Poetic Rowing

The mouth runs dry quick. There isn’t enough saliva to sustain the lie that this won’t hurt. And still — you line up.

The first goddamn 30 strokes?

That’s where souls are measured. Where lungs don’t ask questions — they just burn. Where the blade either bites or skips, and the boat doesn’t give a damn which.

It’s not rhythm. It’s not grace. It’s a bar fight — and your oar is a broken bottle.

Row like you owe someone money. Row like your old man’s watching. Row like the devil’s leaning on your bow ball, grinning.

The first 30 strokes don’t win the race. But they sure as hell decide who belongs.

And then— just when your eyes blur, and the sweat runs cold, you look up and remember:

It’s a 5000 meter race. You just got the boat moving. And now, you’ve got to die slowly... for another 19 minutes.

There’s no finish line — just pain management.

So rip. Rip like you mean it. And pray there’s enough soul left to survive the rest.

—anonymous rower One of us