For Tim - A Great Rower & True Gentleman

There are people in your life who come into your orbit and make an impression. They may be someone at your workplace, in your community or, as in this case, in the sport you enjoy. You may not know these people well but they make you smile. Tim Huebner was like that for me. Tim passed away unexpectedly and because I couldn't be at his memorial, I wrote this for him.

Here's to Tim:

I'm just going to say this upfront: The very first thing you'd notice about Tim upon meeting him was his size. He was a giant, yet a very gentle one.

I knew Tim as a fellow rower and competitor. Together with his rowing partner Patrice, Tim would put my rowing partner Stefan and I through our paces.

We chased Tim and Patrice across Monterey Bay, on the waters near Santa Cruz and countless times under the Golden Gate Bridge. Because of his size and strength, Tim could be intimidating—that is until you talked with him.

As you all know, Tim was passionate about rowing, boats and all things nautical. He shared his knowledge generously, regardless of whether or not that knowledge would fuel your race as his competitor. When Stefan and I would be lucky enough to eke out a win against Tim, his generosity and graciousness would shine once again.

Believe me, you learn a lot about a person's character when you compete against him. Tim was exemplary—never bitter, never rude, never, ever small.

Yes, Tim was a giant and his absence is a large loss for all of us in the rowing world. I've heard that Tim said that he wanted to live until he died. He did just that.

Thousands of years ago, the great philosopher Seneca wrote:

"It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it…. Life is long if you know how to use it."

 Tim knew how and, in that sense, he lived a long, full life, inspiring us all with his love for rowing and enriching our lives with his gentle, kind presence.

He will be sorely missed.

The Grateful Dead, Topless Women & Rowing

The other day I was listening to City Arts & Lectures on NPR and heard Justice Stephen Breyer interviewed. I confess—I'm not so interested in constitutional law, but I was interested to hear his childhood memories of San Francisco.

"I remember falling asleep with my windows open and hearing the foghorn in the distance," he said. "That's still true, you can still hear that haunting sound. I also remember growing up in a San Francisco where you didn't have to be a millionaire to live here. "

Unfortunately, that's becoming increasingly less true in the Bay Area.

Housing prices and rents are in the ridiculous range.  In our neighborhood in Marin, small homes that once housed families of five are being torn down and replaced with McMansions for two (or three), each overbuilt, over-designed house rubbing elbows with the other on chicly landscaped lots that once grew wild with decades-old fruit trees and brambly rose gardens.

Ed, my neighbor, walks his dog Bodhi every day down the street and stops to rest on a stone wall to bask in the sun. Ed's been in the neighborhood for more than 30 years. He remembers when the house next door to ours was the Grateful Dead's "administrative office," or as Ed whispers, "love nest."

"Oh, the women," says Ed. "They'd sunbathe topless on the back deck." He recalls a time when Jerry Garcia stopped him in the street to say that there were rumors of a break-in down the street and not to worry because he (Jerry!) would act as the neighborhood watch guy.

The house that Ed and his wife bought years ago was a whopping $32k, a stretch, says Ed, on their salaries as a teacher and a fledgling banker. I don't even want to tell you what it's worth now. As Ed says, it's crazy money.

So what, you ask, does all this have to do with rowing?

Just this.

As Stefan and I pushed off the dock in the dark this morning and ghosted our way out on to the bay, the sun rose and the city silhouette revealed itself—a far away kingdom with skyscrapers spiking the sky. By the time we'd rowed under the Golden Gate, there was already a steady hum of commute traffic overhead.

And there we were, bobbing on the bay with that view all to ourselves.

"This is why we live here, " I said to Stefan. "This is why it's worth it."

It's not the tech boom, the hipsters or the hundreds upon hundreds of great restaurants. No, for me, the appeal lies in the bay's wild waters and the trails lacing the hills. And judging by the fact that I'm almost always alone when I'm enjoying these treasures, I'm guessing that the majority of the Bay Area doesn't necessarily feel the same way.

That's fine by me.  Let's keep this quiet and maybe, just maybe, I'll see you out there.

Blink

It's getting to be that time of year when Stefan and I push off the dock in near darkness. Combine the early hour with a crew whose collective exhaustion registers somewhere between extreme jet lag and a hazy got-too-much-to-do mind fog, and you might wonder why we were even out there this morning.

We were wondering ourselves, but as we were rowing out into the bay the sky treated us to a Technicolor light show—reds, pinks, oranges illuminating the deep inky blue of pre-dawn water.

Of course I called a halt to record it for you. And, of course, when we started up again we pushed it, not only for the sheer pleasure of rowing hard, but also to catch the amazing light on our favorite supermodel (AKA the Golden Gate Bridge).

Seals popped their heads above water to watch us glide by and fishing boats soaked us with their wakes. We rounded the rocks at Cavallo Point and then we saw it—the Golden Gate Bridge, looking pretty much as it does most days. No great light. Just the usual icon. Meh. 

But we weren't disappointed. We'd caught the early bird light show, seen some seals and were graced with the presence of a porpoise or two. 

The moral of the story? No matter how tired you are, get out there. Even if your row, walk or run only offers up mere seconds of beauty—grab them. Blink and it's gone. And to miss it would be a shame because as I have experienced time and again, those few moments can fuel your whole day. 

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One of the many spies who watch us as we row on the San Francisco Bay. Photo taken sometime in May, 2015. Further details are classified. ; )

Life Lived Large

“Clinging to what you already know and do well is the path to an unlived life. So, cultivate beginner’s mind, walk straight into your not-knowing, and take the risk of failing and falling again and again, then getting up again and again to learn — that’s the path to a life lived large...”

— Parker Palmer

This has been a summer of walking straight into not knowing. Some of you (to whom I'm eternally grateful for your support) have noticed my absence. Others, well, maybe not  so much and that's fine.

The truth is that I've been a little like a tadpole these past four months, sprouting legs and leaving my watery haven to explore land. The first adventure was to the San Juan Mountains where I hiked hut-to-hut with three friends. Many bruises, cuts and mosquito bites were had and even more lessons were learned, a few of which I'll share.

One, be grateful for friends. I'm an extroverted introvert so those who are close to me understand my need to retreat from time-to-time and recharge. The three women I hiked with knew instinctively when to give each other space and when to come together. They are incredible people and I'm so happy to know them.

Two, your sense of humor is the most important thing to pack (other than good maps). We could not have done what we did without laughing loud and long at the many mishaps that we encountered (water shortages, being lost—really lost—again and again, the joys of dehydrated food).

Three, there's balance and then there's balance. I can balance a tippy shell in pretty rough water but walking along a tiny trail with thousands of feet of air to my side completely terrifies me. I need to leave my comfort zone every once in a while. That's a very important kind of balance.

It's been an amazing summer. Hiking in the San Juans. Rowing with kayaking buddies on the Boundary Waters. Camping in the wilds of Idaho, a place I'm happy to say I'll be spending more time in years to come. And rowing whenever I can.

I've included some shots of adventures near and far—and I'll get back to covering my favorite supermodel—the San Francisco Bay—soon.

Thank you for hanging with me and being patient. 

Positive Deviation for the Mono-Minded

Lately I've been training on land more than on the water. Part of it has to do with an unexpectedly busy travel schedule as result of work. Some of it has to do with scheduling snafus—family commitments and the like.

In either case, when life pulls me away from my rowing routine, I have to remind myself that the world offers many playgrounds. There are trails to run, roads to walk, pools to dip into and yes, even gyms and yoga studios that welcome travelers.

Almost none of this holds the same appeal for me as rowing into the dawn on the San Francisco Bay, but all of it makes me a better rower and more important, a happier person.

As far as I'm concerned, any kind of movement is the easiest, most accessible therapy for the soul. So, get going.

If you need some good inspiration, pick up the book "What Makes Olga Run?" by Bruce Grierson. Full of great research on exercise physiology, Grierson's book tells the story of Olga Kotelka, a wise and humble 90-something track star who offers great insight into how to live a long, active and happy life. Olga's number one rule? Keep moving.

Sounds like good advice to me. See you out there.

"Rowing the World's Trickiest Waters" featured in Row 360

Not too long ago, well, okay, a good while ago, I wrote feature articles for national magazines and newspapers, from the LA Times to the SF Chronicle to Sports Illustrated. I gave it up for a more lucrative (ha!) career in copywriting.

I still miss my long-form storytelling days and while this blog has helped fulfill some of that yearning, I wanted to dip my toes back into the journalism world. So I did. And fortunately, I was able to get a story into Row 360, a magazine out of the UK that covers the international rowing world.

If you haven't checked out this magazine, do so. It's truly gorgeous with great photography and articles, and a layout that does justice to our beautiful sport.

If you have a minute, take a look at the article and let me know what you think. By the way, I was lucky to partner with my husband Jay Graham, a gifted photographer, on this article. He took the shots of Stefan and me rowing; the other shots you'll recognize from this blog. 

To read the article, click 'open publication,' and then click the magnifying glass icon to make the print legible. 

Enjoy! 

Morning Mantra for Night Owls

If I can open my eyes, I can get vertical. If I can get vertical, I can get dressed, drink coffee, and drive to the boathouse. If I can get to the boathouse, I can walk to the dock, get in the boat, and get out on the water.

That's when I really wake up.

Do whatever you have to do to get to your "boat," whether it's the gym, the trail, or a morning meditation. Repeat after me, "If I can open my eyes..."

The Sticky Wicket of Mindfulness

This just in—the New York Times has reported that those who are more mindful when exercising are generally more satisfied with their workouts and more likely to stick with it.

For rowers, this comes as no surprise. The very act of getting in a tippy boat and coordinating oars, body, and breath on a moving body of water calls for complete attentiveness.

Just take a look at that photo above. I shot it last week on one of those weirdly warm winter days in the San Francisco Bay Area when the wind is as soft as a sigh and the ocean lies quiet. Do you see that quad out there? The four rowers have come to a stop and while I was too far away to hear, I can safely guess their conversation went something like this:

"Anyone feel like we're rushing the slide?"

"Maybe if we took the stroke rate down a bit…"

"I was thinking we could take it up, maybe do a pyramid piece…"

"How bout we work on getting our oars out together?"

Mindfulness? Let's just call it an obsession. Rowers, whether scullers or sweep rowers, are the epitome of mindful exercisers. And that all-encompassing, being-in-the-present, analytic deep dive into the connection between mind, body and boat is exactly what draws us to the sport.

Yet, to the outside world rowing looks extremely boring. There are no balls, hoops, or goals. There are few hero moments when the sweat-drenched athlete strikes a Gatorade-ad worthy pose as thousands cheer.  We can't swagger to the espresso bar post-row with an ad-splattered jersey and a mud-speckled face beneath our helmets the way Marin mountain bikers do. No, we're the geeky, baseball-hat-clad people wearing tattered T-shirts from regattas past and worn out spandex get-ups that might well pass for cast-off (maybe even reject) items from the Startrek wardrobe. It's a solid bet that no one is looking at us like heroes.

But here's the thing—every row, even every erg session makes us happy. There is something to that mindfulness thing and that's what keeps us coming back. So next time you see us at Peet's, overlook our goofy gear, excuse our endless rowing speak, and take a look at our smiles. We may just be on to something.

Trust Your Craft

“Attention is the beginning of devotion.”

— Mary Oliver

Ninety percent of my water time is spent with my long-time rowing partner Stefan Benton in Maas Open Water double, an ocean-worthy, 31-foot-long craft that has gotten us through breaking waves, tanker wakes, and Goliath-strong tides.

Days when I'm not in my trusty Maas, I tip toward the other end of rowing scale, balancing precariously in a Filippi racing single, a sleek little Italian number that's as svelte as a runway model and fast as a Greyhound.

If I'm lucky, I row my Filippi (AKA Principessa) about three times a month. It's definitely not enough and the boat lets me know by threatening to flip every time I get in it. Still I carry on, whispering to the water gods to be nice and reminding myself of coach Gordon Hamilton's words of wisdom: "If you're stable, the boat is stable. "

Core strong and constant notes to self to stay smooth, I venture my way away from the dock. A few deep breaths and several strokes later, my shoulders relax and the rhythm takes hold.

I may not be the best rower (far from it), but I've put time on and off the water studying the stroke and the sport—and that's what keeps me afloat.

Rowing is a craft, just like any other. Time spent practicing is time rewarded—and I remind myself of this constantly. It's not unlike when I start to write and the doubt monkeys start swinging limb to limb in the jungle gym of my mind, sneering at my efforts and cackling their weird monkey laugh.

It's moments like these (and we all have them) that you need to breathe deeply and trust your craft, whatever it may be.

Rowing, running, writing, yoga, painting, poetry, baking the best damn pies on this planet—you name it. If it's your passion, chances are you've put considerable time into it. I heard an excerpt today from an upcoming interview with the poet Mary Oliver who said that her first poems were horrible but she kept at it. As she put it, "I've been to the moon and back many times with my pencil and pad." Her effort has paid off, yours will too.

Let your shoulders relax and tell those mind monkeys to go play somewhere else. Simply trust your craft and it will see you through.

Going Backward, Looking Ahead

As any rower will tell you, ours is a backward sport. I don't mean in terms of equality, professionalism, or athleticism. What I'm talking about is the very act of rowing itself.

Here's the deal—we rowers go backward in order to go forward. We sit on our sliding seats, using our bodies like coiled energy, unfurling the power from feet to legs to core to arms and back as our oars fill with water and we catapult our rowing shells to our destination, whether it's a finish line or simply the turn-around point.

And as we do this we sit facing where we've been, in effect rowing blind, occasionally turning our heads to steal a look, but mostly using clues provided by points passed to sense what's ahead. It's a leap of faith and it calls for mindfulness on a stroke-by-stroke basis, especially in open water rowing where being attuned to the subtle din of a building riptide ahead can mean the difference between successfully navigating the white water rapids or taking an unceremonious (and damn cold) dip.

Often the clues aren't so dramatic. Sometimes it's just a breeze rippling the water that lets you know to take care or maybe it's the pattern of the puddles formed by your oars that hints at your progress or lack thereof. Whatever it is, it's there to be listened to and in that sense, our backwards sport is a lot like life.

As 2015 rolls in, we all can't help but look back on the past year. Successes, yes. Failures, well, sure. And lots of us make resolutions.

But this year, I think I'm going take a cue from rowing and reflect on where I've been, using that information to chart my course ahead, stroke-by-stroke, day-by-day. With any luck, it might just work and I'll arrive at the finish line of 2015 a little bit wiser.

Time Management

So I started thinking today. What if I took all the time I put into rowing and channeled it into something else, like learning how to code, mastering a foreign language, or, here's a thought, getting another hour or two of sleep?

I put about seven to ten hours a week into rowing, whether on the waters at Open Water Rowing or Marin Rowing, or in the gym on the erg. That's pretty much the equivalent of a full work day spent going up and down a slide, slogging through about ten thousand strokes, each one a rhythmic repetitive dance calling upon legs, core, back. Ridiculous, huh?

Not at all. Just look at the photo above. Yes, it was that pink and gold and dreamlike. And if I could add sound, you'd hear the splash of water and drumbeat of oars as Stefan and I match strokes. You'd startle to the sudden bark of the sea lion that popped up right after I took this shot, as if to check out who else was on dawn patrol. The deep, low song of foghorns would serenade you, the briny smell of saltwater would tickle your nose and far, far away the steady rumble of early morning traffic would remind you just how lucky you are to be here, nearly alone, with miles of open water, as the city slowly wakes.

Of course I could spend my time doing other things and no doubt that will come to pass some day whether it's my choice or not. But right now, this is about as good as it gets.

Into the Blue

“You can have Egypt and Nantucket.
The only place I want to visit is The Blue,
not the Wild Blue Yonder that seduces pilots,
but that zone where the unexpected dwells,
waiting to come out of it in the shape of bolts.
”

— From "The Blue" by Billy Collins

I had something unexpected happen last week—an email from a reader of this blog. Some bloggers hear from readers all the time. Not me. So I was really surprised when this man reached out.

Once I determined he was for real, we had a conversation by phone and talked about, you guessed it, rowing. I asked him how he first got into the sport and what he told me made me smile.

He said that he works as a contractor and was once asked to bid on some work for the Princeton boathouse. Imagine walking into one of those storied institutions—the oars lined up like soldiers, the crew boats resting on the racks like a flotilla awaiting gladiators, tarnished trophies telling of victories past. Brian said it was amazing and then he walked into the locker room.

"Oh my god, the stench!" he said. "I couldn't imagine why anyone would get up before dawn, in freezing, cold weather, and subject themselves to that."

Then he laughed and said that, years later, when he finally got into a rowing shell, he understood. "I was hooked," he said, adding that he was also instantly humbled.

That's what rowing does. It tests and teases us, making us feel as light and graceful as dragonflies one moment and then hurling us into moments of sheer panic where we wobble and weave like drunken fools before (hopefully) catching our balance and resuming that liquid dance.

Tomorrow I head out on the pre-dawn waters once again. It's been a while. I won't bore you with details but let's just say life got in the way. I'm ready and this time when and if life gets in the way, I'll push back and whisper, "Move over, life. I need some balance. I need rowing."

Rowing a Marathon and Learning Life Lessons

It was right after I took this photo that things started going to hell. Stefan and I were rowing the Monterey Bay Crossing, a roughly 26-mile race from Santa Cruz to Monterey Bay.

We were an hour into it, cruising along, and on track for our goal of a three-hour-plus-change finish. In fact, we'd just rowed the equivalent of our regular Golden Gate outings. As far as we were concerned, it was just another day at the office.

Then, before you could say 'I'll have some coffee with that humble pie," the seas and wind started to build and I started to swear.

Don't get me wrong. It's possible—and great fun—to surf big swells in a rowing shell. The problem was that these swells, which quickly grew from three to five feet, were coming off our beam.

It was, as they say, a killer core workout. With about six seconds between swells, we had just enough time to raise our starboard oar a bit and brace ourselves as the boat tumbled down into the trough and up again.

Five feet grew to eight feet and the swells started morphing into the occasional breaking wave with a side serving of white caps.  More swear words ensued. I was beginning to feel like we'd rowed into that classic Japanese woodcut.

And then I remembered a life lesson learned by my friends Sami and Meredith during their epic 45-day row to Hawaii. A follower had commented in response to a blog post they'd written after a particularly discouraging day.

"What's the one true thing you can say to someone who is having the happiest moment in their life and someone who is at their very lowest point?"

"This too shall pass."

Sami and Meredith said this phrase got them through a lot and I was calling on it now as the swells grew to ten feet.

At about 14 miles, my phone (safely ensconced in a waterproof cover) died. No more rowing app, no more data tracking our progress. At that very instant, Stefan and I saw a huge splash from a whale breaching in the distance. The good, the bad, all in one moment.

Nothing to do but row, so we did.

Fortunately Stefan's 25-year-old GPS kept us on track and we could catch a glimpse of the peninsula whenever we were on top of a swell. We'd get there.

Several more swear words and a few hours later we made it, but not in three hours. Our finish was 4:08 and once again I was reminded of something else Sami and Meredith learned on their journey: "Don't make goals when you have no control of the outcome."

Mother Nature holds the upper hand and she was the cook of that humble pie we were served.  I won't say it was delicious, but I will say that it was all worth it.

Cheers to everyone who did the 2014 Monterey Crossing. It will go down as an epic adventure for all.

Huge thanks to Tom Dexel, Tim Huebner, Rod Williams, Tim Kensit, the awesome Santa Cruz Rowing Club volunteers who revived this classic race and the three escorts who braved the waters. You are the best!