more generally followed, we should
see far less of that uncomfortable and unsightly habit of
back-splashing, which is too often seen even in good crews.
(16) I have now brought you forward to the full extent of your swing and
reach. Your back is (or ought to be) straight, your shoulders are firm
and braced, your chest and stomach still open, though your body is down
somewhere between your open knees. Your hands have been gradually
rising, and your oar-blade is, therefore, close to the water. Now raise
your hands a little more, not so as to splash the blade helplessly to
the bottom of the river, but with a quick movement as though they were
passing round a cylinder. When they get to the top of the cylinder the
blade will be covered in the water. At the same moment, and without the
loss of a fraction of a second, swing the body and shoulders back as
though they were released from a spring, the arms remaining perfectly
straight, and the feet helping by a sharp and vigorous pressure (from
the ball of the foot, and the toes especially) against the stretcher.
The result of these rapid combined movements will be that the blade, as
it immerses itself in the water, will strike it with an irresistible
force (a sort of crunch, as when you grind your heel into gravel),
created by the whole weight-power of the body applied through the
straight lines of the arms, and aided by all the strength of which the
legs are capable. This, technically speaking, is the beginning of the
stroke. The outside hand should have a good grip of the oar.
(17) Swing back, as I said, with arms straight. The novice must,
especially if he has muscular arms, root in his head the idea that the
arms are during a great part of the stroke connecting rods, and that it
is futile to endeavour to use them independently of the body-weight,
which is the real driving power.
(18) Just before the body attains the limit of its back-swing, which
should be at a point a little beyond the perpendicular, begin to bend
your arms for the finish of the stroke, and bring the hands square home
until the roots of the thumbs touch the chest about three inches below
the separation of the ribs. Here you must be careful not to raise or
depress the hands. They should sweep in to the chest in an even plane,
the outside hand drawing the handle firmly home without lugging or
jerking. As the hands come in, the body finishes its swing, the elbows
pass close to the sides, pointing downwards, and the shoulders are rowed
back and kept down. The chest must be open, but not unduly inflated at
the expense of the stomach, the head erect, and the whole body carrying
itself easily, gracefully, and without unnecessary stiffness.
(19) Do not meet your oar, _i.e._ keep your body back until the hands
have come in. If you pull yourself forward to meet your oar, you will
certainly shorten the stroke, tire yourself prematurely, and will
probably fail to get the oar clean out of the water or to clear your
knees on the recovery.
(20) Do not try to force down your legs and flatten the knees as if you
were rowing on a sliding seat. The mere movement of the body on the
back swing and the kick off the stretcher will cause a certain
alteration in the bend of the knees, but this tendency should not be
consciously increased. Remember that fixed-seat rowing is not now an end
in itself. It is a stage towards skilled rowing on sliding seats, and
its chief object is to give the novice practice in certain essential
elements of the stroke, and particularly in body-swing, which could not
be so easily taught, if at all, if he were to begin at once on sliding
seats. Swing is still, as it always has been, all important in good
rowing, and if a novice attempts to slide (for that is what it comes to)
on fixed seats he will begin to shuffle and lose swing entirely.
(21) Do not let your body settle down or fall away from your oar at the
finish. Sit erect on your bones, and do not sink back on to your tail.
The bones are the pivot on which you should swing.
[Illustration: FIXED SEATS.
NO. 5.--THE FINISH.
(_Stationary Photograph. In movement the body would go a little further
back._)]
(22) The blade of the oar, having been fully covered at the very
beginning of the stroke, must remain fully covered up to the moment that
the hands are dropped. If the oarsman, when he bends his arms during the
stroke, begins to depress his hands, he will row light, _i.e._ the blade
will be partially uncovered, and will naturally lose power. On the
other hand, if he raises his hands unduly, he will cover more than the
blade, and will find great difficulty in extracting it from the water
properly. The outside hand should control the balance of the oar, and
keep it at its proper level.
(23) As to the use of the stretcher-straps. Many coaches imagine that
when they have said, "Do not pull yourself forward by your toes against
the straps," they have exhausted all that is to be said on the matter. I
venture, with all deference, to differ from them. I agree that in the
earlier stages of instruction it is very useful to make men occasionally
row in tub-pairs without any straps, so as to force them to develop and
strengthen the muscles of stomach and legs, which ought to do the main
work of the recovery. But later on, when a man is rowing in an eight,
and is striving, according to the instructions of his coach, to swing
his body well and freely back, he can no more recover properly without a
slight toe-pressure against the straps--the heels, however, remaining
firm--than he could make bricks without straw. The straps, in fact, are
a most valuable aid to the recovery. Take them away from a crew and you
will see one of two things: either the men will never swing nearly even
to the upright position, and will recover with toil and trouble, or, if
they swing back properly, they will all fall over backwards with their
feet in the air. This slight strap-pressure just helps them over the
difficult part of the recovery; as the body swings forward the feet
immediately resume their balance against the stretcher. Indeed, if these
movements are properly performed, you get a very pretty play of the toes
and the ball of the foot against the stretcher, you counteract the
tendency of the body to tumble forward, and you materially help the
beginning from that part of the foot in which the spring resides.
Totally to forbid men to use their straps seems to me a piece of
pedantry. On this point I may fortify myself with the opinion of Mr. W.
B. Woodgate, as given in his "Badminton Book on Boating." I am glad,
too, to find that Mr. S. Le Blanc Smith, of the London Rowing Club, a
most finished and beautiful oarsman, whose record of victories at Henley
is a sufficient testimony to his knowledge and skill, agrees with me. In
an article published during a recent rowing controversy, he remarks, "I
think Mr. ---- will find that all men, consciously or unconsciously,
use the foot-strap more or less, to aid them in the first inch or two of
recovery. If he doubts this, let him remove the strap and watch results,
be the oarsman who he may." I need only add that this pressure should
never be greater than will just suffice to help the body-recovery. If
exaggerated, its result on slides will be to spoil swing by pulling the
slide forward in advance of the body.
I have now, I think, taken you through all the complicated movements of
the stroke, and there for the present I must leave you to carry out as
best you can instructions which I have endeavoured to make as clear on
paper as the difficulties of the subject permit. But I may be allowed to
add a warning. Book-reading may be a help; but rowing, like any other
exercise, can only be properly learnt by constant and patient practice
in boats under the eyes of competent instructors. Do not be discouraged
because your improvement is slow, and because you are continually being
rated for the same faults. With a slight amount of intelligence and a
large amount of perseverance and good temper, these faults will
gradually disappear, and as your limbs and muscles accustom themselves
to the work, you will be moulded into the form of a skilled oarsman.
Even the dread being who may be coaching you--winner of the Grand
Challenge Cup or stroke-oar of his University though he be--had his
crude and shapeless beginnings. He has passed through the mill, and now
is great and glorious. But if you imagine that even he is faultless,
just watch him as he rows, and listen to the remarks that a fearless and
uncompromising coach permits himself to address to him. And to show you
that others have suffered and misunderstood and have been misunderstood
like yourself, I will wind up this chapter with "The Wail of the
Tubbed," the lyrical complaint of some Cambridge rowing Freshmen.
"Sir,--We feel we are intruding, but we deprecate your blame,
We may plead our youth and innocence as giving us a claim;
We should blindly grope unaided in our efforts to do right,
So we look to you with confidence to make our darkness light.
"We are Freshmen--rowing Freshmen; we have joined our college club,
And are getting quite accustomed to our daily dose of tub;
We have all of us bought uniforms, white, brown, or blue, or red,
We talk rowing shop the livelong day, and dream of it in bed.
"We sit upon our lexicons as 'Happy as a King'
(We refer you to the picture), and we practise how to swing;
We go every day to chapel, we are never, never late,
And we exercise our backs when there, and always keep them straight.
"We shoot our hands away--on land--as quick as any ball:
Balls always shoot, they tell us, when rebounding from a wall.
We decline the noun 'a bucket,' and should deem it--well, a bore,
If we 'met,' when mainly occupied in oarsmanship, our oar.
"But still there are a few things that our verdant little band,
Though we use our best endeavours, cannot fully understand.
So forgive us if we ask you, sir--we're dull, perhaps, but keen--
To explain these solemn mysteries and tell us what they mean.
"For instance, we have heard a coach say, "Five, you're very rank;
Mind those eyes of yours, they're straying, always straying,
on the bank.'
We are not prone to wonder, but we looked with some surprise
At the owner of those strangely circumambulating eyes.
"There's a stroke who 'slices awfully,' and learns without remorse
That his crew are all to pieces at the finish of the course;
There's A., who 'chucks his head about,' and B.,
who 'twists and screws,'
Like an animated gimlet in a pair of shorts and shoes.
"And C. is 'all beginning,' so remark his candid friends;
It must wear him out in time, we think, this stroke that never ends.
And though D. has no beginning, yet his finish is A1;
How can that possess a finish which has never been begun?
"And E. apparently would be an oar beyond compare,
If the air were only water and the water only air.
And F., whose style is lofty, doubtless has his reasons why
He should wish to scrape the judgment seat, when rowing, from the sky.
"Then G. is far too neat for work, and H. is far too rough;
There's J., who lugs, they say, too much, and K. not half enough;
There's L., who's never fairly done, and M., who's done too brown,
And N., who can't stand training, and poor O., who can't sit down.
"And P. is much too limp to last; there's Q. too stiffly starched;
And R., poor fool, whose inside wrist is never 'nicely arched.'
And, oh, sir, if you pity us, pray tell us, if you please,
What is meant by 'keep your button up,' and 'flatten down your knees.'
"If an oar may be described as 'he,' there's no death half so grim
As the death like which we hang on with our outside hands to 'him;'
But in spite of all our efforts, we have never grasped, have you?
How _not_ to use 'those arms' of ours, and yet to pull it through.
"S. 'never pulled his shoestrings.' If a man must pull at all,
Why uselessly pull shoestrings? Such a task would surely pall.
But T.'s offence is worse than that, he'll never get his Blue,
He thinks rowing is a pastime--well, we own we thought so too.
"Then V.'s 'a shocking sugarer,' how bitter to be that!
X. flourishes his oar about as if it were a bat;
And Y. should be provided, we imagine, with a spade,
Since he always 'digs,' instead of 'merely covering his blade.'
"Lastly, Z.'s a 'real old corker,' who will never learn to work,
For he puts his oar in gently and extracts it with a jerk.
Oh! never has there been, we trow, since wickedness began,
Such a mass of imperfections as the perfect rowing man.
P.S. BY TWO CYNICS.
"So they coach us and reproach us (like a flock of silly jays
Taught by parrots how to feather) through these dull October days.
We shall never understand them, so we shouldn't care a dam[4]
If they all were sunk in silence at the bottom of the Cam."
[4] Dam--an Oriental coin of small value.