So… You wanna to row?
Don’t wish for calm waters
wish for current,
the kind that hones its blades.
Inhale.
Be free.
Now.
Pull.
Not perfect.
The good strokes never are.
Forget the glide.
Let go.
Rowing is mastery
and it takes a life
to learn how to suffer beautifully.
Oh,
the catch
that drives a nail up your spine.
The drive
that burns your legs to coal.
The recovery
that tastes of vinegar
and doubt.
Let each stroke be
a surrender to discipline.
And when you grow old
a rebellion
against decay.
Find what makes you heave.
What makes your lungs beg.
What makes your hands remember
every blister
like a confession.
Because ease is a liar.
Comfort is the Reaper with soft hands
Discomfort is the compass.
Pain is the north star.
It never lies.
Row until the oar fuses to your bones.
Until the boat’s rhythm erases your name.
Until the river’s voice
cold
and godless
whispers only one word:
—MAS!
And when you think you’ve given it
when there’s nothing left
but ash
and ache
Row past that.
That’s the lesson.
That’s the life.
Ugly.
Earned.
Yours.
—anonymous rower
One of us
Righteous ones—earned by fury,
by the oars bent like rebar
against the water’s anvil.
Shameful ones—born of slop,
of catches timid as liars,
finishes lazy as sin.
The blood makes no distinction—
it pools in sinners’ palms
and saints’ alike.
So, tape your hands tonight.
Tomorrow demands new skin
to flay.
—anonymous rower
One of us
In every race…
the River of Ages coughs up three spirits:
the bloated corpse,
the quitter,
and the suicidal bastard who’d rather die than lose.
The river feeds them to you,
lets them crawl into your boat,
into your bones.
One will drag you under.
One will beg you to stop.
One will drive you to glory.
Drown the first two.
YOU— beautiful bastard
ROW!
—anonymous rower
One of us
You might be the second-worst rower,
but you're still in the boat.
The oar is in your hands,
you pull with the others,
and the boat moves forward.
That’s the whole damn point.
—anonymous rower
One of us
Back bent.
Chained to the furnace,
la pala in hand.
Coal.
Coal.
Coal.
Stroke after stroke,
he feeds the beast—
oars cracking,
river screaming,
hell’s train rolling on.
Nº 6
Shoveling coal
’til kingdom come.
—anonymous rower
One of us
Row like the Old Man is watching you.
Break the chains he put on you.
Show him YOU can row.
PULL!
GO ACR!
—anonymous rower
One of us
They sold it without a second thought.
No send-off. No ceremony. Just a bill of sale.
No varnish. No name. No memory.
No makeup. Just miles.
Bruises and busted backs.
No shine. No lies. Just truth in motion.
But we took her.
Call it what it is. Row it anyway.
—anonymous rower
One of us
In sleep,
he still hears it—
half… half… three-quarters… full.
The slide.
The breath.
The catch.
On his dying bed,
they gather—not family,
but ghosts of old races,
faces sunburned and half-forgotten,
hands still blistered, still proud.
He hears the coxswain’s bark,
the creak of oarlocks,
the silent vow of eight men
who swore nothing
but never stopped showing up.
And just before the last breath—
he swears he feels the set.
—anonymous rower
One of us
What drives eight fools
to crawl outta bed at four,
in the dark,
in the cold,
just to row a goddamn boat?
…
It ain’t glory.
It ain’t women.
Sure as hell ain’t money.
It’s the ache they can’t explain—
the one that feels more honest
than any church sermon.
Somewhere between the pull and the pain,
they disappear into the abyss.
Eight nobodies
become one ugly, beautiful machine.
That’s the thing—
the only time
the world shuts the fuck up,
and something
finally
makes sense.
—anonymous rower
One of us
Some years,
I train to win.
This year?
I trained to survive.
And that’s okay.
No medals.
Just waking up
when I didn’t want to.
Just putting the oar in
when everything hurt.
And that’s enough.
Didn’t lie to myself.
I’m simply here—
spent, quiet,
and content
with the man who did not have to be carried.
—anonymous rower
One of us