“Way Enough!” Recollections of a Life in Rowing
Stanley Richard Pocock with photos by Josef Scaylea
“Way Enough!” Recollections of a Life in Rowing
STANLEY RICHARD POCOCK
BLABLA Publishing - Seattle, Washington
Copyright © 2000 by Stanley R. Pocock Composition, design and artwork by Jim Ojala All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. All royalties from this book will go to the support of rowing. The author welcomes comments and suggestions from his readers. You may contact Stan Pocock by letter in care of Pocock Rowing Center 3320 Fuhrman Avenue East Seattle, WA 9802 U.S.A. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Applied For ISBN 0-65-206-4 Pocock, Stanley R. “Way Enough!” Recollections of a Life in Rowing Includes index. December 2005 Second Edition
Table of Contents
Table of Contents Dedication / Foreword / Apologia – i–ii
Early Days
Coach of the 50s
College
I – Shoving Off (1923-47) – 3–30
Crew Boy Engineer “Greetings” Ruptured Duck Poughkeepsie To Work at Last
II – Warming Up (1948-49) – 31–70
Frosh Job New Shop History of the Pocock Connection Learning the Game (Coaching and Boat-building)
Back to School
The “Conibear Stroke”
III – The Start (1950-52) – 71–92
–
Getting One’s Feet Wet Oakland Marietta Insanity Seattle Marietta Revisited Olympic Equipment Running (and NOT Running) the Shop
The New VBC
IV – Lengthen Out (1953-55) – 93–118
“Is That Your Varsity?” “What Happened, Al?” Learning to Coach at Last – British Empire Games They Don’t Shoot Horses I’m Out
Coaching by Mail
A “Sweep” ( Almost)
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955-59) – 119–152 Syracuse
–
Seattle, Vancouver & Ballarat Gold LWRC is Born Victories Chicago More Victories
VI – Olympics (1960) – 153–184
Japanese Surprise
Small Boats Coach Summer in Seattle Technical Stuff More Technical Stuff Five in Finals Gold Sweep on the Schuykill Relocation
Prague Japan Success in Tokyo
São Paulo
Detroit
New York
–Worchester
VII – Second Wind (1961–64) – 185–204
Almost
Rome
–
Table of Contents
Allan Lobb
Syracuse
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 205–230
Lake Casitas
IX – Home Stretch (1967–75) – 231–258
Glass
London Oxford Lechlade Oxford, Again Windsor & Eton Turk’s Henley Revisited
First Home for LWRC
“Yeah, But…”
Munich
Lucy
Henley (the Third)
We Go Glass
–
––
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–84) – 259–288 Montreal Nottingham Henley Revisited (Again) Lucerne C Shells Eyes in the Boat Nonsense More Nonsense Stepping out Last Spasm XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–92) – 289–314
Back for One More Try
Bled SYC & the MMs Austin Still Some Life in the Old Dog
XII – “Way Enough!” – 315–320 Glossary – 321–332 Index – 333–346 Josef Scaylea & Susan Parkman – 347–348 Index of Pictures & Illustrations – 349–360
Swetnam
Small Wonder
I
Dedication
T WAS A SERENDIPITOUS DAY THAT I CHANCED TO HAVE lunch with an old acquaintance, Jim Ojala, at Voula’s Off Shore Cafe across the street from my former shop on Lake Union. During our catching up on the five or so years of happenings since we had last seen each other, I mentioned in passing that I had just finished putting some of my stories into book form. I added that I had no particular idea of what to do with the memoir, other than to read it now and then for my own amusement and to someday pass it on to my children and grandchildren for theirs. Jim insisted that I let him read the manuscript. I met him later that week in the Steward’s enclosure at the 998 Windermere Cup and, in all innocence, handed over a copy. A few days later, he called excitedly to say, “This book has to be published!” Then he added the fateful words, “But it needs some work.” Those words led to nearly two years of often frustrating, sometimes maddening, ultimately rewarding effort, during which time I developed a new and healthy respect for the writing profession. Jim’s love of the written word has been an inspiration to me, and his artistic talent has been the means of creating what I now see as a work of art. To have been privileged — as I have been — to spend my years involved in the sport of rowing was a fortunate happenstance. Through it came into my life all those golden young men who put their faith and trust in me during my coaching days, and to whom I will be forever grateful. To have spent a lifetime creating with my own hands useful works of art in the company of hard working, talented artisans served as a leavening agent that helped me not only to overcome my disappointments out on the water, but also to achieve my successes. And, in my twilight years, to have met and married Suzanne has added a richness to my life that I never could have imagined. The joy of knowing and working with these people has illuminated my life and these pages. To them, and to Suzanne’s children and mine, this book is dedicated.
I
BEGAN WORKING ON THIS MEMOIR SOON AFTER RETIRING FROM SHELL-BUILDing some years ago. After I thought the book was finished, the serious work of seeing it mature into its present form really began. Many people contributed to the project. Among those who read the manuscript in its early stages, I would like to thank in particular Bruce Beall, Frank Cunningham, Duvall Hecht, Lyman Hull, Al Mackenzie, John Sack and Bill Tytus. Their encouragement kept me going. When I learned of Allan Lobb’s approaching death, I polished up the chapter telling of our sculling adventure down England’s River Thames in 1966 and brought it to him. Enthralled, he implored me to carry on and complete the rest. Among others who helped by contributing pictures are Sue Ayrault, Charlie McIntyre, Guy Harper, Roger Hansen, Susan Parkman and, especially, Josef Scaylea. Joe’s studies of the sport, unequaled and timeless, have helped immeasurable in making the written word come alive. As work on the book progressed, Joanne Ridley, Fred Nietzschke, June Lamson, John Stillings, Dave Peterson and Mischelle Day all read one draft of the book or another and offered valuable advice. When it came time to proof the final manuscript, Patricia Purvis stepped into the breach. Responsibility for any mistakes that remain rests entirely with me and the gremlins in my computer.
Introduction
Introduction Richard Erickson
I
T HAS BEEN SAID MANY TIMES THAT THE FIRST COACH IN YOUR given sport is — and always will be — your greatest influence. Stan Pocock was my first coach, as he was to hundreds of other University of Washington oarsmen in the 1940s and 1950s. In countless ways, he has had a great and positive influence on all of us old Husky oars, and on the sport of rowing in general. Stan’s memoir, “Way Enough!” completes the story of the Pocock family’s contribution to rowing, an unprecedented influence that stretched worldwide and covered the entire 20th century. Not enough people recognize that Stanley carried the torch for rowing and led the way for the sport to be where it is today. Most people think of Stan as a builder of gorgeous cedar racing shells. His accomplishments as a coach, an innovator and an advisor must not be ignored. After years of coaching the Lightweights and Frosh at Washington, Stan retired — he thought — from coaching to build shells full-time. However, in the fall of 958, he was approached by a group of graduate oarsmen from some ten colleges and universities around the country and asked to coach them through the 960 Olympic Games. At a meeting in Bagley Hall on the Washington campus — I was there — Stan addressed a score of candidates and introduced Harry Swetnam as his assistant. Stan’s message that day was, in effect “It has never been done before, but you can do it if you are the fittest and become more skilled than ever before.” Thus began the Lake Washington Rowing Club. Stan and Harry soon had us lifting weights — something unheard of in the sport of rowing in those days. We ran cross country and climbed Husky stadium stairs, we took nutritional supplements and trained in pairs and fours. Until then, we had thought we knew how to row; we quickly learned otherwise! A slew of national,
Pan Am and Olympic medals soon followed. In 960, crews coached by Stan filled every sweep-oared slot on the U.S. Olympic small boat squad and brought home a Gold and a Bronze from Rome. In Seattle, the Washington football, track and basketball coaches saw the success of Stan’s charges and adopted similar training techniques. Their results are a matter of record. This approach spread across the country in all sports, but it started with Stan and Harry in Bagley Hall in the Fall of 958. It was the beginning of training as rowers today know it. Stan’s father, George, was the expert on training for the traditional distance racing — gut-busting 2-, 3- and 4-milers. Stan developed the training methods for power and speed racing as the 2000 meter race became the standard in the 960s. Stanley, like his father before him, was constantly sought by other coaches to ride in their launches and offer advice. The result was better coaches and better crews, in an atmosphere that was always positive, never negative. In 977 my crews and I experienced all of this first hand, as Stanley — and his sidekick Harry — helped us turn a difficult season around and capture both the Grand Challenge Cup and the Visitor’s Cup at Henley, the first college crew to do so in twenty years. Of course, Stanley was above all a boat-builder par excellence. He learned from his father, but added to that legacy and built one of his own. As quality cedar and spruce became impossible to find, tastes for shells moved in the direction of composites. We all suffered when the sweet and sensuous smell of cedar dust in the shop was replaced by the sharp and acrid smells of resins and fibers. Pocock shells today — both cedar and composite — remain among the finest in the world, and crews are still winning races in wooden Pocock boats built half a century ago or more. Show me today a composite boat that someone will be able to say the same thing about in 2050.
Ulysses
…I am become a name For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known… I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch, where thro’ Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! …Come, my friends ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The surrounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the Western Stars, until I die… To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.* —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Ulysses In June 94 historian Frederick Jackson Turner delivered the Commencement address at the University of Washington. George and Dick Pocock — the author’s father and uncle — were already building boats on campus at the time, and Lucy Pocock, their sister, was coaching Washington women‘s crews. In his address, Turner quoted the above lines from Tennyson’s Ulysses and held them up as a credo for how his listeners ought to live their lives. In Tennyson’s poem, a grayed Ulysses, long-since returned from the Trojan Wars, calls upon his men to put aside questions of and age and infirmity and to set off in their boat one more time together in pursuit of new adventures. Tennyson’s words capture the ethos of the world into which Stan Pocock was born. *Quoted in Frederick Jackson Turner, “The West and American Ideals,” Washington Historical Quarterly V, 4 (Oct. 94): 25.
Apologia – i
Apologia
W
HICH FAMOUS FIGURE DECLARED THAT HISTORY IS more or less bunk? Henry Ford, I think. Old Henry might have been right. I read recently of a claim that few people ever tell the truth about the past. Not with the intent to deceive - though many of us have plenty to hide - but because we tend to reconstruct rather than remember. Not only are remembrances altered in the telling but, further, each retelling tends to bring new changes. If such be the case, it follows that if told often enough, a story purporting to be the unvarnished truth might have taken on a new life of its own. Varnished or unvarnished, what follows are some recollections - reconstructions, if you will - of my childhood, of my young manhood, of a lifetime spent around the shellhouse and in the shop and in the rowing game: what I remember as having happened. After completion of these reminiscences, the question arose, “What should I call this collection?” I recognized that my family and I had arrived at an important juncture regarding a rowing dynasty that had existed for many decades. Though the name was being carried on by the young man who had taken over, there was no longer a Pocock building racing shells. Nor was there anyone of our name racing in them or teaching others how. In bed one night, as I lay awake, it struck me: “Way Enough!” it would be! My father chose Ready All! as the title for his “memoirs” (he always used the plural and pronounced it “memoyers” as only an Englishman would - the way that it looks). Dad liked to say that he thought the interval when crews were poised and waiting to begin the race was the most exciting moment in rowing. His selection reflects the excitement of looking forward to life. The choice for my title has relevance as a companion to his in that it looks back on my - and his - contributions to the sport. For 30 years prior to his death in 976, he and I worked side-by-side in
the shop and spent countless hours together on the lake during my years of coaching college, club and Olympic crews. Our close association blessed me with the opportunity to absorb and respond to his ideas on rowing, on racing, and on the race which is the living of a life. To have my memoir resting on the bookshelf next to his, each title complementing the other, seemed fitting closure to a significant period in the history of American rowing. When he was writing his memoir, he told me that its title would be “No One Will Ask How Long It Took,” with the subtitle “They Will Only Ask Who Built It.” This was the advice given him at age 7 by his father when, as an apprentice, he was told to build his first single. In other words: take your time and do a good job of it. It was interesting that the first question often asked by anyone visiting our shop was “How long does it take to build one of these?” When such a question was directed at him in his later years, Dad invariably said, “Oh, about 65 years!” In short, one continues to learn. He used that first single to win the professional sculling race that earned him the money to emigrate to the New World. A journalist covering the race wrote “Young Pocock was undoubtedly aided by the excellent ship he utilised (sic).” An alternate choice of title contemplated briefly by me for these pages was “Don’t Flinch!” This was the only advice I remember receiving from Dad relative to personal behavior. I realized that he never intended it as a significant philosophic directive, but it did have some effect on my future behavior. The command “Way enough!” has been in use for centuries, possibly owing to British naval usage. Even today, the word “way” describes the movement of a boat or a ship. “Under way,” for example, means that a vessel has left its moorage. Thus, when the person in charge
Apologia – ii gives the command “Way enough!” he means that he thinks his vessel Triton “blowing on his wreath-ed horn.” Each could be identified by has gone far enough. I doubt that the term was much used around his signature cry, modified though it might be by elation or disgust. ships, other than to tell someone to stop whatever he might be doing. The invention of the battery-powered megaphone has lessened the I imagine that “Belay!” or “Belay that!” was used instead. More likely, romantic image I once held of coaches. No longer can intense emotion “Way enough!” was used in the cutters, gigs, wherries, liberty boats be expressed as in simpler days. Howling “Way enough!” in disgust or and other rowing craft that were employed to carry men and goods elation just doesn’t work today like it used to. All one hears are squeaks, from ship to ship and to and from shore. Often mistakenly spelled “w- squawks and earsplitting feedback. In some ways that may be a blessing, e-i-g-h” (that word has to do with lifting, for all too often what comes out would as in the phrase “to weigh anchor”), “w-abest be left unsaid. Pounding electronic y” is what it is. I might add that in some horns on the deck might still accomplish parts the commands “Easy all!” and the desired effect, but replacing the horns “Let ’er run!” are used instead, but never is expensive, and they can’t be hammered were by us. These sounded too much like back into shape and used over and over advice on how to row. In the context of again as could the megaphones of the the sport of rowing, the command simply past. means “Stop!” This memoir tells of my life, by “Way enough! ” is probably the turns as a child, as an oarsman, as a happiest phrase to be heard in rowing, coach, and as a builder of racing shells. often awaited with great anticipation While I am no longer any of these, by people who pull an oar. From the one must not infer from the title that coach’s point of view, it is also the I think of my life as having come to most effective of commands. I came an end. I prefer to think of the title as to believe that all I had to do was raise a command to pause. Typically, in a my megaphone and think the words rowing workout “Way enough!” gives and my crews would stop. I recall one Al Ulbrickson - circa 1953 one the chance to rest, think and listen old coach who, when asked why he to advice, abuse or encouragement. stayed so far away from his crews while out in his coaching launch, Refreshed, one can then approach his next effort with renewed answered that “the further away they are, the better they look!” vigor and enthusiasm. So it is with me. Knowing him, I’m sure his crews heard his “Way enoughs” no By the time someone wades through these many pages, those magic matter how far away they were. words “Way enough!” might be just as eagerly greeted as they are by I loved to listen to the special way various coaches gave the a coach’s exhausted charges. The reader might want to avoid reading command. Some used a long, drawn-out “WAAAAAYnuff!!” with a this volume as though it were a novel. What is presented here is a series falling inflection at the end, others, a short and assertive “wayNUFFF!” of stories in roughly chronological order, with an index that is detailed with rising inflection, still others a rumble that bespoke of the god enough to point the browser toward subjects of particular interest.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 3
CHAPTER I
I
Shoving Off (1923–1947)
GREW UP IN THE SHADOW OF A FAMOUS FATHER. THE SPECIAL place that the sport of rowing and, in particular, rowing at the University of Washington, held in the minds of the people of Seattle in those days assured him of public celebrity. Because of this exposure, and with his distinguished presence — to say nothing of his fine British accent — he was seen as a man of stature. This recognition gave weight to his words, and he exercised great influence upon the young men around the shellhouse and, far from incidentally, on many of those people — young and old — with whom he came in contact in the community. Self-educated, he read widely throughout his lifetime. He knew rowing well, having been a champion sculler in his youth. He was an artist, a craftsman, a thinker and could talk well on these disciplines. He had a wonderful philosophy for living and passed this on to the young men who attended his Sunday school classes. The young men who rowed would listen, as would the coaches. He was mentor to many people throughout his long years around the church and at the shellhouse. After I learned how to read, I hated my given name. I associated it with one of the characters in the cartoon “Toonerville Folk” featured in those days in The Seattle Daily Times. My nemesis was a character identified as the “Unspeakable Stanley ‘Stinky’ Davis, the boy who wets his pants.” I have no idea if others made the connection, but I surely did and fretted over it.
When still in kindergarten, I was forced to take part in a fashion show for the mothers at a PTA meeting which featured children’s clothing from Rhodes department store. I can still see the snazzy and expensive gray suit that I had to parade around in: short pants, vest, jacket and a nasty little cap to top it off. Disgusted with the whole affair, I expressed my viewpoint on the issue by wetting my pants in the middle of the show. While that drew a few laughs, I paid dearly; not only did my mother have to buy an outfit which she could ill afford, but I was stuck with the suit until I grew out of it. I dreamed of having a classier name — one such as Stanton or Stanford — but Stanley it was and so it would remain. Dad called me “Stanlo,” “Old Stocking” or “Old Sock” — names that I loved. Everyone settled on the name Stan, except my mother and sister. To them, I have always been Stanley, which is OK. If anyone addresses me by my full name now, I find it flattering and I like it. My sister Patty and I were not particularly healthy when we were small. Nothing serious, but we were plagued with colds. Perhaps this came from our having to sleep in a wide-open, unheated sleeping porch winter and summer. When illness struck, Mother never sought a doctor’s advice — it cost too much. How on earth either one of us survived the constant regimen of mustard plasters, cold compresses, cod liver oil, castor oil, ipecac, the dreaded “red bottle medicine” (enemas) and all the other home remedies prescribed by our grandmother and great-grandmother I’ll never know.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 4
“Toonerville Folk” cartoon featuring the “Uspeakable ‘Stinky’ Davis” Despite all, I had a happy childhood, at least around home. My earliest recollections are of a stern, reserved, preoccupied father — a fair man, yet one who brooked no nonsense. He had strong religious convictions and a keen social consciousness. I saw him as incorruptible. He never drank, although I did have a beer with him once in later years. Asked about his aversion to alcohol, he
said that while still a young boy he saw a drunk being thrown out of the pub next to the flat where he and his family lived on High Street in Eton. The man landed on his head and bled copiously. This incident, along with all the drunkenness he saw each day, made him resolve to stay away from the Demon Rum. I did not see him as being intolerant of those who used alcohol, only determined that none of it would be seen around our house. The sole exception I can remember was a case of beer that sat in our basement for years. It had been sent to Dad by the president of the West Side Rowing Club in Buffalo, New York in a wellmeant but inappropriate expression of appreciation for a boat he had built them. That box leered at me every time I went down to the basement. When the temptation grew too great, a friend and I began sneaking down now and then to share one. The bottles were packed in sawdust, and we buried the empty each time, figuring that no one would be the wiser. At dinner one evening, Mother mentioned that she had decided that day to throw the box out. On moving it, she thought it very light and dug into it, only to find all but one of the bottles empty! I thought it a good idea to play dumb. She said it must have been the painters. They had been there just the week before to redo the kitchen. I let it go at that. Interestingly enough, I developed no taste for beer out of that misbehavior and stayed away from it all my growing years. Dad almost never used strong language. “Dash it all,” “I’ll be jiggered” and “by Jove” covered his swearing, although I did hear a “hell” or two. I grew up in awe of him and his self-discipline: cold shower in the morning and all that. His calm public persona was all the more remarkable given that he suffered agony from chronic migraines. Patty and I were often admonished, “Be quiet! Daddy has a headache.” He worshipped the ground my mother walked on, and I never heard a harsh word exchanged between them. As I was to learn later, this atmosphere was hardly a realistic preparation for the realities of life to come. It did, however, assure me and Patty a pleasant childhood.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 5 Mother and I were the best of friends. Generally rather quiet and reserved, she gave free rein to her lively, playful spirit when Dad was away with the UW crews each June. When we were still quite young, Pat and I could take turns sleeping in her big bed. We could make noise around the house. I could play “last tag” with Mother before I went off to school. She wouldn’t give up and neither would I. Often the two of us ended up rolling on the floor with laughter. What fun we had! She would even take us out to dinner, despite the hard times. As we grew older we could stay up late, listening to the radio or talking endlessly. I don’t mean to imply by these comments that life was unpleasant around home when Dad was there. Quite the contrary. I can only remember being paddled by him twice, and both times I deserved punishment. The first time was when he discovered the sheets of Christmas Seals missing. After I confessed to having taken them to kindergarten to show my classmates, he said I deserved a spanking. I ran and hid under the kitchen table. When found, I suffered the consequences. I’m not sure which lesson I learned: never to take anything not belonging to me, or never to admit having done so. The other time was when I mouthed off at Mother in his presence. He would not tolerate that kind of behavior. I was proud of him, of what he did and of what he stood for. He earned the respect and love of the three of us in every way. By comparison, my childhood days outside the home and our immediate family were not quite so happy. I was unbearably shy and disliked school. I could never make my top spin the way all the other boys could and invariably lost my pocketful of marbles in the illicit playground games at recess. It was difficult for me to make friends, and I was much happier when by myself. As a first-grader I did have one friend — Phillip Craig. He and I had great fun walking around the neighborhood after school, shouting out all the naughty words we had ever heard. It almost broke my heart when, toward the end of the second grade, I learned that we were going to move away. Long afterward, I was told that the folks had wanted to leave the district because of some of the bad kids hanging around. Perhaps they were
Worried fathers, loyal wives, (mostly) happy children – circa 1927 The author’s family, with Uncle Jim, Aunt Lucy, cousins Betty and Grace right. Also, maybe some of the other parents were equally glad to see us go for the same reason. OUR MOVE PROVED A HAPPY ONE. LAURELHURST IN THOSE DAYS was a great place for a kid. Because the area was only about half built up, there was room aplenty for us to roam, build camps and tree houses and dig forts. I still found myself shy and friendships hard to make. Bob Cline was my closest friend. He moved away when we were freshmen at Roosevelt High School, and I heard nothing of him until my fiftieth high school reunion a year or two ago. There, I learned that he had died in a plane crash in Dallas some years before. Kenny Moritz was another good friend. He lived across the street, and we shared many happy times. Of a scientific bent in those days,
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 6 Left: The Pocock family home at 3608 43rd Avenue Northeast, Seattle, Washington Below: An aerial view of Laurelhurst looking east — circa 1937
Lake Washington Laurelhurst Light Pocock Family Home
Wherry Float Union Bay
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 7 we spent endless hours performing experiments involving the use, not only of chemicals and electricity, but also of such mundane materials as ink, salt and urine. I’m surprised that we didn’t end up killing ourselves. One of our friends, George Kreiger, managed to blow off a few of his fingers. Luckily, I was not involved in that episode. Kenny moved away, and I heard later that he became an English major and was for a time a professor at University of Southern California (USC). Others I enjoyed included Howard Angel, George Jackson, Bill Scott, Richie Strom and Frank Curtis. When the war broke out, Frank became the only conscientious objector in our crowd. He served time at McNeil Island and was one of the few prisoners who ever escaped, though only briefly. He succeeded in swimming to the mainland, where he was so exhausted that he fell asleep on the beach and was soon retaken. Frank, too, became a teacher — at Reed College in Portland.
Interior of old UW shellhouse – circa 1922
Although today Laurelhurst is known as an enclave for the wealthy, during the Great Depression, when we lived there, I never knew any kid whose parents were rich, with the possible exception of one whose mother had her own car. The rest of the families struggled. THOSE WERE TOUGH TIMES, WITH LITTLE MONEY AROUND. PAT and I received no allowances; what little spending money we had came from picking wild blackberries in season (ten cents a quart), from mowing lawns (two bits) and from collecting pop bottles (three cents apiece courtesy of Ben’s Drugstore). If we were lucky enough to find a quart-sized ginger ale bottle, Ben gave us a nickel for that. A neighbor kid, Billy Brugman, was an ambitious sort and had several lawns to mow. One summer, he managed to save up 14 dollars! When I grew older, I took over the job of mowing our lawn from Mr. Nelson after he mysteriously disappeared. His body was later discovered far out in the country where he had wandered off, only to die of natural causes. Dad gave me a whole dollar a week for doing the job. Billy, of course, was jealous, but I made sure that I earned every nickel of my pay by manicuring the place to within an inch of its life. I remember one day spending a full eight hours before I was satisfied with the job I had done. My cousin Betty was getting married, and the bridal dinner was to be at our house, so the yard had to look good. Although we were better off than many, those must have been worrisome times for the folks. Years later, Dad told me that he had had no savings, but was fortunate in that his monthly income never fell below 00 dollars. With this amount, he was just able to keep up the payments on the house and provide us with food. He found jobs for the few men who were working for him when the Depression hit. With no rent to pay (he was given use of the space for his shop in the UW shellhouse in return for taking care of the rowing equipment), he survived by making and supplying spare parts and oars. For more than two years, there were no orders for boats. One morning, he went to pick up the mail at University Station up on the “Ave” (University Way). There, out of the blue, was an order from Columbia University.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 8 Flush with back-to-back Intercollegiate Rowing Association (IRA) victories under their belt, they wanted two eights and two sets of oars. One can easily imagine the sense of relief he felt when he opened and read that letter. On Saturday mornings Dad often took me with him on his shopping rounds. One regular stop was at the Japanese truck gardens below the UW campus where University Village Shopping Center now flourishes. We would take an old-fashioned shopping bag with us and with one dollar buy all the vegetables we could cram in. That kept our family going for a week. In the madness of World War II, the Japanese farmers were forced to leave, and never came back. We assumed that they owned the land and were gypped out of it by those who took advantage of people in their situation. We learned later that they had only been renters. Most interesting to me on those Saturday excursions were our visits to the supply houses, lumber yards, ship chandlers and paint stores where Dad would lay in supplies for his work. I loved the great piles of lumber at Ehrlich-Harrison, the evocative smells of cordage and tar at Seattle Marine Supply, the incredible catalogue at Seattle Hardware Company that I used to read as though it were the Bible, and the marble splendor and solemnity of University National Bank with its mysterious safety deposit vault in the basement. Invariably, we finished at “the shop,” which is what we always called the place where Dad built his boats. I loved to go there most of all. Occupying the back part of the old UW shellhouse, it was a modest layout. The smells were so wonderful. Each of the various woods had its distinctive odor, but Western red cedar, Alaskan yellow cedar and sugar pine were the best. Years before I had the chance to work in the shop, I sensed that was where I belonged. Some Saturdays we made it to the shellhouse early enough to go out in the coaching launch with Al Ulbrickson, the Varsity coach, and watch a turnout of the UW crews. Those rides, so glamorous and exciting, were special for me. The names of those heroes stick with me even today: Ed Argersinger, Hank Schmidt, Herb Mjorud, Curly Harris, Herb Day, Stan Valentine, Polly Parrot, Carl Reese, Dick
Odell and Harvey Love. They were larger than life to me. I wondered if I could ever hope to be their equal when I grew up. Always welcome in the launch, Dad often went out to watch the evening workouts during the week. I remember sitting at dinner in the kitchen on more than one occasion when the back door would open just enough for his hat to come sailing in as he tested the domestic waters after a late outing. At the age when one must make such decisions, I decided to cast my lot with Dad and spend my life as a builder of racing shells. I couldn’t imagine the boats not being built once he was gone, and I wanted to carry on that tradition.
UW Varsity – 1933 – left to right: Bob White, Wil Washburn, Herb Mjorud, Herb Day, Gordon Parrot, Bob Snider, Walt Raney, Ed Argensinger, Harvey Love Later, right out of college, I went to work at the shop. As time went on, he and I became the best of friends, working closely together until he died at the age of 85. I never lost my great admiration of him. Until the day he passed away, I saw him as a prince among men, as I still do.
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Aerial view looking west toward Union Bay, the University of Washington, & Portage Bay – circa 1947 – () – Old shellhouse; (2) – Montlake Cut; (3) – Future site of Conibear shellhouse; (4) – Future site of George Pocock Memorial Rowing Center; (5) – Truck farms (present-day site of University Village); (6) – Student housing, first home of Stan & Lois Pocock; (7) – Portage Bay & the sailing ship Fantome; (8) – Union Bay; (9) – University of Washington; (0) – Victory gardens; () – Future Lake Union site of “the shop”
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 10 ANOTHER CHILDHOOD STORY I CANNOT RESIST RELATING IS of the time in July of my seventh year when Dad took me and my cousin Frankie on a camping trip down Hood Canal. We made the two-week adventure in a nice lapstrake dingy that he owned. The name Takenite carved on its transom identified it as having originally belonged on a yacht of the same name owned by Mr. Boeing of aircraft fame. While working at the Boeing plant, Dad and his brother Dick in their spare time had built a similar boat in the basement of the modest house they shared. It was such a beauty that Boeing had to have it. He offered to trade boats. When the boss says he wants to trade something, what do you do? You trade. Originally, it had sported a little one-lunger engine, but that was now replaced by a big Evinrude outboard of early vintage. We loaded everything needed for our two-week adventure and took off from the old shellhouse early one foggy Saturday morning. The night before, Dad had told me to be sure to bring along my Boy Scout whistle, of which I was very proud. He thought it might come in handy should there be fog out on Puget Sound. In one ear and out the other. The next morning we headed out through the Ballard Locks and ran straight into a dense bank of fog covering the Sound. About halfway across, we heard a big ship approaching. It had to be one of the Princess boats charging down from Canada. As the sound drew nearer, Dad called out, “You better start blowing your whistle, Stanley.” “I forgot it, Daddy,” I cried back, wondering to myself what-onearth good would that do. Just then, the ship hove into view, awesome in its majesty as it towered over us. I could almost reach out and touch it as it tore by. Hard as it tried, its frightening wake failed to swamp us. Had the ship hit us, no one aboard would ever have been aware of it. Despite that hair-raising beginning, the trip was a happy one. For the next two weeks, we lived off fish and clams, swam and hiked during the days and camped on the beach at night. A big boy now, I was allowed to have coffee (heavily laced with condensed milk). I
didn’t like it, but pretended that I did. That trip remains one of my happiest childhood memories.
I ENTERED THE UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON SCHOOL OF Engineering in the Fall of 1942 with a civil engineering (CE) degree in mind. Why CE? Math and the sciences came easily to me, and I enjoyed building things, so I guess it was a logical enough choice. The decision was made easier when I learned that CE was the only engineering degree that did not require my writing a thesis. Once in school, it seemed only natural that I turn out for rowing. That was why I was there in the first place. For an education, there were other places to go, but not for rowing. To me, crew and the University of Washington were synonymous. The Husky oarsmen of the past were my heroes, and I longed to become one of them. I took no part in athletics at Roosevelt High School, having been too busy studying and too bashful to find out how to try out for any of the various sports. What’s more, I was so awkward. Tending to be left-handed, I never knew which hand to use when throwing or batting a ball. Although I enjoyed soccer while in grade school, there was nowhere to go with that sport in those days once one advanced on into high school. I also enjoyed the rough-and-tumble of the informal football games up at the Laurelhurst Playfield. Rightly or wrongly, I was warned away from turning out for football by Roy Armstrong, director of playfield activities. I did know something about sculling. Dad had given me a wherry (a relatively stable sculling boat) when I was 12 or 13. Secured to a little cart, it could be wheeled down to Lake Washington only a couple of blocks from our house. One evening, Bruggy and his father went with us and helped paddle an old float across Union Bay. Formerly used by the UW crews, the float had been abandoned and left to rot in the tules. Mooring the disreputable old relic at the street-
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 11 end near our place brought a few muted squawks from neighbors. It made a great place to launch from, however, and, as time went on, I found more than one of the squawkers putting it to their own use. Dad never gave me any particular instructions on how to scull. I think this stemmed from his belief that sculling should come naturally or not at all. He told me of the first time, at age , that he was put out in a rumtum on the Thames River in England, and of how excited my grandfather had been to see the natural way he had taken to it. My first paddle was relatively uneventful, eliciting no noticeable excitement on Dad’s part. In the past, I had occasionally watched him scull; now I was left to figure it out on my own A big trip for me was to row around Laurelhurst Light and up to the Beach Club where there were girls to watch. I always let friends who were interested take the boat out, and two or three of them later turned out for rowing at the university. Jane Eddy was the only girl who ever used it, and she became quite good. Unfortunately, there was no rowing program for women offered around Seattle then. Down at the shellhouse one day, after I had put in enough miles to build up my confidence, Dad let me go out in his single. (If you want to raise my hackles, just call a single a “scull.” Know that a sculling oar is a scull, and a single sculling boat is a single.) I could not believe how unstable it was. Paddling along, I wondered how anyone could ever pull hard enough to work up a sweat. Suddenly, I tumbled headover-teakettle into the drink without the slightest idea of what I had done to cause the mishap. Luckily, the boat was not damaged, and I was close to shore. Despite the embarrassment of that first disastrous outing, I didn’t give up and soon could handle a single quite well. I didn’t fall out too often and certainly found I could pull hard enough for a good workout. The thought of racing in my single never entered my mind, there being no sculling competition around at the time. Sculling races took place on the East Coast, but who ever heard of traveling that far to suffer pain? Phil Lewis and his wife kept wherries at their houseboat on Portage Bay, and Bob Lamson had an ancient old single, but he
lived clear down at the other end of Lake Washington. These few souls (rarely seen on the water), plus Dad and me, made up the entire field. What we should have done was put a couple of wherries at the Beach Club and organized a sculling program there. I’m sure it would have gone over in a big way.
Gus Eriksen & George Pocock – 1949 I A LMOST FORGOT: THER E W ER E T WO W HER R IES AT THE shellhouse that Dad let UW oarsmen take out. The most use ever made of them came one spring after Gus Eriksen was kicked off the Varsity squad for fighting. Refusing to give up, he rowed a wherry wherever the Varsity went. After a few weeks of this, Dad raced him in from Laurelhurst Light one night. Gus acquitted himself so well that Dad passed the word on to Ulbrickson. Al relented and let him rejoin the Husky squad.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 12 Eriksen wound up stroking the JV to victory at Poughkeepsie, thus earning his third Varsity letter (Big W). (As an added incentive, JV crews in those days were promised Big Ws should they win at Poughkeepsie. Members of the Varsity received theirs, win or lose.) Gus’s rowing experience was unique. There was no requirement dictating normal progression toward a degree in those Depression years, and Gus struggled while working his way through school. He became the only person who was ever awarded an Honor W for having rowed four years without winning a letter and then went on for three more years to win Big Dubs. Gus was also the only man ever to turn out for swimming, skiing and rowing at the same time. Had Al known, he would have kicked him out for that, too. Another Gus story. He was always late for turnout, and his crew would cover for him by taking their eight out and putting it on the water while he dressed. One winter afternoon, Gus came racing out, oar in hand, only to slip on the ice-covered ramp. Skier that he was, he confidently schussed down toward the shell. Reaching water’s edge, he tried to regain his balance by planting his oar on what he hoped would be the float. It wasn’t; it was the bottom of the boat. Al had already headed out with the other crews, not being one to wait around for delays. The crew took the waterlogged shell back in and brought out a substitute. After the workout, Gus confessed his sin to Dad, who the next day quietly went about fixing the boat, Al none the wiser.
out by Fox Point and found ourselves flat on our backs. The concrete blocks dropped through the bottom of the boat, and down we went. I made the great mistake of laughing. That was the only occasion, save one, when the two of us ever rowed together. Years later we went out in a quad sculler with two of the McIntyre brothers. That outing did not go much better. The three of them were sculling left-hand-over-right while I, by habit, was doing the opposite: right-over-left. (Dad always said that only amateurs sculled right-over-left.) He was at stroke and started off as though we were racing at Henley. What a mess!
Old Nero with Frosh coach Bud Raney standing in mid-craft – circa 1940
THE FIRST TIME I HAD A SWEEP OAR IN MY HAND WAS IN A COXED wherry pair with Dad when I was still in high school. There being no coxswain handy, we put some chunks of concrete in the stern to make the boat trim right. We shoved off with me at stroke and him in the bow where he could watch what I was doing and, presumably, where we were going. Things went badly. Finally, Dad hollered, “Come on, let’s go. I’m only pulling with one hand!” “Well,” I replied, “I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m supposed to be doing!” At that instant, we ran head-on into the navigation buoy
BACK TO MY FRESHMAN YEAR AT THE UW. THERE WAS NO ONE else in the turnout who had ever had an oar or scull in his hand. I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut, but figured it was a good idea. On the one hand, I was sure I could have helped; on the other, I was sure my help would be ill received. Besides, I was having troubles of my own. Once we graduated from Old Nero into the shells, I began to catch crabs (see Glossary). I couldn’t figure out for the life of me what the problem was. Much later, when I was back at the UW after a stint at Navy Boot Camp, I discovered the cause.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 13 In those days, we each jealously used our own oar. I searched through the racks and came across the oar I had used as a freshman. By then I knew enough to check the pitch. Sure enough, it should have been a starboard oar, although it was marked port. (Oars from our shop were intended to be absolutely true, and, while most of them remained neutral and could be used on either side, inevitably some took a slight twist. Except for the rare one now and then, they could still be used on either side, but to make sure that they could be used properly, we checked them closely and marked them either port or starboard.) A shim under the leather of my oar was causing the trouble. Someone in the shop must have thought it needed a little help. Once in use, the oar straightened out. I don’t know how I ever managed to row with it that way. In my ignorance, I stuck with it and struggled. The coach offered no help, no doubt thinking that I should know how to handle whatever was going on. Once I removed the shim, the oar worked fine, and I had no more trouble with it. Besides rowing, I began my college education in freshman engineering and was introduced to fraternity life on the campus. The engineering part came easily. I had an adequate academic background gained at Roosevelt High School where a large percentage of the students planned to go on to college, and the atmosphere for learning was favorable. As for joining a fraternity, I had never planned on it. I was at the UW Bookstore buying books one day before classes started when I ran into Johnny Dresslar, a friend from Laurelhurst Grade School who had graduated a year or two ahead of me. He asked whether I was going through rushing. I told him I was not. Urging me to do so, he promised an invitation for me to come visit his house, Phi Gamma Delta, if I signed up. I went down to the InterFraternity Council office, put my name on the list and soon received the promised invitation. On my first visit to the Phi Gamma Delta (Fiji) house, I was interested to find that many of its members were oarsmen. On my second visit I made points by asking some of the upperclassmen if they would like to sneak into the shellhouse and take out an eight. They wanted to, we did, and the adventure scored
Author, second from right, at Roosevelt High School – 1941 me points. Other rushees must have found the Fijis’ interest in rowing attractive, for when Rush Week was over, there were nine men in my pledge class who went out for crew. That there were many Roosevelt grads on the list of pledges did not excite me. They were all big shots — star athletes and politicos with whom I had had little or no contact. There were two or three whom I knew slightly and grew to like. I received invitations to visit several other houses: the SAEs, Sigma Chis and Alpha Delts, among others. I was especially drawn to the Alpha Delts. Aside from having several oarsmen in the house, they seemed to be a decent bunch. The only trouble was, I knew that one of their members was seriously interested in the girl I was dating. I figured that might cause trouble, so I wrote off the Alpha Delts. Not long after that, she gave me the gate, and they later married. Another reason I found the Fijis attractive was that they did not allow drinking in the house or at their parties. I was straight arrow in those days, and this seemed important. Many of them drank, of course,
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Bob Ellis – 1944 as I soon found out, but they did it elsewhere. Whatever my reasoning, I decided to pledge Fiji if they buzzed me, which they did. There were some of the men in the house with whom I became close friends, and I have never regretted that decision. Through the associations established there, I became acquainted with a wide spectrum of men with interests far beyond rowing and engineering. I came to appreciate the very active Fiji alumni group. Older men, they took a vital interest in us youngsters. They wanted to get to know us, to hear what we were doing and to help us wherever they could. I saw them as men of the real world who had much to offer a young man.
NOT LONG AFTER CLASSES STARTED THAT FALL, WE ALL WENT over to Eastern Washington to pick apples. The war being on, apple knockers were scarce, and much of the crop was in danger of being lost. The university shut down classes for several days so that students who wished to do so could go over and pitch in. A special train took us to Wenatchee, where we were assigned to the various ranches in the area. I landed somewhere in the boondocks with Bob Ellis and two coeds. Bob was a pledge brother and a good friend. Tragically, two years later he lost his life in the Battle of the Bulge. His two brothers, Jim and John Ellis, became household names on the Seattle scene for their involvement in projects ranging from Forward Thrust and Metro to the World’s Fair and the Seattle Mariners. I have often wondered what Bob would have done with his life had he lived. A fine young man, that he would have made his mark is without question. Bob and I imagined many exciting possibilities at the sight of our two female companions. These hopes were dashed when the girls announced that they were seniors, which meant they were beyond our reach. They need not have worried, anyway, because the rancher’s wife was a demon chaperone. She, too, had lurid ideas of the goings-on among the big city college kids and there would be none of that on her farm. She watched us like a hawk. There was one benefit, though: she was a great cook — as long as you liked overcooked vegetables, meat and potatoes. With no wartime rationing in effect on the farm, we had all the bacon, butter, eggs and meat we could stuff in. We worked about 2 hours a day picking and, except for eating, slept the rest of the time. Also working at the ranch were two dissolute characters who made their living at fruit-picking. They laughed at the warnings we were given about not picking up fruit from the ground and about handling each apple very carefully. They advised us that we would never make any real money that way, and they were right: We followed directions and did not make much. To top it off, back in Seattle we had to listen to all the wild stories about what supposedly went on at the other ranches.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 15 The reason for such a huge class was simple: young men were being drafted or were volunteering for the armed forces in great numbers. Because they were suffering such a high rate of attrition, fraternities needed to inflate their ranks to start with if they were to continue paying their bills. This problem was solved for them some months later when the federal government established the V2 Naval Officers College Training Program. Many colleges and universities throughout the country engaged in this part of the war effort. With the program in place at the UW, all the fraternity houses were leased to serve as dormitories for candidates seeking Navy or Marine Corps commissions. There were similar programs for the Army and the Army Air Corps. The idea was to provide a continuing supply of college-trained officers for what might be a long war. Lightweight crews – 1948 I FINISHED FALL QUARTER IN THE SCHOOL OF ENGINEERING with good grades and looked forward to the new year. Forever gullible, I had been led to believe that the Fijis did not subject their pledges to Hell Week as a preliminary to initiation. Not true. The first week of Winter Quarter before classes began was devoted to that insanity. The monkey business mostly entailed loss of sleep, and this did not contribute much toward making a good beginning on the new quarter. Still, I must say that, compared with what went on in some of the other houses, the Fijis’ initiation ritual was kept well within bounds by our upperclassmen. On the brighter side, all the shenanigans that we (the Mighty Class of ’46) were put through helped us form a kind of bond, some of which continues to this day. We all made it through and became members of Sigma Tau Chapter, Fraternity of Phi Gamma Delta. When I say all, I mean just that. There were 41 men in our class. Six more were pledged after I left for the Navy in April. One man dropped out; the rest of us were initiated. This made a grand total of 46 in the class. I could never name them all now; as freshmen, we had to.
HELL WEEK OVER, I WAS BACK IN GEAR IN MY CLASSES AND at the shellhouse when I received my long-expected “Greeting” from Uncle Sam. Having registered for the draft when I turned 18, I was now directed to present myself for induction into the armed forces. My number was up, and I was ready to go. I stopped rowing, dropped all my classes and went to the induction center for my physical. I did so with some trepidation, afraid I could not pass 100 percent. A urinary anomaly had been discovered the previous summer when I applied for admission to the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps (NROTC) at the university. I failed that physical because of the presence of albumin in my urine. I had gone to see a urologist who, after testing urine samples taken upon arising, assured me that there was no problem. In his opinion, the symptoms were caused by the excessive physical stress of rowing. That opinion made no difference to the Navy doctors, and I was out. Albumin in the urine, not serious enough to warrant 4F status, meant only one thing — the Army. At the Induction Center, despite my fears, luck was with me. The corpsman on duty who happened to handle my sample turned out to be Harry Pitzer, a member of my Fiji pledge class. He had been drafted into the Army just a few weeks
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 16 previously. He spotted the albumin right away, and, when he saw my name on the vial, came looking for me. He asked whether I thought serving in the Navy or Marines sounded better than serving in the Army. I said “yes,” so he marked the sample “OK.” With that hurdle out of the way, I opted for the Navy over the other services, thinking that it might offer the most decent way to fight a war. A day or so later, I was hanging around the Fiji house when a phone call came in from the dean of students, Mr. Condon. A Fiji alumnus, he had taken an interest in me and, without talking to me first, persuaded the draft board (of which he was a member) to defer my induction until after the end of Winter Quarter. I had been all set to go and was not properly grateful. I should have been. The unexpected deferment meant that I would not be heading for Navy boot camp at Farragut, Idaho, in the dead of winter. Also, I might otherwise have missed my chance for the V2 training program, which became available while I was still in boot camp. As they say, “It’s an ill wind….” The unexpected delay forced me to go to my several professors, make peace with them and, worse, try to make up all the work I had let slide. The only one who would not give me a break was the captain in charge of Army ROTC — a course required in those days of all male students (except those in Navy RO, which is what we called NROTC). He insisted that I make up every minute of the time I had missed and all the work as well. He said that he thought me a slacker, and that I should have been proud to enter service as soon as I could. I managed to make up all the missed time and work and finished my classes for the quarter with fairly good marks. I didn’t go back to the Frosh turnout, there seeming to be no point since I would be gone by the time racing season started. Nevertheless, the delayed induction allowed me to win my first UW rowing letter. With my induction date only a few days away, I received a phone call from the Lightweight coach, Gus Eriksen. Grade reports had just come out, and his Varsity stroke was ineligible. His crews had races
Off to the races – Vancouver Rowing Club – circa 1930 coming up against the University of British Columbia (UBC), and he asked whether I would come down and fill in. I hadn’t rowed for weeks and had done nothing to keep fit. Though reluctant to do so, I let him persuade me. When I showed up, he stuck me at stroke in his first boat. I did not stop to think how much this might be resented by the squad. Fortunately, the first boat continued to beat the second, and I was accepted. After our workout the first day, someone who had been in the launch accosted me and said it didn’t look as though I were pulling much. He was probably right, but I passed it off by saying I was not back in condition yet. He might have been giving me an unintended compliment. Years later, when coaching, I liked to insist that my oarsmen “row hard, but make it look easy.” Our two crews left without me, for I had to appear before the draft board and persuade them that I was not running to Canada to avoid military service. Eventually reunited in Vancouver, we went for a workout. At that time UBC was rowing out of a miserable old shack
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 17 on the Fraser River, not out of the picturesque Vancouver Rowing Club boathouse at Stanley Park. They had only two usable eights. One was a brand-new boat from England, the other an old shell of Dad’s make. Being good sports, the UBC crews proposed that we draw lots. We preferred the “Pocock” and, luckily, drew it. Both our crews won, helped by our shouts of “F.E.R.A.” (the initials standing for a phrase I absolutely refuse to divulge). I embarked on my Navy career two days later, secure in the knowledge that I possessed a Varsity Lightweight letter from the University of Washington. I never heard who had flunked out and given me my big chance. On the first of April, 943, Mother and Dad drove me down to the railroad station to catch the train that would take me to boot camp. Seeing them standing there, looking so lost and forlorn as we all were marched off, I was too young and far too dumb to wonder what it all might mean to them. I had thought about the possibility of dying, but mistakenly believed that such a fate involved me and no one else. Had I known how badly our Navy was being mauled at the time, my thoughts might well have been on an entirely different plane. [FOR THOSE WHO DON’T KNOW WHERE THE TERM “BOOT CAMP” came from, here’s the story: Trainees for the Navy, rated as “Apprentice Seamen,” were not allowed to swagger around in their bell-bottom sailor pants. Instead, they were forced to wear canvas leggings, similar to what Boy Scouts once wore, known as “boots” in Navy lingo. Trainees were called “boots” and the training facilities, logically enough, were called “ boot camps.” Upon graduation, as Seamen, First Class, they could swagger in their bell-bottoms all they wanted.] MY EXPERIENCES AS A BOOT WERE TOLERABLE. BECAUSE I HAD rowed at the UW, and survived Hell Week at the fraternity house, there was not much the boot camp sadists could do to surprise me. I lost lots of sleep (the snoring in the barracks at night was unbelievable) and soon could lie down and sleep anywhere when we had a few
minutes to spare. One evening I was flaked out, recovering from the trials of the day, when mail call sounded. There was a letter from Dad with a clipping of a column by Royal Brougham, the sports editor at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer (P-I), describing his recent visit to Farragut Naval Training Base. He rhapsodized over this luxurious summer resort on the shore of Lake Pend Oreille where the nation’s young men were being introduced to the joys of life at sea. I suspected he was shown only the Officers Club. After a few weeks of these ordeals, I came down with catarrhal fever and had to endure a month-long stay in the hospital. Forced to start over with a new company, I had to go through much of the same boot camp regimen a second time. One day, I unwisely volunteered to row in a cutter crew in preparation for the intercompany races. Another member of our company said that he had rowed at the University of California (Cal), while I confessed to having turned out at Washington. I was put at starboard stroke; the man from Cal was put at port stroke. This meant I was supposed to follow him. When the command to row was given by our coxswain, the Cal man missed the water completely and landed in the bottom of the boat. I made the mistake of telling him what he was doing wrong. That evening I was royally read off by the company commander in front of the whole company for my bitching. Incidentally, he was the coxswain of the cutter. He ordered me to run several circuits of the grinder (parade ground) with my rifle over my head. So much for trying to help. I wasn’t kicked off the cutter crew — no one else would volunteer —and we enjoyed some pleasant outings. Boating on Lake Pend Oreille, even when sweating behind the 6-foot oar of a navy cutter, beat marching up and down the grinder. Mr. Monroe (emphasis on the first syllable), 23 at most, had been a star athlete at some school in Texas before joining the Navy. He held a Specialist (A) Chief Petty Officer’s rating. Carrying the fancy, hand-carved, gold-painted wooden saber he used to emphasize his every command, he was MISTER MONroe to all us boots. He
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 18
In front of the “Fiji Annex” – 1945 probably hated being there as much as we did. Graduation ceremonies for Company 373, Regiment 2, Battalion 8, consisted of our parading back and forth in review with Mr. Monroe waving his sword. What all the marching we did as boots had to do with being sailors in the Navy, I never figured out. And then the wait, wondering where I would be assigned. We spent days shoveling dirt into wheelbarrows and hauling the loads to one end of a field. When the pile was big enough to suit the cretin in charge, he had us haul it all back to where it came from. The only pitch I remember, relative to my future in the Navy, was one urging duty with the submarine service. Fifty dollars a month extra and guaranteed good food didn’t seem sufficient inducement. I actually went out (or down) in a “sardine can” years later and found the wisdom of my non-interest confirmed.
Because I had some college work behind me, I was given the job of company clerk for our barracks. In that capacity, I learned something of how the Navy functioned. I also learned to drink coffee. One day a notice came through announcing an exam being offered. Those passing it would qualify for officers’ training through the newlyestablished V2 program. Asking myself “Why not?” I took the exam and was one of the few who passed. I would be assigned to the University of Washington if I could pass a rigorous physical exam; the dear old albumin again. I figured I would solve the problem on my own this time. Finding an old ink bottle in the barracks (ballpoint pens had yet to be invented), I washed it out and ditched it in my ditty bag. The morning of the physical, I filled it with the proper stuff, hid it in my baggy GI jumper and went to the sick bay at the appointed hour. The first thing the corpsman on duty asked for was a urine sample. I said I would have to go into the head, i.e., toilet, and run some hot water on my hands to hasten the process. (Using the right words seemed the sole criterion for qualifying as a sailor — that, and drinking coffee). This was not an unusual request, and the corpsman said “OK.” I filled the beaker from the jar I had brought with me and, after running hot water over the bottle to make it seem authentic, took it to the corpsman, who passed me with flying colors. That hurdle out of the way, I returned to classes at the UW. Every six months for the next two-and-a-half years, I had to pass another physical. I solved that problem by making sure I took mine at the same time as my room mate and buddy, Bob Lorentz. I knew he could pass the urine test, and he agreed to pee for me. Dodging the war was not the issue. We had no idea how long it would last and figured we would all end up in it sooner or later. It was more a matter of our wanting to go to war as officers rather than as enlisted men. One friend, Mike Coles, who had flunked out, told me years later that, almost before he knew it, he found himself driving a landing barge onto the beach of some South Sea island. In an instant, the barge capsized on top of him. At least he survived. Many did not.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 19 down to Dad’s shop at the lower end of the campus and worked at one project or another, or borrowed his car for momentary escape. One had to be careful doing this because we wore only undress blues on campus, while dress blues were required when on liberty. I would have been in big trouble had I been caught.
UW V12 Varsity – 1945 – left to right: Dehn, Dresslar, Bergeron, House, Martin, Swanson, Graul, Pocock, Lee The V2 program was a lousy way to go to college, though it was at taxpayers’ expense. We had a heavy class load — 2 hours — and a full four quarters per year, with little time for fun and games. Despite this, there was some relief to be had. The Fijis sprinkled throughout the Naval ROTC, Marine and Navy units rented a small house at the corner of 2st and NE 45th, just across from campus. We called this our Fiji Annex. Against all V2 regulations, this hideaway helped brighten our otherwise thoroughly regimented lives. We could dodge across 45th during the few floats we had and plan our various weekend capers. Another saving feature was the nightly liberty until 0 o’clock that I could enjoy as long as I kept my grade point at 3.5 or better. Pulling down good grades most of the time, I could walk down to the Ave now and then in the evening to take in a movie at the Neptune or the Egyptian theater — 27 cents. During the day, I often went
INTERCOLLEGIATE ROWING BEING A VICTIM OF THE WAR EFFORT, there was no official crew program at the UW. Ulbrickson was on leave from coaching and serving as acting athletic director for the duration. Football and basketball were kept alive, though for the life of me I can’t imagine why. Perhaps it was to con the public into thinking that the country was not into anything very serious as far as the war was concerned. Though crew had no official status, we managed some rowing through the efforts of Captain Paul Moore, head of the Marine Corps detachment. Captain Moore had rowed at Yale as an undergraduate and was back from harrowing duty in the South Pacific. A near brush with death on Guadalcanal had earned him this stateside rest. Moore’s experiences on Guadalcanal had given him pause to think seriously about life and about what it meant to him. Because he was spared when so many others were not, he had decided to spend the rest of his life working to help others. After leaving the Marine Corps at war’s end, he studied for the ministry and became an Episcopal priest. When last I heard of him, he had just been named Bishop of New York. Moore had persuaded the commandant, Captain Eric Barr, to let him establish a V2 rowing program. With turnouts only three days a week, it never became a drag, and it beat exercising in the gym. We actually had two races: one with an eight from the Coast Guard, the other with a boat from UBC. The first contest was organized by Phil Lewis, he with the wherry on Portage Bay. In the Coast Guard at the time and stationed in Port Angeles, he had borrowed an old eight from the UW and had some people rowing. The race was held on Lake Washington. The Coast Guard crew were no match for us, but we all had a good time. We even enjoyed a social hour afterward at
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 20 the Seattle Yacht Club. The second race, with UBC, was a disaster for me and our crew. I stroked the boat, as I had done against the Coast Guard. Before leaving for the start, I noticed that my rowlock would not close properly, but thought nothing of it. As is too often the case on race day, a strong wind was blowing, and the water was extremely rough at the starting line. When the starter shouted “Row!” my oar, buried in a huge wave, popped out of the lock. No one bothered to stop the race, though by all the rules of racing someone should have. Normally, any breakage in the first 30 seconds stops a race if the cox’n requests it by raising his hand. Either ours didn’t (if he did, no one in the official’s launch saw it), or — what is more likely — the officials knew nothing of such things. So the race went on. While the other seven rowed, I fiddled with my oarlock. I jammed the oar back in, though still unable to close the gate. We took off and rowed right past the other crew. When the oar came out again, we dropped back. With the oar back in, we once more surged ahead. Out it came, back we fell. By this time, I was cussing bloody murder at whoever had made the lock, as well as at anyone else I could think of. Each time I got the oar in place, we regained the lead until, inevitably, the lock gave way completely. All I could do then was slide up and down with the rest of the crew. They held the other crew, more or less, but we lost by a few feet. The UBC crew were ecstatic. This was the first time, ever, that a crew of theirs had defeated a crew representing the University of Washington. At least one of the victors was realistic, however. Back at the shellhouse I heard him mutter to one of his mates, “Yeah, but we only beat a seven, not an eight!” ONE DAY IN AUGUST, 945, AS WE M ARCHED ACROSS THE campus, I heard someone shouting that an atomic bomb had been dropped on Japan. Despite the unimaginable horror of that, it was a relief to know that the whole miserable business was about to end. I wanted to end my career in the Navy (what little there had been of it) right then. Of course, there was no way that all of us could
be returned to civilian life immediately. The following March I completed the courses required by the Navy and was commissioned Ensign Pocock in the U.S. Naval Reserve. The war was over by then, thank heaven. I bought all the necessary uniforms, had my picture taken for posterity and flew (my first airplane ride — 14 hours to New York) to my new duty station. During the flight, spent next to a fellow who was violently airsick for most of the trip, I arranged to get together with one of the stewardesses after we reached New York. That liaison collapsed — luckily or not, depending on how one looks at it — before it even began. When the door of the plane opened to let us out, there at the foot of the stairway, waiting to greet me, stood Don Dehn. An old friend from school and rowing, he was also in uniform and stationed at Newport, Rhode Island, where I was heading. He had gone to the trouble of finding out when I was due in and was there to take me under his wing. It was great to see him, although he was not nearly as pretty as the stewardess. With some time to kill, we spent a few days enjoying the city. I then went up to Newport for two months of further training, followed by a few weeks aboard the USS Montpelier while waiting for my number to come up. Our squadron of three heavy cruisers made a sortie down the coast to Bermuda, where we stayed for several days. At the time, motor vehicles were still not permitted on the island. Several of us rented a horse and carriage and went up to one of the posh hotels overlooking the bay. Everything was free to those in uniform, and we had a great time. I found myself in no great hurry to return to civilian life, at least not until after we had departed that paradise. Soon after we returned to Newport, my papers came through and I made my way back to Seattle to be discharged. Rather than spending what little money I had, I decided to try the Military Air Transport Service. (MATS was free to all military personnel.) I made it to Philadelphia and there hopped a ride in a Piper spotter plane that took me as far as Detroit. Required to wear a parachute, I wondered how scared I would have to be before I would be willing to use it. Fortunately, I didn’t have to find out.
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 21 I requested a day’s delay, wanting to clean myself up before going through the required physical (no urine worries this time). I received the delay (and was even paid for it) and came back the next day to satisfy the medicos. Suddenly, I was a civilian again — though still in the Naval Reserve — with a so-called "ruptured duck” service pin which attested to my having been willing to stick my life on the line like everyone else. I had been a whole lot luckier than many.
Aboard USS Montpelier – 1946 – Bo Morgan, author & Brooks Biddle Then followed a flight to San Diego in a DC-3 cargo plane. I remember hanging out the open door watching the world go by. Upon reaching San Diego I struck out. I found the bus station and was about to buy a ticket for Seattle when a fellow sidled up to me and asked where I was going. When I told him, he said he was heading that way and was looking for another paying passenger. I think he wanted 65 dollars. It was cheaper than the bus fare, so I said OK. Excusing myself, I went into the head, took the last 00 dollar bill I had and stuck it inside my sock as a precaution in case the guy tried to roll me. I’m sure that if he had chosen to stick a knife or a gun in my ribs, I would have been only too happy to hand it over. We headed north in his beat-up old Buick that didn’t sound as though it would make it as far as Los Angeles, much less clear to Seattle. Actually, we made it to Sacramento before it gave up. The driver gave me some of my money back, and I found another bus station. I arrived in Seattle on the day I was due to be discharged.
ALL I NEEDED TO COMPLETE MY DEGREE IN CIVIL ENGINEERING was five hours more credit. I could stretch that out for a year and row at least one season. Any more than that would have seemed irresponsible, although I still had three full years of eligibility. I enrolled at the UW under the GI Bill — 50 dollars a month, plus tuition and books — and went out for crew. Ulbrickson was back on the job. The Cal race was scheduled to be resumed, as was the big annual regatta at Poughkeepsie, so there were goals to aim for. Class work posed no major problem. What bothered me, though, was that all the strenuous exercise and fresh air made it hard to keep awake at night to study. As if this were not enough, I could not relax when I lay in bed. The only place I could sleep was on the floor. That had worked in boot camp, and it worked for me now. Every night I flopped out on the floor for a few hours’ sleep and did my studying early in the morning. For Spring Quarter I arranged a light class load. Two days a week I had no afternoon classes and would take the bus home, grab a nap, gulp down a raw egg in vinegar (something the old pros thought did some good) and walk to the shellhouse in time for turnout. One day I overslept and woke up close to four o’clock, which was the time we hit the water. I didn’t dare miss turnout because Ulbrickson was sure to put me in the last boat the next day. Running as hard as I could the several miles to the shellhouse, I arrived just as the lineups were being announced, so tired that I could scarcely
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 22 lift my oar out of the rack. Somehow I made it through the workout, though I didn’t pull much. I was in the stroke seat, so no one in the boat could see my puddle. Al didn’t notice, and I kept my seat. During Winter Quarter that year the Varsity Boat Club — anyone who turned out his sophomore year was automatically a member — tried to recapture some of its past glory. Prior to the war, one of the major all-university social events each winter had been the annual Varsity Boat Club Ball. The most recent one had been held during my freshman year, 942–43. Because of wartime restrictions, the venue had been the old Army ROTC Armory on campus. This time we were determined to go all out, not recognizing that such affairs were likely to leave the new breed of student cold. We rented the National Guard Armory — the biggest place in town — paid through the nose for an orchestra and spent untold hours hauling down boats and oars and other equipment to decorate the hall. On the night of the dance, not counting the oarsmen and their dates, there were more people in the band than on the dance floor. Once over the shock of the financial disaster we faced, those of us who were there had a great time. As in the old saying, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow….” In the cold light of day, there was no getting away from the fact that we were in deep trouble. Everyone in the VBC was forced to chip in — I don’t remember how much. Weeks later, the club treasurer, Bob Barr, hung a big sign on the bulletin board next to the “hot hole” (our name for the room where we dried out our wet sweats) which read, “By the great Caesar’s jock strap, we’re solvent,” and we all breathed more easily. Whether there were any other attempts at alluniversity dances that year, I have no idea. We were all supposedly in training during the spring racing season. Many college athletes (and most oarsmen) actually did that in those days. Smoking, drinking and social events took a back seat.
the boat was not bad until it came to racing the Frosh. Any time we had a brush with them, our boat became almost unrowable, and the b——s would whip us. Someone in our boat did not row well when the chips were down. I had always rowed at stroke during my limited rowing career and knew that I could set a good rhythm, yet rarely did I enjoy the position. Too often there would be someone catching early, and that ruined everything. Now and then I was fortunate to have a crew behind me willing to follow what I was doing, and then it was great. I never had the guts — when things weren’t going right — to lay down the law and explain to the others exactly what it was that I was trying to do.
WE SHOULD HAVE HAD A GOOD VARSITY IN 947, BUT THAT WAS not to be. Bud Raney, still Frosh coach at the time, came up with a crew that we simply could not beat. We were fine in practice, and
ONE AFTERNOON, ABOUT THE TIME THE SUN STARTED TO SHINE that spring, we were putting our boat on the water when two sports photographers showed up. They wanted some dramatic shots for
UW Varsity practice – 1947 – left to right: cox, Bob Lee; stroke, Grant Bishop; 7, Jim Tupper; 6, Bill Harrah; 5, John Anderson; 4, Bill Works; 3, Dave Thompson; 2, Stan Pocock; bow, Bernie Benthin
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 23 an article on rowing. One of them climbed into the coxswain’s seat in front of me. After splashing some water on me to create the illusion of hard work going on, he said, “Make me some muscles.” I didn’t have any muscles to speak of, and he was mumbling under his breath when his brother hollered out, “This one up here has some!” Al told me to get out and had Grant Bishop take my place. Grant had muscles in abundance, and with water splashed on them he looked awesome. The article and the pictures subsequently appeared in a magazine and Grant enjoyed his 15 minutes of fame. Al left him in the stroke seat for the workout, and that was the end of me. I took his old seat at #2 and was never given another shot at the stroke slot. At first I found it hard to follow Grant’s rushup-and-grab style. Tiring of our cox’n constantly yelling, “You’re late, number two, you’re late,” I eventually gave up and went along with it. IN MAY, THE CAL CREWS CAME TO RENEW THEIR ANNUAL RIVALRY with Washington. This regatta had not been held since 1943 because of the war. For once, race day dawned bright and clear, much warmer than what we were used to. Our Frosh and JVs blew Cal away. In the Varsity race, we jumped out to a commanding early lead, though I didn’t think we were out of our pace. With a mile to go, Cal came back on us, passed us and went on to win. I was too tired to realize it, but we were told afterward that our stroke rate dropped to as low as 24 (per minute) in the last mile. Bishop had passed out. Our cox’n, Bobby Lee, had kept trying to prop him up and stick the oar back in his hands, but he was out cold. He must have been the one who was fading in our practices. Grant was a paratrooper during the war and looked as strong as a bull. I figured that he had no governor and no idea how to pace himself. There was far more to it than that. It developed later that he was being treated for ulcers while turning out. What were thought to be ulcers later were found to be cancer, and he died not long after that. What a tragedy. Such a courageous man deserved better.
The Hudson River at night, Poughkeepsie – 1937 The unusual heat that day had its effect on all of us. Bill Works, captain of the Varsity, had to be lifted out, and Manny McNeil, bow in the Frosh eight, was rushed to the hospital, out cold. Our loss to Cal that day was blamed on a lack of salt. Royal Brougham, in his “Morning After” column in the Seattle P-I the following Monday, commented “… it wasn’t more salt that the Huskies needed. Just more pepper.” AFTER THE CAL DEBACLE, WE WENT BACK TO WORK PREPARING for the big one at Poughkeepsie the following month. Al stuck with Bishop at stroke, and the workouts went from bad to worse.
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UW Varsity – 1947 Still unable to beat the Frosh, we started taking heat from our JV, and sometimes even the 3rd Varsity would nip us when the run was long enough. I began to hate the thought of going out. On one of the interminably long workouts, I decided that I would take only 100 more strokes. If Al didn’t call a “Way enough!” by then, I would throw away my oar. Fortunately for me, he stopped us in time. The agony ended, temporarily, when our three crews — Varsity, JV, and Frosh — entrained for the East Coast and the renewal of the Poughkeepsie Regatta, last held in 94. Thanks to Gordon Callow, we traveled first-class. That was the only time such a thing ever happened. The elder son of Rusty Callow — rowing great and coach when the UW first emerged as a rowing power — Gordy had dropped out of
the crew turnout after being elected ASUW President in April. In his new capacity, he somehow managed to talk Athletic Director Harvey Cassill into sending us in style. On our way east, we stopped at Madison to race Wisconsin. We won that two-miler easily. Most memorable to our stay in Madison were the incredible beef steaks served to us at the Student Union Building. The chef must have thought that oarsmen had to eat like football players. The steaks were bigger than any sane person would consume at one sitting, and even that was after Ulbrickson had told the chef to cut them in half. From Madison, it was on to Poughkeepsie and the Hudson River. Columbia and the Naval Academy had their own private facilities up the river, while the rest of the crews were housed nearer town in the boathouses provided by the regatta’s organizing body. The various outfits, bunked separately, ate in a common dining hall. This arrangement limited the closeness developed in former years when squads from each school dined separately. But, as bad as things were with our Varsity, I doubt that a separate dining room would have helped. Prior to the war, the Varsity race was a four-miler downstream, while the JVs raced three miles and the Frosh only two. Now, the Varsity race was a three-mile test — still a long pull, especially when rowed against an incoming tide. The races remained at these distances until 964, when all were cut down to 2000 meters, the Olympic distance. One morning our three crews rowed together up the river on an incoming tide. The Frosh, nearest the shore, lagged behind. After we stopped, Al turned us around and lined us up. He announced that we would row down stream against the tide for six minutes, the equivalent in those days of a fast 2000 meter race. Off we went, and the Frosh, still closest to the river bank, slowly forged ahead. They were now in the downstream eddies along the shore. We, the Varsity, in midstream, were rowing against the full force of the tide. The Frosh — once again — came out in front. I found out later that Raney had his crew prepped for the race, while we had gone into it
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Royal Brougham at the Seattle P-I heard about PLU Crew’s plans to row the Loyal Shoudy from Seattle to Tacoma and sent along a photographer and writer to cover the event. This cartoon appeared on the P-I’s front page the morning before PLU’s escapade. Note the misspelling of “Shoudy” on the bow. – 1967 totally unprepared. True, they had been able to beat us all season long, but, rationalizing being one of the privileges that come with the passage of time and advancing age, I can now say that I thought we were a much better crew by then. The day before we left Seattle, Al had pulled out our stern pair and put in Chuck Brown and Bob Martin from the JV. Charlie was doing a great job at stroke, and Bob made a fine #7. That loss to the Frosh put the cap on it for us. Still, Al did what he could to pep us up the morning of the race. We were out for our regular pre-breakfast walk in the woods along the river bank. When we stopped to rest, he spoke of looking over the other crews. From what he had seen, he thought we were good enough to win. The first encouraging words he spoke to us all year, they came too late. Another pre-race occurrence — remembered vividly, even today — did not help. Three or four of us were sitting by the river’s edge one evening enjoying the quiet serenity of the moment. Little was heard save the murmur of conversation. Out of the dusk an eight appeared. It was close to shore, and there was no launch accompanying it to disturb the tranquil scene. As the shell drew near, I saw that it was
the Naval Academy Varsity. The Navy shellhouse was a mile or so upriver, near West Point, and the crew were heading home from a late evening workout. They ghosted by, making not a sound. We stood, watching rowing at its best. As they disappeared into the gathering gloom, there was no more conversation. We had seen an awesome display of rowing ability and a great bit of gamesmanship. Navy beat us that night. Later, I was told that the man rowing in the bow was Alan Shepard, the future astronaut. All I saw of him on race day was a fleeting glimpse out the corner of my eye as they charged by us on their way to winning the cup. Race day was anticlimactic. The Frosh won in impressive fashion — that was about it. Our JV never recovered from the loss of their stroke and did not do well. My boat finished third in the Varsity event behind Navy and Cornell. At least we avenged our defeat at the hands of California in May by coming in ahead of them. I was unhappy with my performance that day. The image of our failure in Seattle lingered, and I’m sure I held back. I was not the only one bothered by memories of that fiasco. Our captain, Bill Works, told me afterward that he, too, could not go all out. As we rowed back to the shellhouse
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 26 after the race, I vowed never to row in another eight as long as I lived. The whole year had been so unpleasant that I wanted no more of it. I was certain that I would spend my life making racing shells, but would have nothing more to do with rowing itself. Yet, once back in Seattle, each day found me out on the water in my single. EVERY YEAR AFTER THE POUGHKEEPSIE RACES, THE UW CREWS were treated to a banquet by Dr. Loyal Shoudy. An alumnus of the university, Shoudy for many years was Surgeon General of Bethlehem Steel. Late in life he was honored by being named University of Washington Alumnus of the Year in recognition of his many contributions to society. “Loyal by name, loyal by nature” summed up the man. Though he was a great supporter of rowing, he had not rowed at the University while an undergraduate. Instead, he was second-string quarterback on the football team. Quite small, he was known as the team’s “watch-charm quarterback.” To make better use of him, the coach, Gil Dobie, had leather handles sewn on his jersey. In short yardage situations, his teammates could grab him by these handles and throw him over the opposing line. He survived that abuse to become a great booster and financial supporter of rowing. Whether he ever did anything for the UW football program is open to question. In 940 the UW bought a new eight. Dad, knowing just how much UW rowing owed the man and afraid that nothing would ever be done to recognize that, took it upon himself to name the boat. He christened it the Loyal Shoudy. He enjoyed telling of Dr. Shoudy’s coming up to Poughkeepsie that year. Shown his boat, he stood in the boathouse running his hand over it with tears on his cheeks. Though a man of great sentiment, he never married. The men of the UW crews and of his fraternity, Phi Gamma Delta, were his family, his boys. I still cherish the letters he sent after he learned of my becoming a Fiji. The Shoudy had a long and colorful history. After earning many victory chevrons for crews who rowed her at Poughkeepsie and here on the West Coast, she was used by the LWRC to defeat the
Canadian Olympic crew in 956. Retired by the UW around 960, she was loaned to the Green Lake rowing program. In 967 the boat was offered to the fledgling program at Pacific Lutheran University where Jim Ojala was the captain/player-coach. The Lutes had no trailer to carry the boat to Tacoma. Undaunted, they decided to row her down. Before dawn one morning, with six inches of snow on the ground and more on the way, they carried the Shoudy from Green Lake over to Lake Union. From there they rowed her through the Ballard locks and on to Tacoma’s Commencement Bay, a distance of 43 miles, all in one day. (Lest one think them totally mad, two power boats accompanied them. These carried refreshments, as well as extra men to spell those rowing the boat.) The annual Shoudy Banquet was cherished by UW oarsmen and coaches alike. Held after the Poughkeepsie Regatta each year in the best setting available, it was a fitting windup to the season’s campaign. At each man’s place would be a ticket to a Broadway show, a purple tie and a ten-dollar bill. Ten dollars was a lot of money for a college kid in those days. By the time I came along, the ticket and the tendollar bill were no more, but if you saw anyone wearing a purple tie, you knew he had rowed for Washington on the Hudson. No one else would wear such an eyesore. These affairs could become quite sentimental and, at times, even maudlin. One year, Gus Eriksen, still an undergraduate, came in the shop. He was slated to make the trip east to Poughkeepsie as stroke of the JV. He started talking about the Shoudy Banquet, lamenting the fact that these affairs so often were not too cheerful. He swore that if he had a chance to say something this time, he would make everyone laugh. After the races — the UW won all three — Gus was asked to say a few words, whereupon he stood up and broke into tears. At the Shoudy dinner after our 947 loss there were no tears, not even after Al announced that the Frosh would represent the UW at the second annual Seattle Invitational Sprint Regatta to be held two weeks hence. He further announced that he was pulling out Bill Wall and putting in Bill Works, the Varsity captain, thinking his presence
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 27 might help them. I learned later that even Works himself felt bad about this having happened. My morale was so bad that being replaced by the Frosh for this big event did not bother me. I figured it meant a chance for me to see a few sights in the East before heading home — I already knew what the Northwest looked like. So what did I end up doing? — I headed for Seattle as fast as I could. Al had asked Don Dehn — he rowed #7 in the JV — to line up two or three other rowers to help drive his new car to Seattle. The waiting list for new automobiles was still long in the aftermath of the war, but he had been given a special deal by Don Grant, ex-UW cox’n, who had a Chevrolet agency in Poughkeepsie. While waiting for the car to become available, four of us — Chuck Brown, Bob Martin, Don and I — kicked around the East Coast. Martin’s uncle, who lived in Montclair, New Jersey, took us to Yankee Stadium where we saw the Yankees play. Joe Dimaggio was in center field. A joy to watch, he made the most difficult plays look easy. Nothing like the showboating one sees now, just grace and elegance personified. I often used his example in later years when talking to my crews. Once the car was ready, we headed for Seattle, careful to stay under 45 mph for the first 500 miles to break it in properly — an absolute must at the time. After that, we drove night and day, hoping to arrive in time to see the regatta. We stopped only for gas and hamburgers, and even changed drivers while on the move. Unhappily, we reached Seattle just in time to see the crews disappear in the distance as we drove across the Mercer Island Floating Bridge. Harvard won the race, with Cornell second and the UW third. The winning time was unbelievably fast, 5 seconds better than any existing record. Granted, conditions that day were excellent — a following breeze sprang up just as the race was under way — but hardly enough to account for the time. Later, I talked to the man who had laid out the course. With no budget and little time, there was no way he could do a proper job. Instead, he used a city street map to plot the course and chose the nearest street ends as markers. So much for records. There was no
Coaches at the 1946 Seattle Invitational Sprint Regatta – left to right, back row: Hale Atkinson, UBC; Al Ulbrickson, UW; Skip Walz, Wisconsin; Chuck Logg, Rutgers; front row: Ky Ebright, Cal; George Gunn, host; Tom Bolles, Harvard; Stork Sanford, Cornell; Jim McMillin, MIT (Ulbrickson, Logg, Ebright, Bolles, Sanford & McMillin were UW grads) denying, however, that Harvard, stroked by Frank Cunningham, was the fastest crew in the country that year. Not long after that, Frank resettled here. I had never heard how that came about until recently when, while on a visit to Belize in Central America, I chanced to meet the man who was manager of the Harvard squad that year. After the race, he and Frank had made the return trip to the East Coast together. He said that Frank, a New Englander born and bred, talked of nothing else the entire trip save his determination to make Seattle his home. Once back in Cambridge, he threw everything he owned in a bag and took off. Their paths had not crossed since. An ex-Marine, wonderfully educated and well-read, Frank taught school for many years, first at Edmonds High School, then at Lakeside School. He remained vitally interested and active in rowing. Directly
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 28
Seattle Invitational Sprint Regatta – Andrews Bay – 1947
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 29 involved in the Seattle Park Department’s introduction of rowing at Green Lake, he coached crews there and maintained their boats for a number of years. Not long after Lakeside started a rowing program, he joined their faculty and soon took on the coaching position. They were lucky, for, to my mind, Frank is the wisest head in matters pertaining to rowing on the entire West Coast. Over the years, he developed some excellent crews at Lakeside. Upon graduation, many of his students went on to row at major college programs across the country. As the years went by, we had the opportunity to become well-acquainted and, ultimately, the best of friends. The first Seattle Invitational Sprint Regatta — held the previous year (946) — was the brainchild of a civic-minded group led by Curly Harris. Curly was a crew booster of the first water. A cox’n while an undergraduate at the UW in the early 930s, he was Varsity cox and captain of the crew in his senior year. Now, he was secretary of the UW Alumni Association. There being no Poughkeepsie regatta planned in 946, the idea of a regatta had taken root. Why not put on a rowing affair of national importance in Seattle? There was more than ample local rowing interest; the UW had dominated intercollegiate rowing prior to the war; the name, “Poughkeepsie” was synonymous with national championships — perhaps Seattle could take on that distinction. A few schools had resumed rowing, though in an abbreviated way. A sprint championship — 2000 meters — might be just the ticket. The big guns went to work. These were the same people who would later make the Gold Cup, Seafair and the Seattle World’s Fair household names in the Northwest. For the present, however, rowing held the spotlight. Invitations were sent out, and Harvard, Cornell, Rutgers, MIT, Cal, UBC and Wisconsin accepted. It was an exciting time for anyone interested in rowing — as I certainly was — to be in town. Fresh out of the Navy, with nothing else to do, I hung around the shellhouse and watched the goings-on. Life Magazine was there in force, its photographers busily snapping untold numbers of pictures, only three or four of which appeared in a subsequent issue.
I snagged rides in the coaching launches and met some of the coaches, most of whom had been only names to me until then. I remember especially my impression of Tom Bolles’ Harvard crew. Most of them did not seem to be reaching out far enough. Back at the float, I found out why. Most of them were very tall. Held in Andrews Bay on Lake Washington, the event — with the help of abundant publicity in the P-I and Times — drew a tremendous crowd. A log boom stretching the entire length of the course allowed spectators to tie up their boats and watch. It was a rare summer’s day in June, but that was as far as the weatherman would go. As race time grew near, a strong north wind came sweeping down the lake. The anchors holding the boom in place began to drag, and it appeared as though the whole armada of partying mariners and their boats would be blown onto the racecourse. A U.S. Navy corvette saved the day by hooking onto the north end of the boom. With engines full astern, it pulled the mile-long string of boats out of harm’s way. Disaster averted, the race went off on schedule. Cornell won, while the UW took third. Most of the excitement of the day occurred after the race. In their eagerness to return home, the skippers of the powerboats, forgetting about the frail shells, tossed their bottles overboard and took off as soon as the race was over. The shells came out second best; all swamped. No one was lost and, by some miracle, none of the shells suffered damage. The boats all belonged to the UW, and the fiasco could have had a disastrous effect on the future of that program. A couple of oars were never found, at least one of them taken by some character spotted dashing off up the street with it over his shoulder. Encouraged by the extensive newspaper coverage, Curly and friends decided to put on a repeat regatta in 947, though the Poughkeepsie Regatta was again scheduled. They hoped an annual sprint championship of national stature in Seattle would draw attention to the city. Athletic directors at the major rowing schools in the country were contacted, and invitations were extended. Crews in the East would be brought to Seattle, immediately following the Poughkeepsie regatta, aboard the Great Northern Railroad Olympian Hiawatha
I – Shoving Off (1923–1947) – 30 on its inaugural run. Rather than having to use borrowed equipment as they had the previous year, the competitors would bring their own in the baggage car used by the UW. There was immediate interest. A trip out to the Great Northwest was nothing to sneeze at. Twelve schools agreed to take part: Cal and UCLA, as well as all the major Eastern schools — Harvard, Yale, Cornell, MIT, Penn, Princeton, Syracuse, Columbia and Wisconsin. Interestingly enough, Navy, who would later win at Poughkeepsie, refused the invitation. They had more important things to do. That this event would become an annual attraction was not to be. While a strong campaign was launched to land the 948 Olympic Rowing Trials, that effort failed. The following year, Ted Jones put the city on the map by invading Detroit and winning the Gold Cup of unlimited hydroplane racing with Stan Sayres’ Slo-Mo IV. That victory brought the Gold Cup with all of its color and excitement to town. It was not until 987, with the advent of the Windermere Cup Regatta in conjunction with the annual Opening Day yacht parade, again with the help of much favorable publicity in the two major Seattle newspapers, that rowing once more commanded such local attention.
Home at last – UW Varsity –1947
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 31
CHAPTER II
W
Warming Up (1948–1950)
ITH M Y ROW ING C A R EER - SUCH AS IT WAS - How my feet and back would hurt as the day dragged on. The thought finished, I had little to offer rowing other than my joy of spending a lifetime doing this frightened me. I soon realized that I in making things with my hands. That was what must take a whole new slant on things, or I would be in deep trouble. boat- building was all about in those days. While working in the One day I made the conscious decision that from then on I would try every day to finish as much work as shop for t wo summers before I possibly could on whatever job I graduation from high school, I had was doing. That decision was a great picked up some experience. The turning point in my life; from that first summer - 94 - I was put to day until the day I retired, I never work helping one of the old boys, experienced a moment of boredom. Charlie Turner, build a crate for The days were never long enough. three eights destined for a military academy in Guatemala. Sawing I HAD WORKED IN THE SHOP boards by hand one day - no electric only a month or two when Dad tools - I whacked a big hunk out of mentioned that Coach Ulbrickson my thumb. Charlie’s only comment was, “Well, there it is.” He didn’t was looking for someone to handle seem to think much of being stuck the Lightweight crews. Bud Raney working with the boss’s son. I had was leaving for the Varsity job at UW Frosh defeating Cal on Andrews Bay 1953 a long way to go. Columbia University, and Gus I soon discovered one advantage Eriksen was now the new Frosh I had when working around boats. That I never knew which hand to coach. If Dad would give me time off in the late afternoons for three use in sports as a youngster turned out to be an asset: I could use one months in the spring, the job of coaching the Lightweights was hand about as well as the other when handling a hammer, saw, chisel mine. Such a possibility had never crossed my mind. I found it hard or screwdriver. All I needed was to become adept through practice, to imagine myself in the role of rowing coach at the University of and I would be ahead of the game. Over the next 40-odd years, this Washington. My career as an oarsman had been less than spectacular. saved me untold miles of walking around the end of a 60-foot boat Abbreviated as it had been because of the war, it surely had not to reach the other side. I could just shift hands and lean across. provided me the experience necessary to coach. Building racing shells Becoming used to working full time did not come easily. Sometimes was to be my future. On the other hand, Dad was enthusiastic and the days seemed endless, and I could scarcely wait for quitting time. encouraged me to go for it. After thinking it over for several days I
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 32 screwed up my courage, went to Al and told him I would like to give All the people on my first squad had rowed before, either on the it a try. The only advice from Dad was, “Be sure to change clothes Frosh squad or as Lightweights. There was no question of my having before leaving the shop. Looking like a working stiff will earn you to teach anyone how to row. Some of them didn’t row very well, at no respect. You must look the part.” I always tried to remember that, least in my opinion, but I soon found it next to impossible to change although sometimes the stuff I piled on while trying to keep warm out anyone’s bad habits. All I could do was work them hard enough so in the launch must have looked anything but. they could race, and then pick those eight who The Lightweight turnouts would not begin until rowed the best, or, more to the point, those eight January, so I had some time to think about what I whose rowing came the closest to what I thought was facing. Scanning the sign-up sheet, I recognized was the best. most of the names on the list, since I had only By some stroke of good fortune, I put together a stopped turning out myself the previous June. crew who were consistently faster than the rest. As Eight men from the Fiji house had signed up. I did anyone who has coached rowing knows, this can wonder if I might be accused of favoritism, should be tricky and cause a coach to lose sleep. It often any of them make the crew (I would like to have comes down to finding a good stroke man. If you put all of them in the lineup). Fortunately, some have one, or can find one, you’re lucky. Certain of them proved to be among the better candidates, intangible attributes go into the making of a good and there was no problem when I had four Fijis in stroke. Desire to have the position goes a long way, the first boat by the end of the season. but often a person who wants the job might not A question often asked of a me as coach was, be a good candidate. A certain inborn sense of “How do you go about picking a man or a crew?” rhythm is vital, a gift not everyone has. Later, after I became Frosh coach, the search for Too often, my answer was so much mumbojumbo because I knew of no pat answer. Selecting a stroke man remained a challenge. I found that by rotating everyone on the port side through the a crew at the UW, where there might be as many stroke seat (all of our boats in those days were as 200 freshmen from which to choose, could be Author as 150s coach 1948 rigged to be stroked from the port side), some a tough one. The job could be even tougher for mysterious quality would reveal itself. A crew the Varsity coach with the cream of three good Frosh squads to choose from. Today’s rowing machines, with their would simply look better with one man in the stroke seat than they electronic gadgetry and bells and whistles, can take on much of that would with another. Then, I only had to hope that the man also had load. The coach can line up those men with the biggest scores and guts and liked to race. While limiting the stroke position to port men designate them his crew, and no one can argue with him. He might only no doubt left out some good prospects who rowed starboard, or - more likely - might not have his best possible crew, but they will it cut down on the confusion. Besides, the word went around soon be tough, and that goes a long way. Such an approach would be too enough: if you wanted to be a stroke man, you had to go out for the simple, I suppose. I don’t think I would ever choose that route, but port side. That first year with the Lightweights I found a good one in Bob Wickman. I’ve been away from coaching for a long time.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 33
Six, you’re skying! 150s entering Montlake Cut - 1948 OF ALL THE STORIES I HAVE EVER HEARD ABOUT SUCCESSFUL strokes, one particular tale stands out: that of the University of Washington’s Don Hume at the 936 Olympic Games in Berlin. During the long period of training before racing began, Hume came down with a heavy cold. Al Ulbrickson, the Husky coach, grew concerned enough to pull him out of the boat and replace him with the alternate, Don Coy. The crew did not respond to Coy’s rhythm, and the boat did not go well. After two or three turnouts, the captain, Jim McMillin, approached Al and asked him to put Hume back in. He said the crew were not worried about his not being strong enough - they would pull him along; what they needed was his rhythm. Al’s alleged response was “Well, hell, he doesn’t pull anyway, so I might as well stick him back in!” He did, and Hume, despite his weight having fallen to 153 pounds, revitalized the crew and led them to a dramatic come-from-behind victory a week later.
MY BIGGEST CHORE IN MY FIRST YEAR AS A COACH WAS TO HOLD the 50s back because they were so enthusiastic. When Gus was their coach, they had great fun, but tended to run wild. Up in the shop, we often heard them yelling bloody murder as they raced in from the Laurelhurst Light a mile away. We would wait for the crash of outriggers as they came running into the shellhouse at the end of a workout. (Much of my time during that introductory year in the shop was spent repairing boats that Gus’s crews had wrecked.) I, on the other hand, encouraged them to enjoy themselves, while trying to keep them more or less under control. A more interesting project I tackled that year was the conversion of an eight into a sectional boat. After arranging a race for the 50s with the James Bay Athletic Association Rowing Club (JBAARC) in Victoria, I was told they had only one usable shell, and we would have to bring our own boat with us. I went to the CPR offices to see about shipping it up on one of their Princess boats and was turned down flat. That was a shock because they had carried boats to Victoria as a matter of course before the war. I then recalled that Gus Eriksen had been faced with the same problem the year before. He had solved it by loading the 6-foot shell on top of his 32-foot sailboat and sailing it to Victoria. The Customs agent in Friday Harbor had recorded the vessel as “Yacht Svea with 60-foot dinghy.” Having no yacht of my own, I had to think of a different solution. This race was imperative, for it looked to be the only one away from home for the Lights that season. I asked Al if I could convert one of his old eights into a three-piece sectional boat. Were I to do that, we could put the 20-foot sections on a couple of cars and transport the shell on the Princess boat that way. Al said “OK” and suggested that I use the Husky II. That shell was only 3 years old. She had been christened the Tomanawas back in 935 as the result of a boat-naming contest held on campus. The name meant, roughly, “excellence through great effort” in local Indian dialect. The name was heartily disliked, and everyone at the shellhouse called her “Tomato Can.” One night, someone (I’ve always wondered if that someone might not have been Dad) had painted out the old
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 34 name and put on the new one, Husky II. (The original Husky was the first eight that Dad built for Rusty Callow.) Later, I learned that a neighbor of ours, Lynne Jarvis, had submitted the ill-fated winning name. An undergraduate at the time, she had received as her prize a ride in the coaching launch to watch a turnout. This doesn’t sound like much today, but in those days, superstition dictated that women were rarely, if ever, allowed in the coaching launch during workouts. I never told Lynne about the fate of her prize-winning name. Once out of school, she married the man whose firm built the Deception Pass Bridge to Whidbey Island - which is way off the subject - but I sometimes think “Tomato Can” while driving across it. The Husky II was in good shape, and I was delighted to have such a nice boat on which to work. Dad was amenable to my using shop time for the job, no doubt figuring that the project was as good as good a way for me to learn as any. I did an adequate, if amateurish, job on her She didn’t leak much, and held up through that season, as well as the following one and for years after that. Picking crews that first year was not my only concern. There wasn’t much I could teach the men about rowing, all of them having rowed before, but I could teach them watermanship - something all too rarely seen. I wanted them to be able to take care of themselves if faced with an emergency: for instance, how to stop quickly when that was needed. As anyone who has ever coxed an eight has found, a racing shell can be a lethal weapon when under way. Stopping one quickly to avoid trouble is a tricky maneuver and one that takes much practice. Old-time professional scullers testing new singles when they came to the shops at the Eton College boathouses would scull upstream a way, turn around and row full tilt at an abutment of the nearby bridge. When they were so close that they had to stop to avoid catastrophe, they spiked their sculls to jam on the brakes. This stressed their craft to the maximum and, if nothing broke, the boats were accepted. Unless thoroughly instructed and trained, an oarsman will instinctively try to stop his boat in the worst way possible, the natural
tendency being to press down on the water with the back of the blade. Stopping takes forever. I spent several evenings with the crews, teaching them the proper technique. The commands used were, first, “Way enough!” then, as soon as the crew had stopped rowing, “Hold all!” The “Way enough!” part was easy; the “Hold all!” part was tricky. One had to execute a kind of controlled crab. This was accomplished by first scraping the water with the back of the blade with the handle away from the body (to give room to recover should the water take control too soon). Next, while gripping the oar handle firmly, the wrists were bent downward so that the leading edge of the blade was gradually beveled to catch the water. (It was vital that a firm grip be kept on the oar during this maneuver in case the pressure of the water against the blade built up too quickly. If this happened, the wrists could be flattened and the pressure quickly relieved. A loose grip, in contrast, would allow the water to take control of the blade and snatch it away. Should the handle catch in the rower’s belly, an unwanted swim was sure to follow.) As the boat slowed, the angle of the blade could be increased until the brakes were fully on, stopping the boat in no time. Once the technique was learned, the degree of panic in the cox’s voice dictated how quickly the crew would react. When stopping an eight quickly and safely became second nature to the crews, I followed with the next logical step: what to do in the event someone caught a “crab” (the miscue described in one newspaper article of long ago - by a journalist of literal rather than accurate persuasion - as “that tenacious crustacean”). I felt it necessary to do this because we had to use old boats with top-braced outriggers, and these could make catching a crab a real disaster. Should a crew continue rowing after a crab was caught, the moving water locked the oar solidly against the boat, and the brace kept it from being twisted enough to free it. With these riggers, an oar could only be released after the boat was brought to a virtual dead stop. Having seen races lost by oarsmen with no clue about what to do after catching a crab, I was determined to spend some time teaching my crews how to handle such an emergency.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 35 The first thing a coxswain had to do when he saw a crab caught was to scream “Way Enough!” followed by “Hold All!” As soon as the boat was stopped, the command, “Ready All!” was given. All of the crew able to respond slid up, ready to go on command. With the boat dead in the water, or nearly so, anyone who was in trouble freed his oar and likewise slid up to the “Ready All” position. As soon as the coxswain saw all eight oars at the ready, it only remained to shout “Go!” or “Stroke!” or “Row!” and off they went. My crews took turns having someone designated as the crab-catcher, and we worked on the drill until the crews could bring off the maneuver without a hitch. Besides being useful from a safety standpoint, I saw these lessons in watermanship as being a great way to lessen the drudgery of returning to the shellhouse after some of the punishing workouts I put the squad through. MENTIONING RACES LOST BECAUSE OF CRABS REMINDS ME OF the 938 Cal–Washington regatta. The Cal Frosh rowed almost the entire race with the bow man’s oar stuck, he having caught a crab right at the start. Their cox’n did not know how to handle such a situation, and the poor guy had to fight his oar all the way down the course while vainly trying to free it. After the race, Ky Ebright, the Cal Varsity coach, refused to put his JV crew on the water until the Frosh race was run again. He and Russ Nagler, his Frosh coach, thinking that their Frosh might have won had the crab not been caught, sensed a clean sweep. If that were to happen, it would be the first for them in the long history of the Cal–UW rivalry. Ulbrickson and Raney, not about to hand that to Cal on a platter, refused to consider a rerun. The four of them asked Dad, who was the umpire, for a ruling. He said that if Cal won the second race, there would have to be a third race to properly settle the question. The Cal squad could not stay the extra day, and Ky reluctantly agreed to proceed with the JV race. Cal won both that and the Varsity event. Cal was not to sweep this annual regatta until 952. The irony was that both Ebright and Nagler were ex-cox’ns who should have
Victorious VRC/UBC British Empire Games eight - 1954 - left to right: Ken Drummond, Doug McDonald, Tom Toynbee, Mike Harris, Frank Read, Laurie West, Glen Smith, Herman Zlokovits, Phil Kueber, Bob Wilson, Ray Sierpina known enough to teach their people how to handle crabs. Ky and Russ must have had a close relationship, for Russ was Ky’s assistant for many years, despite his crews being cannon fodder for Husky Freshmen. Their long association was brought to a tragic end when he, a heavy smoker, died after falling asleep while smoking in bed. Rather than trying to teach his people how to handle crabs, Eb did the next best thing: he had an outrigger designed and built that had only two legs, instead of the usual three. With no top brace to interfere with the action of the oar, it made a nearly ideal rigger. He sent a sample up to Dad and specified that he supply that type with Cal’s next boat. Cal won at Poughkeepsie that year and, from then on,
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 36 all our riggers were of that design and crabs ceased to be the problem they once were. The riggers were OK when made of carbon steel which, while not corrosion-resistant, was fairly stiff - stiff enough to withstand the stresses that deformed a rigger. The very stiffest ones were of chrome-molybdenum steel alloy, but they reacted like an Alka Seltzer tablet around saltwater. The major drawback to the two-legged rigger was that it subjected the boat to much more destructive stresses than did the three-legged type. Many years later, when the demand for stainless steel and, after that, for the much lighter aluminum riggers, had to be met, the top third leg became necessary because these metals were not as stiff as carbon or chrome-moly steel and, without a top brace, would let a rigger lose its pitch. By then, most of the coaches had reduced the risk of crabs by having their boats rigged high. This allowed oarsmen to wash out at the finish and carry their blades high off the water on the recovery. They were forced to do this because crab-catching had actually become a greater risk. When newly-designed oars and rowlocks from Europe made their appearance (they weren’t new but, coming from Europe, they were new to the U.S.), Americans found the blade was nearly parallel to the water when the oar was resting on the feather in the lock. This made rowing somewhat like trying to ski with no bend at the tip of one’s ski. The blade had to be kept high off the water to avoid disaster. We didn’t like to see this switch to high rigging because it made effective pulling more difficult. Nonetheless, high rigging has become the accepted practice. One thing is certain: We don’t see as many crabs caught as we once did. The two-legged rigger saved more than one race in those low-rig days. Someone in the Canadian crew at the British Empire Games in 954 caught a crab at the start. He recovered quickly, and the crew went on to beat an opponent they never should have bested. Their coach, Frank Read, was forever loud in his praise of a rigger which allowed such a quick recovery. To my mind, that crab was what gave them the victory. Stimulated by the resulting rush of adrenaline, the crew rowed far over their heads.
The Griffin twins, Art & Tren (or is it Tren & Art?) - 1951 I remember one occasion when a crab did not save the day. That was in the UW Varsity race against Cal in 949. In the lead with only a minute to go, one of the Huskies caught a crab. Although he reacted quickly, by the time he freed his oar they had fallen behind, and, without enough time to make up the deficit, the Huskies lost. I saw a similar situation when the University of Washington Frosh crew raced at Poughkeepsie in 948. Though it was not exactly a crab he caught, Ken Brockman, the #7 man, managed to lift himself off his seat on the first stroke and lose control of his oar. He was able to recover the oar and get back on his seat quickly. His crew were under way almost immediately and won in a walk. From that race I learned something else to look out for. When the race was over, their cox’n (one of the Griffin twins) noticed blood sloshing around in the bottom of the boat. In falling off his seat, Ken had sliced his thigh on the edge of the track. Too busy to notice, he
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 37 had pumped out blood all the way down the course. He suffered no apparent ill effects from the bloodletting, though the cut required several stitches. About the only losers - other than the several crews Washington beat - were the spectators, too far away to savor the sight. From then on, we were careful to dull the edges of the tracks. Later, copying what I saw others doing, we set the tracks into wooden bases so there were no metal edges exposed. THE FIRST RACE OF THE 1948 SEASON FOR THE 150S WAS HELD on the 2000 meter course from Laurelhurst Light into Montlake Cut. This was the scene of my disastrous experience against UBC while in the Navy program and, later, our several Varsity embarrassments at the hands of the Frosh. The Oregon State Varsity was now the enemy, and I was as nervous as a cat. On the command to row, our crew were off to a good start. They were building up a substantial lead when the #7, Bob Lee, caught a crab! I thought my stomach would fall through the bottom of the launch. Then I saw that the crew were all laughing. The rascals had caught it on purpose! They obviously had seen that they were going to have no trouble in winning the race and put on that charade for my benefit. They had forgotten that, on occasion, a crab can bend the rigger, thus making it difficult if not impossible to row. I should have warned them of such a possibility, but it had never crossed my mind. I could have killed them, but thought better of it. I was not too sure whether I was glad that I had gone to all the trouble of teaching them how to do such things in the first place. A return match against the Beavers at Corvallis on the Willamette River was arranged. In our rambling talks in the shop, Dad had alerted me to the dangers lurking on a river course, even a non-tidal one. Water moves fastest in the middle of a river on straight reaches and on the outside of any curve. Also, eddies around bridge abutments pose a problem. Tom Bolles took his UW Frosh to Corvallis in 93 to race the Beaver Varsity and lost. This was unheard of, for Oregon State College (OSC) - it became a university later - had only a tiny program. Back in Seattle, Tom sought out Dad for some explanation
Curly Harris, Tom Bolles & Al Ulbrickson - circa 1930
of what had gone wrong. It was simple enough. In a great show of sportsmanship, there had been a draw for lanes, and the Huskies drew the lane in the middle of the river. When Tom asked which way the course ran, he was told they would race upstream. His crew, in all innocence, raced against the fast water in the middle and lost, unable to overcome the handicap. Occasionally, in those good old days, the home team would “forget” to mention which way the course ran until after the draw for lanes. They were then free to pick whichever direction was to their advantage. Small town stuff, but very real and a ploy to be guarded against. The secret of river racing, whether there is monkey business afoot or not, is to always keep close to the water that the home crew takes and go wherever they go. They might have a cox’n who is smart enough to know where the fast water lies. Even if not, you’ll at least be in the same water as they are.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 38 My two crews and I headed for Corvallis loaded for Beaver. We borrowed boats rather than taking our own. Theirs were built to a design by a man named Campbell. An engineering student at the UW shortly after the First World War, Campbell had dreamed up what he thought was a breakthrough in racing shell design. He was told by his dean that if he could present such a boat to the rowing coach (Ed Leader at the time) and have it accepted, he, Campbell, would receive a degree in marine architecture. The boat was built somewhere, and Leader was contacted. Uninterested, Ed nonetheless asked Dad what he thought about their trying it. Dad’s advice was to give the boat the best testing possible. If it were a better design, he wanted to know about it. Ed went ahead and found that the crew did not do well in it, nor did they like it. It was judged to be two lengths slow, derisively dubbed “the fish belly boat” because of its shape and left to gather dust on a top rack in the shellhouse. Later, it was given to a group of students at Oregon State who were trying to start a rowing program. I have no idea what happened to Campbell, but, in his defense, I suspect the UW oarsmen did not give his boat their best shot. Years later, boats with a similar shape appeared in Europe where they enjoyed considerable success. Shorter overall, the design had a footprint that was not unlike what ours had, years later, in our socalled “banana” boats. These had an extreme sheer — not much boat in the water fore and aft. The difference was that both ends were still out there in case they were needed to help keep the boat afloat when rowed in rough water. I was impressed by the unique efforts expended in developing and running the rowing program in Corvallis. To me, it gave the impression of someone having read that there was a sport such as rowing and then having invented what he imagined it might be. He had some good ideas. It was a hands-on, classroom-oriented project. There was a huge barn near their shellhouse, the entire floor of which was covered with homemade rowing machines with seats that moved on roller-skate wheels. They used crude-looking
What do they need to work on next? Author in the role of coach - 1953 eights built by the students themselves. Campbell’s fish belly boat was the model for their boat-building projects. Because of the manner in which they were built, these boats were so heavy that it took two crews to carry one across the fields from the boathouse to the water. In flood years the Willamette River often came right up to the boathouse. The crews liked that because their boats did not have to be hauled so far before and after turnouts. Given these circumstances, it would hardly have been fair of us to use our boats to race against them. I met Edward Stevens, their coach and mentor. He was also their woodshop instructor and director of their boat-building projects. Someone told me that they had asked him why he used quarter-inch plywood instead of red cedar for the hull, as Pocock did. Stevens explained that their boats had to be tough because of all the debris in the river and, besides, “Pocock has the cedar market tied up.” If
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 39 we did, we didn’t know about it. Stevens had coached at Harvard in the mid-920s and probably knew something about rowing, though his crews didn’t always show it. Nineteen forty-eight being a dry year, the river was low, and our crews spent most of their energy each workout just hauling the boats to and from the Willamette. They soon learned how to row the strange boats and had no trouble winning their two races. As we were leaving for home, I saw on the boathouse bulletin board, still in a place of honor, a yellowed clipping from a 93 edition of the college newspaper. A three-inch banner headline proclaimed “OSC VARSITY BEATS UW!” TOWARD THE END OF MAY, WE MADE THE TRIP TO VICTORIA FOR our race with the James Bay club. It was ironic that when we arrived at the CPR dock with the three pieces of our boat on top of the automobiles, the supercargo asked me why we had cut the boat apart. When I told him, he advised me that I should have talked to him instead of to the people in the front office. He said that if I had, he would have put the eight aboard, all 61 feet of it. I was learning: The head office is not necessarily the place to go when you want things to happen. Yet, I was never sorry that I had sectioned the boat. It allowed the Huskies to transport the boat to regattas easily in the days before freeways and trailers, and the added weight did not seem to bother the crews. The art of making sectional eights and fours, and even singles, has advanced to a remarkable degree. Such boats are widely used in U.S. rowing programs today. FISA (the acronym for Fédération Internationale des Sociétés d’Aviron, the international governing body for rowing), looking to reduce shipping costs for its far-flung regattas, has been considering an increase in the minimum allowable weight of eights to make feasible the use of sectional boats in world competition. When I made that conversion in 948, sectional boats were not new by any means. In the 930s, Dad had built an eight with only one joint for a club in the Midwest. I heard of a fellow who, long before, had
a sectional single built so he might more easily fulfill his ambition of sculling on every lake in New England. Dad loved to tell us kids the story of hearing his mother’s father, old Grandpa Vickers, describe his building a sectional boat for the explorer, Henry Morton Stanley. (Sometimes my mother said I was named for this man; at other times, she insisted that I wasn’t.) In 874, Stanley, a reporter for the New York Herald, was outfitting an expedition in hopes of being the first white man to explore the Congo River and cross Africa from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic. He was the same man who had earlier made a name for himself when he went in search of the lost Dr. Livingstone and, not incidentally, found him. (It is still a matter of some conjecture whether Livingstone ever thought he was lost.) In preparing for his second venture, Stanley approached the boatbuilding firm where Grandpa Vickers worked and asked them to build a sectional boat similar to the one he had used on his previous expedition. The boat had to be in pieces small enough for two men to carry. Not only easily taken apart and reassembled, it had to be large and sturdy enough to ford the many rivers and lakes they would be traversing. In telling his story, the old boy would pantomime cutting the boat into pieces, licking his thumb and sawing through the air. Christened the Lady Alice after the young lady Stanley planned (he said) to marry upon his return to America, it was originally some 40 feet in length and divided into several sections. When the boat was delivered to Stanley in Zanzibar, the individual sections were judged much too bulky and heavy to be carried through the jungle. The midsection was abandoned and the remaining pieces cut in two. That work was done by two men by the name of Pocock - Frank and Edward - natives of Kent. Whether relations of ours, no one knows. Both men died while on the expedition - Edward, the younger, succumbing to a fever while Frank, who had become Stanley’s good friend and right-hand man, drowned within sight of their goal. Sometimes, as I look at a beautifully-crafted sectional joint on the racing shell of today, I can almost hear the faint sounds of drums.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 40 AFTER ARRIVAL IN VICTORIA ABOARD THE PRINCESS MARGUERITE, we reassembled the Husky II on the ferry pier, surrounded by a crowd of curious spectators. The crew rowed it from there across the harbor to the JBAARC boathouse, a big, rather primitive place, with no running water. Showers after a workout consisted of the oarsmen throwing buckets of ice-cold seawater at each other. The building sat on a valuable piece of Victoria waterfront. Some years later, it purportedly was sold by the sole surviving member of the JBAA Board of Trustees. Leaving in the lurch what few club members remained, he disappeared with the money. A fine hotel sits on the site today. In those days, a regatta was held in Victoria in conjunction with the annual celebration of Queen Victoria’s birthday. One of the many military bands on parade was a Scottish regiment fife and bugle corps. With a gigantic redheaded noncom, complete with leopard skin thrown over his shoulder, proudly pounding his huge base drum, they were a sight to set the blood racing. Our races were rowed from the harbor up into a narrow, winding waterway known as “the Gorge.” The course was a trial for the cox’ns, but the high banks along the way made it excellent for spectators to view the races. Also on the program were Indian canoe races. The start for these races was at the finish line where the competitors could see the prizes - bags of silver dollars. If they couldn’t see those bags, they wouldn’t race. Satisfied, they would paddle down the Gorge, around a buoy in the harbor, then back to the original starting line. More than once, while watching from the steep banks above, we saw blood on the paddlers and in the bottom of the canoes as they neared the finish line, stark evidence of the men whacking each other with their paddles while making the turn around the halfway buoy. The trick was to capsize your opponent. If successful, you could enjoy an easy paddle home. We won our races - no bloodletting necessary - and returned home happy. The trip up and back on the Princess Marguerite was pleasant. Because it only cost $4.50 a person, round trip, I felt bighearted
Father & son - circa 1955 enough to treat the men to a meal aboard on the way back to Seattle. I found myself in dutch with Dale Hoaglund, who ran the ASUW accounting office, for not having receipts for that expense. I said I had none and asked if she wanted me to fake them. That was the end of that. With victories at Corvallis and Victoria, as well as at home, my first season was a success. It was made all the more so for me when one of the seniors came up to me after the last race and told me, “I’ve rowed around here for four years, and this is the first time anyone said anything that made sense.” That was a good start for me.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 41 Part of that early success can be attributed to my unworldly innocence. For one thing, I had no idea whether the men were paying heed to the training rules that I laid down for them to follow. I just assumed - or trusted - that they did. I learned much later that one of the men, A. J. Breidenbach, often carried a bottle of beer stuffed inside his wooden leg to pass around in the shell when I wasn’t looking. He had lost the leg in Italy during the war, but wasn’t about to let a little thing like that bother him. He was a tough monkey, a great competitor and a fearless skier. I wonder, now, how I would have reacted had I discovered the beer caper. I wish that I could say that I would have had enough good sense to laugh over it, but who knows? I had great faith in the men and was sincere in what I was trying to do for them. They seemed to respond, and that was worth much more to me than the 900 dollars the university was paying me for the season’s work. AS I GREW MORE COMFORTABLE IN MY ROLE AS A ROWING COACH, I began to think more objectively about training rules for the squad. For me to expect college men, and especially those who had spent time in the armed forces, to stay away from beer was unrealistic. I would love to have had the crews up in the lounge of the shellhouse after each workout for a glass before dinner. Not only would it have helped quench the almost intolerable thirst that one develops while rowing, but the nutritional benefits were undeniable. I remembered Dad telling of how the regular post-workout tradition at Eton was a glass of beer for the First Eight up in the sanctuary of the Eights Room at the boathouse. I have been told that Frank Read, while coaching Vancouver Rowing Club (VRC) crews, had a policy whereby he encouraged his crews to drink a beer a day as a way to add on much-needed weight. In my case, I knew it was impossible. Had it become known that I even thought of providing alcohol to the freshmen, retribution would have been swift. EACH DAY DURING THE ROWING SEASON, I AVIDLY WORKED IN the shop while being trained at what was to become my life’s work.
Late in the afternoon, I went down to talk to the squad and take them out for their workout. It was somewhat like a hobby, although I was getting paid (a little) for doing it. I enjoyed the coaching challenge, and the job involved little else. Other than arranging whatever races we might have, there was no recruiting to do, no speeches to make, no grades to give, no other responsibilities attached save for my selfimposed determination to do a good job. At first, Dad and I did not talk much about rowing. I was too busy at the various chores given me in the shop, and there was much to learn. I kept my eyes open and ears cocked, picking up through observation what the old hands in the shop had learned from long experience. Working men tend to be jealous of their craft and rarely want to pass their store of knowledge on to others, for this is their stock in trade. I once asked Jerry Romano, who took over from my Uncle Dick at the Yale boathouse, what he had learned from him. He laughed and described how he would try to peek over Dick’s shoulder when he was at work. Dick would keep edging around to block his view. In my case, despite this natural reticence, a couple of the men in the shop were most helpful to me. I’m sure they did it for Dad’s sake, for they loved and respected him. Years after, one of them told me how happy he had been to see me come into the shop. It meant that the business would keep going, and he could count on keeping his job into old age. The Old Man (as I often referred to Dad just to ruffle his feathers) came out in the launch with me on rare occasions, usually on Saturdays when the shop was closed. He made comments on how the crews were rowing, and my crews and I both profited. In those days, we watched closely and made judgements on the quality of each man’s technique. I soon realized that watching the crews night after night doing the same things repeatedly had its risky side. After a while, one tended to see what he wanted to see rather than what was actually going on. To be fortunate, as I was, to have an expert like Dad willing to come out to watch was invaluable. Not mesmerized by so much looking, he could spot what he didn’t like and ask questions about why such and such was going on. That meant my having to
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 42 never a burden on anyone. Much to the contrary, he gave generously to members of his family when they needed it, and to his church and other charities as well. Though he tried his best to talk me out of it, I think he was happy when I chose not to listen to his advice and, instead, followed in his footsteps. I never regretted that decision. During the ensuing years, I avoided going broke and even made a modest living. I was fortunate in that neither I, nor the woman I was to marry, cared much about spending money, and we could save for the rainy days that were bound to come.
UW Frosh coach, chubbier and hair longer, ready for marriage -1950 defend or change. Finally, one morning, he told me that he thought I would be a good coach. He wanted me to be a rowing coach, though he never said as much. I suspect that, to his mind, such a profession represented a higher station in life than did boat-building. I now see this as an example of his class-conscious English upbringing peeking through. When I took my engineering degree, he told me that he thought I should go out and build bridges and make money. “After all,” he remarked, “I‘ve never known a boatbuilder who didn’t die broke.” He had seen his father, a first-rate artisan, go through terrible hardships. He had himself weathered desperately hard times. He told me once that when he turned to the shell game (this was his favorite term for rowing), it was with a fierce determination to succeed. He certainly achieved that goal. To the day he died he was
O
NE DAY DON DEHN CAME INTO THE SHOP. DON AND I had driven Al’s new car out from Poughkeepsie the year before. Now, he was planning to drive East in June to take in the Poughkeepsie Regatta and the Olympic Trials and wanted to know whether I was interested in coming with him. Because the trip would mean my having to leave the shop two weeks before my vacation started (the shop was shut down each year during July), I told him I couldn’t do it. Luckily, I asked the boss if it were possible, and he surprised me by saying “yes” (extra time off being a perk to be enjoyed when one is the boss’s son). We made the trip in Don’s 938 Chev coupe, camping out until we reached Chicago, where we splurged and stayed in a hotel. We’d have been wiser to camp somewhere out of town. We made the mistake of leaving the car parked on the street, and during the night someone broke into it and stole most of our clothes. We reported the loss to the police the next morning and were told that our only hope was to head down to the flea market at such-and-such park. There was an off chance of finding some of the items, and we could buy them back. We located the market, but found nothing. Sadder but wiser, we drove on to Poughkeepsie.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 43 We arrived in time to accept Ulbrickson’s invitation to follow the races with him in the Conny (it was brought east each year along with the shells). We watched as Washington won all three events. Whether Dad had any money down on the races this time, I never asked. Being an Englishman born and bred, he had sporting blood running in his veins and liked to take what he called a “flier” now and then. He spoke of how disgusted he had been in 936 when told by the bootblack in the basement of the hotel in downtown Poughkeepsie that he could only get even money on Washington for a clean sweep. Despite the unlikelihood of such an occurrence, the UW went on to take all three events that year. After Poughkeepsie, we drove to New London for the Harvard-Yale regatta. By luck, we timed it so that we were able to drive down the highway alongside the racecourse and watch the Varsity race from start to finish; that is, I watched while Don drove. Harvard beat Yale in their four-mile struggle by a scant few feet. Our next stop was Lake Carnegie for the Olympic Trials. Dad was there with the UW crews and would be going on to England with the Olympic Team. He had watched workouts with most of the coaches. Knowing him to be fair and honest, all sought his advice without reservation. After having seen the many crews at work, he picked Cal as the outfit to beat. He warned Al that the Bears were looking good, and Al, in turn, tried to alert his crew. The Huskies knew they were odds-on favorites (at least in their minds they were) and would not listen. As they were leaving that meeting, I heard their captain mutter, “Don’t listen to that crap. He’s just trying to worry us.” They had already defeated Cal twice, so why worry? Others thought the same way. When asked by Buck Walsh, his coach, whether they could beat Washington, the stroke and captain of the Navy crew said “no.” Walsh withdrew their entry, and they went home. The Olympic format, with its repêchage - or second chance race - for first-heat losers, was not used at this regatta, and it was to be a case of one loss and you’re out. (Repêchage is a French word referring to retrieving or fishing from the water something one has lost.) When
the two crews met in the first heat, it was a tight race all the way. Washington pushed Cal down the course, never lagging by more than a few feet. With only 20 strokes to go, Washington’s cox’n, Bobby Lee, had not called for a sprint even though they were still behind. The stroke, Charlie McCarthy, tried to snatch victory from defeat in the last few meters of the race. When he looked over his shoulder and saw the finish line fast approaching, he went into a finishing sprint on his own. The crew responded, but it was too late. Cal held off that last-ditch charge and beat them by three feet. Losses like this are what makes coaches old before their time. Ebright’s hair, on the other hand, retained its color, but I don’t imagine it stayed parted in the middle. His crew went on to defeat Harvard in the Final. This gained Cal their third Olympic appearance, a Berkeley crew having represented the U.S. at the Amsterdam Games 928 and at the Los Angeles Games in 932, both times winning the Gold Medal. Ulbrickson had now lost all hope of ever matching Ebright’s record. Ironically, that win was a nuisance for Ebright. Thinking his crew stood no chance, he had arranged earlier to pick up a new car in Detroit on his way home. Now he complained of having to make new arrangements. Ulbrickson would have been happy with such a problem. In a letter home to Mother that night (she saved every letter she ever received), Dad opened with a line from Shakespeare, “…and now let us sit and talk of the death of kings.” Cocks-of-the-walk until that devastating loss, Ulbrickson and his crew had indeed died. For years afterward, we talked of that race as having been as good as stolen by the Cal cox’n, Ralph Purchase. He had simply refused to let his crew quit. From as far up the course as one could make out the crews, we heard him screaming as he scooped up water and threw it in the stroke’s face. After having lost to the Huskies twice that season, he must have figured that if Washington ever pushed their nose in front, his crew would chuck it in. He was not about to let that happen, and his determination helped win that race for them. Confidence is one thing; overconfidence is quite another matter. It’s a killer that can wreak havoc on anyone. I was standing on the shore of
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 44
UW’s Olympic winners at Henley, George Pocock on dock in white hat -1948 Lake Carnegie with the Wisconsin coach, Norm Sonju, the day before the racing began. We were watching a crew from the West Side Rowing Club. As they took off, Sonju said, “Isn’t it great to watch a crew that you know you can beat?” Wisconsin lost to them the next day. Headto-head against Cal, the UW probably could have beaten them nine times out of ten. Someone on the Husky crew let his head get in the way, infected by the deadly virus that we chose to call “printers’ ink poison.” Almost anyone, especially those in sports who are too young and inexperienced to recognize its dangers, can fall victim to it. Once a person is infected by it, there is no antidote. It makes me think of a four-oared crew from Vancouver who went to Australia for the British Empire Games. They sailed into the Finals, handily defeating everyone they met. There, a rank outsider fooled all the experts by taking the title. Afterward, the little Canadian coxswain, inconsolable, was heard to wail, “But the papers said we would win!” In the heyday of Washington rowing, we were dubiously blessed with sports editors at the two major local dailies who were our great
supporters. They gave Washington rowing wonderful coverage and generated great interest in the sport in the Seattle area, but I sometimes saw that as a mixed blessing. Too often Husky crews were built up as being better than they really were. I wished that one or the other of the writers would take it upon himself to be our enemy and write enough bad stuff about the program to keep everyone at the shellhouse on their toes. The nearest we came was when oarsmen being interviewed sometimes gave wildly inaccurate accounts of what was going on. Slavishly retold in the papers the next day, the stories convulsed everyone around the shellhouse. Harvard, under different circumstances, might have come out on top. They simply had not recovered from their grueling four-mile race against Yale the previous Saturday. That was too bad. Tom Bolles, their coach, deserved at least one shot at the Olympics. He and Dad would have had such a grand time together in England. [Before going on, I must clarif y the term “coxswain,” its pronunciation and its spelling. Derived from Old English, the word is a combination of cock (ship’s boat) and swain (servant). Generally spelled c-o-x-s-w-a-i-n, the word is usually pronounced without the “w”, i.e., “cox’n,” and, for simplicity’s sake, it is often written that way. Sometimes, to make things even easier, the letter n is left off, especially when the word is used as a verb, as in “coxed” or “coxing.”] I WITNESSED TWO OTHER RACES WHERE COX’NS, IN ESSENCE, stole victories for their crews. One was the JV race between the UW and Cal in 942. Our JV were not much good that year; in fact, they were lousy. Cal came up with fire in their eye. Ebright must have thought his crews were overtrained, for they did little more than row out to Laurelhurst Light in the days preceding the race. Someone asked Ky why. His smug reply was, “We’re saving it for race day.” On race day, Cal should have won that JV race by a country mile, but Keith Brown, our cox’n, (who later changed his name to Paul for
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 45 reasons only he can explain) refused to let them have it. I can see him now, beating on the knocker plates and screaming at the top of his lungs as he urged his crew on. For the entire three miles, the distance between the two crews was never more than a deck length, and his crew eked out a victory by inches. The other unforgettable race was one between the UW and UBC on the Montlake course in 956. Our cox’n was Paul Andonian, a quiet fellow who rarely said boo. He must have taken to heart my dictum that a cox’n should never say something just for the sake of making noise. I believed that, once in the habit of doing that, they ran the danger of becoming only background static for the crew to tune out. When they had something important to say, they might be ignored. By heeding this advice, they might be the means of winning a race for
their crew at least once in their four-year career. I occasionally heard complaints from the oarsmen that Andy never said anything. On this particular Saturday, he found plenty to say, and right when it counted most. As the two crews approached the last black can (buoy) near the old shellhouse, the UW were still a length behind. With only a minute to go, there was no way that they could make up the necessary distance in the 30-odd strokes remaining. The race was as good as lost. All at once, Andy rose up on the back of his seat and started screaming and pounding the knockers for all he was worth. His crew responded and not only made up the deficit, but went on to win. Afterward, I cornered Lou Gellermann, the stroke, to congratulate him on their sensational win. He said that when they reached the black can, he had had nothing left. Suddenly, there was Andy, rising up in
Huskies win Olympic gold at Henley in Clipper Too with Switzerland second and Denmark third; note bow rising up, sign of a fast crew -1948
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 46 front of him and screaming his head off. Lou thought for a moment that the man had gone crazy. Then he was aware of the boat leaping forward under him. Losing all sense of exhaustion, he felt strong again and was able to lead his crew into a sprint that carried the day. A good cox’n is priceless - a good cox’n, that is, with a little adrenaline thrown in. I used to muse over how one might inject adrenaline into a crew in the middle of a big race at the exact moment when they needed it most. I came up with nothing, but, as Andy and the others had shown, a savvy cox’n can do it merely by force of personality. BACK TO THE 948 TRIALS. AFFORDING SOME MEASURE OF consolation for Husky boosters, the UW coxed four entry (Warren Westlund, Bob Martin, Bob Will and Gordon Giovenelli, with cox’n Allan Morgan - the stern four of the winning UW JV at Poughkeepsie) eked out a narrow victory over a good Yale crew. I think Don and I might have caused this crew to be cast in the role of dark horse - for the first heat, at least. Fat and sassy, we went out in a four with two other ex-Huskies one morning before the racing started. Anyone who saw us and mistook us for the Washington entry would have relaxed, for we obviously posed a threat to no one. On the strength of the win by his four, Al was asked to be the team’s small boat coach, but refused. Knowing how he cherished his summers on Orcas Island, I wasn’t too surprised. I suspect, though, that his refusal stemmed more from not wanting to play second fiddle to Ebright. He asked Dad to watch over the crew and help them in any way that he could. Fortunately for them. Fortunately for them, too, the designated small boat coach, Yale’s Skip Walz, and the head coach, Ky Ebright, did not object. Had they done so, Westlund and his crew might have missed winning their Olympic Gold Medals. THE 949 SEASON HELD MORE DISAPPOINTMENT IN STORE FOR the UW Varsity. The biennial regatta in Seattle with Cal was again held on Andrews Bay. Washington’s Frosh and JV both won. (The Frosh victory earned Gus Eriksen the Varsity coaching position at
Al Ulbrickson - Stroke of the 1924 UW Varsity Poughkeepsie winners - in front of the old ASUW shellhouse on Montlake Cut. It was a UW tradition that each oarsman had “ his” oar which he guarded jealously. Note Ulbrickson’s name - “Al” - painted on the loom Syracuse University.) The Varsity appeared well on their way to victory in the third race of the day when one of the crew caught a crab. It was a devastating loss. We all hoped that the crew would exact their revenge in June, but this was not to be. The Varsity had blood in their eye when they arrived at Poughkeepsie. Al, exhorting them during workouts on the river without the benefit of a power megaphone - lost his voice and had to ask Dad to take over. On race day, both the Frosh and JV crews won, and Washington was well on its way to another sweep of the Hudson. As told by some eyewitnesses, the Varsity held a slight lead
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 47 with a short distance to go when the stroke man looked over at Cal. Despite his cox’n’s assurance that they were in the lead, he was sure that they were not. Remembering the disaster of the previous year, he ran the stroke up. The crew, this time caught by surprise, did not respond and Cal went on to win.
railroad track that ran along the bank for the last two miles of the proposed course. The company that owned the track was willing to provide an observation train. Added to this was the word that the Marietta city fathers were excited at the prospect of hosting an event that in those days was of national import and they were anxious to give their full support. Nothing was mentioned about the possibility of floods. When the river was high - at flood stage - the check dams were inundated. When the river was neither high nor low, the dams created waterfalls. Several years before, we had received a letter from a sculler who owned one of our singles. He had rowed his boat right over one of these falls. While he was not injured, his boat was a wreck. He hoped we could repair it. Dad wrote back, asking whether he had saved the pieces. He replied (all our contact was by mail in those days, our name not being in any phone book) that yes, he had picked up all the pieces he could find, and they were safely stored in a gunnysack. We told him to send everything along and we would see what we could do to fix it. When the shipment arrived, we found the stern half of the boat more or less intact: the bow half was in the gunnysack. We weren’t too busy, and the job posed an interesting challenge. Western red cedar boats were relatively easy to repair because, once steamed to shape, red cedar remembers that shape instead of flattening out or curling up as it dries in the way many woods do. We tackled the job. It was not unlike assembling a jigsaw puzzle. The only difference was that we stuck the pieces together with glue. When we were through, there was only one piece - about three square inches - missing. We fashioned a new piece to fill that hole, gave the boat a good coat of varnish and shipped it back. Everyone was delighted.
IT WAS AFTER THE THAT R EGATTA THAT THE STEWARDS decided to move the annual affair elsewhere. For years, there had been complaints from various coaches that the Hudson River course was not a fair one. As is true of any river, the currents varied and were unpredictable. With as many as 12 entries in each event, and with others seeking to be invited, there was merit to these objections. Wind could make the river unrowable when it happened to blow either upstream or against the tide. Too, there was no hope that the New York Central Railway would ever resume operation of the special observation train. For many years this train was a major attraction in luring spectators to come. Often forgotten was the fact that the regatta was the brainchild of railroad promoters back in the 890s as a means of generating additional revenue. Now, the explanation for abandoning the Poughkeepsie Regatta Special was that the observation cars had been dismantled during the war, and the company was not about to build new ones. A group from Marietta, Ohio came forward with an attractive proposal that the regatta be moved to a site on the Ohio River. Marietta College crews were coached by Ellis McDonald, a former Husky oarsman, and Loren Schoel, another Washington grad, was their athletic director. The Marietta site had several attractive features. The river there was wide enough to accommodate all crews wishing to enter. Dead water could be guaranteed during the latter part of June. At that time of year, the small volume of water normally coming down was held in pools by check dams which formed a series of lakes and assured continuous navigation of the river. “Pool stage” was the THE LONG YEARS OF IRA TRADITION AT POUGHKEEPSIE - STRETCHterm used to describe this condition. In one of these pools, a three- ing clear back into the 890s - made even the thought of change mile racecourse could easily be laid out. Another attraction was the difficult. All those school letters, decorating the surrounding cliffs
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 48 and kept bright through the years by adventurous undergraduates, would mean little or nothing anymore. Nevertheless, the decision was made to move the Poughkeepsie to Marietta in 950. The proper name of the regatta was “The Intercollegiate Rowing Association Invitational Regatta” - better known as the “IR A.” The Athletic Directors of the five members of the association (Cornell, Columbia, Syracuse, Pennsylvania and the U.S. Naval Academy) - collectively known as the Board of Rowing Stewards - were the hosts of the regatta and guardians of its traditions. All other entries were by invitation. For now, at least, it was to be called the Marietta Regatta. Still held annually at one site or another, the affair is today known as the IRA Regatta and is open to all collegiate crews wishing to enter. The IRA recently celebrated its 00th anniversary. At the outset, all went well. The Marietta people outdid themselves in their preparations, and interest was intense. Seats on the observation train and grandstands were booked far in advance. After the crews arrived, crowds came each day to watch the activities around the boathouses and on the river. We could have sold pictures or trading cards, had we owned any. I even signed some autographs, charging nothing for them. Such aberrations later made their appearance elsewhere in the sporting world, but never in rowing. Who cared about which man rowed in what seat of which crew in any given year? Royal Brougham once tried to drum up interest in the annual naming of an All-American crew, but those in the know would have nothing to do with it. Everyone and everything seemed to be happily cooperating to make this a memorable event. Everything, that is, except the Muskingum River, a small stream that joins the Ohio just below the proposed start of the three-mile race. While all the organizing was going on, no one pointed out that, unlike the Ohio, this river could not be controlled: there was no “pool stage” on the Muskingum. A night or two before the big day, heavy rains fell far upstream. The river soon became a raging torrent, pouring flood waters and all that goes with them into the racecourse on the Ohio. It was plainly impossible for
Vancouver Rowing Club boathouse - 1911 - the year it was built and the same year that George and Dick Pocock arrived. In Vancouver for a race against this crew, Hiram Conibear first met the brothers. racing shells to work their way through the mess. Regatta officials decided to start all three races below where the flood was pouring in, thus cutting them down to about two miles. I say “about two miles” because the stake boats were long gone, and this necessitated a floating start. Somehow, the races were held, but only with mishaps which made a mockery of all the work put out by the organizers, to say nothing of the months of training by the coaches and crews in preparation for taking part in what was supposed to be the premier event in intercollegiate rowing. The train that followed the races was a long one, with the press car located midway in the line of observation cars. Its engineer came in for vitriolic abuse from the press afterward. Wanting the best seat in the house for himself, he had kept his locomotive even with the front runners. Newspaper reporters, trapped in the press car a quarter of a
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 49 mile back, saw little of the race, except who came in last. They were livid over what they saw as their unwarranted mistreatment and let all within shouting distance know about it. At the postmortem the following day, most of the local people connected with the affair agreed that such a disaster could never happen again, certainly not two years in a row. One of them proclaimed that it “prob’ly wouldn’t happen agin fer a hunderd year.” On the other hand, I heard one old-timer who allowed as how “that’s the Ohio in June.” Whatever, everyone was ready to go. The Stewards agreed to give the organizers another chance, so we all ventured again to Marietta for the regatta in 95. Against all predictions and prayers, disastrous river conditions once more prevailed.
I
DO GET LOST. AT LAST SIGHTING I WAS COACHING LIGHTweights at the University of Washington. My second season rolled around, and again it was a successful one. I had a very good stroke man in Pete Schoening. He was one tough customer, later to gain fame from his mountain-climbing exploits in the Himalayas. At the end of the season, Al asked whether I would be interested in moving up a notch. After two successful seasons with the Frosh, Eriksen was leaving for Syracuse. Ned Ten Eyck, after having coached there for many years following the long tenure of his father, Jim, was being put out to pasture. The Big Orange crews had not won a major race for some years, and Gus looked to be a good choice to change their fortunes. After taking charge, he did start out with a bang by beating Cornell for the first time in memory. Sadly, that was the only race his crews ever won. After five or six unsuccessful years there, he returned to Sweden, land of his birth, to build boats and coach crews there. I was confident that I could do the job. Dad said it was alright as far as he was concerned, although it meant my taking an increased amount of time away from the shop, especially in the fall when I
would be working with huge groups of men. He said to go for it, and go for it I did. The first afternoon in Old Nero - our 6-oared training barge - I suddenly became aware that I had never actually taught rowing to novices before, until then having coached only men with previous rowing experience. Now I was in an entirely different world. Fortunately for me, no one was aware of my quandary, and I was able to fake it. A DDING TO THE EXCITEMENT OF TH AT Y E A R WAS OUR impending move. The rowing program, and our shop as well, were soon to depart the old airplane hangar on the ship canal and relocate in the brand-new Conibear Shellhouse. Though the new place would be a much better facility, Dad was not in favor of the change. He thought that, with the old place hidden as it was from the rest of the campus, people with other fish to fry were never jealous of the rowing program and the money spent on it. Once the operation became more visible, it might be a different story. In his opinion the money could be better spent (and much less of it) by refurbishing and reorienting the old building. Shells could be launched in the side canal rather than directly into the Lake Washington Ship Canal, which by then had become extremely busy with boat traffic in the afternoons. Also concerned about the possible repercussions relative to his shell-building business, he sensed trouble brewing. He was right on both counts, though it was to be a good many years before his fears were borne out. The new place would be a far cry from the old barn that had been the shellhouse for the UW crews since shortly after the end of World War I. It had been built by the federal government as a seaplane hangar for the University’s proposed Naval Air Cadet ROTC program. The war ended before the plan was implemented, and the empty building was given to the university (for one dollar, if tradition is to be believed.) The only plane that ever saw the inside of it was owned by an undergraduate who was the brother of Ray Eckmann, the football hero. Ray later became Graduate Manager of the ASUW.
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“Old Tokyo” -circa 1913 Not knowing what to do with the monstrosity, the university turned it over to the ASUW rowing program to replace the old Portage Bay building. When the crews took over, the first fall turnout for the Frosh consisted of digging a ditch around the place to drain off the water that normally stood several inches deep inside. Here follows the story of how our business came to be established on campus in the first place. Readers familiar with Dad’s book Ready All! will find some of this material repetitive. WHILE SERVING OUT THEIR APPRENTICESHIP UNDER THEIR father and learning the skills of shell-building, my father, George, and his brother, Dick, sculled and won many prizes. Once out of their apprenticeship, they saw no future of any kind in England and in 1911 left home for Canada. After satisfying what demand there was for racing shells in and around Vancouver, they moved to Seattle at the behest of the then rowing coach at the University of Washington, Hiram Conibear. The two boys, aged only 21 and 23, were established on the UW campus in a ramshackle building that was put at their
disposal by the ASUW. “Old Tokyo,” as Dad called it, had been built as a Japanese teahouse for the Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition held on the campus three years before. The builders had bragged of having put it up in 24 hours. Dad said it looked as though that claim might have held some truth to it because “a cat could have been thrown through any of the walls.” Having professionally-trained builders right at hand was to prove a boon for Conibear and his crews. The racing shells and practice boats they built allowed him to expand his ambitious rowing program. Because they were also outstanding professional scullers, they made perhaps a bigger contribution to the program with their information, advice and demonstrations on rowing and sculling that they willingly gave to Conibear and his oarsmen. CONIBEAR WAS NOTHING IF NOT INVENTIVE. OFTEN THERE WAS not enough money to pay for gasoline for his coaching launch, and he had to resort to alternative means of coaching. Often, he had the crews parade around Portage Bay in single file while he stood in an upper story window of the shellhouse. As each crew passed by, he would shout instructions and criticism at them. Much of his coaching depended on the use of a vast store of cuss words acquired during his years as trainer for a professional baseball team back east. As each afternoon progressed and the passion of his delivery grew, these imprecations often far exceeded the bounds of propriety. With his megaphone pointed as it was in the general direction of the opposite shore of the bay, the neighbors there were often treated to salty language better heard down on the docks. Many were the calls from neighbors received by the university expressing shock. Admonitions always brought abject apologies from Conibear, and promises to mend his ways, but little real improvement. He claimed it was necessary to talk that way to get the oarsmen’s attention. In 95, Dr. Henry Suzzallo was named president of the university, after a long and acrimonious search to replace Thomas Kane, who had been dismissed amid considerable controversy. The new leader
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 51 them. They stayed with him through the war and for several years after it ended.
UW Varsity at Poughkeepsie with coach Ed Leader in doorway -1922 carried with him a clear vision of what a school could and should be. A dedicated Anglophile, he considered Eton College the ideal model. Dad’s own personal ties with Eton drew Suzzallo to the shop, where he often came to sit on a bench, swing his legs and talk with Dad about Eton and its traditions. According to him, Suzallo once remarked that “this allows me to escape the problems up on the hill.” The following year, with America’s entry in the war looming on the horizon, rowing at the university came to a halt. The brothers found themselves in a desperate situation: There were no boats to build. Then, fortune smiled upon them through the offices of Dr. Henry Suzzallo, who, along with Professor Parker of the faculty was deeply involved in helping the war effort. One day he showed up at the shop with an acquaintance, Mr. William Boeing, who was establishing a company to build airplanes. When he saw the quality of the work Dad and Uncle Dick were capable of doing, he hired
ROWING AT THE UNIVERSITY HAD NOT YET RESUMED WHEN Conibear died from a fall while reaching for the last prune on a fruit tree in his back yard. He had only just returned to Seattle after having been banned from the campus for six months by Dr. Suzzalo for meddling in university affairs. Dad told the story that on the day of his death, Conibear came into the shop with a crazed look in his eyes, declaring that “I’m not through yet!” Whatever scheme he had in mind, by that evening he was gone. With the war over, rowing was started again under the leadership of Ed Leader, former UW oarsman and football player. Ed had a twin brother, Elmer, who also rowed and played football. Though not very big - only about 65 pounds and six feet tall - they were both tough men. They turned out for rowing each spring, and every fall played the two guard positions for the Sun Dodgers’ football team (the Malamute - or Husky - didn’t become the UW mascot until after the war). Gil Dobie, their coach, thinking that they might need extra help because of their size, had cast iron contraptions made for them which fitted over one shoulder. With this help, they could blow away any opponent no matter how big he might be. They both made honorable mention more than once. The team itself won national recognition as well, with a Boston paper one year ranking them number one. The Leader brothers needed no iron shoulder pads to row well, and Dad was quick to say how much he admired the guts they displayed. I might add that while Suzzallo was president, Dobie resigned his post, changed his mind, returned for another season and finally was fired by Suzzallo at the same time as Conibear. Unlike Conibear, he was given no reprieve and eventually resurfaced as the head coach at Navy. Suzzallo, like his contemporary Robert Hutchins at the University of Chicago, set a high standard for what values a proper university should emphasize. Little-remembered today is the stature among educational institutions that the University of Washington
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Boeing’s first contract -circa 1917 (pontoons by Pocock)
enjoyed during his tenure. The school was considered one of the elite universities in the country and, with an enrollment of nearly 4,000, was the tenth largest. Suzzallo’s only monument extant is the UW Graduate Library which bears his name. After Ed took over the coaching job, Dad - anxious to help wherever he could - spent his evenings and weekends doing repair and maintenance work on the UW shells. Those unfamiliar with the racing shells of that period cannot properly appreciate how much time and trouble this maintenance work involved, what with lead-footed oarsmen and the brittle nature of Spanish cedar, as well as the total lack of any kind of quick-drying waterproof glue. In the spring of 922, Leader had a good Varsity crew. After a public drive to raise the necessary money, Washington’s eight (now called the “Huskies”) went east to Poughkeepsie, where they barely lost to the Naval Academy in a stirring finish. After the fine showing made by his crew, Leader was approached by representatives of the Yale University rowing program. They wanted him to take on the position as coach of the Yale Varsity squad. He accepted their offer later that fall and left Seattle for New Haven, where he was to enjoy many successful years. Uncle Dick went along
to build shells for him, and it was his eight that the Yale crew used to win their Gold Medals at the Paris Olympics of 924. With Leader gone, Russell S. “Rusty” Callow was hired in his place. (I think the “S” stood for Stanley. Now there was someone I would be proud to have been named after!) Rusty was captain of the crew as well as president of the Student Body in 95. Upon graduation, he went to work for a timber company out on the Olympic Peninsula. After seven years, he wanted out of the woods, and this was his big chance. For advice and help, he approached Dad, who was still at Boeing’s. (Despite what some latter-day purists insist to the contrary, that is indeed what the company was called by those who worked there in the early days; after all, Mr. Boeing was still on the scene and it was his company.) Rusty asked if he could build a new racing shell for him. He knew that Dad and Dick had built two eights in the Boeing plant a few years before. Business being slack after the war’s end, they had asked permission to take themselves off the payroll temporarily and were given the use of an empty shop. There they made the two shells, one for the University of Washington, the other for the University of California. By 922, however, the shops were again busy at Boeing(’s). Dad now had increased responsibilities in his position as foreman of the assembly department, and there was no empty shop available. To help Rusty out, Dad said he could do the job in his spare time if a place to do it could be found on the campus. Rusty thought he could arrange that. A newspaper reporter somehow heard of this, and the
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 53 story appeared on the sports page of the Seattle P-I. According to the article, Dad was leaving Boeing to go back to the campus and, once more, build racing shells for the university. Embarrassed by the story, he went to the head office and quit his job. Those around him tried every argument they could think of to talk him out of it. He was appreciated for his good work and creative thinking at the plant, and he knew it, but refused to change his mind. He told me years later that, looking back on it, he would not have been happy had he stayed there. Metal was making its appearance in airframe construction, and corporate politics had begun rearing its ugly head. He never would have liked coping with that. At the time, however, his leaving Boeing seemed to him the mistake of a lifetime. What a discouraging business it must have been. The place on the campus Rusty found for him was a rickety balcony built across the back of the seaplane hangar/shellhouse: freezing cold with snow on the ground outside, no heat, no light, no power and no equipment inside. In his first year of marriage, he had left behind a well-paid, lifetime job with all the latest equipment at hand and 65 men under him. Now he found himself alone, convinced that he had put his whole future in jeopardy. What saved him and allowed him to succeed - and he always gave credit to her for this - was the love and loyalty of the young woman who was to become my mother. She stood by him and encouraged him in all his efforts. Rusty also encouraged him by promising that wherever and whenever he could, he would boost the shells Dad built. As it turned out, this was unnecessary. Rusty’s crews began winning. That did the trick for Dad. Other coaches began beating a path to his door, and his future as a racing shell builder was assured. The winning ways of Rusty Callow did not happen by chance. He was a man who exuded leadership. This was evident to me even as a child. When he walked into a room, one sensed the presence of someone of importance. For seven years he had worked as a bull of the woods for a logging outfit out on the Olympic Peninsula and knew how to command attention and respect. This ability was to carry him a long
One of two shells built at Boeing’s shop by George & Dick Pocock -1920
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 54 way in his dealings with the young men in his charge at the shellhouse. An illustration of how he cared for his oarsmen comes to mind. One afternoon Chuck McGuinnes, who had rowed for him in the early days, dropped by the shop. I had heard stories of what a tough little guy Chuck had been and how he had loomed large in UW rowing. Reminiscing - as ex-oarsmen are wont to do - he told of what a rough time his college years had been for him. Besides turning out for crew, he worked at two jobs to help support his wife and stay in school. One day, worried about running short, he went to the bank to find out how things stood. Through some mistake - or miracle there had been a $50 deposit (something akin to $500 or even $,000 today) made to his account. He said there must be some mistake. “No,” the teller said, “Coach put it in.” Everyone knew everyone else around the U district in those simpler times. That gift was the saving of him and his education, and he never forgot it. Rusty, when he first contemplated accepting the coaching job, was concerned because he remembered little if anything about rowing and rowing technique. He had no idea where to begin. He couldn’t even recall what commands to use. He sought advice from Dad, who suggested that he have all the oarsmen on the squad write an essay on the subject of rowing technique as they understood it, as well as all the commands they were familiar with and how they responded to them. Rusty followed the suggestion and, using these writings along with the insights gained from his long talks with “the expert,” undertook his new job with confidence. It also must be remembered that he had a good head start, because the UW Varsity had made such a strong showing the year before at Poughkeepsie. On the strength of that performance, Rusty was able to raise enough money to make another try. On their way to Poughkeepsie, the Huskies stopped off at Madison, Wisconsin, where their new shell, the Husky, was christened by Katherine Conibear, daughter of the late Hiram Conibear. A bottle of water from Lake Washington was used for the ceremony. Many jugs of water had been brought in
George Pocock & Bror Grondahl with new shell Totem - 1927 the shellcar. Hudson River water had made the Washington oarsmen sick the year before. Unfortunately, it was impossible to carry enough water for the men to bathe in. They were left to dunk in the Hudson whose waters, redolent with untreated sewage, were a breeding ground for all manner of infections. Boils were one commonplace result. Varsity crews from the UW had appeared on the Hudson on three previous occasions - in 93, 95 and 922. This time the Frosh were also entered. Stroked by Al Ulbrickson, the yearlings won. They had already taken the shirts from Cornell (a rowing tradition signifying victory) when, after a two-to-one vote, regatta officials announced that Cornell, not Washington, was the winner. Shortly thereafter, an article appeared in the Literary Digest, a leading magazine of the day,
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The shop at the old ASUW shellhouse -circa 1924 featuring a picture taken at the finish line that showed Washington clearly in the lead. In the Varsity race, the Huskies gained some measure of revenge by defeating all comers and bringing home the trophy. With the early success of Rusty’s crews on the national scene, customers flocked to the door of Dad’s garret workshop. There he stayed, busily building boats, all through the 920s. The Great Depression again brought business to a virtual halt. His fortunes were just picking up when the Second World War slowed him down again. War over, the shop began humming once more. I MUST DESCRIBE HOW THE ROWING STYLE AT WASHINGTON became known as the “Conibear Stroke.” When asked by a reporter to describe just what the “Conibear Stroke” was, Rusty Callow said he had no idea. In the three seasons he rowed for Conny, they were told something different each year. If one draws from this the conclusion
that Conibear himself had no particular technique in mind, why, then, the name? What it comes down to is that the choice of name had little or nothing to do with any particular rowing technique that he espoused. In the mid-1920s, George Varnell, sports writer, was brought over from Spokane by the Blethens who owned and published The Seattle Daily Times. Their son, Frank, was turning out as a cox’n at the UW, and they wanted to put Washington rowing on the map. Varnell did this in a big way (helped, of course, by the successes then enjoyed by the UW). Articles on rowing appeared in The Times almost every day. This can be confirmed by a glance through the old scrapbooks at the UW shellhouse - if they haven’t been tossed out by now. In a further attempt to generate interest, Varnell persuaded The Times to run a contest to find a name for the style of rowing being used so successfully by the Washington crews. The idea had some merit in that Rusty’s crews used a style noticeably different from that in vogue on the East Coast. Readers were asked to send in nominations, and the entry with the most votes would be judged the winner. Because most of the people around the city with any knowledge of rowing had once rowed for Conibear, the result was almost a foregone conclusion. Conny’s untimely death in 96 had affected them deeply, and they saw this as a means of creating a memorial to him. Thus, the Conibear Stroke was born. Largely a figment of the imagination, it had little or nothing to do with the style of rowing advocated or taught by Conibear. If there was any consistency in Washington’s style of rowing, it came through George Pocock’s knowledge of the style used by some of the old professional scullers of England - in particular, Ernest Barry, who was World Champion in the early 920s. Barry was the man whom Dad, himself a fine sculler, revered as the ultimate champion; to his mind, the “Prince of Scullers.” Dad’s own technique in a single was taken in good part from Barry, and he passed his knowledge on to any coach or oarsman who would listen. His influence on the manner in which Washington crews rowed, and, for that matter, on the many crews coached by Washington
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 56 graduates at other universities from the early 920s until the 960s, is a crew to New Zealand. A local journalist asked him whether he taught undeniable. Never one to take credit himself, he always referred to “the Conibear stroke.” Ky’s reply allegedly was the same as Conibear’s: Washington’s rowing style as the “Thames Waterman’s Stroke.” “I teach the get-’em-there stroke.”
The Barry Brothers, Lew & Bert - circa 1927- Their father, Ernest Barry, winner of Dogget’s Coat & Badge in 1903, was considered by many to be the “Prince of Scullers,” exemplar of the Thames waterman. The creative imagination of Hiram Conibear, and his almost fanatical devotion to the promotion of rowing at the University of Washington, were the qualities memorialized when the name for Washington’s style of rowing was chosen. They are far better remembered than any style of rowing created by him. Though Washington’s new shellhouse was named for him in 949, and the classic coaching launch used for so many years by the Husky Varsity coaches who succeeded him bore the name Conny, these entities hold no widespread significance. In contrast, the term, “Conibear Stroke”, has become a household word in the rowing world and is cited today in encyclopedias and rowing publications everywhere. Thus, the name “Conibear” will retain an important place in the annals of rowing forever. Conibear himself, when asked what style of stroke he advocated, was said to have growled in reply, “the get-’em-there stroke.” In 95, Ky Ebright, Cal coach, took
THE IDEA OF BUILDING A NEW FACILITY CAME ABOUT LARGELY as a result of the success of the UW’s four-oared crew in the 948 Olympics. As secretary of the UW Alumni Association, Curly Harris promoted the interests of the university at the State Legislature. Schmoozing with his cronies in Olympia, he persuaded them to slip in the hopper an appropriation bill to provide money to build a proper home for Husky crews. It passed. The projected cost was $365,000 a princely sum in our eyes, as indeed it was in the 940s. Plans included space for Dad’s shop. He had many supporters and admirers on the campus as well as in the city, and his name was synonymous with that of Washington rowing. His presence around the shellhouse had become such an institution that it never occurred to anyone to question his being included. Totally in accord, Ulbrickson would have it no other way. The architects spent hours in the shop, asking questions about what we needed and about the requirements of the shellhouse itself. One feature Dad insisted upon was a ceiling height in the shell storage area of no less than 5 feet. He deemed this necessary, not only for the storage of extra boats, but for accommodating the 2-foot oars. This demand caused consternation among the architects - volume was their main concern. They wanted a height of only 2 feet - it would lower the cost. Luckily, we won the argument. Of course, we never had the full 5 feet available because of all the plumbing and mechanical equipment that were hung from the ceiling. These made the top shell racks unusable. Still, it was much better than it might otherwise have been. Years later, when a new shellhouse was designed for the MIT crews on the Charles River in Cambridge, the architects ignored the need for height. After the building was completed, fourfoot holes had to be blasted in the concrete floors with jackhammers so oars could be properly stored.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 57 We made our long-awaited move in midwinter 949‒50. I don’t remember there being a dedication of any kind. We were so immersed in moving and setting up the shop that all kinds of things could have gone on without our knowing about them. It was with mixed feelings that we moved. Dad had occupied the old place for 26 years and had seen his fortunes rise from rock bottom to his present preeminent role as the shell-builder in the country. To me it had been “the shop” forever. Even today, whenever I catch a whiff of Western Red cedar, I am transported back to that place of my childhood.
Conibear shellhouse under construction -1949
Putting such feelings aside, I was excited by the possibilities such a modern facility offered. With its excellent lighting, predictable heat and good dust control, along with ample room (for a change), the place held great promise. I saw, too, that the new shop was a tribute to all that Dad meant to rowing, not only at the university, but to the sport of rowing throughout the country. His dedication over the years was paying off. He finally had a proper place where he could craft his racing shells and oars.
THE WINTER OF 949‒50 WAS A HARD ONE - AT LEAST IT WAS as winters go in the Pacific Northwest. When it came time for spring practice (actually starting about January third or fourth), the bay in front of the new shellhouse was frozen solid. Even had it been ice-free, we would still have been stuck because the new floats that had been ordered were not yet built. There was no way I could wait for the ice to clear out or the floats to be finished. The Varsity might get away with waiting - they were not to hit the water until March first - but I could not. Though frightfully busy with the rest of the gang as we struggled to get our new shop up and running, I had to think of a solution. Fretting over what I might do, I remembered seeing a pile of Armysurplus duck boards stacked behind the building. Just the ticket! The next day I put the Freshmen to work slashing a path through the swamp to the bay where open water could be reached. We laid the boards to form a trail leading out to a launching stage. A lot of work, but it put us on the water. SPEAKING OF ORGANIZING THE NEW SHOP, I REMEMBER ONLY one hitch. The elaborate heating system did not work, and the maze of pipes, valves and labeled fittings in the mechanical room defied reason. We sent for the experts from the firm that had installed the equipment. After two or three days of fiddling around with their meters and handbooks, they gave up. Don Huckle, our machinist, said he’d have a look and see if he could figure it out. Not long afterward, he came back up in the shop, laughing. The problem was merely the result of some mislabeled valves. We enjoyed some excellent skating before the ice finally began to break up. Despite all worries to the contrary, the lost weeks on the water were not to hurt the performance of the Varsity or JV crews. They went on to win their races - what few there were - that year. Their successes might have had something to do with the season not being so long that the spirit of the oarsmen suffered, as sometimes happened.
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Old Nero with George Pocock at the helm; UW coaches Al Ulbrickson, Pest Welch, Bud Raney, Hec Edmundson & Tubby Graves at the oars - circa 1947 As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, I began to develop a sense of what was going on, both in the shop and on the water. Early on, I had asked Al how one was supposed to see or do anything while watching three, four, or - in his case - as many as seven or eight crews charging along. He said that you learned by doing. This wasn’t much help, but then I didn’t expect a real answer. Al was right, though. In time I began to see and understand what I was looking at. IT WAS UNFORTUNATE THAT AL AND I NEVER TALKED MUCH about rowing. He was a nice guy, and there was much I could have learned from him. He had good insight into what makes people tick, a wonderful sense of humor and the ability to seem at ease in any
situation. I liked and respected him. For whatever reason, we never became close - just cordial was all. This came largely from my being in the shop most of each day. I did try on occasion to slip over to his office in time to have conversations before the turnouts, but those efforts were invariably frustrated by oarsmen dropping in to shoot the bull with him. With the new shop set up, I graduated to working right alongside Dad. This close association afforded me the opportunity to learn not only about the intricacies of boat building and racing shell design, but about the mysteries of rowing as well. Much of what I learned of coaching and rowing came from those endless hours spent discussing the various aspects of the sport as we worked. By the time I went down each afternoon to face the crews, I would be bursting with ideas. Some of what I did was prompted by what I thought was wrong with the way we were treated when I was turning out as an undergraduate. At the same time, I tried to copy the format laid down by Al for the Varsity squad. This made sense. The transition to the Varsity in their second year, for both oarsmen and cox’ns, would pose fewer problems for them. In those days, all recruiting of prospects was by word of mouth up on campus. I took no part in that. (There might have been all sorts of things going on of which I knew nothing.) Actually, not much recruiting was needed. With their extensive coverage, the Seattle newspapers took care of that for us. When classes started in the fall, one announcement brought a mob knocking at the door. I was only able to pull off my dual role as coach/boatbuilder because of the exaggerated status rowing then enjoyed in the minds of people in the Northwest. When turnouts began in the fall, I would go down each afternoon to find the men lined up on two rows of benches: one for port, the other for starboard. By turns, eight from each row took their places in Old Nero, where they were given the fundamentals - either by me or by the Lightweight coach. After a few days of this, we subjected each
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Author ready to give ’em what-for from the AOB -1951 group to a second trip in one of our two shell barges. (These we called coed barges, being similar to those built for the women’s rowing program that Conibear instituted prior to the First World War.) This phase was kept up for some weeks. Before autumn turnouts ended, we graduated to actual racing shells. By the time I left the job a few years later, I had reduced the number of days spent in Nero and the shell barges to a bare minimum. I worked out a system whereby we had two separate sessions each afternoon in actual racing shells. This seemed to bring the men along much faster, and it cut down on the sitting around and waiting. My first year of coaching the Frosh, over 200 men showed up. I had to devise a scheme for learning all the names. To do this, I had each man paint his last name on the back of his sweatshirt. With each barge-load of 6, I first stood at the bow where I could see all those
names. Once I thought I had these in my mind’s eye, I went down to the stern and tried to tie a name to each face. Then, going back to the bow, I tried to tie a face to each name. Within a few days, I could name every man in the turnout. This gave me a chance for some fun at the expense of a few of them. I never took roll at turnout, nor did I ever assign any seats. I soon noticed that on Friday afternoons the squad would be noticeably smaller. Obviously, some of the men - thinking that they could get away with it with me none the wiser - were skipping turnout in order to get a head start on the weekend. It took only a few instances of asking someone on Monday where he had been on Friday to make believers out of all of them. They couldn’t imagine my having them all pegged so soon. I didn’t. I only kept tabs on those men I was interested in and nailed them whenever the opportunity presented itself. Laboring under the illusion that I knew who was there and who was not, the men soon learned to call the shellhouse if they were going to miss a turnout. They also learned never to call asking whether a turnout had been canceled because of inclement weather. Rain or shine, wind or snow, we rowed. Many prospects did not like that, and they soon dropped out, but the true ombrophiles remained (Seattle is full of these). Though I would like to have kept everyone who wanted to row, this was impossible - there were too many bodies. I never had more than a few men who had real potential, despite what rival coaches were inclined to think. These were easy to spot and keep around. What bothered me was my difficulty in sensing a man’s desire. All too often a small man is big inside. The “killer instinct” was what Dad chose to call it. I learned to keep everyone willing to stick it out, not cutting anyone until grades were out. I cut too early one year and regretted it. When I knew who was eligible, I announced the names of those whom I wished to keep on the squad — those husky enough to be potential Varsity oarsmen — and urged the rest to go out for the Lightweight squad. We didn’t restrict that group to any weight limit in those days, there being no organized 50# rowing
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 60 on the West Coast and, thus, no limitations to be adhered to. Their races were against clubs or smaller college programs. Virtually all the men I ever had to let go were under the 55# limit, but I hated to disappoint even one of them. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if a man grew bigger later on, as some did, he could always go out for the Varsity. Spring training started as soon as possible after the first of January. Our approach to training was, “row, row, and then row some more.” No rowing machines, no weight training, no running — nothing but rowing. It was often miserable out on the lake, and not much would be accomplished, especially early in the season. Sometimes a spell of cold weather with little or no wind gave us a break. Though limited by a lack of daylight, we could log many good miles, and the cold only bothered the fingers and toes — and the coach. At times I was so cold by the end of a workout that I couldn’t stop shivering until long after I was in bed at night. The Athletic Department didn’t offer cold weather gear, and I had no money to buy any, so I shivered. Al finally loaned me a beat-up old fleece-lined Navy peacoat, and that helped. Every day I met with the Frosh after Al’s lecture to the Varsity squad. While they were embarking, I spent a few minutes on whatever we would be working on that evening and then announced the lineups. Sometimes the air of suspense for those worried about their fate was palpable. After the crews were boated and on their way to our rendezvous, my driver and I followed in my runabout, the AOB. (The initials stood for “Eight Honest Boys.” ) That name was a hangover from the so-called alphabet days of the Roosevelt Administration and the Depression years. I only admit remembering one other acronym that circulated around the shellhouse. That was “SOB,” which stood for “Save Our Bodies.” There were others less repeatable. The crews gathered for the workouts either at the Laurelhurst Light or in Portage Bay, depending on what the weather was like and on where the Varsity flotilla was headed. Without the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge to provide shelter from the South winds out on Lake
Washington, we spent many evenings dodging the navigation buoys in Portage Bay and Lake Union. There was little boat traffic to avoid in the afternoons, so it was never necessary for us to go out in the early mornings. One afternoon, Al and I were up in the office before turnout. He was watching a single water skier whizzing around out on Union Bay. “What this country needs,” he growled, “is another big Depression.” This was his lake and, if he had his way, no one else would be allowed on it. On Saturdays, we launched at 0:00 A.M. to allow the oarsmen some respite over the weekend. MY USUAL PLAN WAS TO TRAIL ALONG BEHIND THE VARSITY, GO just past wherever they stopped and turn around to follow them home. One evening, the Varsity crews were stopped out past Windermere near Sand Point. As the Frosh passed them, my driver let out an agonized howl. There sat my first boat, dead in the water, with nothing to see in the shell but eight pairs of legs sticking straight up in the air. The cox’n had run his boat smack into the end of a deadhead. For those too young to remember the days when log booms were being towed to the sawmills along the shores of Lake Union and Lake Washington, a deadhead was a partially waterlogged timber that had dropped out of a boom. Floating almost submerged, usually with one end just above the surface, they were a constant threat to boaters. I was annoyed, to put it mildly, the collision having happened right between two of the Varsity shells. Surely, someone could have shouted a warning. Probably they had, and the cox’n, Tom Winter, hadn’t heard. Anyway, I threw my great tin megaphone down — as I was wont to do when the occasion demanded. After landing at just the right angle in the bottom of the launch, it went sailing high overhead and into the drink. Even Al laughed at that. It was probably worth it, for it took away to some degree from the seriousness of the situation. We were lucky that no one was hurt. The crew assured me there was no water coming in and no physical damage visible. Because the shell had hit straight on, all stresses were equalized and nothing had
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UW Class Day Regatta – Montlake Cut -1951 let go. I shudder to think of the result had the shell been a few inches to one side or the other. Feeling much relieved, I had the crew back water to free the boat, the stem of which was buried several inches in the end of the log. In doing so they fell off to one side and broke off a few inches of the stem. That, and bruises to the ego of the cox’n, were the only damages suffered, unless one counts the fate of my megaphone. It sank. OUR FIRST TIME TRIAL EACH YEAR, A TWO-MILER, WAS HELD ON THE Saturday nearest Washington’s birthday — February 22ⁿd. It was rowed from Sand Point south to the Laurelhurst Light. The course must have been short of two miles, because the times posted were often surprisingly fast if the crews were any good. We also had a two-miler extending from Leschi to Madison Park, and another somewhat shorter course marked off in Lake Union. The three-miler for the Varsity ran
from a mark near the Mercer Island Floating Bridge north to Madison Park. This course was used on one or two occasions for the biennial races against Cal. For a number of years in earlier times, those regattas were held along the stretch from Sand Point to Sheridan Beach. One story, touched on in my dad’s memoir, bears repeating. Conibear had set up the course to take advantage of the railroad that ran along the shore. Far out in the country then, the shoreline was undeveloped and covered with trees. Because these would block the view of spectators on the train as it followed the races, Conny sent some of the oarsmen out to fell them. (Many worked as loggers during summer months to pay for their education.) The land being privately held, the owners raised an awful howl, and it cost the UW money to quiet them. Years passed, the entire shoreline was developed, houses were built and the trees grew back. The Sheridan Beach course continued to be used for some years, though the observation train was no more. Several regattas were held on a three-mile course running from the Mercer Island Bridge south into Andrews Bay at Seward Park. After 968, when 2000 meters was made the standard for all intercollegiate races, regattas continued to be held there. From the spectators’ standpoint, this was the best place on the lake for races. It didn’t matter too much that it wasn’t a particularly good place to view the races, because crew races tend to be boring anyway. The best feature of the site was that all the boats and oars were kept out on the park grounds at the end of the course, and people could wander around to have a close look at them. They could run their hands over them and marvel at their beauty. I enjoyed eavesdropping on people’s comments. I heard one woman who was looking inside one of the shells exclaim, “Why, the seats actually move!” Too, all the crews were right there, doing whatever it is that crews do before and after they race. They could be seen carrying their equipment around, embarking, warming up, giving each other pep talks and celebrating their victories or nursing their disappointments. In other words, all the color that the sport has to offer was there to be seen at close hand.
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 62 The only other marked course we had was the 2K from Laurelhurst light into the Montlake Cut. The finish line was just past the old shellhouse. That is the course now used exclusively for local races, although the starting line has been changed so that the finish is at the far west end of the Cut. Times made by crews rowing on this course can be deceptively fast, for there is often a considerable current running. I doubt that any one of the courses was accurate - no iced-up lake in the winter on which to chain distances - but that did not matter, as long as the same marks were used each time. The marks consisted of lining up “the edge of that building with that tree just below” and so forth. This was changed with the building of the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge. Accurate 2000 meter courses were measured along either side. No matter which direction the wind blows, flat water is always available on one side or the other. Close to Conibear Shellhouse, it is frequently used. Over the years, traffic accidents on the bridge have resulted from commuters enjoying the spectacle. As for being a viable course on which to run timers, coaches and oarsmen alike console themselves over poor time trials by claiming that “the water along there is slow.” I have always suspected that it is the rowing and not the water that is slow. For the first time, the marked distance is accurate. Coaches are often guilty of making life seem better by kidding themselves about how fast their crews are. Short courses and fast currents help, along with fast thumbs on the stopwatches. On more than one occasion I read of incredible times being turned in by California crews in the weeks leading up to our annual meetings. It was too easy to underestimate the speed of the current on the Oakland Estuary where they trained. Those record times probably gave the Cal coaches a few unearned nights of rest. As the season progressed and the Varsity began their three-mile time trials, I sometimes ran the Frosh against them for the last two miles. The “igorotes” (the name was that of the aborigines who performed at Seattle’s Alaska Yukon Pacific Exhibition in 908 and was applied
Headed south for the Mercer Island bridge -1950 Warren Westlund at stroke from then on to the freshmen at the shellhouse) were feisty rabbits for the Varsity and JV crews to chase. These races provided good tests for us. Some years, toward the end of the season, the Frosh came out in front. This was good for Frosh egos, as well as for mine, but not necessarily helpful to Ulbrickson and his crews. We never ran the Varsity and Frosh head to head. We probably should have tried to pipe the Frosh down by having the Varsity beat them on even terms. On the other hand, it might have been risky, as the 947 season had shown. The only time the Frosh raced the Varsity squad on an equal footing was in the annual Class Day Race, sponsored by The Seattle Times. Though they might conceivably have had a slight edge in these races - none of the upper-class crews having rowed together during the current season - the Frosh rarely beat even one crew. Sometimes wily upperclassmen tricked them into thinking they would. I remember so well my frosh year, when they had us convinced
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 63 that we were going to win. Came race day, we finished so far behind that the other three crews were headed back toward the shellhouse by the time we crossed the line. The only exception was in 947 - my senior year - when the Frosh beat all comers. That same crew won all four of their Class Day races, the only class ever to do that. I attributed their continued success to their stroke, Warren Westlund. Around such a high-spirited man, one just could not be down in the dumps. His ebullience set the tone for the entire squad and was sorely missed after he graduated. A TOUGH SPORT, ROWING DEMANDS DEDICATION, SACRIFICE AND hard work. If a coach is not careful, it can become a grinding, deadly bore, especially when there are few races to look forward to, as was the case at the UW in those days. When that happens there is no relief for the men other than knowing that it will all be over one day. I wanted to avoid as much of that as possible. With freshmen, the danger is less, because everything is new to them. Regardless, I wanted all with whom I worked to look forward to rowing with the Varsity program, full of love for the sport and the associations it brought. One Monday evening, after returning from a rather dreary performance by the crews, I fell to musing on my own rowing experience. I remembered Monday workouts as always having been a drag, anticipated with dread, and I sensed the same feeling in these men. There had to be a more profitable way to spend the day, something more stimulating than just a repeat of the day-to-day competition between boats. Out of these random thoughts came the “Ham ’n’ Eggers’ Handicap.” The name itself had no particular connotation. When I was in school, for one to call someone else a “ham ’n’ egger” meant that he thought the other person a jerk or, at best, someone of little consequence. It was not uncommon for us to call a crew we thought beatable “a bunch of ham ’n’ eggers.” Anyway, that’s the name I chose for the event I envisioned. The purpose I had in mind for the program was not as frivolous, however, as the name inferred. For one thing, I
UW crew heading out -1954 - cox, Andonian; stroke, Harper; 7, Reilly; 6, Frost; 5, Lamb; 4, Stocker; 3, Backer; 2, Purnell; bow, Howay. knew that those men who wanted racing experience would benefit. My preconceived ideas of which of the men were good candidates would be challenged. Those men in the first boat during regular workouts might find it a relief to be let off the hot seat now and then. Members of the squad who never rowed in anything other than the lower boats would have the opportunity to row in a good boat and show their stuff. Monday workouts would never be a drag again. At least, that was my hope. From then on, I began each Monday afternoon with the squad gathered around. I would put all the names in two hats - ports in one, starboards in the other. Cox’ns drew lots and the winners drew four names from each hat. A further drawing decided which boat each crew would use. The crews thus selected put their heads together and decided on their boat’s seating. Once boated, they headed out on the lake to warm up and adjust to rowing together. At a designated time, they gathered at Laurelhurst Light where I started their 2000 meter race. A manager stationed at the finish line with a flag allowed me to record the time of the winner. A
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 64 chart showing the weekly results was kept on the wall for all to see. Those in the winning boat each week were awarded three points, while those coming in second received two points and those in third place, one. At the end of the season the scores were totaled, and the eight men and cox’n with the highest scores received prizes at our annual year-end banquet. Right from the start, this weekly event was a winner. Monday turnouts became something everyone looked forward to with anticipation rather than dread. If I am not deluding myself, there was never a man missing over the six seasons that we had those races. One Tuesday afternoon, toward the end of the first season, I was in the shell storage area after having just added the latest scores to the chart. I heard the sound of rushing feet on the stairs. Several of my oarsmen galloped into view and ran over to the chart. I knew then that the effort had been worthwhile. The only year I wondered about that was on the occasion when, at the windup of the season, six oarsmen were in a tie for the eighth spot. That meant I had to stay up all night to make five more of the model oars that were the prizes.
I believed it paramount that a Frosh coach be closely in tune with the Varsity coach’s ideas on rowing. In my case this was easy because Ulbrickson and I, though we never talked, had learned from the same source. Had Al been seeking other than what I considered to be good rowing, I would have resigned in a hurry. Teaching good rowing was the easy part. Generating a love of the sport in my charges to ensure their moving into the Varsity squad as sophomores took more doing. Enthusiasm can be elusory (and sometimes illusory), especially when the season is not a winning one. One means I used was to make sure that all those in the turnout felt important. I wanted to keep everyone around because so-called late bloomers can be so easily discouraged. Keeping in mind that most of the men were in school for a university education rather than merely to row, I tried to keep rowing in perspective. Taking up too much of their time and energy with excessively long turnouts would have been unfair. To help prevent their developing unbalanced perceptions, I taught them that winning as an end in itself was not the goal. Trying to win was what counted. No matter what the field of endeavor, if one keeps on trying, he is bound to have his share of success. This precept, among so many others, I learned from my rambling talks with Dad in the shop. These enduring truths, as well as many ideas of my own, I passed on to my men as best I could. I gleaned from him ideas on how to achieve certain results through various drills, what to look for in making judgments on how a man was rowing, as well as good racing strategy, gamesmanship, training diet and training regimen. I did not necessarily agree with everything he said. When I demurred, he was just as willing to listen to my ideas as I was to his. This led to a creative atmosphere of give-and-take between us which taught me much, not only about rowing, but also about life.
FEW OF THE FROSH WHO CAME DOWN TO THE SHELLHOUSE HAD rowed before. Those who had, with rare exception, came from the Green Lake Junior Crew program. Though I must say those men were enthusiastic, I preferred working with people who had never seen an oar before. With rank novices, I did not have to unteach anything. I knew there really was a right way to row. If a wrong way was learned to begin with, it was next to impossible to change. “How use doth breed a habit in a man,” Shakespeare wrote. Only two or three who came over from Green Lake made good in my crews, and they were what we termed “naturals.” They knew the right way to row by instinct and had not been spoiled. They were useful to me FEW OF THE COACHES WHOM I KNEW CONTINUED TO ROW and went on to successful experiences throughout their careers at the UW and, later, with the Lake Washington Rowing Club and the U.S. after graduation. The sole exceptions coming to mind are Joseph Olympic Team. Burk, who coached so successfully at Penn and, later, Harry Parker
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 65 morning down on Lake Union, I fell out of my single while trying to show the crew of a coxed four what I thought they were doing wrong. While still under water I remember thinking that I had better be laughing when I came up for air. When I surfaced with a grin on my face, the crew were doing their best not to crack smiles. One of them yelled over, “Boy, Coach, when you demonstrate, you really demonstrate!” Whether my bath-cum-demonstration convinced them that they should correct what they were doing, I forgot to notice. I could only hope that they sensed my desire to help them. Sometimes I rowed in one of the eights to see what was going on. That pepped things up. On another less embarrassing occasion, I had to resort to my single when my driver and I couldn’t persuade my launch, the AOB, to start. I sent the crews out, expecting to catch up with them. I finally gave up and went chasing after them in my single, even though there was a half-gale blowing that made sculling almost impossible. I caught up with them just past Sand Point, they having had the good sense to stop and wait for me. After catching my breath, I used the return trip to demonstrate some of what I had been talking about in my lectures. I did not fall out Washington rowing could not have succeeded without the contributions of of the boat, at least not where anyone could see me. As I trailed its student managers; pictured here are the managers from 1948. them home on their final run, the end of my rigger slid up a sloping deadhead near the entrance to the shellhouse lagoon and I was at Harvard. I am sure they - and their crews - were the better for flipped over as neat as you please. Years later I ran across a man it. One of the problems one faces when teaching rowing is that who was in the turnout that evening. He still remembered how it looks so very different than it feels. Sitting in a shell, a rower much my going the extra mile had meant to them. sees almost nothing of himself. He must depend upon feel. If the coach - teacher, that is - stays active with his or her own rowing, he or she has a much better chance of putting into words what rowing feels like. Many coaches seem to think that being in a shell - either to HEN THE 953‒54 SEASON CAME ALONG I HAD ONLY demonstrate from a single, actually row with a crew, or cox a boat - is a small squad - small in size as well as in number. I demeaning. To them, the risk of embarrassment isn’t worth it. Such did everything I could think of to accommodate the a thing can happen, as I can attest to from experience. One Saturday various odd-sized men in an attempt to help them achieve their best
W
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 66 performance. Details depended on the particular man, but included raising a stretcher or a seat, decreasing the spread on a rigger, altering the distance through the pin and, in one or two cases, shortening an oar. With these adjustments, I attempted to tailor the boats to the oarsmen. I knew such activity could easily get out of hand and bring on total confusion, but I was determined to give these men all the help possible. Finally, there was nothing more I could do to the boats, and I still was not seeing what I wanted. Those first few years of coaching had made me aware how much is lost in communication between coach and crew. A thought which originates in the coach’s mind has to go down to his mouth, out through the megaphone, across the water, into the oarsman’s ear and then into his brain before it - the original thought - can be translated into action. After all this, the coach is liable to kid himself into thinking that he sees a change, though the oarsman might not have understood or even heard what was said. Many coaches I observed appeared to have given up. They would drone the same words repeatedly with no apparent effect, mouthing a kind of mantra merely to justify their being out there and providing at best only background noise for the turnout. Either that, or they had succumbed to abusive exhortation that served only to insult the intelligence. Fearing that I might fall into one trap or the other, I wracked my brain for a way to skirt the danger. What I was looking for was right in front of me: become a cox’n. It was with some trepidation that I embarked the first time. I had never heard of any other coach doing this - not around our shellhouse, at any rate. I was afraid lest the boat not carry me. Not a small man, I might sink it so low in the water that the stroke and #7 man wouldn’t be able to row. Al might not stand for it, or, at the least, would kid the life out of me. Not willing to risk hearing a “no” by asking him, I went ahead on my own. As I prepared to embark for the first time, I could see him standing in the office window with a big grin on his face. After squeezing in, I checked and found there was still plenty of freeboard. All that remained was to see whether I remembered which was port and which was starboard. Ever since becoming a
UW Frosh winners over Cal -1951 coach, I had experienced problems with this, having learned the terms backwards as an oarsman. In the launch I had settled on just yelling one or the other. If it were the right command, fine. If not, I quickly hollered the other. Still confused, I maneuvered us away from the dock amid no small amount of laughter and kidding. It was apparent that what was going on in the boat was not right. The wonderful part was that I could now directly address the problems and receive immediate feedback. Were there no response or improvement from a command, one of three things was evident: the crew had not heard the command, the command had meant nothing to them, or the command was wrong. What to do? Either say it louder, say it differently, or don’t say it again. Whatever the response, I could tell whether it had helped the boat. Should the men begin to row better, I could let them know how doing it right felt. I was on my way to learning more about coaching and teaching - and about
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 67 what made a boat go - than from anything I had ever tried. The men began to pay more attention to what I said. This continued to be true even when I was in the coaching launch. The result was that by the end of the season I had many people rowing very well. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take the time to indulge in the coxing business every day. I had the whole squad to take care of. What I needed was a full-time assistant, rather than merely the help of the coach of the 50s in the Fall. With such additional help, I could have coxed one boat or another while the assistant handled the rest. An Author coxing a tub -1987 alternative would have been to have small groups come down for special sessions at times other than the regular four o’clock turnout. Trouble was, I was supposed to be earning my living up in the shop. worry about in picking the oarsmen. We usually had a number of aspiring cox’ns, and selecting one for the first boat and another for Someone had to help build the boats. the second could have been a nightmare. Instead, all of them were ONE AREA IN WHICH I DROPPED THE BALL WAS IN NEVER rotated through the different boats until I had my first two crews taking cox’ns out for rowing lessons. The idea never occurred to me picked. I then had those crews make their selections, with the first and, further, I wouldn’t have had the time even if I had thought boat crew having priority. I knew it to be risky. Personal friendships of it. The need should have been apparent after experience told me and animosities, as well as fraternity loyalties, could color the men’s what could be accomplished from the cox’s seat by anyone knowing judgement. I talked to them about that, reminding them that the even the bare rudiments of rowing. Cox’ns were supposed to be my good of the crew should be their only consideration. I think they surrogates in the boats and they could have been taught how to help listened, for I was never surprised or disappointed by their selections. their crews. Instead, they could only act as the eyes of a crew with a I had a scheme whereby I could guess who had voted for whom. I paid little yell-leading thrown in. I had two or three over the years who most attention to the votes of men in the stern seats. This was prior to were willing to row if I needed an empty seat filled. I liked that the advent of sound systems, and those rowing forward of the #4 seat because it afforded them the opportunity to experience what rowing rarely heard much of what the cox’n said. In my experience, rowing was actually like and gave them some idea of what it was that they became more enjoyable when, late in my senior year, I was kicked out were asking their crews to do. Also, it gave me a measure of their of the stroke seat and put at #2. From there, I scarcely heard a word enthusiasm. One such cox’n, Bob Witter, comes to mind. He coxed that the cox’n said and enjoyed the unaccustomed quiet. It’s too bad the first Frosh boat in 95. Though he was too heavy to be considered I felt that way, for I have long since learned how great an asset to a an ideal prospect, his intelligence and the knowledge he had picked crew a good cox’n can be. up through his own rowing more than compensated for that. I knew DAD OFTEN SPOKE OF THE TUBBING HE HAD SEEN AT ETON I had a good one when the crew selected him to be their cox’n. My policy was to let my crews pick their cox’ns for the races. while working in the shops and on the rafts there as a youth. Every This might have been a cop-out on my part, but I had enough to afternoon before the regular turnout, coaches took the boys out
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 68 in coxed training pairs - “tubs” - for a session of intense work on technique. Hence the term “tubbing.” He was sure that this training was the salient reason that Eton College (actually a prep school for boys 13 to 18 years of age) consistently had crews equal or superior to the university crews of the day. I wanted to try it with the Frosh. The only trouble was, we didn’t have a tub. The one Dad had built many years before - the same one he and I had run into the buoy on our one ill-fated row together - was long gone; none of the UW coaches had ever wanted anything to do with it. Lacking a tub, I used a coxed four. The boat trimmed reasonably well with two men in the middle two seats and me as the cox’n. By this device I accomplished a great deal. When they first sat in a boat, most of the oarsmen thought they had to impress me by showing how hard they could pull. This was something I tried to discourage - I wanted to teach them to row well first. There would be time enough later to impress me with their strength and eagerness. Sometimes I left the two empty seats loose to roll back and forth in hopes of inducing the oarsmen to row so that the loose seats would remain stationary. If they could do that, it meant that there was little or no stern check. The sad part was that I did not yet know what to tell them to do to make that happen. A few could do it naturally, but I did not know why. Years went by before I discovered the answer. While the tub itself might show intelligent candidates the niceties of rowing, any benefit derived from tubbing requires expertise from the coach in matters of technique and boat handling. Such knowledge is not always present. Instead, we often see total ignorance of the game being ladled out in gobs. Often, a coach who ventures to use a tub finds that his charges have a terrible time. Not realizing that what he has been teaching them is at fault, the coach blames the boat, and the whole process is abandoned. Back into the eights they go, and with either two, four, or even six people holding the boat on an even keel, the rest row while supposedly learning good skills.
I did have people row two at a time in the eights on occasion, but for two good reasons only. One was to give the men a chance to row in slow motion. Things happen so fast with all eight rowing that it is difficult to think about what one is doing. The other was for me to discover which of those in the crew were causing the boat to fall off keel. This only worked if the others in the boat avoided causing the boat to tip, while at the same time letting it tip if it wanted to. If the boat did tip, the pair rowing at the time knew that they were the culprits. With or without my help, they could try to do something about it. If they could not, I knew whom to pull out. The year after the 960 Olympics, General Somebody-or-Other from the Olympic Rowing Committee visited us. He wanted to know what we thought was needed to upgrade the quality of American rowing. The answer, we thought, lay in a fleet of coxed training pairs - tubs. If such boats were made available to clubs and rowing schools, some decent rowing might be taught. We were hung up on the idea that what we saw as bad rowing was at the heart of the poor performance of our crews on the international scene. George Varnell of The Seattle Times -1952
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 69 Back came an order for 6 such boats, two to be delivered to each of eight clubs in various parts of the country. Dad and I spent our month’s vacation that summer building the plugs and molds for a fiberglass coxed pair-oared wherry. Before winter came, we completed the boats and shipped them. Well-intentioned though it was, our suggested approach solved nothing. With no follow-up by us to educate the various coaches as to their purpose, the tubs were largely ignored. One of those boats was the cause of our nearly being sued - the only time that we came even close. Two of them were stored outside a club on Philadelphia’s Boathouse Row, and one was swiped by two youngsters, neither of whom could row or swim. While trying to paddle it without oars, they tipped over. The boat was swept over the dam below the boathouses and wrecked. Tragically, one of the boys drowned. In the aftermath of recrimination, someone claimed that the boat’s sinking had caused the death. The family’s lawyer suggested that the matching boat be taken out and filled with water to demonstrate that it would sink. It floated, and the lawsuit was never filed. Though there was no guarantee on our part that the boats would float when filled with water, we were certain that they would. This incident happened before the days when the burden of safety became the responsibility of everyone other than the user of a product. The tubs were a poor idea, despite our good intentions, though probably no more wasteful of Olympic money than any number of schemes that have been promoted by one person or another since then. I never raced crews against each other while having only two or four men in an eight-man crew row. It did not prove much, plus, such a practice was a sure oar-breaker. Even at 35 dollars apiece - the price of a racing oar in those days - replacing them was an unnecessary expense to be avoided whenever possible. One year we received a letter from a coach complaining that his crews had broken 38(!) oars that season. Dad wrote back, asking whether he ever raced his crews with only two men rowing. The coach had to admit that he did.
Interior of new Conibear shellhouse -March, 1950 Another coach complained that his starboard oars were all breaking. Knowing where this crew rowed, Dad slyly asked what their traffic pattern was. The coach admitted that he always had his crews turn around by having the starboard side row. That was the answer, and the coach should have known it. The dream of most of us who have ever held an oar is to break it. One of the surest times one can do that is while turning a boat. The subject of broken oars takes me back to the early 930s, when Herb Day was on the Husky Varsity. He was a bruiser, proud of his strength, and liked to show it off. One day, when I was down at the shop, Herb came over and asked Dad to pick him out an oar that he could break. His girlfriend was going out in the launch that morning, and he wanted to make an impression on her. Pretending to take him
II – Warming Up (1948–1950) – 70 seriously, Dad went over to the rack of oars and picked out a beat-up got through to them because, from then on, we never sold more than old relic and handed it to him. What Herb did not know was that one set of oars a year to Stanford. I’m quite sure they did not start this oar was from a set of very heavy ones made years earlier that buying them elsewhere - at least not yet. That would have started after simply could not be broken - that was why they were still around. I Dick Dreissegacker took over as volunteer coach while a graduate couldn’t resist asking Dad whether I could go out in the launch to student at Palo Alto. He was already (969?) dreaming up his new watch the show. It was a show, alright. Day tried every trick in the concept of what a racing oar should be, and I believe Stanford crews book in a futile attempt to break the oar and worked up a furious were the first to use his design. sweat in the process. He refused to stop trying and returned to the shell house embarrassed, exhausted and justifiably annoyed by Dad’s little joke. A not he r s t or y a b out t he mistreatment of oars concerns my first visit to the Stanford boathouse in Redwood City. Finding no one around, I wandered into the building. There, stacked in every corner, were dozens upon dozens of broken oars. The Stanford Crew Association - though poorly financed - invariably bought several sets from us each year, and I had wondered why, even to the extent of suggesting to one of the gang at the shop that the oarsmen must be eating them. Now I could see that they had not been eating them - merely abusing them. After everyone arrived, I received the coach’s permission to say a few words to the squad and launched into a lecture on the subject of Al Ulbrickson addressing squad at Conibear - Early ’50s misusing oars. My talk must have
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 71
CHAPTER III
B
The Start (1950–1952)
ACK TO MY FIRST FROSH SEASON OF 949‒50. I WAS STILL wet customers. The manager and the waitress on duty got a great kick getting my feet wet. One afternoon, I got everyone’s feet wet, out of it, and they pumped everyone full of hot coffee and cocoa at no literally. I had taken the crews all the way to the Mercer charge. We collected the boats the next day and, other than the bruise Island Floating Bridge in dead flat water. As the crews were turning on my self-esteem, no harm was done. Lesson learned: Rather than around to head for home, I looked back. All I could see to the north following Satchel Paige’s advice, a coach must always keep looking was a wall of black clouds. I had behind as well as ahead. I learned other things as well; been blissfully unaware of our for example, what to do about sore being in the lull before the storm. wrists. Two of the Frosh came I sent the crews off immediately, into the shop one afternoon, each after having told the cox’ns to complaining that his feathering keep as close to shore as they wrist hurt like hell and wondering dared. W hen the storm hit, what to do about it. Some years things got hairy in a hurry. The before, I had experienced the leading eight was having some same problem - tendonitis, we trouble, but made it back to the shellhouse. (Not incidentally, I had called it. In my case, I wasn’t had thought they were rowing the sure whether it was brought on best of the bunch on the way out.) by my bad sculling - both wrists The next one in the parade sank were effected - or by the wrist off the Edgewater Apartments, action that using a tack hammer while the two lagging behind - I demanded while driving the was keeping herd on them - went Frosh crews leaving Conibear for an afternoon workout -1953 countless mouthfuls of tacks down off Madison Park. Note spare oars carried in the launch in case of breakage. and nails into the boats we built. It was early spring and the Though able to use a hammer water cold, but we had kept near the shore, and the men were not in with either hand, I was still in trouble because both wrists hurt like the water long. We beached the shells without damaging them or any all get-out. My quitting sculling would not suffice: I was still in of the oarsmen. I sent the manager on ahead with the launch to make trouble because I couldn’t lay off work at the shop. Too many boats sure that the other two boats were OK. The coffee shop at the foot of waited to be built. It occurred to me that perhaps splints to keep my Madison Street was soon overwhelmed by the crowd of cold, sopping wrists from flexing while leaving the palms and fingers free might be
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 72 the answer. I whittled out a pair and had someone in the shop tape them on. These allowed me to hammer up a storm and within a week the soreness was gone, never to return. Race day was fast approaching, and here were two of my best people liable to be unavailable. Their taking time off would be disastrous for them and for the crew. Annoyed, I told them that the only reason they were having this trouble was that they were rowing badly. I always tried to emphasize how little wrist action was needed when feathering was done properly. They had been guilty of gripping their oars too tightly and working them with their wrists. Proper timing along with effective use of the thumb and fingers were what did the trick. To put their minds at ease, I told them that, while I couldn’t guarantee anything, perhaps splints offered a solution. Anxious to hang on to their seats in the first boat, they agreed to give it a whirl. I made the splints and taped one on the back of each man’s feathering wrist in such a way that his fingers and thumb were free to curl around the oar handle. They tried rowing with them that afternoon and found that they worked. Within a few days both men reported no more trouble. Even with the splint removed, one of them, Bill Cameron, now had the knack of executing perfect blade-work with absolutely no visible flexing of his wrists. I wish I had a movie of him, but lacking that, the picture must remain only in my mind. (This was before the convenience of camcorders and VCRs. I did go to the trouble of taking movies now and then, but soon gave up on that after discovering that rowers too often looked to be much better rowers on film than they actually were.) Sore wrists are now a common complaint in the world of typists and computer users and remedies abound, including the use of splints. Years later, I tried the trick again, though with a different purpose in mind. This time it was not to cure sore wrists, but, rather, to avoid them in the first place. I used splints to clean up the feathering technique of some of the scullers at the Lake Washington Rowing Club. My effort was to no avail, possibly because the incentive of earning a seat in the first boat was missing.
UW Olympic Gold Medal eight -1936 Left to right: stroke, Donald B. Hume; Joseph Rantz; George E. Hunt; James B. McMillin; John G. White; Gordon B. Adams; Charles Day; bow, Roger Morris; kneeling: Cox, Robert G. Moch AS WEEKS WENT BY AND THE ANNUAL CAL RACE DREW NEAR, I grew more and more concerned because we were so short on mileage. The wind refused to quit blowing, the crews could not handle the rough water and we were stuck in the “Pot” night after night. I began thinking about what we called the “scullers’ catch.” Because it is often misnamed the “flip catch,” people are led into thinking that the rower has to flip the blade square as it enters the water. Actually, it is the force of the water on the blade that does most of the work. Washington’s eight that won the 936 Olympics in Berlin came as close to using this technique well as any collegiate crew I’ve seen. That year, Ulbrickson was caught in the same quandary I was now facing. Having seen how easily Dad handled rough water in his single, Al asked him one afternoon to scull back and forth past the crew so they could watch his blade-work. They picked up on the
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 73 technique right away, and from then on rough water held no terrors for them. With blades flat (feathered) during the recovery and only squared as they were driven into the water, there was no longer any concern should the boat lurch off keel on the recovery and the blades touch - something bound to happen when rowing in windy weather. The blades simply skipped off the tops of the waves. Reduced wind resistance was another advantage. Also, because their blades could be kept much closer to the surface, missed water at the catch was reduced to a minimum. Still in existence somewhere is a movie of that Olympic crew taken as they charged through the rough waters of the Hudson River as though there were no tomorrow. Over the intervening years, the technique was gradually forgotten and, by the time I turned out, it was gone. I used the technique myself while sculling and felt confidant that I could teach it to my crews. With necessity urging me on, I took the chance, though it was now a mere two weeks before our race with Cal. The crews caught on more quickly than I dared hope. Actually the exact reverse of the action we used at the end of the drive to release the blade from the water, it was simple enough. As a standard practice, I always insisted that, while awaiting the starting command, my men keep their blades touching the water with a slight bevel to them. At the command to row, they simply drove with their legs as they closed their inboard fists. The water, resisting the entry of the blades, automatically squared them. I told the men to think of using that first stroke on every stroke, and they would have no problem. It was imperative that their blades touch the water just before they were driven in. This was to remind them where the water was. (While keeping blades high off the water was seen by many as representing clean blade-work, I preferred seeing some splashing just before the catch. Once familiar with where the water was, an oarsman - especially as the rate went up - could easily lower his hands enough to clean things up.) Despite the continued windy weather, we began to log the kind of mileage we desperately needed. I took evil delight in having my crews row on by the Varsity crews when they were forced to stop because of rough water.
Ernest Barry, “the Prince of Scullers” -1937 THE DAY OF DEPARTURE FOR CALIFORNIA IN MAY 950 WAS soon upon us. We loaded the shells and launch aboard the baggage car and headed south for our meeting with Cal on the Oakland Estuary. Though never having rowed there, I had heard of the Estuary for as long as I could remember and entertained an idealized picture of the place. To my great disappointment, I found it to be a veritable cesspool: Untreated sewage belched from a four-foot pipe right next to the shellhouse. We were accustomed to what were then the pristine waters of Lake Washington, and the squalor of the Estuary came as a great shock. We stayed at the Alameda Hotel, an old fleabag that had seen better days. The weather was hot by our standards. UW oarsmen were known down there as the “great white whales” because they always looked as though they had never seen the sun. Despite their pallid faces, the Frosh beat Cal by a wide margin. I was elated, this being my baptism as Frosh coach. I was undefeated! How long this distinction would continue remained to be seen.
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 74
Earl “Click” Clark - circa 1954. Longtime UW trainer, beloved by generations of Huskies; he called every one of them “gutless” - and they loved it. The Frosh had lived up to my expectations, and I was delighted with their performance. Before their race, I had told them how I thought the race would go. At the end of the day, when Al and I finally returned to the float, all the Frosh were waiting for me. One of them, Dave Nielsen, shouted out, “How did you know? How did
you know? It was just like you said it would be!” I couldn’t admit that it was all a lucky guess on my part. Guess or not, it was a good beginning to my six years with the Frosh. Wisconsin came to Seattle toward the end May to race the Varsity. Dad and I were interested, of course - as any rowing boosters would be - but not only because of the race itself. Having heard about the new eight that Kurt Drewes, the Wisconsin rigger, had built with the help of the Forest Products Laboratory in Madison, we were anxious to see whether they had come up with something good. As soon as the Wisconsin baggage car was dropped off at the siding by the UW power plant, we rushed up to have a look. Dad climbed up the side of the car and peeked in the window. I heard him give a chuckle as he exclaimed, “They’ve painted it red!” For a true woodworking boatbuilder, paint usually means that someone is hiding something - inferior lumber, bad joinery, quarter-inch putty, one thing or another. After the boat was brought down to the shellhouse, we gave it a closer inspection and found that it had much to hide. The basic premise around which it had been built was not bad, the hull being made up of several layers of thin mahogany veneer laid diagonally over a mold and bonded together under pressure. Either the glue they used didn’t know when to quit shrinking, or the mold was badly shaped, or a combination of the two. Whatever the cause, the boat was a great, lumpy, red mess. Kurt, a good workman, had received no help from the experts. Actually, the system was later adopted by other builders who perfected it, and boats built in this manner became the standard in many shops worldwide until the advent of the use of plastics. The race between the UW and Wisconsin was a disaster for the Badgers. The wind blew - as usual - and the big red boat sank. The Badgers weren’t much slower than the Huskies, but their boat was designed for smooth-water rowing. Even the Huskies, in one of our Standard eights designed for the rough waters of the Hudson, were taking on water. It was a matter of which crew sank first, rather than which crew would cross the finish line first. When our cox’n saw the
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 75 Wisconsin shell founder, he had the presence of mind to have his crew ease off, and they paddled home, the winners. The red boat took most of the blame for the loss. Brougham had a typically caustic remark to make in his column the following Monday: something to the effect that the Badger crew “smelled worse than a Wisconsin cheese.” Later, in Marietta for the IRA regatta, I saw him surrounded by the entire Wisconsin squad. They had to be satisfied with a third-place finish but their win there the following year, controversial though it might have been, must have been sweet. Having successfully out-rowed Cal, the Frosh were entered to race in the IRA regatta at Marietta in the latter part of June. We did not travel first-class this time, but the train trip across country was an adventure, the first out-of-state trip for any of the crew. The porter assigned to our car was disgruntled because every berth was occupied. This meant more work than usual and the likelihood of meager tips in the bargain. Everyone else had a good time. The long train ride was made short for me by the hours of storytelling that went on. Al and “Click” Clark, the trainer, had a lifetime of yarns to spin, as did Dad and the two sports writers, Varnell and Brougham. Listening to them was a treat. They made sports seem such fun. It was not yet a business, at least not in the rowing world, and none of the coaches seemed to worry about having to win in order to keep his job. During our layover in Chicago, we took the crews out to the Lincoln Park Boat Club for a paddle on the Lagoon. Dr. Alfred Strauss, eminent Chicago physician and noted UW alumnus, always met the crews when they stopped on their way east each year. He had a fleet of cars waiting at the depot. A motorcycle escort led us, sirens wailing, through the center of downtown Chicago. When the workout was over, Strauss invited the entire party to dinner at his exclusive private club. Meal finished, the maitre d’ presented our manager, Ed Natchway, with the bill. Ed turned white as a ghost. He, along with the rest of us, had thought that we were guests of the doctor. Instead, his budget for the whole trip was largely eaten
UW Frosh - IRA Champions - Marietta, Ohio -1950 up - pun intended - in one large gulp. He had to wire Dale Hoaglund for more cash. Unlike her reaction to my request for similar treatment two years before, she honored his plea without question. Earlier, on our way back from Lake Michigan, I had spotted Minski’s Burlesque Theater around the corner from the club where we were to eat. While Al and Ed were still in shock, and with several hours to kill before train time, I told them that I wanted to take the Frosh for a walk around the Loop; we would see them and the rest of the squad at the station. We waltzed next door, and I took the crew in to see the show. The tickets were 5 cents each. It was a mild performance as such things go, but raunchy enough to make everyone feel as though they were doing something naughty. I didn’t keep any receipts, suspecting that Dale, back in Seattle, would never honor them anyway.
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 76 OUR TR EATMENT ON THE TR AIN BEYOND CHICAGO WAS entirely different from that which we had experienced so far. We had thought the porter out of Seattle was grumpy, but he was an amateur compared to his successors. In the dining car on that first leg of the trip there had been special menus with pictures of the crews and coaches and the names of everyone in the party. Now, one had to fight for anything he wanted. I was relieved to hear that the trip down to Marietta would take only 24 hours. There were no Marietta College classes in session, and we were put up in the Veteran’s housing on the campus. Only a few episodes from our stay there stick in my memory. One is of waiting in line at the unheated outdoor privies for the one metal toilet seat that was warmed by previous use. All the cold ones went begging. One afternoon down on the float, the men were preparing to carry their shell up to the boathouse. The promised pool stage was not in effect as yet. There was a huge volume of water coming down from upstate which needed to escape before the check dams were raised on race day. Much of the crud rushing by was packed solid behind the float and only looked solid. Dick Wahlstrom was putting on his shoes when, losing his balance, he stepped back off the float onto what appeared to be solid ground. It wasn’t. Dick disappeared as the earth closed in over him; it was as though he had never existed. He finally made it back up through the detritus and emerged, looking not unlike “the god, Proteus, rising from the sea.” It was some time before we stopped laughing, but Dick (“Jet”) took it all in good humor. The next morning, as I walked up the ramp from the float, I heard a tremendous crash behind me. Looking around, I saw our JV boat alongside the float, upside down, Heads were seen popping up out of the water here and there. The noise I heard had been caused by the four outboard oars as they hit the dock an awful whack after having swung high overhead as the boat turned over. A quick glance revealed no pools of blood or prostrate forms. After counting nine heads in the water, it remained to fish the men out and determine whether the boat was OK. I held my breath as we hauled it out for a look. While
we could afford to lose a man or two - we had alternates to throw into the breach - we had no spare boat. I heaved a sigh of relief on finding that the boat had suffered no damage.
UW Frosh IRA winners - Marietta, Ohio - 1951 - left to right: Jim Howay, Roland Camfield, Skip John, Stan Pocock, Buzz Birkeland, Gordon Hardy, Ted Frost, Bob Witter, Keith Reilly, Guy Harper, Al Ulbrickson, John Collyer The crew told me what had happened. As they pulled alongside the float, the four inboard men took their oars out of the rowlocks. This was standard procedure for us when at home. (We did this because the design of the rowlocks then in use made it difficult to unship the inboard oars if they were left in the locks until after the crew disembarked. With oars out of the locks, a shell - only 24 inches wide - has no stability other than that provided by the ends of its riggers extending over the float. As long as the crew keep the boat close to the float and lean in toward it, they are OK.) We were not used to having moving water to contend with. While the men awaited
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 77 the command, “Up and out,” the current had caught the bow and forced it away from the float. All eight men instinctively reached out to pull the boat back in. The boat had already drifted out far enough so that the riggers were clear of the float, and over they went. As the boat capsized, the oars on the outboard side, still in their locks, arched overhead and smashed into the deck. Had anyone been in the way, he could have been badly hurt. The rule, from then on, was to keep your eyes open when on the floats. Some other idiots might pull the same stunt. MARIETTA WENT ALL OUT TO BE HOSPITABLE. A GROUP OF local housewives undertook the task of feeding the mob of 2- or 300 ravenous oarsmen - perhaps not unlike feeding a gang of farm hands at harvest time or at a barn raising. The food was plain and plentiful, and I heard no complaints other than those erupting from my crew when I told the managers not to let the servers fill their plates so full. The men all wanted to eat too much, certainly more than they needed. I also incurred the unthinking wrath of some of the other oarsmen in the mess hall, but in another way. I did not want my crew standing in the chow line any longer than was necessary while waiting to be served. For one thing, I wanted them off their feet as much as possible between workouts. Besides, I saw their having to stand in line for their meals as being somewhat degrading - too much like boot camp. To avoid this, I first made sure that they were all together in the chow line. When the first of the nine reached the head of it, I had them all go sit at their table while I held the rest of the famished oarsmen back. Our two managers then shuttled back and forth bringing filled plates to the table. This in no way delayed those who had been behind us, but some of those college-educated people had a problem figuring that out. I think, too, that they were having trouble coping with the sight of a coach who cared about his men. In later years, I calmed down and quit doing such things, but this was my first year as Frosh coach, and everything had to be as good as I could make it; the rest of the world would have to stand aside. Not
a way to make friends, but, to my mind, this was not a popularity contest we had entered; it was a crew race, and not just any crew race, but a crew race for the National Championship. AS THE FROSH LEFT THE FLOAT FOR THEIR FIRST WORKOUT, THEY just didn’t look right. I was afraid they might have lost their concept of proper rowing, although they had looked fine when they went out at Chicago’s Lincoln Park. I lay awake that night, wondering what was wrong and what to do about it. Eventually, what was happening dawned on me. Anyone having rowed on a river - particularly in a strong current such as the one we were experiencing - has probably noticed that the feel of rowing in a boat going downstream is not quite the same as the feeling of rowing in a boat going upstream. I reasoned that flowing water doesn’t just move along in an inert mass, and that its surface tends to roll over on itself. This gives an extra push against anything impeding its progress. Thus, an oar rowed in a boat moving with the flow of the current will meet more resistance than it will in dead water. The heavier load slows the drive and, at any given rating, the ratio of time on the drive to time on the recovery is changed. The opposite occurs when going upstream. In that situation, the load is less because the surface water is rolling away and, thus, the drive is speeded up. Again, the ratio is changed. A similar effect occurs when rowing with - or against - a wind. In either case - wind or current — the opposite of what one might expect is what in fact occurs. Who has not heard of coaches advocating the use of bigger blades in a following wind? Wrong! Granted, the bigger blades might act as sails, but the heavier water more than nullifies any advantage gained. Speaking of different-sized blades and the effect of wind on the load reminds me of an incident at the Berlin Olympics. In those days, it was not uncommon for a coach to reduce the size of the stroke man’s blade to make sure he didn’t row himself out - the rest of the crew could provide the horsepower; the stroke’s job was to set the pace. In the first heat, the British pushed the Americans to a new Olympic record in a following wind. On the day of the Finals there
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 78 to row himself out. The lighter water caused by the head wind had rendered his small blade too small. While I wasn’t about to cut our blades down to make my squad’s rowing look better when going downstream, I needed to know whether they still had the picture of what they had been taught to do. Then it dawned on me. Why not have them row across the current? The river at Marietta was wide enough to allow a crew to take at least 30 strokes on a sweep from bank to bank. I had them try it the next morning. Those watching from the banks or other launches probably thought we had flipped our collective wig. No matter. I could again look at the crew in what was roughly a familiar environment. I was relieved to find that they still had the idea of what I thought good rowing was supposed to be. The only drawback to the procedure was that our having to turn around so often proved a time-killer. The normal technique - having one side first back water for a few strokes, and then stop while the other side pulled a few, and so on until they were headed in the right direction - took too long. During each of those intervals, the strong current swept us further downstream. Were we to repeat the maneuver as often as I wanted, we would end up somewhere down near Parkersburg. That would have meant a long row home. What could we do? Another lay-awake night gave me the answer: the river turn. I had never heard of an eight-oared crew using this maneuver, though I used it myself when sculling. My idea was to have the crew slide slowly up and down their tracks in unison. On the drive, one side would pull a stroke while the other side let their blades skim over the surface; on the recovery, the second side would back water for a stroke while the first side skimmed. They would alternate pulling and “Squeeeeeze it!” backing in this way until the turn was complete. I had the crew try it the next morning, and they caught on was a head wind blowing, and the Americans, in winning, left the immediately. They could now spin the boat on a dime in almost Brits (who had made it through the repêchage) far behind. Afterward, less time than it takes to tell. Dad was in the launch with me and their stroke told Dad that he had not been able to pull hard enough objected violently, as I was afraid he might. He said that he thought
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 79 it a boat-wrecker and oar-breaker. I disagreed. Instead, I thought it easier on the oars and the boat if used sensibly. He still demurred, suggesting that sensibility might be too much to expect of the average Husky oarsman (Dad did have a sense of humor). I still think it a good idea, river or no river. It is especially effective if used when more than one boat is involved. When maneuvering a squadron of shells using the river turn, each boat tends to stay about where it is, instead of wandering all over the place. Not only is each boat turned around more quickly, but there is less time wasted trying to line up again. Such problems are less challenging where only one or two crews are involved, but a river turn is still handy when maneuvering before a race. A LL T HE GOOD IN TEN T IONS A ND H A R D WOR K OF T HE Marietta people went for naught. The two rivers refused to cooperate. On race day the Muskingum was in full flood, thanks to a storm upstate some days before. It was belching out all the flotsam imaginable and wreaking havoc on the course just above the mile mark where the Frosh race was to start. With all that water feeding into it, the Ohio could not be held back. Rather than being at the promised pool stage, it appeared more akin to the Maelstrom in the North Sea. The stakeboats, put out for the start of the Frosh race, were soon washed away. That race would have to be run from a floating start. Imagine, if you can, having to line up as many as 2 crews and start them fairly on a moving body of water with no stakeboats. That’s the impossible task Clifford “Tip” Goes, starter and umpire, faced. To make matters worse, I had heard that Eastern coaches and cox’ns loved to give Tip a bad time; yet, a glutton for punishment, he kept coming back for more. With conditions as bad as they now were, even if everyone decided to be good boys, he was headed for trouble. The start was bound to be chaotic at best, and the unwary would likely suffer. I warned my cox’n, Tom Winter, that every cox’n out there would be niggling his boat ahead, trying to be in front when the gun went off. One or more of them, hoping to get away with it in
Great friends & mutual admirers, Rusty Callow & George Pocock -circa 1960 the confusion, might jump the gun. In the far lane - which we had drawn - the noise from the churning river would make it difficult, if not impossible, for him to hear the starter’s commands. On the brighter side, he was in the outside lane where it would be easy to keep an eye on the other crews. I insisted that he was to have his crew go the instant he heard or saw another crew start. I was on fairly safe ground. With conditions such as they were, the race, once under way, would never be called back. He must not jump the gun, unless he saw another crew go first. “Woe be unto him,” though, if he were worse than second off the mark. While awaiting the start, Tom was to use his bow pair to keep even with the field if he must. This last instruction nearly proved the crew’s undoing. The water in their lane was actually moving upstream because of the eddies just below the mouth of the raging Muskingum. The two had to row like mad to keep up with the crews in mid-river drifting downstream. Afterward, the bow man, Jim Callaghan, told me that he was nearly spent by the time the gun sounded. He should have yelled for help. Had Tom known, he could have had a couple of the others join in. Luckily, the race was short - just over seven minutes, instead of the
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 80 usual 0 or more. Despite the slow water in which they had started, the Frosh rowed well and came through the pack to win by a length or more. Because of all the debris clogging the course above the mile mark, the Varsity and JV races were shortened to two miles. They were run off without any troubles that I heard of, the UW winning both. Our JV cox’n, Griffin, created a stir by steering diagonally across the course as he neared the finish line. Some thought he was wandering around looking for fast water. With the lead he had, there was no need for that. After being thrown far off-course by the capricious current, he was merely aiming for his finish line lane marker. We all attended the traditional Shoudy Banquet that evening. Dr. Shoudy was ill and could not attend. His right-hand man had arranged for everything and, while those of us who knew him missed the warmth of his presence, we still had a good time. Why not? We had just shown our peers that we were the best in the country.
The Pocock family - clockwise: Stan, Lois, Greg, Sue & Chris -1959
AFTER THE RACE, RUSTY CALLOW TOLD ME THAT HE THOUGHT my Frosh did not row well and that their win was a fluke. He had every reason to believe that. In the days leading up to our races that year, I had made a point of never letting an opponent see the crew at their best. I wanted their quality kept under wraps. Also, I wanted to discourage their showing off. There was a third method to my madness, one that came from experience in a totally unrelated field. During the years that I sang with the choir at our church, we put on a concert now and then. As we warmed up before each performance, our director, Carl Pitzer, often had us first sing while doing everything wrong. After we had sung a few bars, our miserable performance was cut short and, when everyone had quit laughing, he would us start again, now singing the best that we could. The result could be a thrilling experience. It was his way of relaxing us so we could think more closely about what we were doing. Now, with a group of my own to direct, I had told them that it would be OK with me if they rowed as badly as possible whenever they were near the floats. While
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 81 they never turned over, they often looked as though they might. This way, they could go into their races as decided underdogs. Now, the reverse side of the coin was showing: they were not being given proper credit for their victory. I made a vow that, from then on, my crews would do their phony act where no one was around. I wanted them to impress the daylights out of anyone watching, and make opponents dread even the thought of having to race them.
I
N 1948 I HAD MET LOIS WATNE. SHE AND I SOON FOUND THAT we enjoyed each other’s company. We had great fun together, and spent the next 18 months becoming acquainted. I was feeling good about myself, being by then well-established in my work at the shop, and, now, with a successful season as Frosh coach under my belt, I followed the dictate of the day and popped the question. Somewhat reluctantly, because she had planned to live a carefree single life, Lois accepted my proposal, and we took the plunge. Our first year was made tough for both of us when she was discovered to have cancer of a type virtually unknown in anyone so young. The harsh treatment given in those days for such a condition was devastating, as was the knowledge that even should she survive, she would not be able to bear children. When she began to feel better, we agreed that our first priority, when she was up to it physically, would be to pursue adoption. In the ensuing years we welcomed three children - Chris, Sue and Greg - into our lives to help us fulfill our being. Before pressing on, I must back up a bit and tell of the “Great Bus Caper.” Lois and I were to be married at the University Christian Church up on Fiftieth where we had first met. Fearing that our friends were bound to wreak havoc on our getaway car if they possibly could, I devised a scheme intended to thwart any such plans. The morning of the wedding, I loaded our honeymoon luggage in the old
UW Varsity squad off the Corinthian Yacht Club on Lake Washington family Ford V‒8 and parked it down at the foot of University Way. My idea was that we could change clothes after the reception and, rather than going out and mingling with the crowd, sneak out the back door, go down the alley to the Ave and catch a bus to the car. My foolproof scheme failed. Someone had seen and recognized our car (not many were left parked on the streets in those days) and guessed that something was afoot. Whoever it was wasted no time in alerting our friends to keep an eye out for whatever it was we were trying to do. During the reception, I became aware of some snickering going on and decided we had better make a run for it before too many caught on. We abandoned the reception line and dashed for the back door with friends in hot pursuit. One of Lois’ bridesmaids had been slipping her shots of Scotch to keep her on her feet as we received
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 82 well-wishers in the interminable line (she had picked up a miserable case of the flu a day or two before), so she was getting a big kick out of the proceedings. Still in our wedding clothes, we ran down 50th with the baying throng in hot pursuit. We reached the bus stop. No bus. Someone had brought bags of rice and popcorn to hand out to passersby. With me in my tux and Lois in her wedding gown, we brightened the scene. After what seemed to be forever, the bus came. We clambered on - everyone clambered on. The bemused passengers already aboard were given their share of rice and popcorn to toss at us. The bus-driver entered into the spirit of things and, with horn blaring, we proceeded down the length of University Way in a shower of popcorn and rice, with everyone shouting, laughing and singing. When we reached the car, it looked OK, and the crowd sent us on our merry way to the hotel with no further harassment. They made up for that a day or two later when they cornered us at the airport as we awaited the airplane that would take us to Hawaii for our honeymoon. Someone had snitched - it had to have been my sister - and they all were there, this time armed with buckets of punch card confetti. These stuck to everything they touched, and we were still picking them out of our luggage when we returned home two weeks later. BACK TO R E A LIT Y, I FOUND A HUGE CROW D OF FROSH aspirants awaiting me. That 95 season would prove another banner year for the Huskies. All three crews had no trouble beating Cal in May. When we arrived at Marietta for the second go-round we were housed in more comfortable quarters than before. An old brick factory building had been donated to the college and completely renovated to serve as a student dormitory - no more standing in line to avoid ice-cold metal toilet seats. But we soon found that the river gods were not through with us yet. This time it was the Ohio itself that acted up. Heavy rains up north had put it at flood stage, rather than the-promised-and-by-now-infamous, pool stage. The river level rose more than 30 feet in less than 24 hours. I realized then that the
flood level marks high on the walls of buildings uptown were indeed authentic. A few years after we were there, papers all over the country carried a picture showing a Marietta College eight being rowed right up the middle of Main Street. It wasn’t that bad while we were there, but rowing on the river was risky, nonetheless. While giving my crew their regular workouts during the week preceding the regatta, I kept wondering how I could show them the racecourse. With the river acting up as it was, I didn’t dare have them row that far downstream; rowing home against the raging current would have demanded too much of them. Help came in the person of a Seattle acquaintance, Joel Pritchard, then an undergraduate at Marietta College. Joe, now deceased, later became a Washington state congressman and, for years after that, our lieutenant governor. He showed up at the boathouse one afternoon and asked whether there was anything he could do to help. I told him that if he had some transportation available, we could take the crew down to the finish line area for a look around. The next day he showed up with a disreputable old truck that he had borrowed. I loaded everyone aboard and off we went. At the finish line, grandstands were being erected and other preparations made for what promised to be a gala event. We took a good look around, and then I decided to have some fun. We paced off distances between various landmarks and tossed logs in the river to estimate how fast the water was moving. I scribbled various equations on the seats of the grandstand, did some creative guesswork and arrived at the conclusion that there would be exactly 20 strokes to go when our cox’n, Bob Witter, drew opposite the beginning of the stands. I had no idea at the time of what a profound impact this guesswork would have on the minds of my neophytes. CONDITIONS ON RACE DAY WERE INSANE. THE OHIO WAS ON A rampage, with every piece of flotsam and jetsam from upstate Ohio and beyond in a mad dash for the Gulf of Mexico. All the stakeboats were again washed away. The huge navigation buoys that they had been attached to were thrashing about madly. Al, Dad and I were
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 83 riding in Al’s launch, intending to follow the races should they be run. Al kept saying, “They’ll never do it, they’ll never do it.” Despite the impossible conditions, the Frosh crews were told to line up. In attempting this, the Navy Plebes collided with one of the buoys, and their boat was sunk and damaged beyond repair. It was a miracle that no one in the crew was hurt or drowned. This casualty was only the first of many to occur before the day was out. Not wishing to deny the Plebes - East Coast champions that year - their chance at the national title, Tip Goes, once again the starter and umpire, decided that the Frosh race would be run after the Varsity and JV races. This meant that all the Frosh crews had to hang around the rest of the day waiting. The rampaging waters precluded their return to the boathouses two miles upstream. My crew found refuge up the Muskingham, mercifully quiet that day. The manager tossed them oranges to suck on. The Plebes borrowed a replacement for their wrecked shell from Marietta College. It was a brand-new boat, identical to theirs, both products of some shell-builder in Seattle. A brief history of that Navy crew merits telling. This was Rusty Callow’s first season at the Naval Academy after many years at Penn. Buck Walsh, longtime Navy coach, had, on his death bed, begged him to come to Annapolis and produce some winning crews in his memory. After leaving Penn to accept the challenge, Rusty soon found that he had little influence on the upperclassmen. Knowing nothing of the story of why he was there, they still saw themselves as “Buck Walsh’s boys.” Walsh had been a naval officer, and no mere civilian could hope to fill his shoes. Rusty, wisely, turned the Varsity squad over to his assistant, a naval officer, while he coached the Plebes. They would be “his boys.” The Navy Varsity and JV enjoyed indifferent success that season, but the Plebes knocked over everyone and everything they met. Everything, that is, until they met that navigation buoy on the Ohio. Still not admitting to their stupidity, officials insisted that the races must go on - doubtless a concession to the crowds packed aboard the train and massed along the banks. No one was injured or lost
in the mêlée, but several more crews came to grief. Both Navy boats were damaged and forced to stop. The Princeton Varsity rowed the entire distance with a jammed rudder, their cox’n frantically trying to steer with his hands. Neither our Varsity nor our JV fared as well as we had hoped. In the JV race the Cal cox’n swerved over to the far side of the river - observation train be damned - looking for the fastest water. He must have found it because they won, defeating our crew who had handled them easily when they raced in Seattle the previous May. The Wisconsin Varsity jumped the gun. For years we had a picture hanging in the shellhouse of the start of that race. The Wisconsin boat was a full length ahead of the other crews, none of whom even had their oars in the water. Aided by that head start, the Badgers won. Our cox’n should have been on his toes. One must never just sit there at the starting line, hoping to hear the starting command. If he hears or sees another crew take off - especially in the madness of conditions as they were that day - he has to go. While the rule says that anyone going off ahead of the starting signal can be penalized, on that day all the crews could have jumped the gun with no worries. As it was, the Huskies came in second. Tainted though it might have been, their victory must have been sweet revenge for the abuse the Badgers had taken from Brougham after their loss to the Huskies in Seattle the previous year. I think Royal grabbed the first train out of town. He was wise if he did. Another thing I noticed: the Badgers had left their Big Red boat at home and used one of ours instead. Speaking of problems at the starting line recalls the story of the start of the eight-oared final in the 936 Olympics. There was a strong quartering head wind blowing across the course. Washington, representing the United States, was in the outside lane, and the starter was on the opposite shore, trying valiantly to make himself heard while shouting into the wind through his megaphone and furious mustache. Our cox’n, Bob Moch, could hear nothing. The only clue that the “Partez!” had been given was when he heard another crew
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 84 take off. He had the presence of mind to immediately shout, “Go!” His quick thinking saved the day, for they went on to win by a very narrow margin despite their late start. The Navy eights in both the Varsity and JV races were badly damaged. This, along with the loss of the Plebe eight, afforded them the distinction, at least, of a clean sweep in that department. Their troubles might have been caused by the unique rudders on their shells. These rudders were shaped like sharks’ fins and extended far below the keel. On paper, they were a more effective shape than ours, but what the designers failed to recognize was that extreme maneuverability is not of great importance in a racing shell. Most races - at least those in this country - are rowed on a straight course. On purpose, we used a less efficient rudder to avoid drawing too much water, thus lessening the chance of catching weeds and debris. When the Navy truck first showed up with their shells, I had noticed that two of the three sternposts had been ripped off and replaced at some time. Any shell so equipped, and rowed on a river with more debris in it than water, stood slim chance of survival.
them: If they won, I would tow them home. To let them know I was serious, I showed them the rope I was taking with me. Now, once we had all calmed down, I pulled out the rope and hooked it to the shell. There were sour looks cast our way as we cruised past the other crews homeward bound. I didn’t care, nor did my crew. After they reached the floats, disembarked to put their boat away and had their picture taken holding the trophy, my men and I relived that great finish over and over again. All agreed that they could not believe their ears when Witter called for that last 20. Coming so unexpectedly, his call had acted as a shot in the arm. Adrenaline must have poured in. That - and good rowing - had won the race. To celebrate, I took them all uptown to an ice cream parlor - still the Sunday school in me, I guess - where they gobbled down as much as they could hold. There was no Shoudy Banquet that year. That annual affair was now just a part of history. Dr. Shoudy, too ill to attend the party the year before, had died shortly thereafter. Sadly, in the flush of victory, no mention was made of the banquet or even of him. How quickly we can be forgotten. He deserved better, and I resolved to do something IT WAS DUSK WHEN THE FROSH CREWS WERE FINALLY BROUGHT about it to the line. The Navy Plebes seemed happy with their substitute shell. Nothing more happened, and the crews lined up for their floating THE MORNING AFTER THE R ACES, I WENT DOWN TO THE start. As the gun went off, a huge hunk of roof or wall floated under railroad siding to see about loading our shells and happened upon my crew’s starboard oars. I can still see those four oars frantically Rusty Callow. Always the kidder, he was sitting in the middle of beating on whatever it was as the oarsmen desperately tried to find the track tossing gravel on his head. I commiserated with him, for water. They quickly fell behind. Throwing up my hands in disgust, I I knew how he must have felt. He said it was as though the whole hunkered down in the bottom of the launch. I couldn’t bear to watch a world had caved in on him. He was heartbroken, embarrassed, at year’s work for me and my crew go down the drain. Short race though wit’s end, and doubted he would ever forget that disastrous day. it was, it lasted an eternity to me. At length, I heard Dad yell, “I think There was nothing I could say, but I thought of the old saying, they’re coming up!” I peeked over the gunwale. Unbelievably, they “despair not, for out of despair cometh victory.” Whether an old were a close third and in the thick of it. It was about then that they saying or not, subsequent years bore out the truth of it for him and reached the beginning of the grandstands. Suddenly, they were flying. for his Navy crews. Smashing records at every turn over the next In their last 20 strokes they passed MIT and Navy to win the race. three years, they posted a string of victories beyond any coach’s Before they left the float many hours earlier, I had made a deal with wildest dream.
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 85
T
HE 952 SEASON SHOULD HAVE BEEN ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL one for the UW. Most of the men from the winning Frosh eights of the previous three years were back. Others, eager to prove themselves, had come out as well. The new Frosh squad appeared to be especially good, with an unusual number of “nuggets.” With high hopes of developing another winner, I went to work. The dream was not to become a reality. When grades came out at the end of Fall Quarter, several of the best prospects were declared ineligible. To heighten my sense of impending doom, almost all the rest of those showing good potential proved to be sophomores. Although these men had no previous rowing experience, they could not compete as freshmen. (Wiser heads have since changed the rule to allow this.) There was nothing to do but charge ahead and make the best of a bad situation. As the season progressed, I began to kid myself that things were going well. Our time trials weren’t too bad, and the first boat occasionally showed well against the Varsity squad. What I didn’t realize was that the Varsity and JV were woefully slow. The truth was revealed with a vengeance when we met Cal on the Estuary in May. I knew that the Frosh were in trouble as soon as they took their first stroke. Clearly, they didn’t mean business. During practice on our home waters, were a crew to start out like that in a timer, I would stop them immediately and make them go back to start again. Here, this was not an option. I could only sit in the launch and suffer for them. While they lost by only a second or two, had they rowed well they might have won. After the JVs were humbled, we still hoped that the Varsity would save the day. Those hopes were soon dashed. The Cal crew jumped into the lead, and our cox’n raised himself up to peer at them as they pulled away. One of our men told me after the race that he had yelled, “My God, look at ’em go!” Cal went on to soundly thrash the Huskies and complete the rout. This was the first time in a half-century of fierce rivalry that the Bears had swept the Huskies.
UW Frosh crew - 1952 - lost to Cal by ¼ length. As we loaded our shells in the baggage car, I spotted a couple of my Freshmen smuggling in some suspicious-looking objects wrapped in towels. They were attempting to steal trophies from the Cal boathouse. After they put them back, I gave the two of them a royal blistering, saying that they deserved no spoils after the licking they had been handed. Besides, I wanted no part in any vendetta that might develop should this sort of thing be allowed to start. THE REST OF THE SEASON ONLY WENT FROM BAD TO WORSE. Hoping to salvage something out of it for the Freshmen, I kept the squad rowing. Normally, losing Frosh crews were not rewarded with a trip to the IRA, but here I thought the rule might be changed. I knew they could row better than they had against Cal. My pleas on their behalf fell on deaf ears, and I had to let them go back to
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 86 living a normal college life. Only two or three from that bunch went on to do much in rowing. One of them, Bob Rogers, though only a spare for that trip, stuck with it and rowed three years with the Varsity turnout. After graduation, he kept on and six years later was a founding member of the Lake Washington Rowing Club, after which he rowed in both the Pan Ams and the Olympics. One evening after the Frosh turnout was canceled, I went out in the launch with Al to watch the Varsity run a 2000 meter time trial. This was another Olympic year, and they were entered in the Trials at Worcester that summer. As they finished, Al looked at his watch and then yelled at them, “You are the worst crew that ever rowed at Washington!” The vehemence with which this was said was contrary to his usual habit of sarcastic gibes when things went badly. These, while effective, could also draw laughs, albeit sardonic ones. There was no laughter now. I did not realize at the time that he had been plagued with a bad back for months. Had I known, it would have helped explain his change in character, and I might have been more understanding. Because I knew nothing of it, all I could see huddled in the rain was a bunch of unhappy oarsmen and a very unhappy coach. I suspected that there was more to it. He had complained to me about his feeling that all the men seemed so young and lacking in “what it takes.” During his early years of coaching, many of the men were as old or older than he, and at war’s end, those returning from the Services were mature beyond their years. Those types of men were now gone, and he had only what he saw as youngsters to work with. At the annual crew banquet held just before the crews left for Syracuse, Phil Horrocks was voted recipient of the Piggott Trophy (Most Inspirational Oarsman Award). Phil’s entire acceptance speech consisted of the question, “If I’m so inspirational, how can we be so bad?” He, at least, had retained his sense of humor. We were especially busy in the shop that year. At the 948 Olympics in England everyone had been embarrassed by the dilapidated boats brought over to England for our crews. While Cal’s Pocock eight, the George Blair, and the venerable coxed four-oared shell, Clipper
Snowfall on Cedar Shells Too (which we had thoroughly renovated), were in great shape, the rest were nothing but junk. To avoid a repeat of this, the Olympic Rowing Committee gave us an order for a complete set of new boats and oars for our crews to use in Helsinki. That order, along with all
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 87 the others we had to fill for those hoping to compete for spots on the Olympic Team, kept us going full steam all winter. Dad was named official boatman for the Olympic team. At the last minute, he had the idea of traveling to Helsinki on the freighter with the shells and taking Mother along if she were interested. Train and boat whistles always tickled her fancy. Mere mention of such a trip was enough for her, and she jumped at the chance. The waiting list for the casual traveler was years long, but, as a shipper, he was accorded priority treatment and the trip was arranged. The voyage to Finland would take some 50-odd days, and the folks were gone, altogether, over four months. Mother told me later that they watched at least a 00 stevedores manhandling the crated shells as they were being off-loaded in Helsinki. She said that Dad couldn’t resist asking the officer in charge if he had any idea how many men it had taken to load the crates in Seattle. The man said “no,” and Dad held up a finger. “One!” was all he said. Twenty years later, while in Portland, I was watching crates being put aboard a ship bound for Australia. The huge forklift, driven by a single man, bore the legend, “Made in Finland.” I now had my first opportunity to be in charge at the shop. With every confidence in my ability to run things, I looked forward to the responsibility. I was made all too aware of my shortcomings one Friday evening as I brought the Frosh crews in from their workout. One of the gang from the shop was waiting for me on shore. He quietly asked whether I had his check ready. I not only did not have it ready, I had completely forgotten that it was payday The rest of the gang had already given up and gone home. Embarrassed, I took him up to the office where I made out his check and sent him away happy. I reached the rest of the men by phone and offered to bring their checks to them that evening. They all said that the next morning would be soon enough. (I had hoped that they could wait until Monday.) I spent my Saturday morning traveling from one end of the county to the other delivering paychecks. That was the last time that I ever forgot a payday.
Al asked me to go east with him to the IRA as his rigger. With no crew of my own to worry about, I saw in the proffered trip an opportunity to observe and learn and talked myself into going. I could have Don Huckle take charge at the shop for the week or so before it was shut down for the summer. The crews still rode the gully jumpers in those days. We needed a means of transporting the shells and coaching launch, and this was an inexpensive way of doing it. When crews first began traveling to Oakland or Poughkeepsie, 20 round-trip tickets provided a baggage car free of charge. That policy was established back in the old days to accommodate the traveling road companies that had to haul their scenery and costumes around with them. A convenient way for us to transport the UW shells at no cost, it also offered a little-known benefit to East Coast schools and clubs. The transportation cost of rowing equipment they ordered from us was eliminated. After the UW equipment was loaded each year, we filled the remaining space with any new boats and oars that had been ordered. I doubt that the railroad people would have smiled on this had they known what was going on. On the other hand, perhaps they did know and simply turned a blind eye. Those shellcars also gave adventurous undergrads a means of seeing California and the East Coast on the cheap. Often, two or three or more managers, cox’ns or oarsmen who had not made the squad came staggering out when we opened the car on arrival at a regatta site. I remember only one instance of anyone being caught. The stowaways, sailing along somewhere in northern California, in all innocence had a side door open and were sitting in the doorway enjoying the fresh air. The station master at one of the depots spotted them as the train sped by and wired ahead. At the next stop, the miscreants were hauled out and thrown in jail. After the train reached Oakland, the senior manager had to go back to bail them out. There went all his profit for that trip. Managers were occasionally quite creative with their swindle sheets. One year, an item on the list read: “Soap…$50.”
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 88 With the passage of time, the required number of tickets grew to 30. When a full squad traveled, there were at least 36 in the party, so that was still OK. Because there were only 24 in the official party this time, a few extra tickets were floating around. I asked Lois whether she would like to come along. We had no youngsters to worry about as yet, and she quickly said yes. I picked up one of the extra tickets for her at no cost to us. Through John Dresslar, who was now selling cars for Riach Oldsmobile, I arranged to take delivery of a new car at the factory in East Lansing, Michigan, on our way home. We looked forward to a great trip, as did the Varsity and JV crews who were eager to avenge the mistreatment they had received at the hands of Cal the previous month.
and rowed enough to know that a coach should rarely, if ever, take a crew beyond what they have been led to expect. He might get away with it the first time, but once they lost faith in him, look out! The crew kept going, but as they neared the one-mile mark they began to look ragged. The coach told them to go another half-mile and clean up their act. At a mile and a half they were in trouble. Growing more angry by the second, he called for yet another half-mile. By then they were flopping around and catching crabs and the coach was raving. This went on and only grew worse until they reached the end of the lake and had to stop. If there had been more water, I think that he would have kept them going. The crew took their revenge the next day with a singularly lackluster performance.
THE REGATTA WAS A DISASTER FOR THE UW, BUT NOT FOR the Naval Academy. This was the first year that the IRA Regatta was held on Lake Onondaga. After the second fiasco on the Ohio, the IRA Stewards gave up on Marietta and searched for a better site. Gus Eriksen came forth. Now in his third year at Syracuse, he had succeeded in talking local civic boosters and former Syracuse oarsmen into going for it. They dangled the bait, and the Stewards bit. On Lake Onondaga that year, the nemesis was not to be floods - just wind. In subsequent years, it was either wind, drenching rain, excessive heat, floods or some combination of all of them. Over the next 40 years that IRA regattas were held there, conditions were rarely ideal. That first year, because of the persistent wind that blew, training on the lake was next to impossible, and most of the workouts took place up the Seneca River. The actual course was hardly used leading up to the big day. The weather finally moderated the day before the regatta, and I accepted a ride with one of the coaches to see his crew in action. He was taking his Varsity out for, as he put it, “a little prerace paddle.” As the crew headed up the course, he told them to take a half-mile run at their racing pace. He grew excited about how well he thought they were going and, as they approached the mark, he called for another half-mile. I could sense trouble brewing. I had coached
IN RETURN FOR MY RE-DECKING ONE OF HIS EIGHTS, GUS AND his wife, Jean, invited Lois to stay at the Syracuse shellhouse where they lived year-round. Their bedrooms were all occupied, but, adjacent to the shower rooms upstairs, was a large dormitory used as a dressing room by the oarsmen of the various squads. We partitioned part of it off with blankets and that became Lois’s bedroom while I stayed out at the Fairgrounds with the crews. She earned her keep by helping Jean, who was snowed under caring for her four little girls. From the conversations she overheard during her stay in her cubbyhole, Lois learned how crude oarsmen can be and added a number of new words to her vocabulary. She said that the Princeton men were the worst. She took some time off and went down to New York City to visit friends and relatives. She stayed a few days with my Aunt Julia in Greenwich Village. Aunt Ju was a dedicated single woman. This is what Lois had always dreamed of being. The two of them really hit it off. ON RACE DAY, THE WIND CAME UP AGAIN, AND THE COURSE WAS unrowable. We thought it ironic when word came through from Marietta that the Ohio River was - you guessed it - at pool stage. While we waited for the racing to begin, I lounged around with the JV crew. With nothing better to do, I had them take each other’s
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 89 Rossi was expending, they would have been sure winners. As it was, they took second place behind the Naval Academy. Navy also took both the Frosh and Varsity races to give Rusty Callow a proper clean sweep. The Navy Varsity established a record that stood for years. No coach with whom I talked believed that a three-mile race could be rowed that fast on a lake with dead water. There was even talk of undetected currents present or mysterious low-friction characteristics attributable to the incredibly polluted waters of Onondaga, to account for the fast time. This was all rationalization on the part of the losers. Undefeated in two years except for the debacle in the Frosh race at Marietta the previous year, this crew went on to win the Trials and then the Gold Medal at Helsinki later that summer. With few changes in personnel, they remained undefeated for the rest of their collegiate rowing career.
Bow and two, you’re short! - UW Frosh on Seneca River at Syracuse -1954 pulse. Most of them thudded along at 45 to 55. Mine was a normal 70 or so. I was in neither racing shape (low) nor in charge of a crew there to worry about (high). Someone suggested taking the pulse of the cox’n, Al “Peanuts” Rossi. His was racing along - ping! ping! ping! ping! - about 05 per. Everyone forgot about the race for a minute or two. Finally the word came down that the course was rowable, and we boated the crews. If our JVs could have harnessed all the energy that
THE 952 OLYMPIC TRIALS WERE AT WORCESTER ON LAKE Quinsigamond. The course was less than the regulation 2000 meters, and some explainable fast times were posted. Months earlier, three of the men from the 948 Gold Medal four had decided to take another shot at the Olympic dream. Warren Westlund, Bob Will and Allan Morgan teamed up with Norm Buvick and Rod Johnson from the unsuccessful 948 UW eight. I went out with them a few times to give them a few pointers. By the time I headed East with the UW crews, I thought the four of them were moving. They met me in Worcester, along with Joe and Charley McIntyre, who were entered in the double. Never having raced as a sculler, I had little to offer them. To make things more exciting, Allan and Joan, his bride of a few days, were on their honeymoon. Rod’s wife, Joyce, was also there. She was pregnant. I insisted that the crew of the four stay together with me, while those wives who were there stayed elsewhere. In my own defense, I would not have been this hard-nosed had all the wives been there. I realize now that I should have given the men whatever option they chose. Instead, we stayed in the student quarters of Clark University
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 90 where Gene Melder, another former UW oarsman, was coach. Lois, along with Joyce, spent Joan Morgan’s honeymoon with her at a nearby motel. The four and the double had not trained nearly hard enough to stand up to the competition. We were still treating rowing as recreation rather than as a profession. As race day drew near, Joe and Charley decided not to row a full-length time trial, thinking to save what little they did have for the races. I had found out long before that this doesn’t work. Either you were in good condition, or you were not. The four were going at it with enthusiasm, but it was too little and too late. Though they made the Finals, they stood no chance of winning. One of them told me afterwards that he was so tired before the race even started that he knew the jig was up. A f ter t he Va r sit y I R A lo s s , A l h a d pu l le d t he t wo seniors - Lovsted and Ulbrickson - and the two juniors - Wahlstrom and Leanderson - out of the Varsity and entered them in the coxed four, a very smart move as it turned out. They, along with Al Rossi, their cox’n, went on to win the Trials and the right to go to Helsinki. There was still life in the UW program after all. Perhaps it was all the Scandinavians. (If so, then how did Rossi get in there?) Each fall I scanned the sign-up sheet, hoping to see many names with “-son,” “-sen,” “-stad,” “-sten,” “-strom” or “-sted” tacked on the end. They were the tough ones. The changed lineups left the eight with an all-Sophomore crew for the Trials. Those men had been through a tough year. When workouts began in October after their sensational win at Marietta in June, Al left them intact. They could beat whichever combination he tried with the rest of the squad. As the weeks passed, their nightly lead was slowly whittled away. Finally, shortly after winter layoff, they fell apart and could no longer stay ahead of the pack. They were then broken up and never put together again. The single exception was for the annual Class Day. This opportunity to redeem themselves was frustrated when Frost, at #6, jumped his slide, forcing them to drop out.
George Pocock with Joe (stroke) & Charley McIntyre (bow) -1952 At the Trials, Al needled them into doing something, and they made it through to the Finals. As they put their boat on the water for their big chance, he told them he thought the best they could hope for was a third-place finish. As they were pulling away, he made a big show of having the manager back the trailer down to the dock ready for loading. When they lost their race, loading the boat for transport to the baggage car would be quick and simple. Psychology, yes. Good psychology, maybe, but I’m not sure. They knew they were going out to race an outfit that they had defeated only the year before. True, some fortuitous mind-bending had made that happen, but it had happened. He must have thought he could make them mad enough to try to work another miracle. It didn’t work, and they came in third just as he had predicted. Following the race, he gave a great talk in an effort to wind them up for the coming year.
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 91 DURING MY SPARE TIME PRIOR TO THE TRIALS, I HAD MY HANDS full with concerns other than rowing and crews. Earlier in the year, we had sent a number of pairs and doubles out from the shop. In an effort to address the demand from customers for lighter boats, we had used lighter wood for some of the components. Before Charley and Joe left Seattle, some of those parts in a boat that the Seattle Tennis Club had bought for them began to show signs of failure. I reinforced the offending pieces, and there were no further problems. I knew that the same failures were certain to show up on all the new pairs and doubles, since they had all been built the same way. I had come prepared with many bits and pieces so that I could do some retrofitting on any that showed up at the Trials. There were several, and I had my work cut out for me between turnouts. I wrote to Dad, already in Helsinki, warning him of the problem so that he could keep his eye on the pairs and the double that were there with the Olympic team. Fortunately, there were no failures - either at Worcester or in Helsinki - but all those boats we built that season probably didn’t last as long as they should have. To accompany the Navy eight and the UW coxed four, the Navy straight four qualified, as did Jack Kelly in the single and Duvall Hecht, Jim Fifer and Jimmy Beggs from Stanford in the coxed pair. Chuck Logg and Tom Price from Rutgers were the straight pair. Seemingly mismatched - Chuck, at bow, was a lean and lanky six foot five, and Tom, in the stroke seat, was five-foot eleven and built like a beer keg - they were the perfect pair. When asked how he managed to keep the boat on course - it had no rudder - Chuck explained that in the early stages of a race he could hold the much stronger stroke man without too much trouble. Toward the finish, without a rudder to fall back on, he had to “work like the very dickens.” Before tackling those repairs in Worcester, I looked up the local shell-builder, hoping to use his machine tools. He was helpful and agreeable in his own way. I remember him lamenting that he knew he built boats that were at least as good as ours; the coaches just would not buy them. I let that pass, but, as the saying goes - “the future
often casts its shadow before.” I was blissfully unaware that I would one day find myself voicing virtually the same lament. I heard later that the fellow actually built “Pococks” - exact copies of ours - for people who ordered them. THE TRIALS OVER, I RESCUED LOIS FROM HER HONEYMOON cottage, and we headed for home. We took the long way, going down through New York City and Philadelphia. One pleasant memory of that trip is of our breakfast aboard the B&O as we went from Philadelphia to Toledo, Ohio. It was a beautiful morning, and the lush Pennsylvania countryside rolling by was a sight to behold. The dining car was the way they once were - all linen, china and silver. Our waiter was cheerful and helpful, and all was right with the world. If only all one’s memories could be as sweet. We were on our way to East Lansing to pick up our new Olds. I had paid $3,00 for it - exactly what the university was paying me each year for coaching the Frosh. We took a tour through the plant. What a difference from our little shop! I have an unforgettable memory of earsplitting noise where new engines were being tested: no mufflers on the engines and no protective equipment for the workers. I harked back to the morning when one of our gang brought an electric hand router to work. Dad would have none of it. Such a racket did not belong in his shop! The next day we took delivery of the car and headed for the open road. As we drove through the middle of town, Lois noticed a woman in the car next to us frantically pointing at our rear wheel and signalling for us to stop. Unnerved, I stopped immediately and jumped out for a look. Nothing. Someone’s idea of a good joke on hicks from the sticks proudly driving away in their brand-new dream car. This was long before the day of interstate highways, and signs on roadways were not what they are now. To find one’s way out of town was something of a problem; to find one’s way in was even worse. Despite the resulting unintentional wanderings - and my reluctance to ask directions - it was a wonderful trip.
III – The Start (1950 - 1952) – 92 A few recollections from that trip linger still: stopping the first night at a motel and being told that the rate was nine dollars (how did they have the nerve?), and driving past the endless miles and miles of corn “as high as an elephant’s eye”. A never-to-be-forgotten, rotten-egg smell pervaded Lowell, Indiana, where we couldn’t drink the water because it reeked of sulphur. I can still see the long grade down into Laramie, Wyoming, with the right angle turn into town at the bottom. (I read later of a truck losing its brakes on that hill and nearly cleaning out the town.) The trip was over all too soon, but that was all right. The shop was waiting, and it needed me. THERE TO GREET ME WAS A LETTER FROM DAD. THE WORD FROM Helsinki was disquieting. During the long sea voyage from Seattle, all the metal fittings in the boats had been corroded by the saltladen sea air. The wheels on the sliding seats were stuck. Because the boats arrived several days ahead of the oarsmen, he had time to put the equipment back in working order. Still, he was unhappy and embarrassed about it, as was I. We had used the wrong material. In one of her letters, Mother described Dad’s bitter disappointment when told that he was not to coach the UW four. After they won the Trials, Al had written to ask that he help them as he had helped Westlund’s crew in 948. Dad made the mistake of assuming that he could do so. It was a matter of toes being stepped on. Al’s letter should have gone to Rusty, who, after all, was the head coach. Whatever the reason, the four received no help from Dad during the workouts leading up to the regatta, and no one else helped them, either. He tried to give them tips when they were off the water, but that was not enough. Had he been allowed to bring them along, they might have been good enough for the Gold Medal. As it was, they had to settle for a third-place Bronze. The Naval Academy eight and straight pair (Logg and Price) had better luck, both crews coming away with Gold Medals.
Pair-oared crew in a world all their own
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 93
CHAPTER IV
Lengthening Out (1953–1958) THE SEASON OF 952‒53 BEGAN ON A BRIGHT NOTE WITH Coast Guard station on Portage Bay that was the shellhouse. The another great squad of Freshmen turning out. This time I had sense camaraderie they enjoyed had much to do with the success of those enough to find out who were really Freshmen and talked more about early crews, and I knew that memories of that experience meant a grades with them. After such a promising beginning, however, it great deal to those men. When the building was abandoned and demolished after the Great War, began to look as though the a boarding house was leased up season might degenerate into on Greek Row. Around 940, a repeat of the previous year mass departures for the armed because the morale of the Varsity services forced its closure. Since squad seemed to be so low. Each then, no effort had been made afternoon saw them slouching to revive the VBC. Perhaps the by on their way to the locker time had come for its renewal. room. Heads down with no The current situation seemed to one saying a word, they were cry for it. The new shellhouse, the very picture of frustration with its kitchen of sorts and a and despair. In the office and out on the water, Ulbrickson big lounge area which could hold many bunks beckoned. was miserable - suffering, as he At my next meeting with was at the time, from various Fil Leanderson, captain of physical complaints. This was the crew, and Monty Stocker, having an obvious effect on the commodore of the VBC - I was men. Dad and I put our heads together, trying to think of a acting as advisor sans portfolio solution. UW Varsity workout off Laurelhurst on Lake Washington -1946 for the squad - I asked whether Maybe it was Dad, maybe it they thought the men might be was I who came up with the idea, but we decided that I should interested in living at the shellhouse during spring vacation. They both encourage the men to revive the Varsity Boat Club. At that time thought it a great idea and promised to ask around. The next day they functioning only as an honorary social club for upper class oarsmen, came back up in the shop with an enthusiastic “Let’s do it!” Afraid the VBC had existed since Conibear’s day. Back then it was the that the scheme would never get off the ground if proper procedures oarsman’s live-in fraternity, and their living quarters were in the old were followed, I decided to risk acting on my own. (Looking back, I
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 94 probably should have been fired any number of times for the various quasi-legal and totally illegal stunts I pulled.) I went to see Art Pringle at Buildings and Grounds to ask him if he had any surplus Army bunks lying around. When told what I needed them for, he said I could have as many as I wanted. When I wondered aloud where I could find a truck to cart them down, he said he would see to that. By the time the bunks arrived, the oarsmen, thinking Al might object, had a blanket strung over the glass door leading to the lounge. That way, he wouldn’t see what they were doing. After assembling the bunks, they organized food buying, cooking and cleanup teams, and that night they moved in. For a change, success was now everyone’s business and not just a burden resting on the coach’s shoulders. How much Al knew about what was going on wasn’t clear. Plenty, I suspect, because everyone on the campus had his ear. He must have been pleased, or at least he should have been. He looked for self-starters to lead his crews, and here, surely, was evidence of this. The oarsmen were certainly pepped up. The effect on the morale of the squad was remarkable. From the shop, we could now hear them from clear up the hill to the campus chattering like magpies as they headed for turnouts each day. What a difference! AT OUR ANNUAL CREW BANQUET, I USED MY FEW MINUTES TO make a plea for resumption of the Shoudy Banquet. I missed this classy means of winding up the season’s campaign. As a former Husky oarsman, my purple tie meant something to me. The current crop were being deprived of a purple tie, and, worse yet, being left with nothing after the races but a sense of wondering what on earth to do next. I sensed a desire for the destructive custom of breaking training taking hold at Washington, as it had at other schools. All that sort of activity could go on later if the oarsmen so chose, but not when they were still under my wing. Regardless of its having been a winning or a losing year, I wanted to see each season end with a memorable get-together featuring postmortems and inspirational talks - my dad
Early spring workout could always be counted on to give one of the latter - for the future. My plea caught the attention of the rowing alumni present, and they agreed to raise the necessary money to make sure that a Shoudy Memorial Banquet was held at Syracuse that June - and every June thereafter. They lived up to their word, for those banquets were held
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 95 each year until the UW crews stopped going to the IRA after the 972 season. BEFORE SPRING BREAK WAS OVER, THE SQUAD DECIDED TO STAY through the rest of the season. The only problem was, no one wanted to cook. Cooks among oarsmen are rare in the first place, and, among those living at the shellhouse, this was no exception. One of them had been a cook in the Merchant Marine during the war, but he quickly burned out. The club faced a crisis. The mother of Doug Clark, one of the freshmen, heard of the problem and came to their rescue. She knew of just the person for the job. Her friend, Carmelita MacDonald, had a son who was captain of the UW track team. She loved to cook, she had an empty nest and she was looking for boys to take care of. She didn’t have to be asked twice, and what a blessing she turned out to be! She became an institution around the shellhouse and added undeniable class to the entire Boat Club operation. Why a shell wasn’t named for her, I’ll never know. In early April, the value of the enterprise was confirmed when the Varsity set a new record for the three-mile course on Lake Washington. That record had stood since the day in 940 when the Varsity gave the brand-new Loyal Shoudy its inaugural outing. It was beginning to look as though a great year was within reach. The Frosh were coming along in good shape. I had three in my first boat who were older than the rest. Art Hart had been in the Coast Guard, Lynn Lamb had served in the Merchant Marine and the third, Hans Backer, was a tough Norwegian kid from up north. They helped light a fire under the tail of the whole Frosh squad.
forth in the “pot” were not fond ones. On each run, we would just be finding our second wind when we had to stop and turn around. What my crews needed was some distance rowing, and I decided to do something about it. I knew that we would find rowable water at the south end of Lake Washington. I talked to the oarsmen, and one of them said he had relatives living down near Seward Park. He was sure that they would let us keep a couple of eights in their yard. He contacted them and found them eager to help. This was long before the UW had a trailer with which to move boats. We couldn’t row them down - that was what this was all about - so I decided to try towing them with my launch. I used the oars to make a raft of the two boats and, after leaving instructions for the managers to bring the crews of our first two boats to meet me at Seward Park, I took off. It was plenty rough going down the lake, but I made it. When the crews showed up, they were boated, and we headed for the lee of Mercer Island. On the way across, both boats took on so much water that we were forced to go ashore and empty them. The two crews then had a great workout in the dead flat water along that shore. With the bit in their teeth, they fairly flew. I saw it as one of the best afternoons of the year for them. The winds continued, and we used the boats down there for several more workouts. Not only did the crews enjoy rowable water, but they became familiar with the course to be used against Cal the following week. I would never have gone to the trouble had my hand not been forced. One afternoon, Al told me that he wanted to use the boats for the Varsity and JV. What could I say but “Sure”? George Varnell’s column in The Times the next day extolled the creative thinking of the coaches in finding a way to train in reasonable conditions. Our crew program enjoyed good press in those days.
AGAIN, THE WIND BLEW DAY AFTER DAY AS OUR RACE WITH CAL approached. With no Evergreen Floating Bridge to sneak along to TO SHOW THAT ALL MY TIME WAS NOT SPENT IMMERSED IN THE enjoy the lee of the far shore, we were left with little rowing water near the shellhouse. We needed more mileage than what Portage Bay crews and boat-building, I must tell of another venture that I embarked (known none too affectionately as the “Pisspot Henley” by generations upon that winter. At a banquet given coaches and dignitaries the of Washington oarsmen) afforded. My memories of rowing back and night before the regatta in Syracuse the previous June, there was
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 96 entertainment put on by students from the local high school. In one clogs which made me appear about six and a half feet tall. With a pair of the acts, two boys dressed in women’s clothing mimed the words to of oranges down my front to achieve the appropriate profile, I was the song “Too Old to Cut the Mustard” sung by Rosemary Clooney a sight. The night of the performance, Suzie brought her theatrical and Marlene Dietrich. The boys were the hit of the show. The tune makeup kit with her and, just before the show began, painted the and the memory of their act kept running through my head, and the two of us up like aging hussies. idea of finding a willing accomplice and doing the act myself kept She had just finished her set of show tunes when the master of popping up. I knew just the man to take ceremonies excitedly broke in with the part of Dietrich were he willing. One the announcement that those in the had to know Fred Nietzschke to realize audience were indeed fortunate. Two of what a perfect choice he was. Tall, thin Suzie’s former New York associates were and angular, and of a serious mien, he in town for a surprise visit, and, at her had a sense of the ridiculous that suited urging, had agreed to do a short song for the role perfectly. I found a copy of the them as a favor to her. recording at a music shop, and over A hush fell over the audience in dinner one evening I approached Fred. anticipation of something really special. Both he and his wife, Suzie, after hearing When Fred and I came mincing out of the recording and listening to what I had the wings, there was scattered applause in mind, thought it a great idea. and then a few titters when some in the The four of us were still active in the crowd realized they were being put on. social activities of the young people’s Still, no one recognized these harridans church group where we had met. There and probably were still hoping for some was a stage revue being planned to show good entertainment. off the undeniable talent possessed by After sashaying around the stage and some of the members. To be put on at milking the crowd for what chuckles one of the regular Wednesday night we might elicit, we paired up in front church dinners, it was the perfect of the dead microphone, signaled the Too old to cut the mustard. “Rosemary” Pocock & platform for our spoof. Suzie, blessed sound engineer to play the record, and “Marlene” Nietzschke with a marvelous voice, had spent some broke into our act. The song is not one years performing on Broadway. She was on the program, and I was normally heard around a church, and that added to its entertainment certain we could use her as the springboard for our performance. value. The crowd ate it up. I looked down at the front row where the Fred and I spent the next few days memorizing the words of preacher and his wife were seated. He was looking as though he wasn’t the song and perfecting our act, while Lois and Suzie schemed. I quite sure whether he should be enjoying this, but she obviously had borrowed a black silk gown from my mother (it came nowhere near no such reservations - she was in hysterics, and I was afraid for a going around me) and cut out a pair of thick high-heeled wooden moment that she would pass out. We finished to a roar of applause
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 97 and beat a hasty exit with cheers ringing in our ears. I was happy to have escaped with a whole skin and relieved to learn that no one had taken offense. There was practically unanimous agreement that we should give a repeat performance the following week. There was an unusual crowd on hand to greet us and, despite its being no surprise, the act went over even better than it had the first time. In my own defense, this was the first, last, and only time that I ever did such a thing. I was thankful that none of those with whom I worked at the shellhouse or in the shop were ever aware of that bit of tomfoolery.
Old-fashioned boat, oars and haircuts, but no washing out – circa 1960
IN MAY WE BEAT CAL SOUNDLY. THAT EVENING, THE FROSH squad were entertained at dinner by the parents of Dick Scheumann and Ted Peterson. At their suggestion, we invited the Cal Frosh crew. Our invitation was accepted because their train was not leaving until the following day. Everyone ate up a storm and had a great time comparing notes on training, rowing, girls and what have you. I saw this as a means of breaking down the archaic custom of the daggersdrawn animosity between rowing squads that was encouraged by so many coaches. I preferred to think that it was more fun racing while trying to beat people you knew and liked, rather than racing and being afraid to lose. Besides that, there was less temptation to swipe trophies. With the Cal race behind us, we now had - as was the case each year - an entire month of rowing before heading for Syracuse and the IRA Regatta. The trick was to make the turnouts interesting enough to keep the morale of the squad at a high pitch. Though reasonably sure of ultimately leaving the first boat as it was, I announced that all seats were up for grabs. Not only was the Syracuse trip in the offing, but there were races for a second eight as well. This kept competition keen and gave late-bloomers a chance to show their stuff. We carried on with the weekly Monday night Ham 'n' Eggers, and these resulted in some great intramural races. For whatever reason, the Frosh continued to go like gangbusters.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 98 Not necessarily so with the Varsity. The third boat was beginning to embarrass the JV by taking their measure now and then, and both of them were giving the Varsity fits. Just before we left for Syracuse, Al moved two juniors - Roland Camfield and Ted Frost - out of the third boat where he had kept them all year and put them at stroke and #6 in the JV. The JV beat the Varsity in that last workout before we headed east. The closest the Varsity ever came to beating them after that was in our final time trial on the Thursday night before race day. I’ll get to that, eventually. Joe McIntyre, who rowed at #5 in the JV, was a fine oarsman. After rowing #7 in the ill-fated Varsity at Marietta in 95, he had not turned out the next year because of a commitment to train for the Olympic Trials with his oldest brother, Charley. Al was sore about that, and when Joe later came down for Fall practice, he was told not to bother because he would never row in a crew of Al’s again. Joe said he didn’t care about that (I’m sure that he did); he just wanted to turn out for fun and exercise. Al let him row in one of the lower boats. Toward mid-season, he relented and stuck him in the JV. They immediately dubbed themselves “Joey’s boat” and from then on, whatever Joe said in the boat was law to the rest of the crew. Al saw this and left him there, hoping to develop a good JV. A good second boat meant good competition for the Varsity. Often the Javvies were made up of rebels like Joe, people who enjoyed rowing where the heat was off. They liked to show the coach that they thought he didn’t know what he was doing and relished beating those they were not supposed to. For many, the Big “W” sweater, with “JV” superimposed on the letter, was most coveted. But, when Al put Frost and Camfield into the boat along with McIntyre, he created a monster. Now the Javvies were just too good, simply refusing to let the Varsity come out on top. Too late to change the lineups again, Al was stuck. The more he yelled, the more miserable it was for the Varsity and the more fun for the JV. One afternoon, the Varsity stroke, Guy Harper, tried to take a picture of Al while they were out on Lake Onondaga. When the
UW Frosh IRA Champions - 1953 - left to right: cox, Paul Andonian; stroke, Doug French; 7, Butch Thomas; 6, Art Hart; 5, Lynn Lamb; 4, Dave Purnell; 3, Hans Backer; 2, Ted Peterson; bow, Ron Wailes crews were taking a breather, Guy stood up in the boat and aimed his camera at Al over in the coaching launch. Poor Harper! Talk about abuse. It must have affected Al the way it did because of the intense pressure he was under. I’ve never asked Guy whether the picture came out, and, if it did, whether it was worth it. A quandary such as Al found himself in occurs on occasion if a coach depends entirely on competition between crews for developing strength and stamina. The right combination will simply not show itself. If too late in the season, it can mean trouble. So it was in that 953 season. It happened again a year or so later, when Al ran out of time. No matter what lineup he named for the first boat, one of the other boats was sure to win. In desperation, and with only a day before they were to leave for California, he announced a race-off. The winner of the race that afternoon would be the Varsity. The crew designated as the third boat
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 99 won, and they went down to a regatta at Newport Beach where they lost to a very good Stanford crew. Watching Al there at Syracuse, I became convinced that I could never endure such frustration. I also thought I knew what I would have tried were I in his shoes. That would have been to send the JV off to row with the Frosh, who normally rowed by themselves. Such a move would have given the Varsity - and him - a chance to settle down. THE WEATHER THAT YEAR DIDN’T HELP. AS HAD BEEN THE CASE the previous year, the wind would not stop blowing, and most of the training took place up the Seneca River. Thursday came - just two Al Ulbrickson, George Pocock & Norm Sonju -1950 days left. We had to hold our final time trial that day. Toward dusk, the wind finally died down. Out we went, and the three crews lined I - because of the darkness, but the people on shore must have told up - Varsity and JV at the three mile mark - the Frosh lurking in wait. him. I never heard. As they passed us, I gave the Varsity and JV a length or two before That contest cooked the Varsity’s goose. There was not enough time sending my crew off in hot pursuit. The Frosh were fast, and I wanted for them to recover before the race a mere 40 hours later. Looking as tight a race as possible. It was tight, all right. In their racing start, back with the benefit of hindsight, I think we should have stopped the Frosh quickly caught up with the other two crews who were locked them short of the full distance. That might have helped. On race day together - neither willing to give an inch. A blanket could have been they rowed without pizzazz and had to be satisfied with a third place thrown over the three crews as they charged down the course. finish behind Navy and Cornell. The JV and the Frosh needed no Squinting into the fading twilight, I could barely see the crews, all such consideration. Still riding high, they both won by embarrassing three dimly silhouetted against the mirrored surface of the lake. A margins. Though the Varsity had lost, this was still a record that any beautiful sight, indeed, but one that gave no inkling of the intense of the other coaches would have given his eye teeth to have credited struggle taking place. Trying to spot the markers along the shore to to him in the record books. tell me where we were, I saw the headlights of cars filled with spies following the race. This was supposed to be a secret trial, but word THE REVIVED SHOUDY BANQUET WAS HELD AT ONE OF THE had leaked out. At each marker, one or more would turn over so their downtown hotels. The Varsity loss naturally put a damper on the lights picked up the crews and they could clock them. affair, but I kidded myself into thinking that it was still was a good Neither Al nor I knew who had won when it was over, for it was way to end the season. When Al and I arrived back in Seattle, instead too dark to see the finish line from where we were. We knew it was a of the crowd at the station that often greeted us, there were just two close finish but that was all. From his launch Al hollered over at the people. One of them, without preamble, asked, “What happened, crowd of spies, “Who won?” No one would say, all agreeing that it Al?” We looked at each other and shrugged. When you win too often, was a three-way tie. Al hadn’t bothered to time the crews - nor had people begin to expect too much.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 100 The cap to that season, if one could call it that, had nothing to do with either the rowing, the regatta or the dinner. Johnny Dresslar had arranged with some of the oarsmen to drive new Oldsmobiles out to Seattle from the factory. It was a good deal for them, and for him as well. At least it should have been. If I heard the story right, only one of the 0 or 2 cars arrived undamaged. Several of the drivers were members of the Frosh crew. That was the last time there were any such deals offered.
T
HE 1954 SEASON WAS TO BE ANOTHER TOUGH ONE FOR the U W. My squad was the smallest in years - small not only in numbers, but in stature as well. In Oakland, prior to our race on the Estuary, even our two most loyal boosters — the sports editors of the Seattle papers - were giving the Frosh race to Cal. It appeared as though they might be right. Cal had an unusually good squad of big freshman that year, and they appeared to deserve the favorite’s role. What those writers and everyone else forgot to look at was the rowing. As described earlier, I had made a major discovery about how to teach the art of rowing: ride in the cox’n’s seat. I had learned to pass on to others the skills of rowing, and this crew of mine - small as they were - showed it. They were good, and they were about to prove it. Wanting to give them something to think about beside what the sports writers were saying, I cooked up a plan. From past experience, I knew that Cal crews often tended to look out of the boat during a race, seemingly more concerned about what their opponents were doing than about their own rowing. I decided to take advantage of this. The course on the Estuary has a slight dogleg in it, and we had drawn the outside lane. Should the race still be close as the crews negotiated the bend where the Naval Reserve submarine was moored, the opportunity might arise. Taking my cox’n, Mickey McKeown (he was taller than some of his crew, all knees and elbows) aside, I laid out the scheme.
UW Frosh, second-place finishers at Syracuse IRA -1954 SHOULD IT APPEAR FEASIBLE, WHEN OPPOSITE THE SUBMARINE he was to crowd over as close to the Cal crew as was safe and holler something to his own crew. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was loud enough for the Cal men to hear. If I had them right, they would all be listening and looking over, wondering what was going on. Whatever he yelled, though meant to confuse the other crew, would be the signal for his own crew to take a big 20. That night they must get together and decide on the signal. I did not want to know what it was, it was to be their secret. I saw this as something to wrap their minds around and chuckle over, something other than how big that other crew looked and what the press were saying. I went to bed trusting that sleep would come easier for them with the ruse on their mind. I even slept some myself.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 101 As they sat at the starting line the next morning, I could see them grinning from ear to ear. They went off the mark like champions and, sure enough, when they neared the submarine they were still about even with Cal. From the launch following the race, I could see Mickey crowding over. All of a sudden, it looked as though a bomb had been dropped in the other boat. Heads and bodies were going every which way. Our crew retained their poise and went on to win.
UW Frosh win on Oakland Estuary - 1954 - bow, Dave Putnam; 2, Dick Cathey; 3, Jay Decker; 4, Jay Hall; 5, John McKee; 6, Fred Stoll; 7, Doug Wetter; stroke, Steve Clark; cox, Mickey McKeown I had to wait impatiently until we returned to the float after the other two races to find out what the secret signal was. They had decided that Mickey was to shout, “OK, guys, let’s take ’er up to full slide!” Though the ruse appeared to create confusion in the other crew, whether it had anything to do with our win is doubtful. Whatever the reason, win we did, and I knew one thing for sure: Regardless of their size, my crew rowed much better than did the Cal
Frosh. The remaining two races were split; the JV lost but the Varsity won convincingly to send us home happy. THE TRIP EAST IN JUNE HELD DISAPPOINTMENT IN STORE. THE Varsity finished behind Navy and Cornell, although Cornell was credited with the win after Navy was disqualified for having used an ineligible cox’n. Our JV came in fourth, and the Frosh were second to an outstanding Cornell outfit. That crew continued on through three more successful seasons, marred only by their loss to Yale in the 956 Olympic Trials. They finished their collegiate rowing career with a victory in the Grand Challenge Trophy race at Henley in 957. The Frosh race was something for the crew to be proud of, despite their loss to Cornell. On our way to the starting line, Dad and I had watched the various crews from the launch. Pointing to one of them, he asked who they were. I told him they were my crew. “Well”, he said, “they’ll win; they’re rowing better than anyone else,” I agreed that they were, but a win was not in the cards. It was an extremely hot, windless day. I always insisted on intense preparation prior to any time trial or race, having learned from experience how much better I felt in a race after having gone through an extended high-stress warm-up. Now, my crew looked great because they were doing just that. I was afraid they were trained down too fine, for they were a small crew. I had neglected to take this into account in my pre-race instructions. I should have reminded them to cut down their warmup. They were bound to run out of gas before the race was over. We would be lucky if no one died. A better understanding of nutrition and liquid requirements might have saved the day. I still had much to learn. There was some consolation in taking second to Cornell. In doing so, they beat another crew that had not lost a race up until then. As we pulled even with half a mile to go, they appeared to come apart just as Cal had back in May. We went by and held on to finish ahead of them. Their coach asked me after the race whether I really had my crews row at half-slide for the first three-quarters of the race. Bother
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 102 me if Mickey hadn’t gone and pulled it off again! I hadn’t given such a thing another thought since the Cal race. I suppose, in retrospect, I might have been faulted for such gamesmanship, but I don’t think so. After all, I had grown up listening to all the stories of the nefarious activities that attended both amateur and professional rowing and sculling races over the years. If you’re really into racing, you have to watch out for everything and teach your crews to be ready for anything. If you don’t - and they aren’t - look out!
loss. I almost wept, proud as I was of him and the rest of his crew in their losing effort.
THE BRITISH EMPIRE GAMES WERE SCHEDULED FOR VANCOUVER in August. The Vancouver Rowing Club and the University of British Columbia (henceforth known as UBC/VRC - or VRC/ UBC, depending on who was talking) were embarked upon a joint effort coached by Frank Read, who had rowed some years before for the VRC. They planned on entering the eight-oared trials in St. Catherines. Frank and I had become acquainted when my crews raced UBC in years past. We had talked often about rowing technique and equipment. On Frank’s recommendation, Col. Victor Spencer of Vancouver presented the VRC with one of our new shells, and it was christened the Victor Spencer II. The crew liked the boat and looked forward to using it at the Trials. Early one morning, Dad received a phone call from Vancouver. It was Frank. In a strangled voice, he said that his cox’n had run the Spencer over a log in Coal Harbor during their last time trial earlier that morning. They were due to leave for St. Catherines in two days; could we help them. Thinking quickly, Dad told him that while we had no boat available in stock, the two of us would rush up as fast as we could and see about repairing the wreck. Meanwhile, they must carry the boat up into the social hall on the second floor of the VRC clubhouse - no small trick - and turn up the heat as high as possible. We dropped everything, loaded the station wagon with all the tools and supplies that might be needed, and took off. The Customs official This can’t be Seattle at the border, extremely officious when he saw what we proposed bringing into Canada, wanted it all catalogued and declared. After I felt that this was my most successful year as a coach. The squad learning the nature of the emergency, he came down off his high had included few who could rightfully be considered as having horse, wished us luck and waved us through. rowing potential. I had to exercise all of my ingenuity in teaching and developing them, and they learned to row very well. They beat A PALL HUNG LIKE A CLOUD OVER THE VRC CLUBHOUSE. I crews they never should have and had fun in the bargain. One of spotted the cox’n huddled all by himself under a tree in the rain, the them, Jay Decker, came up to me after the race to apologize for the very picture of despair. His crew, every bit as dejected, were gathered
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Spencer II on her way to Henley where she was used to defeat the Russians – 1955 around the wreck up in the ballroom. I took hold of the bow and gave it a shake. There was a gasp from the crowd. Dad let out a yell. What I wanted to find out, of course, was whether the backbone of the shell was still sound. If it were broken, we had an impossible job on our hands. It was OK. We shooed everyone out and tackled the job. By working late into the night and, after a few hours restless sleep, most of the next day, we put the boat back together. It went in the crate before the varnish dried and was on its way the following day. (Rumor had it that the crate cost almost twice what we charged for the Spencer when it was new.) A week or so later we heard the good news. VRC/UBC had won at St. Catherines and would represent Canada in the British Empire Games (BEG). I think we were almost as excited as were their supporters in Vancouver. Frank and all of them up there were forever
grateful for what we had done. Dad wouldn’t send a bill. He did the job out of his abiding love of the game, not for the money. How on earth did we survive? Probably by doing just this sort of thing. The club later recognized his having leaped into the breach to save the day by making Dad a lifetime member. We received two further distress calls from Vancouver prior to the start of those games. The first was from the manager of the New Zealand rowing team, William Stevenson - “Alf” to his friends. (He was soon to be knighted by the Queen of England in recognition of his altruistic and civic-minded endeavors throughout New Zealand.) Alf called, hoping to borrow a coxless four. Months before, he had placed an order for one with the builder of JenCraft in Kelowna, BC He had just received word that a fire had destroyed the boat. We had one available. How much? Nothing. They were welcome to borrow it if they could arrange transportation. No problem; down they came. The Kiwis won that event. Their sculler, Don Rowlands, an artist in a single, also won his race. Before they left for home, Alf gave us an order for a four and a double to be shipped to New Zealand the following year. Our first attempt at shipping those boats ended in disaster. At the docks in Vancouver, the crated four was smashed to smithereens when a heavy crate of machinery was dropped on it. After the wreck was brought back to Seattle, I salvaged the bow portion. Years later, when we moved to our own premises, I stuck it up outside to remind us what went on inside. We never did have our name on the building. We built another four to replace the wrecked one, and both it and the double eventually reached New Zealand. Those two boats soon gained the reputation of being unbeatable. Every time either was used in a race it won - or, rather, the crew using it won. The inevitable sequel: when crews at last lost while using them, the boats were thought to be no good any more. I was intrigued by the New Zealand style of rowing and sculling. Years later, Rowlands shed some light on that. There was a rowing guru who lived down in Christchurch on the South Island. He was an old professional sculler from the Thames in England, and he had
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Traffic jam off Conibear docks -circa 1954 their ear. Anyone feeling in need of advice or criticism went to him. How very like the situation here at home where Dad was listened to by so many in the game. The Kiwis really did row as we did - or as we tried to. The same was true of their crew that I saw win the Olympics at Munich in 972. By 988, when they raced the UW in Seattle on Opening Day, the men had lost the picture and were no match for the Huskies. Their women’s crew still had it, rowed beautifully and won handily, despite having to make up distance lost when they smashed into a buoy in mid-race. THE OTHER DISTRESS CALL CAME FROM THE AUSTR ALIAN contingent. Their boat, a coxed four, had been delayed en route. It would not arrive in time, and they were desperate. The only boat available was the Clipper Too - now some 18 years old. Ulbrickson was out of town and could not be reached, but we were sure he would loan it to them. We told them to come on down. When the crew arrived, they wanted to try the boat, and one of them asked which oars went with it. Dad waved at the endless racks of oars. “You mean, any oar will do?” After their workout, the same fellow came back shaking his head and muttered to me, “bloody marvelous.”
The boat - and the oars - had suited them fine, and off they went. They, too, won their race — another chevron for the old boat. For those who have forgotten, or who never knew, we put variously colored chevrons on the bows of UW shells to commemorate races won in them. Purple represented a dual-meet victory while gold, a Poughkeepsie win, and tricolor red-white-and-blue, an Olympic triumph. Wins by crews borrowing one of our boats usually didn’t count, but, for the Australian victory, we put on a red one anyway. (See picture of the Winlock W. Miller on page 8 for an example.) To fathom the visitors’ amazement and interest in our oars, one must be aware that straight, untwisted oars were virtually unknown anywhere else in the rowing world. Wood naturally tends to twist, and few oar-makers had discovered the secret of compensating for this. A straight oar would happen now and then, but only by accident. I can recall, as a youngster, seeing the stacks of bent and rejected oars in the corners of the shop, relics of a time before the answer was found. (One Christmas, some of these became pairs of stilts made as gifts for all the cousins in the family. One day, while trying to navigate a steep hill near our house, I fell off mine and knocked myself silly.) In those days coaches would buy extra oars with each set and then pick out the straightest ones. The standard procedure, after taking delivery of a new set of oars, was to assign the set to a particular boat. Each oar was given its position in the boat and marked accordingly. Then, the pitch of the rowlock was adjusted - they had to have adjustable rowlocks - so that each blade was set at the correct angle relative to the water. From then on, those oars went with that boat and with no other. Hilmar Lee, the old sourdough who worked at the shop for so many years, was the one who figured out the solution. In brief, it involved compensating for the invisible spiral grain that exists in many trees. This grain has nothing to do with the visible annular rings. Evidence of it can be seen by drawing a line of ink across the vertical-grain face of a board. As the ink soaks in, it travels diagonally out from the lines of growth rings. This indicates the possibility of
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 105 Berlin in 936. In the intervening years, he was several times sculling champion of Australia both in the single and with a partner in the double. Years later, his partner became involved in something crooked and met a sticky end. I was told that Wood, by then the commissioner of the Sydney police department, had to make the arrest. Wood had been slated to scull for Australia in the Helsinki Games. Unfortunately, one of his adjustable rowlocks slipped while he was training, his wrist was severely sprained and he was forced to withdraw. The more adjustable fittings in a racing shell, the more there are to come loose. Extra care must always be taken to see that everything is constantly checked and kept tight. It’s all too easy to forget this in the excitement of a regatta. We used to be sure to carry a half-inch end wrench in our pocket to check the fittings on our boats before a race. One wrench was enough in those days. Now, you need a pocketful. Classic Pocock wooden misery whips stresses within the structure of the wood. One sees graphic evidence of this in snags that remain in burned-over areas out on the Olympic Peninsula. They look as though Paul Bunyan had grabbed their tops and twisted them to make them look like giant hawsers standing on end. The twist or spiral is invisible in newly milled lumber and has no effect until long after it leaves the mill. Hilmar showed that if he took a board with the ink-stains, cut it in two and reversed the two pieces, the lines met. This suggested that any stresses within the wood in the two halves might offset each other. It followed that an oar blank, ripped down the middle and then glued back together after one half was turned end-for-end, should remain straight. Several trial pieces were glued up and the premise was borne out. Next, a small run of oars was made, and a new era in oar-making began. We could, at last, supply straight oars. One of the Australian oarsmen, Mervin Wood, had been a member of the Sydney Police Rowing Club crew that represented Australia at
THE BEG REGATTA WAS SLATED FOR THE VEDDER CANAL, AN irrigation ditch some 45 miles out of Vancouver. Local rowing enthusiasts had tried to convince Games officials that their money would be better spent in developing Burnaby Lake. Such a course, right in the center of the Greater Vancouver area, would remain an asset to the city for years to come. Their pleas were in vain. The ditch was dammed at great expense to provide still water for the races. A few days before the Games began, nature took a hand in proving how wrong the decision was. Torrential rains flooded the surrounding countryside, and the resulting runoff overwhelmed the canal. The dam burst and for a time it looked as though there would be no regatta. The flood finally subsided enough to allow the races to go on, but the crews had to row against a strong current that could not be stopped. The race of most interest to the local people was for the Gold Medal in the eights. The English crew looked good, but the VRC/UBC crew prevailed despite a crab caught at the start. Crabs caught in races are often a disaster, but can be a blessing in disguise if they’re caught early and a quick recovery is made. The resulting infusion of adrenaline
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 106 can work wonders on a crew. I have mentioned elsewhere that, at the time, we were the only ones making outriggers that allowed quick recovery from crabs (thanks to Ky Ebright’s bright idea back in the ‘30s). The VRC/UBC crab-threatened victory was clear evidence of such an outrigger’s worth. Their win was a major accomplishment for Frank Read and the crew of upstarts from the colonies. I can still see Colonel Tommy Taylor, rowing and sculling enthusiast and longtime member of the VRC, running up and down the float with tears coursing down his cheeks as his crew (he thought of them as his, anyway) came in to land. He was the man who had taken the lead in the fight to develop the Burnaby Lake site. The Games over, Tommy continued his efforts and, shortly before he died, he saw his dream come true.
I
WAS BLESSED WITH WHAT I THOUGHT WAS A BARNBURNER of a crew in the 955 season. We began with a huge squad of more than 200 men. The good material was not especially deep, but then it rarely was, no matter what coaches in other places thought. The only really big squad I can recall was the gang Gus Eriksen had the year before he left for his new job at Syracuse. He had enough men taller than six feet in the turnout to fill six eight - a rowing coach’s dream. I never had anything to compare with that, but, on average, I was fortunate to work with better material than did most of the Freshman coaches in the country. There were usually enough big men for me to make up a decent-looking outfit and almost always enough smaller, eager ones to make them earn their seats. The fall training went well, the weatherman was kind to us and we made great strides. One episode from that autumn remains clear in my memory. It happened in late October after the squad had graduated to the shells. Darkness was falling as we approached the Montlake Cut on our way back to the barn. One of the cox’ns - first
time out in a shell - had shown that he could not get the hang of steering. I held my breath as he headed into the Cut. As I had feared, he ran into first one wall and then the other before making it through. With the shell still miraculously afloat, he pointed it in the general direction of home. By rare good fortune, and with much help, he found the passage to the shellhouse. I was close behind him with the launch to pick up survivors in the not unlikely event that he crashed into something. Peering into the gloom, I spotted an obstacle. Before I could shout a warning, he speared it - dead center. The obstacle was a fishing boat with two people in it. What they were doing there, right smack in front of our floats, I could not imagine. The managers on the float should have warned them away when they heard the crews coming. One of the people in the boat - a woman from the sound of it - was screaming bloody murder. From where I was, it looked as though the shell had gone right through her. She had to be dying. Suffering agonies of remorse, I had my driver run the launch in as close as possible to see whether we could help. I looked for blood but could see none. The bow of the shell, having gone in one side of the boat and out the other, appeared to be resting on top of the woman’s legs. The shell had suffered no apparent damage, and I had the crew back it out. It came loose, but the screaming continued. In pitch darkness, we towed the wreck over to the float where there was some light. There, we could see that the shell had cut through the rubber waders that the woman was wearing, and through her jeans as well, but had not broken the skin. We calmed her down and convinced the man that his miserable little punt would be repaired for him. Later, they sued the university. The suit, settled out of court, must have netted them quite a chunk because it was not long before signs appeared, warning of dire consequences should anyone venture into the waters bordering the campus. The Cascade (the eight involved in the incident) suffered little other than superficial damage, but there must have had a hex on her. The following spring, she was ran over a major obstacle out by the island off Fox Point, and the bottom was ripped right out of
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 107 here. Re-planked, she went on to perform yeoman service. (See page 24 for the story of how this island came to be)
Ship Fantome on Portage Bay; foreground, 950 UW Varsity IRA winners; Left to right (VIII in foreground) : Ken Walters, Norm Buvick, Al Ulbrickson, Rod Johnson, Al Morgan HAVING ENJOYED LIFE AT THE SHELLHOUSE IN THE SPRING OF 953, the oarsmen decided to make living there a permanent thing. Al had become supportive of the enterprise to the extent of having his Buildings and Grounds friends put a roof over the shellhouse porch. The men no longer had to sleep out in the snow on winter nights. Not all the oarsmen chose to live under such Spartan conditions, but some did. The rest, instead of keeping their bunks in the lounge as they did the first year, now had them in the boat bays downstairs. For the next several years, there was never a requirement to live at the shellhouse. It was strictly voluntary, and most of the oarsmen chose to do so. Succeeding coaches let it be known, or at least implied, that anyone hoping to make the crew had better move in. It was then that
the effectiveness of the place began to wane. In VBC’s heyday, all the myriad details of its operation were handled by the men, and expenses were shared by those who chose to live there. Later, operations were taken over by the Student Housing Administration. I saw that as being another nail driven into the coffin. Now that rowing is under the umbrella of the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA), oarsmen are not permitted to live together, not even if at their own expense. The VBC, as it was, is no more. OUR CREWS OFTEN ROWED PAST THE FANTOME, WHICH WAS moored in Portage Bay during World War II to protect her from the dangers of war in Europe. After hostilities ended, her owner - a member of the Guinness Stout dynasty - had her sailed back to Europe, where she was eventually bought by Aristotle Onassis, who was looking for a wedding gift for Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier of Monaco. An invitation to the nuptials failed to arrive, however, and the gift was never made. After rusting in neglect for some years, she was sold to a firm offering cruises in the Caribbean for wealthy adventurers. In October of 989, a violent storm later known as Hurricane Mitch was brewing. As the danger to the ship became more apparent, her owners ordered the captain to head for Belize City. There the passengers and the bulk of the crew were disembarked, put on airplanes, and flown elsewhere to escape the storm’s wrath. The captain, with only a skeleton crew aboard, took the Fantome back out to sea in hope of finding shelter behind one of the offshore islands (Belize City offered none). The crew kept in contact by radio for some hours; then, the radio went dead. They were never heard from again. THERE WERE SEVERAL MEN FROM THE SAE (SIGMA ALPHA Epsilon) house on the 955 squad; enough to make up an eight, including a cox’n. Midway through the season, I heard some rumbles that they thought I should put them together. They were sure that they would be faster than any other combination. I pretended ignorance for as long as I could, but eventually decided they should be given their
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 108 chance. One afternoon, my daily pre-workout lecture included the announcement that the next day would be a Chose Your Own Lineup day. The squad could put together whatever lineups they wished, and we would have a two-mile race for the squad championship. It was a safe bet that the SAEs would make up a crew of their own, but I was curious to see what the rest of the squad would do. Sure enough, the next day found all nine of the SAEs in the same boat. They made an impressive-looking crew, there being only one, or
Author shoving off to test a new single before shipping -1948
maybe two, who could not be considered first boat material. Another lineup, one that barely caught my eye, was made up of men who were living at the shellhouse. They called themselves the Varsity Boat Club crew. Ragtag and bobtailed, they didn’t look to stand a chance. When it was over, they had taken measure of the SAE super-boat. I never heard any more squawks from the fraternity boys about not being together. Actually, three or four of them did end up in the first boat. They, and I, learned something that day. One must look beyond outward appearances to see something of what goes on inside a person. THE LINEUP THAT I FINALLY SETTLED ON LEARNED HOW TO ROW well. At least they looked pretty. By the time their first race came along, I was sure they would be successful. The question arose as to which boat they should use. The Washingtonia was still OK, but, with this size crew, I was nervous about its behavior in rough water. Al had not been buying any new shells, and using the Tyee - the old Standard boat that I had used for the races in 953 - was out of the question. Earlier that spring, a cox’n had ripped off two or three of its outriggers while trying to take a shortcut inside one of the dolphins - not the fish kind, but rather, one of the clumps of pilings along the shores of Lake Union that once plagued cox’ns. Rushed up into the shop, the boat was rebuilt in my spare time. Still, it was due for a rest. Dad suggested that I use a brand-spanking-new boat we had in the shop, the result of an order having fallen through. That was OK by me. It took crust on my part, but Al didn’t seem to mind. Later, after the Syracuse race, we knocked down the price and sold it to the Stanford Crew Association to help them out. They took delivery of the shell in Seattle the following May. Instead of rowing it in preparation for their race with the UW, their coach had them spend all their time sanding and polishing the bottom. They lost the race, and the coach had the bad grace of accusing us of having sold the boat to them cheap because there was something wrong with it. He was in a losing year, but I still had a hard time forgiving him.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 109 The Frosh had no trouble with Cal. The day before the regatta, I was boredom and stored-up energy, the beckoning lake and everything else standing in front of the shellhouse with their coach as we watched my I could think of. I suggested that any talk of expulsion was ridiculous. crew heading out. He asked whether they were the Varsity. When told that There was nothing in this prank that warranted jeopardizing their they were our Frosh, he looked ready to pack up and head for home. entire futures. We should be talking instead about the damage incurred, and what it would cost the culprits to make amends. NOT LONG AFTER THAT, I WAS OUT SCULLING ON A SUNDAY My arguments carried the day. B&G presented an estimate of the afternoon - not much traffic on the lake in those days. In the distance, cost of repair - very inflated, I thought, but then, what engine repair I spotted the old lifeboat used by the UW Buildings and Grounds bills are not? The oarsmen, relieved to be let off the hook, went back to Department as a workboat. Usually, it was kept tied up outside the the shellhouse to figure out how to pay the damages. Almost everyone launchhouse, yet here it was, chugging out toward Kirkland. I had down there had ridden in the Queen at one time or another, and it never heard of B&G people working overtime, and wondered what was agreed that the burden should be borne by all. I never did hear on earth was going on. As the boat drew closer, I recognized the what it cost each of them. Though cast in the role of defending acts occupants: oarsmen who lived at the shellhouse out on a lark with by others that I would never have had the nerve to do myself, I was their girlfriends. They stopped, and we had a chat. They said they happy to have sidetracked the steamroller. Noted by almost no one often went for a cruise and a picnic on weekends when the weather was the fact that two or three years later, several of those same men was decent. They called the old tub the “African Queen”. As they were members of the crew that defeated the Russians in Moscow. headed on out, I chuckled to myself and thought, “Well, good for them. I just hope they don’t find themselves in a heap of trouble.” I STILL CHUCKLE WHEN I THINK OF AN INCIDENT THAT Trouble is exactly what they found. When the workmen arrived occurred soon after we left Seattle for our trip East that year. John at the launchhouse the following morning, they discovered that the Halberg, one of the Frosh, had a problem. He had forgotten his “gimp boat’s engine was burned out. A witch hunt was soon under way. After pad.” John, whose nickname was “Gimp,” had one leg shorter than the threat was made to throw out all those living at the shellhouse, the other. This caused him discomfort, and his rowing suffered. He five or six of them owned up. A hearing was scheduled to decide was a competitive man, and I wanted to use him if I possibly could. what their fate should be. Fearing that no one at the meeting would To remedy the situation I made a thick wooden insole for him. With see their side of it, I asked Al if I could attend and speak for the that insert in his shoe, his pelvis was squared up and he found the miscreants. The culprits were there, of course, as were the athletic relief he sorely needed. The squad dubbed the insert the “gimp pad” director, the dean of students and others, along with Al and me. and John carried it with him as he was moved from boat to boat in The young men were frightened, and rightfully so. The authorities the normal progress of the training season. When the lineups were were out for blood. “Irresponsibility” was the key word, along with about set, I fastened it permanently to his clog. He thus became the talk of grades being held up, prosecution, even expulsion from the only man on the squad with his spot in the crew nailed down. Lest university. I kept my mouth closed until I could stand it no longer. he get the big head, I warned him that it would be easy for me to Taking the floor, I told the inquisitors that, rather than being ashamed jerk out the pad. I finally did name him to race in the IRA. A day or of them for their misbehavior, I would have been more concerned had two before we left, we had to load the boats we would take with us. the young men not succumbed to the temptation. I went on to talk of I removed the pad and stuck it in the boat that we would use for the
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 110 last turnouts before our departure. After their final outing I made a point of reminding him, “Now, John, don’t forget your gimp pad.” Several of us - Al, Click, Dad and I, along with the railroad company rep who was to accompany us as far as Spokane - were chatting in our section shortly after the train pulled out when I heard voices in the vestibule. I recognized John’s voice when he said something to the effect that he’d better go tell the old boy (I was all of 32) and listen to him howl. I had an inkling what the problem might be. John came in with a couple of the other Frosh. Sheepishly, John said, “Coach, I hate to tell you, but I forgot my gimp pad.” Forewarned as I was, I just grinned, shook my head, said, “Gee, Gimp, that’s sure too bad,” picked up the book that I had with me and pretended to resume reading. They left. As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned to the railroad man. Knowing that he was taking the midnight train from Spokane back to Seattle, I asked him to call Don at the shop the next morning, give him the dope on finding the pad and have him airmail it to John at the New York State Fairgrounds in Syracuse. He agreed to do this, and I breathed more easily. I still had my fingers crossed when we arrived in Syracuse. Though I knew I could easily make another pad if need be, I hated the thought of missing this grand opportunity to make an impact. One can imagine my feelings on seeing John’s happy face when next I saw him. I had just settled in at the coaches’ shack when he and several others burst in. “How did you do it?” he asked again and again. “It was lying on my bunk.” I just gave another grin and said, “Only a miracle, that’s all.” This was long before the day of FedEx and overnight mail delivery, and it was a miracle of sorts. I felt that now I might have him and the rest of the crew in the palm of my hand. I only hoped that I could take advantage of this and lead them to the championship that I thought they had earned. Like so many dreams, this was not to be.
Don Grant (UW cox ’22, ’23), George Pocock, Bud Raney (UW Frosh coach), Stork Sanford (Cornell coach) & Norm Sonju (future Wisconsin coach) - Poughkeepsie -circa 1937
hot and muggy afternoons that so often plagued the crews there. Early that morning, I took the crew for their regular pre-breakfast walk. Strolling down by the horse barns at the fairgrounds, we watched the trainers exercising their race horses in the cool of the dawn. Just to make conversation, I asked one of them - trainer, that is - why they did this so early. The oarsmen probably thought that only rowing coaches were crazy enough to have anyone doing anything at that hour of the morning. His answer was that he would never even think of running horses in the heat of the day. There was too much risk of hurting them, and they were much too valuable. I had the passing thought that we, WE HAD HEADED FOR SYRACUSE WITH HIGH HOPES. IT WAS THE the coaches and officials, ought to be put in jail; subjecting, as we were, first time that a crew of mine were entered in a race that I was sure all those young oarsmen to the potential damage that racehorses were they would win. Race day threatened to be another of those extremely not, bordered on being a criminal offense.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 111 I even had the temerity to ask Norm Sonju what he thought of all of us refusing to put crews out in such weather and asking the officials to delay the races until the cool of evening. He had no answer. (Years later - after he retired - he recalled having agreed with me at the time, but of not being able to talk himself into it.) I thought seriously about withdrawing my crew anyway, but did not have the courage to do so. I thought of towing them up near the start with the coaching launch, or, barring that, having our spares paddle the boat up the lake to somewhere near the start where the crew could then embark. There was nothing in the rules that said the crews had to embark at the boathouses. To avoid the risk of being accused of cheating, I could go to the cox’n’s meeting later that morning and try talking all the coaches into doing this. What I finally decided to do was…forget it. All the other crews were faced with the same situation, and their coaches were not acting. I decided that I must be making something out of nothing. THAT AFTERNOON, THE FROSH LOST TO AN GREAT CORNELL outfit. In the outside lane, we had a good start and were well in the lead going into the last half-mile. Then Cornell - in the far lane nearest the shore - started to gain. Our crew never sprinted. Perhaps they had shot their bolt and had nothing left, and I’m not sure that John Bisset, our cox’n, ever saw Cornell coming. I had warned him before the race that, because of the heat, his stroke man, Lou Gellermann, would likely be in trouble as they approached the last few 100 meters. He was not to call for a sprint if everything looked OK. However, if he thought it necessary, he must take a page from the performance of Cal’s Ralph Purchase in the 1948 Olympic Trials; throw his rudder lines away (in those days the shells would go in a straight line by themselves with no help from someone with a rudder), rise up on the seat back, start screaming bloody murder and splashing water on Lou to wake him up. I saw him do none of these things, which is what makes me sure that he didn’t see the threat. We lost by a few feet. Whatever the reason for the loss, I was bitterly disappointed, as were the crew.
Fortunately for the JV and Varsity crews, the weather broke. As the JVs were heading up toward the starting line, a terrific thunder and lightning storm hit. The rain poured down in buckets. All the crews pulled in to shore to lessen the chance of their being hit by lightning, and the race was postponed. After an hour or so, the rain and wind let up, the water calmed and the temperature dropped. Conditions for the remaining two races were excellent. Our Varsity and JV were able to do little, however, and had to settle for fourth place in each event. At the banquet afterward, I was too overcome by our loss to give the kind of talk I thought would help salvage something of what otherwise had been a successful season for the Frosh. That made me feel even worse. In retrospect, that loss was due, at least in part, to faults in my approach to coaching. I had always believed that the essential thing in rowing was how one rowed and not why; superior rowing technique was the key. Perhaps this came from my never having been a real competitor myself. Whatever the reason, this crew did not seem to have the burning desire that winning requires. They either lacked the killer instinct or harbored unhappiness over something of which I was unaware. Just before leaving Seattle I had put a big fellow in the boat who really had not earned the spot. Physically, he was a coach’s dream, and I wanted to encourage him to come back as a sophomore, trusting that Al could make something of him. I was not helping the boat, but, hopefully, not hurting it. Perhaps this was bothering them. Parenthetically, the following summer the young man came around to the house to ask why I had used him, admitting that he knew he had not earned the seat. I told him that I had put him in there because of his great potential as an oarsman. If he came out in October and really applied himself, he would be surprised. That following season, he did turn out, was surprised and went on to enjoy a successful rowing career, both at the UW and, later, with the LWRC and the U.S. Olympic team. Just to show that I didn’t always do everything right, one of the other men in that same crew told me he wasn’t sure he had earned his spot either. I gave him the same song and dance, but he didn’t buy it, and I never saw him again.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 112 Two years earlier, I had received an attractive offer from Rusty Callow. He wanted me to take the job as Plebe coach at the Naval Academy, and the Varsity position when he retired - predicated, naturally, on my doing a decent job with the Plebes in the meantime. While his offer was tempting, I had no desire to coach at the Academy - or anywhere else, for that matter - and I turned the offer down. I knew that boatbuilding was what I wanted to do with my life. Anyway, now all was in a jumble. I hated the idea of my going out on a loss, and this meant that my resigning would have to wait. So, I kept my mouth shut, thinking I could give it one more year. I spent much time that summer planning new approaches for the coming year’s effort. I need not have bothered.
Cedar shells at Conibear shellhouse WHAT MADE THAT LOSS YET EVEN HARDER FOR ME TO TAKE WAS my having decided to hang up my stopwatches at the end of the season if the crew won. I knew that it was high time for me to concentrate on my job at the shop. There still was so much for me to learn if I was serious about taking over. Dad had been operated on for prostate cancer the year before and, while he seemed to have made a complete recovery (he actually had 20 good years ahead of him), I could not help reminding myself that none of us lives forever. Resigning from my coaching job seemed the thing to do. I even talked to Royal on the train as we headed for Syracuse, telling him - in what I mistakenly thought was a private conversation - of my decision. He wrote up the story (forgetting that I had told him I would be resigning only if my crew won) and wired it back to Seattle. It appeared in his next column in the P-I. Waiting for me in Syracuse was an irate phone call from Lois. Having heard nothing of any such decision from me, she felt left out, and rightfully so.
IT WAS AT ABOUT THIS TIME THAT THE UW ADMINISTRATION decided to change their policy relative to private activities on the university campus. Mostly a hangover from the school’s early days when help was sought from any quarter, these arrangements no longer seemed appropriate. A list was drawn up of people who would be asked to cease their enterprises on campus. Several of the names on the list belonged to individuals who were familiar to decades of alumni, as well as to many of the undergraduates: John Katsouras, the popcorn man, for instance. Mysteriously, and one might say happily, as far as those familiar with his vast contributions to rowing were concerned, Dad’s name was left off that list. Curly Harris, aware of the situation and knowing how much Dad meant to the rowing program and to the undergraduates who took part in it, was determined to protect Dad in any way he could. Not long before classes were to start in October after the disastrous loss by my crew at the IRA the previous June, Curly called me in his office and laid out the whole picture. He felt that because my name appeared on the sport pages so often, the secret of the shop was bound to leak out and Dad’s presence at the shellhouse put in jeopardy. After reading Brougham’s misleading article telling of my having decided to resign as soon as Al found a suitable replacement, he figured that I
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 113 wanted out anyway and saw this as being a good time to do it. While I felt that my contributions to the crew program were being given short shrift, I agreed to do what he asked. It was a loyal, albeit ill-conceived gesture toward Dad on Curly’s part. We could so easily have worked out a deal whereby we announced our plans to leave the university in the near future to build boats elsewhere. This is what I wanted to do, anyway. Our business had long since outgrown the limited space the Conibear shop afforded, and I wanted to enjoy what I saw as the freedom of being out on our own. If Ulbrickson wanted him to do so, Dad could stay on at the shellhouse maintaining and repairing equipment and counseling young men as he had for so many years in the past; paid or unpaid, it didn’t really matter. I could have stayed on as Frosh coach for a year or two - again, assuming that Al wanted me to - seeking that elusive last win. Such an arrangement would have saved the athletic department and the university having to endure all the bad feelings generated later on by well-meaning people who did not understand the true story.
FEW SECR ETS AR E K EPT FOR EVER, BUT SEVER AL YE ARS went by before Curly Harris and Nelson Wahlstrom, UW Comptroller, came in the shop one day looking ill at ease. Not having much to say, they invited us to join them for lunch at the Rainier Club the following day. Then we knew for sure that something was in the wind. Dad looked around at me and, with an ironic grin, drew his finger across his throat. The next day we shook off the shavings and sawdust, put on our best clothes and went downtown to meet our fate. It must have been an uncomfortable chore for Nelson and Curly, for they were our good friends and loyal supporters. I could sense that my dad, though he put up a good front, was hurt. Having spent the better part of his lifetime helping rowing at Washington and throughout the country, he found being given the bum’s rush hard to take. His long connection with the university - one which meant so much to him - was being brought to an unceremonious end. For my part, I was only sorry that we had not jumped in there first to say that we were leaving. (As usual, I’m ahead of myself. These events weren’t going to happen until a few more years down the road. In the WE STAYED ON IN THE CONIBEAR SHOP FOR SOME TIME, meantime, we stayed busy supplying shells and oars to the rowing conducting business as usual. We kept all the rowing equipment in community nationwide.) good repair, built an eight-oared shell each year for the program and continued to take care of whatever orders came in from other places. IN 956 THE U W ATHLETIC DEPA RTMENT WA S DEEP IN Though I didn’t enjoy the same close connection with the rowing trouble through allegations concerning football boosters’ recruiting program itself, my relations with Ulbrickson remained cordial. and slush fund activities. An often-quoted remark by one former Fil Leanderson was hired in my place. I knew him well, for he Husky star that “…I took a pay cut when I left the UW and went to had stroked my first Frosh crew back in 950. With four successful the NFL,” didn’t help much. Speaking of that young man, while still undergraduate years at stroke, along with Olympic racing experience in school, he was brought down to the shellhouse one morning by under his belt, he seemed the ideal pick. He had coached the Charley McIntyre, who wanted to introduce him to the art of sculling. UW 50s after graduation and sought my advice before heading Confidant in his athletic ability, he paid little attention to Charley’s off to the Frosh job under Stub McMillin at MIT. I liked Fil and instructions. Seeing that he was going to have to learn the hard way, looked forward to working with him, but he never sought my help. we stuck him in a wherry and shoved him off. He immediately found Perhaps he imagined that I was sore at being kicked out. While I himself afraid to make a move. Drifting down the Cut, he finally had did miss associating with the young men, I was where I wanted to to call for help. We went out and towed him in. That was the only be - building racing shells. time I ever saw him, other than on the football field.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 114
Dick Erickson, Horace McCurdy & George Pocock -1971 That story reminds me of another sculling aspirant who came to grief. The only part he remembered of all the instructions given was that he must never let go of his sculls. Shoved away from the float, he went through every wild contortion imaginable, nearly tipping over several times, but grimly retaining a death grip on his sculls. Once he settled down, he was unable to move because both hands - still safely glued to the scull handles - were behind his back! He had to holler for help. I don’t remember ever seeing him around the shellhouse again, either. Starting with the 957 season, the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) banned the UW from participation in postseason sports events for two years. Through some cockeyed reasoning, rowing was included in the ban, even though intercollegiate rowing was not an NCAA-recognized sport. There was irony and, as we saw later, poetic justice resulting from this unwarranted action against the crews. For one thing, what was intended as an economic penalty for their transgressions proved instead to be of considerable financial benefit to the athletic department. The ban meant that the Associated Students of the University of Washington (ASUW) wouldn’t have
to underwrite the cost of sending crews to the IRA regatta for the next two years. The public-relations benefit to the university itself was enormous. People in the community were angry at what they perceived as an unjustified penalty having been directed against the crews. When the ban was lifted, someone came up with the idea of sending a crew to Henley - probably Curly at work again. A fundraising drive, strongly supported by both The Times and the P-I, was launched. The public put their money where their mouth was and, within days, enough was raised to send the Varsity and four alternates to England with thousands of dollars to spare. Though they lost to the Russians in the first heat at Henley, the Huskies soon were offered the opportunity to redeem themselves. After accepting an invitation from the Russians for a rematch, they traveled to Moscow at State Department expense and trounced five Soviet crews in a regatta on their home waters. When the news of that victory reached Seattle, the media went wild and the university reaped untold benefits from all that publicity without having spent a red cent. Several months after his triumphant return from Moscow, Al announced his retirement. By coincidence, I had seen him just the night before as the Varsity crews headed out for a workout. It was early January, nearly dark, pouring rain. There he was, all by himself, save for his driver, hunkered down in Conny. I remember thinking that he must find it a miserable, lonely way to earn a living. It was the perfect time for Ulbrickson to leave. He was able to retire after a win of epic proportions. Though only in his late 50s, he had been on the job for over 30 years and was due a full pension from the university. He had had a wonderful run at it and deserved the well-earned rest. The morning after the announcement, he came in the shop to thank Dad for all the help he had given him. He was worn down and did not look well. When next I saw him - some two or three years later - he looked at least 0 years younger. There was a testimonial dinner given him in recognition of all that he had meant to rowing at the UW, but I was away at the time and did not hear of it until much later.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 115 WITH AL GONE, THE SITUATION AT CONIBEAR SHELLHOUSE changed almost overnight. Within days, the football coaches swarmed in - they wanted to move their team in for the coming season. The oarsmen were told they could have the place back for Winter and Spring Quarters. Football players hanging around the place had a profound effect on the rowing program. Just as oil and water do not mix, the oarsmen and the football players (at least in those days) found little in common. With their semiprofessional outlook, the football jocks belittled the pure amateurism of the oarsmen. The oarsmen, in turn, began to question their own dedication. After several years of having the football players pig out much as the oarsmen had, the athletic department built a large addition to the shellhouse, creating first-class housing for the footballers. The crews were allowed to use these facilities in the spring, but I’m not sure the plusses outnumbered the minuses. The sense of adventure that had made the operation so great in the beginning was no longer there. It was gone, and I was glad that I was gone as well. AT ABOUT THIS TIME THERE WAS A CALL FROM HOR ACE McCurdy, a Seattle man who was a great booster and supporter of MIT rowing and a generous donor to the UW program. After rowing as a Freshman at the UW prior to transferring to MIT, he had been instrumental in starting the rowing program there while still an undergraduate. He was calling to ask us about Dick Erickson, who had applied for the job as Freshman coach at MIT. Dick had played a stellar role as an oarsman while at the UW, and after graduation had rowed one year with the fledgling Lake Washington Rowing Club. Full of enthusiasm for rowing, he was an outstanding choice. Mr. McCurdy passed the word along, and Dick was hired. His first crew beat all East Coast rivals. He was fortunate in having a stroke man with fire in his eye. In the two years that this man turned out for the MIT Varsity, they beat a number of crews. When Leanderson took over from Al in February of 959, he hired John Bisset to coach the Frosh. John was my cox’n during the last season I coached (955), and he coxed the UW Varsity when they beat
UW Varsity - 1966 - identifiable, left to right: Terry Efird, Howie Wallace, Dave Kroeger, Chuck Schluter, Paul Roesen, Earl McFarlane, Bill Pitlick, Dave Covey the Russians in Moscow. After two or three successful seasons under Fil, he left Seattle to take on the head coaching job at UCLA, and Erickson was brought back to take his place. John did a good job for the Bruins, his crews beating Washington on at least two occasions. Dick had fair success in his new job at UW. Again, his first crew were winners. Fil had some good crews, and they continued Washington’s domination of the West Coast. I recall, in particular, a Western Sprint Regatta at Vallejo during his tenure. In those days, all competitors drew from a pool of boats made available by the host organization. Because all the boats then in use on the West Coast were made by Dad and me, everyone figured that they must be about the same, and they were more or less happy. Fil drew a small eight that we had built the previous year for Ed Lickiss and his Oakland Strokes on Lake Merritt. The Huskies were rather big for the boat, but I was sure they
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 116 would be OK if the wind didn’t blow. You guessed it. On race day, the wind was howling up the bay, Bouncing off the wall that ran all the way along the course, the waves were rebounding and standing on top of each other. The course was as close to being unrowable as one will ever see. I felt sorry for Phil Waters, former Stanford oarsman, who had agreed to act as starter and umpire for the regatta. He faced a virtually impossible task. We took all the trainers’ tape that the manager had in his trunk and went to work spreading strips across the riggers to make wings or baffles that we hoped would keep out some of the water. Fil’s Varsity won. One of his best crews, I think. The Frosh and JV races were won by Stanford. They had drawn a boat that we had built the previous year for Bob Hillen, coach at USC. The schedule of races was such that they could use the same boat in both events. I had heard that the USC oarsmen did not like it because it was too heavy. We had used mahogany on it - much darker than red cedar - it did look heavy. This illusion didn’t seem to have bothered the Stanford crews. The morning following the regatta, after first checking to confirm that the waters of the bay were like glass - as I was sure they would be now that the races were over - I rode down with Conn Findlay to return the boat to the USC boathouse on San Pedro Harbor. Hillen and a couple of his men were there to help unload. Concerned about this supposedly heavy boat, I asked Bob if they had a pair of scales handy. If he did, I wanted to weigh the boat. The scales were brought out, and we found the weight to be about what I thought it should be. Then I asked if we could weigh one of the boats that the men liked - one that was not so heavy. They picked one, and we brought it out. Guess what! It weighed exactly the same as the boat thought by them to be so heavy. Bob scratched his head over that. I only hoped that he wouldn’t begin thinking that all their boats were too heavy, for he had been partial to our boats for a number of years. It was Bob who bought one of our very first glass eights. It was light blue in color. They actually beat a couple of crews while using it. They called it the “Blue Bomb” and gave it some of the credit for their
victories. By the time I saw them late in the season, they were back to losing races, convinced it was the Bomb’s fault. They began using other makes, but that didn’t help. San Pedro Harbor is a tough place to row. It is far from the campus, and Bob had to fight an uphill battle at all times. It always seemed a miracle to me that he kept any kind of program going. LEANDERSON’S CREWS GAVE A GOOD ACCOUNT OF THEMSELVES on the West Coast, but had little success at the annual IRA Regatta. Fil’s Waterloo descended upon him in 966. The UW athletic director was in Syracuse for the first time in many years. Despite newspaper talk about how good they were, the Varsity finished way back. I never heard an answer to the inevitable question: What happened? I think Fil was relieved to step down the following year. He recognized good rowing when he saw it, but seemed overwhelmed by the job and never appeared as though he was having any fun at it. During his nine years on the job, he never sought our advice. If he had, we would have gone out of our way to help take some of the load off his back and his mind. Being ignored by Fil hurt Dad - and me - deeply. I am sure that one of the secrets of every successful man in any line of endeavor - and especially in the coaching of young men - lies in the ability to at least appear to be enthusiastic. I asked my dad one time how he always managed this every day when so often there was much to be moody about. He admitted that he felt low at times, but, before walking in the door of the shop each morning, he reminded himself to put on a happy face and to always run up the stairs. I thought to myself that if that works for him it ought to work for me. I didn’t do so well on the happy face part, but, to this day, I still find it hard to just walk up stairs. The Varsity job was wide open, though logical progression dictated that Erickson be given the nod. The position may not have been fulltime. When Fil succeeded Al, the two rowing coaches were reduced to half-time status. The members of the Board of Rowing Stewards were sadly remiss in permitting the athletic department to downgrade the
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 117 sport. Both Dad and I were totally out of the loop by then, and there as his Frosh coach, but Lou soon left, and Rick Clothier took over. was nothing either of us could do or say. Fil had to supplement his Rick had some fine crews and then was hired by the Naval Academy income with a job in the staff personnel office at University Hospital. I to be their head coach. There he has remained to the present day. He never heard how Bisset managed. Dick, having earned a masters degree has developed excellent crews there, despite the sometimes difficult in education at Harvard while coaching in Cambridge, supplemented conditions at the Academy; to my mind, one of the outstanding his income by teaching elementary school in Edmonds. coaches in the country. I WAS FLATTERED WHEN ASKED TO TAKE ON THE VARSITY JOB, but it was too late. I might have accepted when Al left, had the job been offered. Now, the job was mine if I wanted it, and I didn’t want it. Still, what a temptation! I had to work hard at reminding myself that I had my chosen profession in boat-building. There was too much responsibility in the shop, and I would never feel right in giving the time and attention that coaching the Varsity squad would demand. When I turned down the AD’s offer, he asked whom I thought might do the best job. I struggled with that. I knew that Erickson had worked hard at coaching the Frosh and wanted the Varsity job badly. The other man uppermost in my mind was Ted Nash. His winning record as Frosh coach at Penn could not be ignored. I gave the AD those two names and told him that if he wanted a guaranteed winner, Ted was his man. I also said that he might find Ted a hard man to handle, one who might embarrass the university now and then. There was no question, however, that he would win the majority of his races. On the other hand, should he be looking for someone whose heart and soul was in UW rowing, Dick was the one. Himself competitive to a fault, his crews would win many races. Creative as well, he would see that his men graduated from the university glad to have taken part in the sport. Nash was offered the job. He accepted, contingent on his not taking over until the following year asserting that he had made commitments at Penn that had to be fulfilled. Both he and Dick were in my office at the shop a few days later. I could scarcely believe my ears when Ted asked Dick if he would take the Varsity for one year while he finished up at Penn. Dick, of course, refused, Ted turned the job down and Dick was hired. He chose Lou Gellermann
WHEN I LEFT MY POSITION WITH THE UW, I FIGURED THAT WAS the end of coaching for me. I went so far as to burn all the log books I had carefully kept during eight years of learning how to teach rowing. (Afterward, I was more than a little sorry about that rash act.) My life was now centered around the task of building rowing equipment and on what contribution I could make to the rowing game in that way. I enjoyed the work and looked forward to spending my life at it. I did not suppose that I would ever make much money at it, but I knew that enjoying one’s work goes a long way toward a successful, happy life. Having made something of a reputation as a coach, I hoped that this would encourage people to think that I knew something about rowing equipment. Were this true, they might continue buying their boats from us when Dad retired and I took over. By the time Dad died in 976, however, the search for magic was on. People were buying boats anywhere and everywhere in a frantic search for an advantage. WITH THE SHOP LOCATED IN THE UW SHELLHOUSE, OUR overhead was low; even so, we faced a host of obligations. We had to maintain and repair all of the Huskies’ rowing equipment, and this was no small task. There were 25 eights, along with a few small boats - mostly fours - as well as the aging training barge and hundreds of oars to take care of. Only the coaching launches were not under our care, they being serviced by the Buildings and Grounds Department. Most of the boats and oars - aside from the three shells reserved for racing - were in use every day. Just keeping up with the daily wear and tear on them occupied one or more of us in the shop much of the time.
IV – Lengthening Out (1953–1958) – 118 Every summer, Dad and I put the entire gang to work renovating the fleet. This program included repairing any major breakage or damage too severe to have been handled during the season as part of our day-to-day maintenance program. Annually, all the boats were sanded and varnished outside; on alternate years they were varnished inside as well. Outriggers and oar blades were repainted and the training barge, Old Nero (dragged up on shore by the oarsmen before they left for the summer), was painted and its bottom tarred. Each year we did a special job of completely renovating the oldest boat in the fleet. This shell was then passed along by the coach to one or another of a variety of struggling programs - Oregon State, Stanford, Puget Sound, Pacific Lutheran or Green Lake, to name a few. Our only proviso relative to this largess was that, when the boat was ready to be junked, the recipient crew was to cut off its bow and return it to us so that we could use it to make a trophy. That happened only on rare occasion. We also built a new eight each year for the university to replace the one given away. Once we had taken care of all these obligations, our agreement left us free to supply rowing equipment to anyone else who might wish to order from us. We tried to return the favors shown us by keeping our prices as low as we could, thereby helping the sport in a tangible way. On many occasions, I wondered whether anyone ever recognized or appreciated this effort. It sometimes seemed that were we to give the boats away, there would still be people complaining about prices. On the other hand, I recall Tip Goes’ statement - when he was United States Olympic Rowing Committee (USORC) chairman - that he thought there was no better bargain anywhere in the world than one of our racing shells. Our low prices undoubtedly kept potential competitors at bay. Most of the country’s premier coaches thought our boats fast, and probably would have bought them at any price. It was tempting for us to run up our prices. Had we succumbed to that temptation, the nagging question would have remained: Where would that have left the many struggling rowing programs with whom we dealt? Those,
for instance, that raised money by selling Christmas trees or digging clams? We were far more interested in helping them than in lining our pockets - not very practical, but we slept nights. After we left the UW cocoon and set up shop in the real world, we would have to boost our prices. Our costs were bound to go through the roof relative to what they had been. While dreaming of leaving, I chose not to dwell on that reality.
Gifting the Winlock W. Miller (built in 1941, note the victory chevrons) to Paul Meyers’ UPS/PLU rowing program - circa 1965 - dentifiable, left to right: Meyer, Fil Leanderson (UW Coach), Unknown UPS rower, Gordon Schilling (PLU)
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 119
CHAPTER V
F
Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959)
OR THE FIRST TIME - AUTUMN 955 - I WAS SPENDING Jay had rowed on my Frosh crew just the year before, and John had all my time and energy in the shop. Coaching was now only recently transferred from the Naval Academy. Both were ineligible something I used to do - or so I thought. I soon discovered for intercollegiate racing during the coming season. The four of them how wrong I was. Within a short time I was right back in it, although wanted me to help them. on a much different scale and as a hobby rather than a vocation. I had already agreed to help two others - Conn Findlay and Dan The next Olympic Games, to be in Australia on Lake Wendouree, Ayrault. Rowing out of the Stanford boathouse in Redwood City, they planned on entering the coxed were coming up the following pair event. Conn, a veteran of year. The Trials were slated for rowing at Southern Cal under Syracuse in June, soon after Bob Hillen, had approached the IR A Regatta. The Games Dad at a regatta in Long Beach t hemselves - being down a couple of years previous to under - would not take place ask about buying a boat. At the until November. time, Conn was rowing with One afternoon, four young his brother, Bill. Dad loved to men came into the shop. They tell of how he had asked Conn wanted to talk about entering the Trials. Two of them, Bob whether he and his brother were Rogers and Ted Frost, were willing to pay the price. Missing the philosophic meaning of the serving in the U.S. Army. The question, Conn had said that, yes, G over n ment h a d re c ent ly they had the money. No, Dad instituted a policy to aid our had replied, that’s not what he U.S. Olympic effort. A qualified meant. Money was the least part athlete attached to any one of Too many men, too few boats - LWRC - 1959 of the price they would have to the armed forces could, upon request, be assigned to an installation near a venue where he could be willing to pay if winning was their goal. He wanted to be sure that best train. Frost had been #6 in the Frosh crew that had surprised they understood this. Only after confirming that there was a meeting the Navy at Marietta in 95 and was a member of the UW crew of the minds did he accept the order. Asked whether he would be that raced in the 952 eight-oared Trials. Rogers, too, had rowed as interested in coaching them, Dad said no, but that he thought I might a Husky. The other two, Jay Hall and John Fish, were still in school. be willing. That’s how I came into the picture.
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 120 About the time Conn’s boat was finished, he wrote to say that Bill had decided to marry. Casting about for a new partner, Conn approached Dan. Still a student at Stanford, Ayrault was co-captain of the crew though only in his Junior year. He had taken the lead in organizing their effort to build a new shellhouse (designed by his brother-in-law, Alan Moses). Conn lived in Belmont in the hills above Redwood City. After graduating from USC in mechanical engineering, he had gravitated to the Stanford boathouse site where he took a major part in building the new facility. The two of them came to Seattle after school was out and picked up their new boat. Now, some months later, I was trying to help them by letter, by phone and by films sent to me. Already committed to Conn and Dan, I hesitated taking on anyone else. We were sure to be extremely busy in the shop. Aside from our regular load of work, we had, again, received an order to build all the boats and oars for our Olympic Team. After mulling over my options, I decided that the further diversion might keep me in the trenches, so to speak. I told the four men that I would help them. Now I had two crews to worry about. Thus began 0 more interesting and exciting years of coaching and travel and rewarding associations for me.
The Washington Athletic Club (WAC ) four - 1956 Left to right: Bob Rogers, Jay Hall, John Fish, Ted Frost
THE NEW MEN SOON SHOWED THEMSELVES SERIOUS IN THEIR intent. Borrowing the old Clipper Too from Ulbrickson to begin their training, I took them out - me in the cox’n’s seat - early each morning before going to work. In the afternoons they rowed with the Varsity turnout in one of the lower boats. This concession on Al’s part was of great help to them. They wanted to compete in the coxed four, but I told them to forget it. That event was sure to be dominated by a college entry. I considered college rowing programs the only place where serious training took place, and they stood a good chance of being outclassed should they enter. I suggested they go for the coxless event, thought by me to be a rowing club affair where the risk of having to race college entries was slim. I was not thinking about their winning the Olympics - a
place on the team seemed enough to hope for. Besides, they had no cox’n. The only hitch in my suggestion was that they had no boat. There was, however, a solution: I could build one for them. As noted earlier, we were snowed under in the shop, but, “Ask a busy man… etc., etc.” Figuring that I could locate a buyer for it after the Trials, I found the spare time to lay down the boat. As one could have almost guaranteed, as soon as we decided to focus on the coxless event, a cox’n showed up. Hank Gaffner, the second man bearing that name to cox at the UW, was now a Lieutenant in the Army. Transferred to Seattle for the Olympic effort, Gaffner became, I suppose, the only man in the history of rowing ever to be listed as the cox’n of a coxless four. The army was not about to reassign him, and he stayed around to act as our manager. With no launch, I didn’t
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 121 need a driver, but he relieved me of many chores. Later, after the crew were in their new boat, any coaching I did was from my single. There was no room in that for anyone but me. Hank spent much of his time on the golf course while the crew rowed and I coached. In designing their boat, I took a chance in that it would have no rudder. In the past, pair-oared crews had enjoyed success in rudderless boats. Two Olympic Gold Medals that I knew of had been won in such a boat. My grandfather, many decades before, had insisted that rudderless boats were faster. Rowing a pair without a rudder demands total concentration; two people must learn to think as one. Also, there is no way that the bow man can cheat by resorting to his rudder to help him when he tires. Thinking it likely that the same would hold true in a coxless four, I didn’t see my idea as being particularly radical. Quadruple sculling boats never had a rudder, and they were OK. With a few lingering misgivings, I went ahead and built the boat. The crew, once used to the idea, liked it and soon could keep it going straight. It was not long, however, before we discovered a problem. The weather vane effect on the boat in a side wind was difficult to overcome. More on that as the story unfolds. The season progressed and the crew developed quickly. They could row the course as straight as an arrow and became fast in the process. When they were not on the water with me in the mornings or rowing with the Varsity in the afternoons, they worked out at the Washington Athletic Club (WAC). They sought and received sponsorship from the WAC. The club bought them a set of oars and agreed to pay their entry fee for the Olympic Trials and provide travel money for the two civilians. The government (i.e., you and I) took care of the expenses for the other two. One day early in March, Joe Scaylea called. Scaylea, chief photographer at The Seattle Times, did freelancing on the side. (Back when I was still coaching the Frosh, I had helped him by running my crews back and forth through the Montlake Cut while he snapped away. Joe’s efforts had paid off when one of those pictures was chosen 953 Sports Photograph of the Year by Look Magazine. The winning
photograph was a spectacular shot of my three Freshman eights racing out of the sunrise into the Cut.) Now, here he was still seeking the perfect rowing photograph. Delighted to hear from him, I agreed to help. The next Saturday morning we met at dawn under the Montlake Bridge - me in my single, the four in their boat, Joe up on the bridge. I had the crew sprint back and forth a few times as the sun peeked over the horizon, after which he waved us off and left. Photo session over, I announced that, today, we would row around Mercer Island. That was considered by me a long way for a sane person to row in any one workout. When coaching the Frosh, I had my crews make the trip once early each season. The several boats were never allowed to race each other. Rather than that, I had them row in single file with stops along the way. The managers met us at the south end of the lake with a crate of oranges for refreshment. Those who wished could jump in for a swim to refresh themselves. Not many did, as it was usually in March and the water icy cold. Dick Erickson did. He was one tough monkey. I don’t remember him ever wearing even a T-shirt in our workouts, no matter what the weather. The long, long session was intended to improve the quality of rowing. I believed that when an oarsman nears exhaustion, he seeks the most efficient way of rowing. That’s what we were looking for — efficiency. Every year, I convinced myself that I saw an improvement in technique once the crews had made the trip. When I suggested to the four that they do this, they raised an awful howl. Their complaints might have been justified. Such a trip would take much longer than a normal workout, and I had given them no prior warning. They could well have had other plans for the day. Hearing no cogent argument, I said nothing, turned my single and headed out toward Laurelhurst Light. They just sat there. Finally, thinking better of it and seeing that I was serious, they started after me. They caught me somewhere out in the middle of Lake Washington and, once by me, stopped. I still didn’t say anything, but just kept on going. They took off after me, passed me once more and again stopped. By then I didn’t dare stop. Not being in very good shape, I was afraid
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 122 that if I did, I would not be able to get going again. In this manner, we played leap frog around the island with me just plugging along. As I rounded the end of the island and headed out around Seward Park Peninsula, I saw them row in toward the beach. It looked to me as though they wanted to save distance and time by portaging across the narrow neck of land which joins the peninsula to the mainland. Maybe they just wanted a rest. Whichever was the case, I didn’t see them again that day. They did make it back because the boat was in its rack the next morning. I only just managed to get back myself. When I crept in our kitchen door, Lois looked at me aghast and exclaimed, “My God, what have you done to yourself?” I mumbled something, stumbled into bed and slept the clock around. For some reason, I felt great the next day. I never asked how the crew felt. THERE WERE TWO OTHER SEATTLE CREWS WHO GAVE IT A TRY that year. Dick Wahlstrom and Al Ulbrickson, Jr., both in uniform, had wangled a transfer to Seattle. Dick had been #7 in my champion Frosh of 950 and afterward had rowed JV and Varsity. Young Al had rowed #6 in 949 Frosh Poughkeepsie champions and with the 950 Varsity winners at Marietta. They both were in the Bronze Medal UW coxed four at Helsinki. In a straight pair this time, they became fast enough before they headed for Syracuse to be considered contenders. The other two, Charley McIntyre and Al Smith, were sculling a double. Charley was a talented sculler who, along with his two brothers, Joe and Richard, had worn the colors of Vesper Boat Club in Philadelphia before settling in Seattle. Joe, as mentioned earlier, had rowed for the UW, as had Richard. All three were veterans of years of club rowing and had won many races on the Eastern circuit. Smitty had rowed as a freshman for me and then picked up the sculling bug from Charley. They had persuaded the Seattle Tennis Club to sponsor them and buy them a boat. I was not asked to help either crew, but I do remember one Saturday morning workout that involved both of them. I had scheduled a time trial for the WAC four, and the other two crews asked to take part.
Hank Isaakson had loaned us a launch, and Dad came along to watch. We lined the three crews up at the Laurelhurst Light. Because both the double and the four were supposedly faster than the pair, I gave the slower boat a head start and then sent the other two off in hot pursuit. Al and Dick’s boat had no rudder, and they immediately veered off to starboard and headed sort of North by West. They actually went behind the island that lay across from Fox Point on the north side of the channel. (Little known is the fact that their shell was the same one that was loaned to the Vancouver Rowing Club in 964 by the UW and used by George Hungerford and Roger Jackson to win (rudderless) at the Tokyo Olympics In lieu of our traditional UW victory chevron, we painted a red maple leaf on the bow. Not expecting to see Dick and Al again, we wrote them off and concentrated on the other two crews who were making a race of it. All at once, out of the blue from behind the island, the wanderers hove in sight. Now heading south by west, they had a head of steam up and were rapidly gaining on the other two. I was amazed at how fast they were going. (The thought did cross my mind that perhaps the others were just slow.) As they approached the Cut, they were aimed dead on the stern of Charley’s boat and gaining on every stroke. Charley was screaming his head off. All I could see of him were his two saucersized eyes and a mouth. Either Dick and Al didn’t hear him, or they were paying no attention - or they simply didn’t care. Out of sheer desperation, Smitty was actually sculling well. Whether anyone had to stop, or whether they collided, I have no idea - Dad and I were laughing too hard and saw nothing. So much for that time trial. WHEN IT CA ME TIME TO HEAD EAST FOR THE IR A AND Olympic Trials, “Big Al” (we called him this to distinguish between him and his son “Little Al” who, incidentally, was not little, being even bigger than his dad) let us load the pair, the double and the four in the UW baggage car. He asked me to go along on the trip as rigger in Dad’s place. This would only be the second time since he began making the trip east with the crews in 923 that Dad was not
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Rowd Davis, Conn Findlay & Dan Ayrault on American Lake - 1955 there in that capacity. In deference to me, he had stepped aside and arranged to make the trip to Syracuse at his own expense. We were all happy to know that he would be there, counting as always on his wise counsel and good advice. All the men had stayed healthy so far, and the stage was set. We left Seattle expecting to succeed. One evening, a few days after we were settled in Syracuse, I took the WAC crew over to the New York State Fairgrounds dormitories where all the crews were staying. We found the Huskies moping around with their chins on the ground. They looked as though they wished the whole affair over, though the races were still days away. On our way back to their diggings at Jay Hall’s fraternity house on campus, Jay and the other three were jumping around and howling at the plight of the poor beggars and the miserable time they were having. The Varsity did not do well in the regatta, coming in fourth while, surprisingly, the JV won. Leanderson’s Frosh were third. In the Olympic Trials, held the following week, the Varsity could not score. They then were to go home to the further shock awaiting them - the ban that would keep the UW away from the IRA for the next two years.
When Findlay, Ayrault and their cox’n, Kurt Seiffert, arrived from Redwood City, they rented a cottage near the racecourse which they shared with Bill Lang, single sculler, along with Gordy Best and his partner in the pair. This house became the base of operations for them and the WAC four, and a happy place it was. Our land-bound cox - Gaffner - and I had great fun during the days leading up to the regatta when I wasn’t taken up with my UW chores. We spied on our rivals and timed them as they went through their paces. I tried last-minute ideas that I thought might help improve the chances of our winning some races. This all made the days speed by. I was optimistic about the chances of our four. They were fast and could row down the course as though they were on rails. I had looked over the field and thought them shoo-ins. Both Stork Sanford and Norm Sonju told me one day that they thought them the finest crew they had ever seen. The idea of having no rudder on the boat seemed to be working out, and the future looked rosy. Not so with Conn and Dan. They had not yet learned to row their boat effectively. Despite their months of training, they didn’t look much better than when I first saw them the year before. On that occasion, I had driven over to American Lake near Tacoma where they were training. With me was Bob Martin, who lived nearby. He had seen them rowing and told me that he thought that while the stroke man looked awful, the bow man was a wonder to behold. Bob was a former Olympic Gold Medal oarsman, and I was inclined to listen to what he had to say. I asked whether they could row a straight course. “Well, no. They seem to go in circles.” I thought to myself, “Uh oh!” We went out in his ChrisCraft, and a glance at them made me chuckle. Bob’s “awful” stroke, Findlay, was pulling the boat around in tight circles. He was not a pretty oarsman, true enough, but was strong as a bull. At six feet seven inches, he had a tremendous reach, and there was nothing Ayrault could do to hold him. I stopped them immediately and told them that if they wanted to be any good, they must first throw their rudder away and learn to row the boat straight
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Pre-World War I UW shellhouse on Portage Bay
Three views of the Montlake Cut under construction
[Few people in Seattle knew (or probably cared) how the island out near Fox Point - today no longer seen - came to be. The Stillwell Brothers Company (the younger brother, Jim, became my uncle when he married my Aunt Lucy) had the contract to dig the Montlake Cut. Dirt from the excavation was dumped along the hillside at the foot of campus, creating the land where Montlake Boulevard is now sited. The pressure of the dirt piled along the shore pushed the muck of the lake bottom down, forcing much of it to pop up in Union Bay. When the Cut opened, and the level of Lake Washington was lowered some eight feet, the island was born. Another hazard was created when the equipment - including the massive Marion steam shovel and the little steam locomotive and trams used to carry away dirt - was loaded on barges and carted off. A car fell off one of the barges about halfway out to Laurelhurst Point. It couldn’t be retrieved without a lot of trouble, so it was left on the bottom. This proved a nuisance for us when we moved to Conibear and were forced to cross Union Bay every day. Even if we remembered to look for it, the car was impossible to spot in the murk of Lake Washington in those days (this was years before Jim Ellis and Metro cleaned things up). That car bent more than a few propellers on the Conny and AOB.]
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 125 without it. Because it would be largely up to him, I spent the rest of the afternoon telling Dan what he had to do to accomplish this. Back on shore he said, “You know, you are the fifth rowing coach I’ve had. Each of you has told me something different. I’m not sure what it is that I am supposed to be doing.” I told him to put his mind at ease. All he had to do was forget what all the others had said, listen to me and accept what I had to teach. Were he not willing to do this, we could forget the whole thing. It was up to him. To further catch his attention, I told Dan that we called anyone at the UW who rowed the way he did a “Fancy Dan.” This clearly irked him but, gentleman that he was, he said nothing. I emphasized my admonition that he must forget the bunk told him by others if he and Conn were to succeed. The gauge for judging their chances of future success was there. If he could not learn how to row well enough to hold Conn without the rudder, they might as well stay home. I worked with them all through the winter and spring by letter and by phone, critiquing movies taken of them and sent up to me. They even made a couple of quick trips to Seattle by car to have me look at them. To Dan’s everlasting credit, in the ensuing months and only through great effort and determination - he was able to change his style of rowing enough to hold Conn. Now, seeing them on the water there at Syracuse, I thought to myself, “They’ve forgotten most everything I ever said or wrote.” They could stay on course, right enough, but obviously were not fast. This was so disappointing because I knew that they had worked hard and were in fine condition. Despite my forebodings, Fate was with them, as we shall see. I DID NOT FORGET MY ROLE AS UW BOATMAN. PERHAPS I could have been accused of having been remiss in my duties, but there was little for me to do. I was there to take care of emergencies and, fortunately, none occurred. I probably could have spent more time hanging around with the UW crews. They were all men whom I had coached as Freshmen, and a shoulder to cry on might have been of some help to them. I saw that as being Leanderson’s role, however, and not mine.
One morning Al asked me to lengthen the tracks for Don Voris, #5 in the Varsity. Don, at six feet five inches, was hitting the bow stops with his sliding seat. How he had come this far without complaining I did not ask. I told Al that I would take care of it and, knowing they wouldn’t be needing the boat for several hours, turned and left to go about doing something else. Dad, there as a spectator, overheard and immediately started rushing around as though he were going to do the job. I heard him muttering something about, “…if he isn’t going to get on with it, I guess I’ll have to.” I saw red and jumped on him. I told him it was my job to do and that I would go about it in my own time and in my own way. I wanted to think about it first. I know that he was just trying to help Al - and me - as he had for so many years. Old habits are hard to break. He listened to my tirade calmly, as only a saint could have done, and when I finally ran out of steam, he said that I was right. I felt terrible about my outburst, but I’m sure that in the long run it was for the best. From then on, he treated me as a friend and an equal, rather than as his kid. For that, I will be eternally grateful. There is no way I could have loved the man any more than I did. WHEN THE WIND CAME UP THE DAY BEFORE THE FINALS, I began to worry. Quartering head winds had a fatal effect on our rudderless boat, and, if the wind continued in its present direction, the WAC crew were certain to have trouble. They had breezed through their first heat, trouncing a Detroit Boat Club entry by several lengths, but conditions had been ideal and had posed no steering problem. What had appeared to be a sure thing the day before now began to look anything but. Should present conditions prevail, the wind’s weather vane effect on their boat would surely draw them off course. Our best hope - other than that the wind would die down - was for continued bad weather and a forced postponement of the races. They had drawn the outside lane. While the others in the race would all be on their starboard side, the spectators’ log boom to port would lie in wait. The wind was bound to draw them toward it. I tried to think of some quick means of putting a rudder on the boat,
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 126 all the while kicking myself for not having done so in the first place. What had I been thinking of? It would have been so easy to just leave it off while they were learning to row the boat in a straight line. Too late now. In the vain hope that it might do some good, I made a sort of sail that ran from the cheeks forward to the stem. In a quartering head wind, as it was sure to be, I thought perhaps the bow might be held on course. Despite my hopes to the contrary, the wind continued to howl, but not loudly enough to delay the proceedings. The fateful day - a Sunday - arrived. We took the men over to a little church in Liverpool. Dad tried never to miss a Sunday service no matter where he was. I was never that diligent, but figured that with the situation as it was, it might be wise to cover all the bases. My unspoken entreaties for improvement in the weather either were not heard, or went unheeded. The wind continued to blow, and the Finals began on schedule. THE FIRST EVENT ON THE PROGRAM - THE COXED FOUR - WAS won by a high school crew from West Side Rowing Club. Their victory was the first of four surprises that day. I was amazed that no college crew had been able to keep them out of the Finals. This crew were certainly good, considering their age and experience, but I felt that they were certain to be out of their depth when faced with Olympic competition. The Detroit Boat Club (DBC) entries were all coached by Walter Hoover, a sculler who had been National Champion back around 924. DBC was entered in every event, including the eight, and most of his men were rowing in two races. All those in the eight were experienced scullers and rowed well. They beat Yale in the first heat. Because no splits were timed and published back then, I had stationed myself at the 500 meter mark for all the preliminary races. From there, the finish line flag being visible, I could clock the times of the various crews for the last quarter. In any given race, by comparing that time to the total elapsed time, I could make some educated guesses about who was doing what. It looked to me as though Yale had shut down to let
Detroit win, because their time in the final quarter was very slow. Both first and second place finishers advanced, and Yale still made the Finals, but their performance fooled some people into discounting them. In the Finals, the DBC entry in the double, Pat Costello and Jim Gardiner, won as expected, having no trouble with McIntyre and Smith. The Stanford pair, Jim Fifer and Duvall Hecht, finalists in Helsinki rowing the coxed pair with their coach and cox’n, Jimmy Beggs, were back, this time in the straight pair. We were disappointed when Wahlstrom and Ulbrickson had to withdraw at the last minute because Al’s back was giving him trouble. Fifer and Hecht defeated Chuck Logg and Tom Price. Out of Rutgers University, these two were gold medalists in 952. Jack Kelly continued his domination of U.S. sculling by winning the singles slot. Yale won the eight in yet another surprising outcome. Cornell was the pre-race favorite, and with good cause, for they were a fine crew. As the eights came down the windblown course in the last race of the day, something looked wrong. Inexplicably, Cornell’s blades were only scratching the tops of the waves. The Elis rowed right through the Big Red crew to win. A story circulated afterward held that Cornell’s riggers had been raised an inch just before the race. If true, whoever did it must have thought that the crew would be better able to better handle the rough water rigged higher. It would have been better had they left the riggers alone. This was the only race lost by that Cornell crew in four years of intercollegiate competition. Speaking of Cornell and outriggers reminds me of another yarn. I arrived in Syracuse - I forget which year - to be greeted at the airport by Conn, then coaching the Stanford Frosh, and Will Condon, the Varsity coach (and the best coach that Stanford ever had). Their long faces told me that something was wrong. As we drove over to the racecourse, they shared with me their tale of woe. Stork Sanford had loaned them an eight, a brand-new one of ours, but one that Stork’s Varsity didn’t like. After taking it out for a test, the Stanford crew didn’t like it either. No matter what they tried, they found it impossible to row. They knew of no other boat that they might
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 127 borrow. What were they to do? I agreed to have a look at the boat. At the lake we found the Stanford crew gathered around the boat, looking glum. I glanced across the washboards toward a rigger on the opposite side and saw right away what the problem was: The sill had the wrong angle. Someone had been messing with the riggers. I had the crew run the boat into an empty Quonset hut nearby and shooed them away. Someone had put a big kink in the fore brace of each rigger - intending, I suppose, to put more pitch in the rowlocks. The boat must have been upside down when they did it, because the locks were all pitched the wrong way. Small wonder no one liked the boat: Each stroke taken would find the blades trying to head for the bottom of the lake. I found a broken stub of an oar and did what we laughingly called “fine-tuning.” It was a matter of a few minutes’ work to lever the braces back to their original shape and eyeball the sills to be sure that the rowlocks were again at their correct angle. This done, I threw open the doors and told the waiting crew to take her out for another try. As they disappeared up the Seneca River I could hear them whooping and hollering. I never told anyone what the trouble had been, or how it had been fixed. The greater the mystery, the better. BACK TO THE 956 TRIALS. CONN AND DAN WERE THE THIRD surprise of the day. I saw little of their race, and what I did see was from a long way off. Shortly before the race was due to start, the Stanford crew asked whether I could let them in the UW shell car. Al had told them that he would take their boat to Seattle, where they could pick it up and trailer it to Redwood City. Having been eliminated, they wanted to load the boat right away. The baggage car was clear over behind the Fairgrounds. I was anxious to see the race, but thought I could help them and still return in time. No such luck. As soon as the boat was in the car, everyone took off, leaving me alone to fasten it down. That seemed to take forever, and race time was fast approaching. The job at last done, I had no time left. The racecourse was miles away along the far shore, but I thought I might yet see something. I ran as hard as I could over the acres of slag piled
by that side of the lake. (A by-product dumped there by the Solvay Process plant nearby, the piles made a frightful eyesore. I was told that the only practical use ever found for the muck - whether true or not - was after its abrasive properties were discovered to be just what toothpaste needed.) Reaching the lake, I saw that the race was underway. The water, dead flat where I stood, was plainly rough along the lee shore. The odds-on favorites in that race were the Detroit crew of Felix Grauss and Dick Rahl - two ex-Cal oarsmen - along with their cox’n, Peter Paup. Pete had coxed as a freshman for me and then transferred to Stanford, where he finished his undergraduate work. His crew were high-strokers by Washington’s standards, as were all the Detroit crews. While watching this outfit perform in practice, I had mentally weighed our crew’s chances against them and had just about given up hope. Ever since first working with Conn and Dan, I had insisted that they keep their stroke rating low. (This might have been the reason they were so slow.) In the present situation, their low rate might prove an advantage, but only if the water happened to be kicking up on the final day, and only if the Detroit crew did not have enough sense to lower their rate. If all that happened, a low-stroking crew just might beat them. Now, watching their race in the distance, I could see one of the crews, stroking high and kicking up a veritable wall of water. They were not ahead. I only hoped that it was Detroit. I ran back to the shellhouses - some five miles away. The wall of water in second place had not been Conn and Dan. They had made the Olympic Team! While celebrating their unexpected victory, I was thankful that there was an entire summer stretching ahead before they had to stick their necks into the meat grinder down in Australia. There might be time to find out how to speed them up. There was a fourth surprise that day. (Anyone familiar with the sequence of events in Olympic rowing competition might find themselves distressed that my narrative has the events out of order. I’ve done this on purpose, adhering to the admonition that one should save the best - or the worst - for last.)
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 128 When it came time for the WAC crew’s race, conditions were still terrible. The headwind was strong and right off their port quarter. Still trying to think of how they might overcome the problem, I shared with the bow man, Fish, every trick and wheeze that I could think of, but, to no avail. They were doomed. In the lead for most of the race, they were inevitably drawn closer and closer to the log boom on their port side. In the final few meters of their race, they fetched right up against it. The two port men, having been forced to row the entire race almost by themselves, were too done in to work the boat free and were forced to sit in agony watching a crew they had soundly defeated two days before go sailing across the line, the winners. There was no way I could feel as bad as I knew they did, and I felt awful. Stunned by their unwarranted loss, I found Al and handed him the stopwatch he had loaned me, saying, “Now I’ve really hung it up!” That bitter pill would taste even worse four months later. The agony of racing at last over, we gathered for dinner at the Le Moyne Manor in Liverpool. Finding it hard to accept the finality of the WAC crew’s disaster, I was sure that I would never go through anything like that again. The agony of that loss kept me from properly celebrating with Conn and Dan their victory. What I did not know was that my coaching days were far from over. Nor did I know that four years later, at that same restaurant, it was to be quite a different story. Of course, the rough water on the day of the Finals affected all the results, from the eights on down. Perhaps the races should not have been run, but they were. Happily - as it turned out - those crews that did win fared extremely well in Australia, coming away with the best record ever achieved by this country - or any country - in Olympic rowing history. CREWS QUALIFYING FOR THE OLYMPIC TEAM WERE GIVEN THE option of going wherever they preferred to train, all expenses paid, while awaiting their departure for Australia in October. Conn and Dan chose to come to Seattle. They must have thought that being coached first hand would beat having it all filtered through Ma Bell,
Kodak and the U.S. Postal Service. To my surprise and delight, Fifer and Hecht decided to do so as well. I had taken no part in that crew’s development. Jimmy Beggs - now coaching the Frosh at Penn under Joe Burk - had helped them when he could. My only contact with them had been just days before the Trials. Jim came to me asking for any suggestion I might have for stiffening the riggers on the Leaky Easy, the shell that they had borrowed from the Naval Academy. Fifer, handy man that he was, did as I had suggested. The boat served its purpose, but was to meet a sticky end. A few hours after the Trials were over, a violent windstorm hit the area. A fence near where the boat was lying, blown by the wind, fell on it and smashed it flat. In that same storm, the Barnum & Bailey Circus tent, set up right next to the Fairgrounds where the oarsmen were staying, blew down. We had attended a performance in it the previous night. Luckily, a show was not being put on when the storm hit. That was the last time a performance by that circus was ever put on under the big top. Now, almost 45 years later, I’ve read that they are going to risk it once more. Jim and Dewey apparently felt that, by coming to Seattle, they could benefit by having another boat alongside. Too, Seattle would be a more pleasant place in which to train during the summer months than would the hot and humid East Coast. The West was home to them, Jim having grown up in Tacoma and Duvall in Los Angeles. Another bit of good news was that the WAC crew had decided to continue rowing through the summer. The army had no interest in reassigning the two doggies, and the other two were agreeable. I wondered even then whether they might not have the 960 Olympic Games in mind. For now, they were going to help the Olympic effort by pushing the two pairs. Their presence on the water proved a blessing. When Fifer and Hecht arrived, I was mortified to learn that the bow man, Fifer, had married immediately after the Trials. I was sure that they were in trouble, imagining that Jim’s attention would be focused somewhere else, not on preparing for the Olympic Games. I
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Two Gold Medal Olympic pairs - Lake Washington - 1956 - left to right: Jim Fifer, Duvall Hecht, Dan Ayrault, Conn Findlay, Kurt Seiffert soon discovered that there was no need for such worries. His bride, Faith, became as much a part of our team as anyone. Jim and Dewey were about to hit the water for their first workout when I asked Dad to come out in the launch with me to have a look at them. I wanted his impression of what they were doing. On seeing them, his immediate comment was, “Oh dear, They’re doing
the ‘Philadelphia dipsy doodle!’” This was his term for the style of rowing that saw oarsmen rocking into the bow of the boat after their legs were extended at the end of the drive. This was not uncommon among crews rowing in the East at the time - especially around Philadelphia. In our book, no one could go fast rowing that way. This crew wasn’t slow, but they could be faster. I worked all through the
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“Up and over!” – Conibear dock several months leading up to their departure for Australia, helping them rid themselves of the dipsy-doodle. One of my suggestions was that they think of pulling the boat up onto the water through the latter part of the drive, rather than pushing it down. Fifer told me later that, of all the approaches urged on them, this one had helped them the most. CONN AND DAN WERE A DIFFERENT MATTER. WITH MANY WEEKS ahead of them in Seattle, and with nothing else for them to do, I suggested they practically live in their boat, emulating the old pros of long ago who rowed all day long while earning their living. I didn’t want them to even think of racing for a month or more. As with the old-timers, the long hours of rowing were bound to develop an efficient way of rowing. I planned on seeing them each morning to give them drills to work on. The rest of the day they were on their own. I don’t know that their cox’n, Kurt, ever brought a radio with
him - although he threatened to - but they did pack lunches to take along. They should have become familiar with the entire shoreline of Lake Washington. I never checked on them to see how much of this they actually did. I figured it was up to them. Whatever the reason, I imagined seeing some improvement in their rowing as the weeks went by. I tried with little success to have them learn to row up and down the middle of the boat rather than scissoring so badly. I felt this important - not for appearance’s sake or, necessarily, for more efficiency. Rather, it was to make it more likely that they held what form they did have when in the extreme stages of exhaustion. An oarsman accustomed to flopping around will flop around all the more when he tires. Above everything else throughout my coaching years, I had always insisted that one’s form must be kept at all cost if an oarsman or a crew hoped to maintain top speed throughout a race. To help them learn to keep their heads in the middle of the boat, I thought a pair of lines, one slightly above the other, running down the center and over their heads for them to sight on might do the trick. This was a similar scheme to the setup we used in the shop to line up the keel when laying down the frame of a boat. The idea was tried but found too awkward. The Canadian coach, Frank Read’s scheme was much more drastic. He ran two ropes down the boat, one on either side of the crew’s heads so that their necks would scrape the ropes if they were off-center. Plenty of raw skin was the result. I’m not sure that it did much good. What I settled on was an upright stick fastened to the rudder post at the stern of the boat. Conn, at stroke, could line that up with Kurt’s head - cox’ns sat in the stern in those days. If Kurt’s head and the stick were lined up, Conn could assume that he was in the middle of the boat. That helped some. When they left for Australia, they took the stick with them and stuck it on their boat. As they approached the starting line for their first race, an official spotted it. He raised a fuss, thinking it might be an aerial for radio communication. Found to be no secret weapon, the stick was allowed to remain.
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Vancouver Rowing Club / University of British Columbia reunion – 1960
exception of Jay Hall. He said that he had made the mistake of eating breakfast that morning and felt sick enough as it was. The two of us were standing at the edge of the float as we talked. Without thinking of the possible consequences - overheated as he was - I suggested that he jump in the bay to refresh himself. Also without thinking, he jumped in. Quick as a wink, he shot back out, gasping for breath and purple with the cold. Coal Harbor is like ice, no matter what the time of year. After he had dried off and regained his breath, Jay said that he felt much better and agreed to row. The LWRC crew did surprisingly well, only losing to the Canadian champions by a respectable three or four lengths. Jay told me afterward that he had never felt better in a race. The unusual rush of blood through his body, stimulated as it must have been by his frigid dunking, perhaps had done the trick. Or - he might have just still been in shock.
During their stay in Seattle, both pairs became much faster. Regattas were held with the Vancouver Rowing Club, and some great racing took place, both in Vancouver and in Seattle. On one occasion, the WAC four defeated the VRC/UBC four who were to represent Canada in Australia. At a regatta in Vancouver, we tried the long-forgotten turning race - similar to the Indian canoe races in Victoria. The crews started right in front of the VBC boathouse where the spectators - what few there were - had gathered. They raced out to the 000 meter mark, then turned to head back for the finish line. The turn in such a race is tricky and can be hard on boats and oars. It is, however, a good test of watermanship and speed, and is much more entertaining for any crowd that might be watching, for they see the start as well as the finish. We ran several races like this, and they went over well, despite the absence of bloodshed. It was at this regatta, after the small boat races had been run, that someone suggested we put together an eight. The Canadians were looking for any competition they could find to help them prepare for the upcoming Olympics. Our people were willing, with the sole
HOPING WE MIGHT GIVE THE VRC/UBC OUTFIT A BETTER RACE if we had more time to prepare, we agreed to a return match, this to occur in Seattle two weeks hence. I borrowed the Loyal Shoudy from Ulbrickson, and we tried to log as many miles in the boat as we could. Fortunately, someone loaned me a launch, an eight being far too fast for me to do any coaching from my single. At first, the crew did not go at all well - lots of strength but looking to be all at sixes and sevens. Something had to be done were they to make a decent showing. Thinking I might have discovered a solution to their problem - this was just the day before the race - I climbed in the cox’n’s seat and took the crew out on the lake. I found myself being thrown around like a pea in a boiler. I stopped out near Sand Point, and let them know that there were things that simply had to change unless they were intent on embarrassing themselves the next day. Nothing I said was new to them; they had merely forgotten my earlier advice. After delivering my lecture, not expecting much of anything different, I started them off again. To my great surprise and delight, the change in their rowing was immediate and fantastic. The boat was flying, and I was no longer being jerked around. All I could
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 132 feel was the constant pressure of the cox’n’s seat back pushing against me as the boat sped along. The crew, too, could sense the difference and started to yell. Years later, while talking to Conn of times past as we often did, he suddenly stopped. Quiet for a moment, he said, “You know, I’ll never forget that day, and how it felt rowing in that eight.” I knew what he meant, having been fortunate enough - on rare occasions while rowing as an undergraduate at the UW - to have experienced firsthand the ecstasy that comes over one when rowing in a boat that is really going well. When the Canadians arrived the next day for the race, they exuded confidence. As one of them jumped down from their bus, he asked Dad, who had come down to watch, what the course record was. “Oh, you’ll have to shade six minutes,” was his reply. “Well, we can do that!” They did do it, as a matter of fact, but not with the result that they anticipated. Race under way, my crew looked to be rowing much too low. Their spacing was stretching way out - which was good - but their rate looked to be no more than 28 and they were well behind. Wanting them to make a race of it, I asked Frank, the VRC/UBC coach, if it were OK with him if I yelled at them to jack it up. He said, “Check your watch.” I had a hard time believing it, but they were at 36 and now were closing fast. They went on to win. I was excited, as any coach would be. The Canadians were good and took a lot of beating. They shaded six minutes and broke the record in the bargain. The only trouble, from their point of view, was that our crew broke it by more. Conditions were fast, and that new record might not have meant too much. On the other hand, any time you break a record you have to be doing something right. Back then, the UBC crews were given little credit among rowing circles on the West Coast. They rarely showed much during the Dawn in Montlake Cut - circa 1954 regular collegiate racing season because their academic schedule took precedence. The month-long final exams they faced in April - when summer months, when teamed up with VRC members and preparing no extracurricular activities were permitted - made it impossible for for such events as the Olympics, the Pan Ams or the Empire Games, them to properly prepare for races in May. It was only during the that they could reach their full potential. I don’t think they were quite
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 133 at their peak yet when they raced us that time. Frank confessed to me much later that their loss to us in Seattle had been devastating. He was not sure that they ever fully recovered their confidence. BACK TO OUR SMALL BOATS. I HAD PONDERED — RIGHT FROM the start of the campaign - over the effect of the uneven rig of a racing shell. Because the oars on one side of a boat are further forward than those on the other side, there is a force created (known in physics as a “moment”) which tries to turn the boat off course. In a pair or a four this can be especially irksome. While the same is true with an eight, its greater length tends to keep it going straight after the first one or two strokes of a race. The coach’s usual solution is to put a slightly weaker man up in the bow. (Anyone ending up at bow often bore the brunt of denigrating jokes.) A coach rarely had eight or - as in our case - four equally strong men, anyway. My problem was I did have four men of about equal strength. I worried whether the bow man, John Fish, was being wasted. Switching sides at bow and #2 might correct the imbalance and allow all four men to pull their hardest. We tried it, and it seemed to work. I should have stuck with it, but decided that it would be taken as showboating. I thought, too, that it might be better if Fish could back off at times. Part
of his job was to keep the boat on course and, with the pressure off, he might have a better chance of keeping his head in the game. Whatever the reasoning, the scheme was abandoned. Looking back on it, had I rigged their boat that way for the Trials, they would have won, rudder or no rudder. Why I didn’t think of that while I lay in bed the night before the Finals listening to the wind howl, I’ll never know. One can imagine my chagrin when word came back from Dad in Australia just before the Games began. The first thing he saw on his arrival at Lake Wendouree was the two Italians fours rowing by. They were both rigged in this way! Their coxed four went on to win the Gold Medal, and their straight four took third behind the U.S. We have had to live with the so-called “Italian Rig” ever since. It could just as well have gone down in history as the “Yankee Rig” or, at least, a combination of the two. The training for the two pairs went well throughout the summer and fall. Their last time trial was the fastest yet, and when it came time for me to wish them luck and see them off, both crews were rowing to my liking.
AS SOON AS THEY ARRIVED AT LAKE WENDOUREE, THEY WERE taken under Dad’s wing, there apparently being no question about that. Jim Rathschmidt, the Yale coach, was only interested in his own crew, while Walter Hoover, the official small boat coach, had his four and double to worry about. In a letter to me, one of the men told of complaining to Dad that he didn’t feel well. “Of course you don’t. You’re standing on your head down here, you know. It will take some time to get used to that.” In other words, no worries, mate. Leading up to the start of the Games, Rathschmidt listened to Dad and also made sure that he went out with the two pairs every day. Jack Kelly, the sculler, also sought his help. As race day neared, Hoover and the mysterious goop that he had for putting on the bottom of the boats in his care drew laughs. He wouldn’t let anyone Jack Kelly Jr. see what it was, hiding it under his coat on the way to and from the -1960 lake. Rathschmidt, concerned, asked Dad if perhaps he shouldn’t
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Conn Findlay, Kurt Seiffert & Dan Ayrault at Ballarat - 1956 be putting something on the rest of the boats. Dad said that, in his opinion, it was all monkey business, and it was let go at that. Later, someone remarked that the three boats with nothing done to the bottom were the ones that took home the Gold Medals. There was still no magic in boat racing. In one of his letters, written before the racing had started, Dad said that he was encouraged by the progress that he was making with Kelly, who was finally beginning to scull well. Jack qualified for the Finals all right, but then the swarms of visitors, news reporters and hangers-on started pressing in on him. Disconcerted, he began to lose his concentration. On top of this, imagine Dad’s reaction when he found Jack coming out of a hot shower just before the Final. It was to relax, he said. What he needed instead was a cold dunking in Coal Harbor. He could have learned from the incident back in Vancouver had he known of it. He was still good
enough for a third-place Bronze, and it was no disgrace to end up behind Vyatcheslav Ivanov, the Russian, and Stuart Mackenzie, the Australian. The shop had done a beautiful job varnishing the shells for the Olympic Team - the best ever. It was the first year we used rollers, rather than brushes, to spread the varnish. We had done so against the advice of the varnish company’s experts. Going ahead anyway, we found that it worked to perfection. It’s nice when something like that happens. Dad sent us an article that had appeared in one of the Ballarat papers, praising the excellent finish on the American boats. It is even nicer yet to find that something you have done well has been noticed and appreciated. Gardiner and Costello took second to the Russians. The coxed four from West Side were the only American entry that did not win a medal. The four from Detroit were beaten by the VRC/UBC crew representing Canada. When the WAC four heard of the Canadian win, their loss in the Trials must have seemed all the more bitter; the crew they had defeated just a month or so before back home were the Gold Medal winners in the Olympic Games. Those four Canadians - Archie McKinnon, Laury Loomer, Walter d’Hondt and Don Arnold - were amazing. None of them had rowed a stroke before that year. They had still been coming along when we raced them back home and were now, without doubt, much better than they had been. Still, the thought must have tormented the WAC crew: “If only….” I know it did me. I’m not sure those men ever forgave me for having put them in that rudderless boat. I can only seek solace by rationalizing that they would never have been as fast had they trained in a conventional boat. The innovative concept had given them something special to think about during the long months of preparation. This had helped keep their minds off themselves as they went through the rigors of their workouts. Maybe, but this was small consolation. Fifer and Hecht won their Gold Medals in handsome style. As they were nearing the finish line, the announcer shouted to the crowd,
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 135 and read it to me: “Racing over (stop) Both Pairs Gold (stop) Thanks a lot (stop).” It was signed by the five of them. In my delight I slammed my fist against our steaming mold and punched a hole in it!
Dewey Hecht & Jim Fifer receiving Gold Medals from Avery Brundage, International Olympic Committee president - Ballarat - 1956 “Take a good look at these Yanks, folks. You will never see any rowing better than this!” This comment was especially appreciated, having been given at the world’s premier rowing event in a country where there are so many people so knowledgeable about the sport. Jim and Dewey had been in the good hands of Jimmy Beggs to begin with, and all of them had help from Dad on the scene, but I took some comfort in knowing that I had a significant part in pushing them across that line in first place. Conn and Dan came through, not prettily, but rowing well enough to win convincingly. At the shop in Seattle, we knew nothing of the results until a cable came through to us the following day. When the call came into the office, I was out in the shop. Someone came down
THE FOUR FINALISTS RACING FOR THE EIGHT-OARED GOLD Medal were the United States, Canada, Australia and Sweden. They finished in that order after a tremendous struggle for the first three places. Canada was using one of our boats, as was Yale. According to the commentators broadcasting the race, each of the three crews led at various stages, but Yale managed to pull it off, defeating Canada by half a length. I wondered if the Canadian crew’s disappointment over their loss to us in Seattle had anything to do with that result. I could only hope that what it did was to let them know that they had to improve. From what I could gather, they were an improved crew over what they had been when we met them in Seattle. The Yale crew had to pull out all the stops to win. This was evidenced by the long time that it took for them to recover after the race. The crowd grew restive while watching them. Rowing-wise people don’t take kindly to what they consider to be too much of a show of exhaustion, whether such a display is justified or not. Here it was. Finally making it over to the float, they crawled out of the boat to receive their medals. I have a picture of the crew standing on the dock as our national anthem was played. There was at least one of them who was obviously in trouble. He finally was taken to the hospital for observation. The only Eli oarsman standing proudly was their #7 man, Dick “Rusty” Wailes. From a rowing family (his father, Ron, Sr.) was the only man I ever heard of who could lift an eight out of the water by himself ), Rusty grew up in the small town of Edmonds, just north of Seattle and I had known him since he was a little boy. After graduating from Yale, he was to continue his rowing career by helping establish and then competing for the Lake Washington Rowing Club when it was founded two years later.
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The 1928 picture on the left from The Seattle Daily Times features Ron Wailes, father of Rusty Wailes, and reads: THE "BACKBONE" OF THE HUSKY CREW SQUAD RON WAILS Right–The powerful oarsman, No. 5 on last year's U. of W. Varsity boat, is one of the strongest men in inter-collegiate rowing. Here he is easily supporting over 500 pounds on an oar—left to right: Shorty Orr, Ed Anderson, Ron Walls, Capt. Ellis McDonald and Haynes Gaffner.
We in the shop took great personal satisfaction in seeing the number Jim allowed as how he’d been down in Australia. of medals won in Australia by crews using the boats and oars that “How come?” asked the friend. we had made. Four Gold, three Silver and a Bronze - a third of the “Oh, I took a crew down there,” said Jim, playing it cool. medals awarded - was a record of which to be proud. Dad and I “Really? Why?” chose not to make a big thing of it in our advertising, but at least one “They were in the Olympics.” outfit apparently noticed. The British Rowing Association bought “Oh. Were they held this year? How’d they do?” the eight that Yale had used. Taking it back to England, they then “They won,” Jim replied, expecting to be congratulated. passed it around to any outfit wishing to see what magic there was “How ’bout that! Well, nice seeing you,” and off he went. in it. Apparently, they found none. Duh! After the Games, Jim Rathschmidt, the winning Yale coach, returned home to New Haven feeling good about himself. Strutting ACCORDING TO LEGEND, THERE WAS A ROWING CLUB - THE down the street the first day back, he happened to meet a professor Seattle Athletic Club - established in Seattle back in 892, but for acquaintance of his. They exchanged greetings and the friend asked, one reason or another, it was short-lived. There had been clubs “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you for a while.” in San Diego, Long Beach, San Francisco, Portland, Vancouver,
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 137 Victoria, Kelowna, Coeur d’Alene and other places, but never another active one in Seattle. By the time World War II came along there were only two or three of these clubs still in existence. Occasionally, a local crew would take part in one of the few regattas held in the Northwest. For the most part, these crews were made up of men from the UW. In the early 920s, the UW rowing coach tried to stir up a little interest by staging a sculling race as part of the UW–Cal regatta. The race was to pit the Pacific Coast sculling champion, “Blondie” Gregory of the Portland Rowing Club against my dad. Dad had continued his sculling over the years, despite his injured hand. The injury had occurred while he was working in a mill not long after arriving in Vancouver from England. This accidental loss of two fingers had destroyed his dream of returning to England to compete for Doggett’s Coat & Badge, a goal shared by all English professional scullers of the day. He consoled himself over this disappointment after learning that the race was won in “his” year - 92 - by a man he had defeated while still in England. His hand had healed, and he liked to brag that it was as strong as it had ever been. That he was a pro and would be sculling against Gregory, an amateur, apparently bothered no one. Because he had not raced for some years, he was concerned about his ability to perform and anxiously awaited Gregory’s arrival. He told of his sense of relief on seeing the man shove off for a practice spin. He would pose no problem. He didn’t, and Dad won easily. He would chuckle over the article in the paper which mentioned the 50 dollar silver cup put up by the Seattle Yacht Club. When he was presented the cup, he noticed the price tag still on the bottom - 25 dollars. An occasional regatta was held in Vancouver or Victoria, and there was a four-oared race at the annual summer celebration in Kelowna, British Columbia. In the summer of 946, John Dresslar, Sonny Vynne, Gordy Callow and I started rowing with the idea of entering. That effort came to a sudden halt when John and our cox’n, Dorothy, disappeared. We learned a few days later that they had gone off to be married.
THE SENSATIONAL WIN BY THE UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON eight on the Moscow reservoir in the summer of 958 brought renewed interest in rowing to Seattle. Several men from that crew had graduated and were eager to go further with their rowing. Others, including two or three who had rowed in the 956 Games, were living in the area and wanted to get back into active participation. The men from the ill-fated WAC four were still around, aching to wipe out the terrible memory of their loss at the Trials in 956. Most of them had kept physically active. In the spring of 958, Dan Ayrault and Jay Hall were training for the U.S. Nationals. The two of them came into the shop one morning. With long faces, they told of just having run a woefully slow time trial. They wanted me to take a squint at them and perhaps discover what they were doing wrong. Dropping my tools, I went over to watch them from the porch of the shellhouse. I suggested that they row out for 20 or 30 strokes and turn to sprint back toward me. Their trouble was immediately apparent: they were not catching together. Dan, at bow, was late on every stroke. I called them in, told them what their problem was and how it could be solved. The solution lay in Dan’s listening as they rowed. He was used to hearing the wrong sound. There must be only a single pop at the catch and not a double hiccup. To make this happen, he must feel as though he were catching early. Any change of habit requires a sense of overdoing it. By paying attention to the sound of their catch, he would know when he was right on the money, and they would speed up. With that, I sent them off. A couple of days later, they returned to the shop, all smiles. They had just finished another 2000 meter time trial in which they knocked 5 seconds off their best previous effort. Dan began having trouble with his back, and Jay introduced him to Harry Swetnam who worked at Schultz’s gym downtown. Thus began a long association between Harry and the sport of rowing. Harry was a serious student of the human condition in all its aspects and was to have a great deal to do with the future rowing successes of many young men and, later, of many young women as well. He was
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 138 a fine teacher and a great friend, and I became an ardent admirer of his. To properly describe Harry and tell of all his contributions to the people, young and old, of Seattle would require another book. Dan and Jay made it to the National Regatta that summer. Conn, now teamed with Felix Grauss from the 956 Detroit Boat Club coxed pair that had nearly beaten him and Dan, came up from California driving a beat-up old Hudson with several boats on top. To make the excessive overhang of the shells legal, he towed a little trailer behind to carry all their gear. After loading Dan and Jay’s boat and oars aboard they took off for the East Coast. I don’t know who else went on that trip, but they all made it without incident and brought home a potful of medals. The origin of the Lake Washington Rowing Club lay in that venture. The person most responsible was Dan Ayrault, a top-rate organizer. He was on active duty with the Navy at the time and stationed in Seattle. I was unaware of anything going on until one day not long after he and Jay returned from the East. A delegation came in the shop to tell me that they were forming a rowing club. Their immediate goal was to compete in the Pan American Games the following summer. If that effort was successful, they wanted to go for the Olympics in 960. They were already working out in the gym downtown with Swetnam and wanted me to coach them. After some thought, I agreed to give it a whirl. A night or two later, we gathered to talk about what had to be done. There must have been a dozen or more men at the meeting. Other than Ayrault from Stanford, Rusty Wailes from Yale and one or two others, they were all ex-UW oarsmen. Most of them had rowed for me as freshmen. Later, when word spread, others joined us, and by the following year we could put a true flotilla of boats on the water. The first rule I laid down was that no man eligible to row at the UW could row for the club without permission from the coach - Fil Leanderson at the time. I had heard too many stories from other places of oarsmen becoming disgruntled and leaving an undergraduate program to row for one or another of the clubs in the vicinity. My
hope was to avoid, if possible, any animosity between the club and the university. We had one major problem: no boats. Aside from Conn’s coxed pair from 956 (which he agreed to bring up from Redwood City), the club was, in a manner of speaking, on the beach! To remedy this, we went to the directors of the Junior Rowing Program at Green Lake for help. Activity was not nearly what it became in later years and much of their equipment lay on the racks, unused. We borrowed two coxed fours. With these we held our first turnout. The men had to take turns, some rowing in the two boats, the rest running the hills of nearby Woodland Park. This continued for several days. Some found trying to make up for years of inactivity too difficult. They soon dropped out, but most stuck with it. Dad and I had just finished building two coxed fours for the Merchant Marine Academy on Long Island. For some reason, the order was canceled. We donated those two boats, along with a coxed pair we had on hand, to the club. Ayrault found the money for us to build them a pair and a coxless four. I insisted that each man buy his own oar. There were some howls about the expense - they cost all of 35 bucks each at the time - but I refused to listen. Knowing how badly racing oars were too often treated, I figured that a man would be more inclined to take good care of his oar if he had to pay for it. Common opinion among the leading coaches in this country at the time held weight training harmful to good rowing. Despite this prejudice, Swetnam and I were determined from the outset that we must supplement the workouts on the water with weight work in the gym. Ayrault told me that he received a letter from one coach whose opinion I respected. Having heard that we were training with weights, he had hastened to write, discouraging the idea. Dad was also dead set against such off-water training. Stair running, rowing machines and weights were anathema to him. “Row, row…and then row some more” was his motto. Yet, I remembered his stories of all the running and bicycle racing that he had done in his youth, in addition with his sculling. Surely that had not harmed him.
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The first turnout for the Lake Washington Rowing Club - Green Lake, Seattle - 1958 - left to right: Dan Ayrault, Chuck Bower, Dick Erickson, Rusty Wailes, Art Hart, Don Voris, Monty Stocker, Roger MacDonald, Bill Gross, Mike———, John Fish, Dick Blieden, Peter Paup
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 140 I saw the need for such extra work as necessary given our present life style. In years gone by, young men were used to working hard and were already tough when they came out to row. The great English professional sculler, Ernest Barry, who earned his living as a boatpuller on the Thames, claimed that he needed only 2 weeks to prepare for a championship race. He was tough because the passenger boat he normally rowed could carry as many as 2 people. Now, because of their sedentary lifestyle, these men needed long months - even years - of grueling work before they were tough and strong enough to be any good. Harry and I - well aware of the downside lurking in the use of iron - were careful to tailor the workouts in the gym to simulate, as nearly as possible, the motions of rowing. The work was aimed at increasing stamina through endless repetition while using relatively light weights. Bulging muscles were not our goal. Despite the squawks from the experts, the men trained with Harry in the afternoons while going out with me in the mornings - early mornings. I had my regular work hours as did many of the oarsmen. This early-to-rise regimen was harder on some than on others. I know that rolling out of bed so early was a pain for me. One morning, in the pitch darkness of late winter, I was following John Sayre’s VW Bug down to the old shed at the foot of the UW campus where we were by then keeping our boats. When he came to the gate at the entrance to the parking lot, he just kept on going and crashed right through it. He was either dead asleep at the wheel or, more likely, simply wanting to express his attitude toward the entire enterprise. As soon as we had boats available, I insisted that the men select their own event and decide with whom they wished to row. There was no way that I was going make those decisions for them. Even had “To the water” I been paid for doing the coaching - which I was not - I still would have insisted on this. Not a matter of shirking the traditional duties of successful one. When they had made up their minds, I planned to a coach, this approach sprang from a sense of mine that if crews were work with the various crews - if they wanted me to - and we would formed in this way, the entire venture would be a happier and more see what could be developed. When it came time to decide who was
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 141 to enter the Pan Am Trials, we would hold our own trials. The best boat in any category would be entered, assuming that we found the necessary funds. The search for financial support began. An organization - the Washington Rowing Sponsors, Inc. (WRS) - was formed through the efforts of Curly Harris. Curly had always been a booster of mine, and he might have felt that he owed me something after having been forced to take a hand in my leaving the UW coaching scene three years before. Whatever the reason, he pitched in. The stated aim of WRS was to solicit funds in support of rowing at Green Lake and the UW, and to foster “other worthy rowing efforts.” Putting the two existing organizations on the list was intended to give credence to the sponsors’ pleas for donations. They sought and received 50-C-3 tax-exempt status from the IRS - no easy task at the time. Our fledgling club had no claim to anyone’s pocketbook, but I was determined we would become that “other worthy effort.” Tax ruling in hand, Curly found a number of interested donors. I was told he had some big guns on his list. I purposely never looked at it, but I don’t think anyone was asked to give much. With money raised, the Sponsors agreed to cover the cost of transporting the boats to the Pan Am Trials in Detroit, of air fare and of entry fees for any crew or individual I deemed good enough to have a legitimate chance of winning. The oarsmen themselves - or the government, in the case of men in the armed services - would be responsible for per diem expenses. Entry fees, but no other expenses, would be paid for any additional crews I thought had earned the right to go. This last provision was designed to cover me should aberrant results occur in our time trial. Hampered as we were by the limited confines of Green Lake, we shifted operations to Lake Washington as soon as we had boats of our own. For a short time, we rowed out of the Seattle Tennis Club. Then, through Ernie Conrad, who had succeeded Nelson Wahlstrom as comptroller of the university, we were given permission to use the lean-to at the back of the old UW
shellhouse. Years before, when the building was still being used by the UW crews, this shed was the locker room for the Varsity and Lightweight squads. It was now stuffed full of everything one could imagine, and it took days of cleaning out and throwing away before we could build racks for the shells. I heard one of the men grumbling, “To think that I went to college just so I would never have to do anything like this.” In my book, work of this sort never hurt anyone, nor would it hurt him. A big item on our agenda was to find a name for our club. If we were to enter the Pan American Trials, we had to have a name. We met at my house one night and while sitting around the dining room table addressed the question. Dan was all for calling ourselves the Ohanapecosh Rowing Society, but that was laughed down in a hurry. Seattle Rowing Club was proposed. No soap. I suggested that the word “Washington” should appear somewhere in the club’s name. The sport of rowing, in the minds of most people in Seattle, began and ended with the University of Washington. Our projected fundraising efforts would be directed towards ex-UW oarsmen and their supporters and, besides, we were rowing on Lake Washington. (We found ourselves in hot water later on after one of our members swiped the Varsity Boat Club mailing list. It was quickly returned.) Why not call ourselves the Lake Washington Rowing Club? The motion was carried: LWRC it would be - a name that would one day engender fear in the hearts of many against whom we raced. Another decision we had to make concerned the club colors. Everyone wanted blue, but I held out for white on the blades. This was not because of any connection to the UW, whose blades are white. I wanted them white because that made it easier to tell when an oarsman was washing out. This was the reason that white was chosen in the first place for the color on UW blades. Since Conibear’s day, Washington‘s blades have always been white, despite the school’s official colors being purple and gold. When I worked with the WAC crew back in 956, I had them put a slash of International orange on the tip of their white blades, and
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Beautiful picture, ugly rowing!
that worked great. I could see those “lights” blinking on and off from a mile away. For the newly-born rowing club, we compromised by having a navy blue blade with a four-inch strip of white at the tip. Thus it remains, though the Cambridge Boat Club on the Charles River adopted the same motif several years later and - through some mysterious logic - now claims prior rights. Harr y and I put the LW RC “Blues” through some hard training - both on and off the water - during the next few months. When spring came and the training was made even tougher, I thought I saw some improvement. Finally, the day arrived when all crews were slated to show their stuff. These were the races that would tell me which of the crews were good enough to go to Detroit for the Trials. The sun rose on a beautiful late June morning. To see the show, Curly Harris and two of our sponsors had rolled out early enough or perhaps had stayed up late enough - to be on hand. They probably thought it was that nice every morning. It wasn’t. The crews performed up to expectation and their times, generally, were encouraging, though I was disappointed and more than a little embarrassed by the showing of our coxed four. A crew of teenagers (Roy Rubin, Mike Yonker, Chuck Holtz, LeRoy Jones and Ray Walker, cox’n) from Green Lake took their measure. Earlier in the week, Don Voris, who was coaching the youngsters, had asked that I let a crew of his compete in the trial. He said they were burning up Green Lake. Committed to sending only the best crews from the area, there was no way that I could, in good conscience, turn him down. Not only able to burn up Green Lake, they showed themselves able to burn up national champion-class contenders as well. The outcome of that race, though disappointing, was not too surprising. One of the men in the LWRC boat had been under the weather for several days before the race. I was sure that they would improve with time, and to have them race in Detroit was important. I felt it imperative that everyone in the club gain as much experience as possible in preparation for their Olympic effort in the coming year.
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 143 Somewhat red in the face, I suggested to Curly and his cronies that the Sponsors pay their entry fee, despite this loss. Now already committed to underwriting several other boats, their response was quick: “There’ll be none of that!” I thought it wise to shut my mouth, although our original agreement gave me the authority to ask such a thing. The losing crew, not to be denied, scared up the money to pay their own entry fee and all other expenses. Though we had no boat of our own to take with us, we entered the eight-oared event on the off-chance we could borrow one in Detroit. If we could, a pick-up crew from among our small boat crews could have some extra fun. Along with the five crews, two alternates were to make the trip as well. I didn’t cost the Sponsors anything, choosing to pay my own way. I wanted to avoid having anyone think that I was riding on their back or, for that matter, that they had me in their pocket. I should have been smarter and followed Ernie Barry’s lead. After his sculling days were over, he hired out as a coach. He refused pay, but insisted on a bonus for a win by any crew or sculler he coached. In time he was able to list over 200 races won by his charges. Conn Findlay, who would be racing in the coxed pair with John Fish, had volunteered to drive the boats to Detroit on his (Stanford’s) trailer. He and Bill Gross, our non-rowing president, spent long hours at the Kenworth plant where Bill was sales manager. The two of them practically rebuilt the trailer, it having seen better days. Conn refused to take anyone along with him on the trip, claiming he wanted no distractions while driving. This annoyed the Sponsors, for they were hoping to save expenses in any way they could. He had them over a barrel because he and the trailer were costing them nothing other than gas and oil. (I do have a dim recollection of the Sponsors finding a truck for him to use, but that might have been the following year.) Once the rig was loaded, he took off for Detroit by himself. The rest of us flew. To minimize my time away from the shop, I left a few days later than the rest. One way or another, all of us and the boats - reached Detroit safely. When I arrived, Conn was at the airport to pick me up. As we headed toward town he said, “I
The “Whiz Kids” - Chicago Pan American Games - 1959 – Left to right: Chuck Holtz, LeRoy Jones, Ray Walker, Mike Yonker, Roy Rubin think we’ve got a problem.” I groaned and slumped down, head in hands. He laughed and said, “Well, you didn’t expect it to be easy, did you?” One look at the drawing of the course in the printed program told me something was amiss. All of our entries - with the single exception of the high school coxed four - were on the slow side of the Detroit River course. The six lanes ran straight down the river, whereas the river itself had quite a curve to it. With most of the water flowing on the outside of the bend, the lanes on that side were fast while those toward the other side - where our crews had been placed - were slow. We would be racing with lead shoes on. It seemed unlikely that such a one-sided draw could have happened by chance.
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 144 I knew something of the skullduggery that traditionally had gone on between clubs in the East since the beginning of time. The stunt pulled on the UW coxed four at the Olympic Trials in 936 on the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia was typical. The stern four from the JV, winners at Poughkeepsie, were entered in the Trials through the generosity of the Schenk family whose son, Earl, was the cox’n. (Costing 600 dollars when new, the Clipper Too was used in the 948 Games by the crew from the UW. The “Too” in the name related to the name of the Husky Clipper used by the Varsity in Berlin.) The course at Philly had a dogleg in it and the stake boats at the start were staggered to take care of that. The UW crew, who went into the race as the favorite, drew the outside lane. In mid-race, they were surprised to find themselves well behind the leader who had the lane on the inside of the turn. Gus Eriksen, at stroke, ran the rate up to the sky, and they almost made it, but not quite. Later, aboard the S.S. Manhattan, the ship carrying the Olympic Team to Germany, one of the hangers-on was overheard bragging of his having shifted the stakeboats the night before the race to give the inside crews the advantage. He thought it a big joke. Whether the story was true or not, I’ve seen Gus grow purple with rage at the mere mention of the affair. I suspect this remained the case until the day he died. Now, I wondered if we were to become the victims of a similar game. As soon as I was settled at our motel, I found the man in charge of the regatta. I asked that he call a special meeting of his committee, for I had a complaint to air. He agreed to set one up for that evening. Before the meeting, I went down to the river with Walter Hoover. Though Hoover had coached successfully at the DBC in 956, he was now on the outs with them. With a bundle of wooden blocks under his arm, Walter took me to the racecourse and out on Belle Isle Bridge, under which the competitors would pass as they headed for the finish line. We tossed the blocks in the river opposite each arch of the bridge and watched as they drifted downstream. As expected, the water was whizzing through in lane number one, while flowing progressively slower in the lanes from there out. All of our
Misty morning on Union Bay crews, excepting only our high school entry, were in either lane four, five or six. It seemed likely that the break given us in the case of our junior crew was only because whoever had done this “drawing” had no way of knowing that the youngsters were probably the faster of our two entries. OUR STUDY OF THE RIVER PUT ME IN MIND OF STORIES TOLD OF Jim Ten Eyck, the longtime coach of Syracuse University crews. His delaying tactics each year at Poughkeepsie were legendary. These ruses varied, depending upon which lanes his crews had chanced to draw. The Hudson River is tidal at Poughkeepsie (though some 75 miles from the sea), and the stage of the tide has varying effects on the current in the various lanes. As a young man, Ten Eyck (in his later years known as “The Old Man of the River”) earned his living as a
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 145 fisherman on the Hudson, and he knew the river and the vagaries of its currents like a book. Should a delayed start appear advantageous, he could come up with any number of reasons why his crew couldn’t get to the starting line. It’s probable that these tactics won few races for his crews, but they effectively annoyed everyone else. Asked one time what had been his longest sculling race, he said that it had been an astounding 50 miles! Around the year 900, he and a German challenger had raced from the Battery at the tip of Manhattan Island to the railroad bridge at Albany, the state capitol. The race had taken 2 hours, and he was the winner by about an hour. For two days afterward he walked around, in his words, “…as though I had a piano on my back.” The palms of both hands eventually came off, and he nailed them to the boathouse door. When word of his feat reached Washington, D.C., he was invited to a private audience with the President of the United States, Teddy Roosevelt. As though one such trip were not enough, on their honeymoon he rowed his bride over the same course; this time, downstream. Another of the many stories about Jim was one involving a Syracuse alumnus who had become acquainted with a strong young man who lived on a neighboring farm. Though of college age, the young man did not have the schooling necessary for college work. Knowing this, the man brought him over to the shellhouse to watch a turnout anyway. It was early and no one was around. They found where the rowing machines were and, putting the boy on one, the alum showed him how it was used. The youngster, finding the work childishly easy, asked if that was all there was to it. To wise him up, the older man tightened the drag as far as it would go and told him to have another go at it. The boy took one heave, broke the handle off and fell over backward. In falling, his head hit the floor and he was knocked unconscious. Just then, old Jim walked in. Seeing the inert form on the floor, he asked what was going on. The other man told him, but added that he didn’t think the school would ever accept the boy for admission. Never one to be bothered by niceties, Jim’s answer was, “Never mind that. Just wake him up and I’ll stick him in the boat!”
His annual speech to the squad at the beginning of Fall practice always included the warning to his cox’ns that, if he had his way, he would string one of them up to the nearest tree as an example to the others. This story was told to me by Tip Goes, who, some 50 years before, had coxed the Syracuse Varsity to victory at Poughkeepsie, a success from which he never quite managed to recover. Enough rambling. I must return to the Detroit River. ARMED WITH MY INFORMATION ABOUT THE CURRENTS IN THE river, I headed for the meeting. I was careful to make no accusations. Rather, I suggested to the committee that the rules for the regatta should be changed. For us to expect competing crews to stay in straight lanes on a curving river where some lanes obviously were faster than others defeated the whole purpose of the Trials. Results were bound to be skewed. I proposed that “Rules for River Racing” be used. Such rules state that racers may seek any water as long as they foul no one. I doubted that any of those at the meeting had ever heard of such a rule, but I caught the imagination of Goes, there in his capacity as USORC Chairman. After Ken Blue, the DBC coach, testified that, in his opinion, the course was indeed unfair, a motion to change the rules was made, seconded and adopted: crews could seek their own water as long as they committed no fouls. A further stipulation was made that each crew must pass through their designated arch under the Belle Isle Bridge. This was stupid, but I thought it best not to push my luck. We left the meeting before it ended - the oarsmen who were there with me wanting to hit the sack - with the definite understanding that every boat must go through its designated arch. Nervous about the whole business, I knew that the change in the rules was going to put a terrible burden on the officials. But, at least the LWRC Blues would now have a chance. CHAOS IS SCARCELY THE WORD TO DESCRIBE WHAT TOOK PLACE the following day. Because no heats were necessary in any of the events
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 146 we had entered, these races were all Finals and it was to be a case of do-or-die. The scramble off the start, with each outside crew trying to crowd over into the fast lanes, was something to see. Fouls - the order of the day - were ignored by the officials. It was just as well for us that they were. Despite this - or, more likely, as a result of this - our crews were to come away with several medals. Had I not objected to the setup as originally planned, they could have been wiped out. I’m also quite certain that from then on, the powers that be tended to think twice before instituting “Rules for River Racing.” More to the point, however, is the likelihood that more care has been taken since then when selecting courses on which to decide races of national importance. Harry Parker, who had rowed at Penn under the great sculling champion, Joe Burk, won his race. Later that year he won at the Pan Ams. One year later Parker was a singles finalist at the Rome Olympics. Ultimately, he gained perhaps his greatest fame while coaching at Harvard. LWRC did not enter the doubles event, and that race was won by Jack Kelly and Bill Knecht. After their victory I heard them raving about their super light Stampfli boat. Conn talked them into weighing it. As we could have predicted, it weighed several pounds more than the “heavy” ones Dad and I built. Our senior coxed four could not catch the youngsters from Green Lake. I thought they had improved since the “Whiz Kids” - so dubbed by Royal Brougham - beat them in Seattle, but whatever improvement they might have made, it was not enough. Actually, the race was decided when the three crews chasing the youngsters all tried to go through the same arch of the bridge simultaneously. These crews were either paying no attention to the admonition that all must pass through their designated arch, or they had been told this directive had been rescinded (as I was to find out later). The resulting jam allowed our Green Lake crew to dawdle on home. They were by all odds the fastest crew there, so that incident did not bother me too much. Speaking of the Whiz Kids, once they came under the umbrella of the LWRC, they lost their true identity. I have always felt that the
Charley McIntyre & friends - circa 1969 Green Lake Rowing program and Don Voris, their coach, did not receive the credit due them. If they did, I was too busy enjoying my own press clippings to notice. Frost and Rogers won their race. They were much faster than the crews they faced, and looked to me to be the classiest crew in the regatta. Conn and his new partner, John Fish, along with their cox’n, Pete Paup, suffered a bad break. They were well in the lead as they approached the bridge, when Pete suddenly veered sharply across the river toward the arch marked number five - his lane. He was doing just as he had been told to do at the meeting with the officials the night before. Neither he nor I had been notified that the rules had been modified and that any arch could be used. Despite the detour, he was still in the lead as they came out from under the bridge. Imagine Pete’s reaction when he saw a 40-foot Coast Guard cutter parked
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 147 on the course, right in front of him. The cutter’s cox’n, seeing them aimed right at him, leaned on his throttles to back out of the way. In doing so, he left a hole in the river. The pair finally surfaced - looking not unlike old pictures of submarines shown bursting from below the surface of the sea. By the time he was straightened around, the crew in second place had taken the lead, and they went on to win. This loss by the fastest crew in the race was an unfortunate one for the Pan Am Team. After the race, one of the Olympic Rowing Committee members came over and threw his arm over my shoulder saying, “Don’t lodge a protest, Stan. Your people have already won enough races!” I didn’t know what to think. If I didn’t demand redress, we were likely to be throwing away a Gold Medal in the upcoming Games. Here I was, with the funny idea that we were supposed to be trying to pick the fastest crews. Pete and I went to talk to Tip Goes. Tip insisted that the last word at the previous night’s meeting was that the assigned arches of the bridge did not have to be used. He had forgotten that we left early. Actually, what arch to go through was not the issue and going out of their way was not what had cost them the race. Rather, it was the Coast Guard cutter blocking the course. Goes dismissed that argument out of hand. He told Pete that he thought him guilty of bad steering and that he ought to be ashamed of his performance. I learned from that episode to never leave a meeting early. I found Conn and asked him what he wanted to do. He said that he had plenty of other things going on that summer. I didn’t talk to John or Pete, assuming that they agreed with whatever Conn wanted, and there the matter was left. Conn told me that of all the partners he had rowed with over the years, John was the best oarsman of them all. With him in the bow, it was almost as though no one were there. To my mind, this is one of the highest compliments an oarsman can give or be given. It’s too bad that John had to miss his chance. It’s also too bad that Kent Mitchell, Conn’s future cox’n, had not yet showed up on the scene. Canny lawyer that he is, he would have brought suit against someone, for sure. U.S. rowing was to hear from him in due time.
Later that summer, I was invited to give a report of the Trials to the 0 Club, a local group of sports boosters who meet weekly at the Washington Athletic Club. While on my feet, I noticed a gent in the crowd all dolled up in gold braid and scrambled eggs. Finished with my talk, during which I had gone on at some length about Pete’s tangle with the Coast Guard cutter, I asked if there were any questions. The man next to the admiral rose, saying he wished to introduce Admiral so-and-so, Commandant of the 3th Coast Guard District. The crowd tittered, expecting me to fall on my face or, at the least, be embarrassed. Luckily, I had my wits about me and was able to come back quickly with, “Well, Admiral, I know one thing for certain. You weren’t driving that boat!” The crowd loved it, as did he. BACK TO THE TRIALS. BEFORE THE RACING BEGAN, I GREW concerned about the way the crew of our straight four were rowing. They had shown flashes of quality while training back in Seattle, but I wasn’t seeing any of that now. Since arriving in Detroit, I had not been able to go out with any of the crews, there being no launches available. To see if I could help them, I took the four men out in a coxed four with me as their cox’n. The seat of my pants confirmed my suspicions: They were not moving the boat. I pointed this out to them in no uncertain terms and reminded them of one or two things that they must be doing if they expected to win. All four agreed that I was right, but I lost sleep that night wondering if I had done them more harm than good. I can still see them as they battled Vesper and Detroit the next day. Those two crews - arch rivals over the years - didn’t care about anyone else in the race. They just wanted to get at each other. In lanes on either side of our crew, they had jumped into the lead and closed in, effectively blocking us off. Neither was paying any attention to the rules, whatever they might be. I waited for a warning signal from the umpire’s launch. None came. The officials were probably sitting there thinking that we were getting just what we deserved. Not only that, but cursing me in particular for having suggested the changed rules in the first place.
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 148 At last, our crew forced their bow in between the leaders. With oars on all their older boats had yet been installed. Except for the riggers crashing (and a lot of cussing, I’m sure), the other two finally spread being shimmed up to the sky, everything looked to be in order. enough to give them room. When the three crews went under the All the other races that we had entered had been rowed, and I made Belle Isle Bridge where I stood, LWRC were still behind. I rushed sure to include in the lineup any who had not yet won medals. We across the roadway and, as the crews emerged, we had the lead by a went over to ready the boat for the following day’s race. We removed few feet and held on to take the race. It was a sensational win, a great all the shims and washers from the rigging. I always insisted that display of guts and determination. It had me talking to myself as I oarsmen should be rigged as low as possible. This was contrary to the ran to the finish line to congratulate them. thinking of many - including Jud - who preferred to see their oarsmen rigged up under their ears. While a high rig reduces the chance of THE LAST RACE OF THE REGATTA - TO TAKE PLACE THE NEXT catching crabs, it also makes effective pulling next to impossible. An day - was for heavyweight eights. With everything else out of the way, honest oarsman will always rig low. On my boats, instead of having all our people were anxious to race, even though it was not a Trials the rowlocks at seven or even eight inches off the seat, I liked to event. The competition to determine which crew would represent the be down around six and a half or less. These measurements always United States in Chicago had already taken place on Lake Onondaga depended, of course, on the size of the boat and the size of the crew. I the week following the IRA regatta in June, and Syracuse University had our men convinced, and they liked to rig even lower than I did. had won. This affair in Detroit was to determine the National Once the re-rigging was completed, I had the men adjust their Association of Amateur Oarsmen (NAAO) National Champion, but stretchers so there would be no delays as they boated the next day. Syracuse had chosen not to enter. I felt they should have been forced I wanted to make sure they could jump in and row away with a to do so, for I could smell another upset in the offing. minimum of fuss. I wasn’t as concerned about the race - the crew As mentioned earlier, we had paid the entry fee for this event, but would take care of that - as I was in making a point. I told them that had no boat. The whole gang was eager to go ahead and left it up to when it was time to launch, they should do the whole thing without me to find them one. After contacting several people with no luck, I saying a word - just carry the boat to the float, put it on the water finally succeeded. Jud Ross, the coach at Wayne State University there and ship the oars which I would have at the float waiting for them. in Detroit, agreed to loan us one of his. It was a brand new Standard Then, with one foot in the boat, shove away from the float, sit, lock eight that our shop had built for him earlier that season. up, lace up, bury their blades to check where they were rigged and, Jud was reticent. In his words, the boat had not been “proven,” lastly, come to an easy “Ready all!” At a quiet command from the whatever that meant. Not to worry. Our oarsmen were all used to cox’n, they were to row away as perfectly as they knew how. After rowing such a boat and we could work out any kinks. He agreed to that performance, they were free to go out and show the rest of the let us use it, but only after I promised to replace the boat if it were crews what rowing was all about. damaged by us in any way. I had no idea how I could follow through They couldn’t have been done it better. The vision of it remains on that promise should the need arise, but I trusted that it would not. even today. As they pulled away from the float and on up the river, I hurried to the WSU boathouse to make sure that the boat was I heard someone just behind me, cackling like a wet hen. Looking rowable. There was no telling what damage might have to be undone. around, I saw Jud’s boatman, a tiny little fellow from Poland. He was I was relieved to find that no massive six-foot fin such as I had seen fairly dancing up and down with glee. Obviously fed up with all the
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Lake Washington Rowing Club 30th reunion - Useless Bay, Whidbey Island, Washington - 1990 - left to right, back row: Dick Draeger, Conn Findlay, Roy Rubin, Mike Yonker, Chuck Alm, Monty Stocker, Geza Berger, Jay Hall; middle row: Bob Rogers, Ted Frost, Stan Pocock, John Sayre, Roger MacDonald front row: Kent Mitchell, Kurt Seiffert, Bernie Horton, Dick Blieden monkey business that he was used to seeing, he kept shouting, over and over again in his broken English, “That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it!” I knew that someone had gotten the message. The result of that race should have been a foregone conclusion - but for the current. With that added into the equation, it could have been anything but. Rowing in the slowest lane, our crew had their work cut out for them. They told me after the race that, as they rowed upriver to the starting line, they saw the grass in the water actually
leaning upstream. However, riding on the crest of our successes so far, they were not to be denied. They would win this one — fast lane, slow lane, it did not matter. And not only did they win, they won going away. As they sat at the finish after the race, anyone seeing them would have thought that they had just won the Worlds. They were jumping around in the boat, transported with delight. How I wished that Syracuse had been in the race. They would have had their hands full.
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 150 With the racing over and the boats packed aboard the trailer, one could take the time to look back and recognize that first regatta as being a major triumph for the Lake Washington Rowing Club. While we still needed to prove ourselves in the Pan Am Games, our performance at the Trials was an auspicious beginning. After success in Chicago, which we were determined to achieve, we could aim with confidence at the greater goal of reaching Rome and the 960 Olympics. WE WERE ASKED TO LOAN OUR BOATS TO THE PAN AM ROWING Committee. Such a plan sounded fine to me, for our crews would then be using their own boats in Chicago. The extra pairs and four would be made available to visiting crews. We agreed to the request and, as far as I can remember, did not even ask for rent. Conn drove the boats to Chicago and then went on home with the trailer. I hope he was reimbursed for that. I have no recollection of wondering how we would get the boats home after the Games. I thought the USORC would take care of that. No. Later, this would all add to the fun and games. Before leaving for Seattle, we met with Tip Goes in his hotel suite. There, he gave us all the information we needed — how and when to be measured for uniforms, reimbursement procedures, and the date on which we were to assemble in Chicago. On hearing the latter, Sayre piped up and said, “Gee, that’s the night I’m getting married!” Luckily for Tip, the laws of gravity were still in force. When he came back down and his blood pressure had returned to safer levels, he shouted, “Nobody can pull that kind of [expletive deleted] on me! Young man, you are off my team as of right now!” Although I had experienced the same — though somewhat more subdued - reaction as had Tip, there was no way that I could let such a thing happen. After hustling the men out of the room and calming Tip down, I told him that Sayre was the only reason our four was as good as it was…I had no one to put in his place…We would be giving up a medal…We needed him…His mother had probably set the date…etc, etc, etc. When I ran out of excuses, I asked Tip what could be done to resolve this. After exploring alternatives, he decided that if
John showed up only a day late and, further, if his wife didn’t come to Chicago with him, all would be forgiven. That’s what I told John when I found him huddled in the lobby waiting for me. Fortunately for all concerned, Pat, the intended bride, took it all in good humor, but, as I remember, no one sent me an invitation to the wedding. Years later, a member of the Detroit Pan Am Trials organizing committee admitted to me that the drawing for the lanes had, indeed, been rigged. The so-called drawings were made before dawn one morning in the hospital room of the chairman of the whole show. Taken ill at the last moment, he was there under doctor’s orders. The committee lacked last-minute information for the printers that only he could give. Two of his helpers snuck into the hospital one night to get the needed particulars. Just for the fun of it, and to give the poor guy something to laugh about, they did some creative switching of lanes in races entered by this new club from nowhere. Luckily for us, they made the mistake of overdoing it, and the results of their horsing around were hard to miss. Even so, I wondered if I would have spotted the problem if Conn had not. AFTER FURTHER WEEKS OF HARD TRAINING, THE TIME CAME FOR us to head for Chicago. I was confident that our three crews were ready for whatever they might face. As it turned out, the Pan Am Games did not amount to much in terms of rowing competition. Also, we were stuck out in the little town of Naperville, far from the excitement that an event such as this generates. We neither saw nor took part in the pageantry of the Opening Ceremonies. This did not seem to bother the squad. They were there to race, not to parade. The rowing course was laid out on the Calumet–Saginaw (Cal–Sag) Canal, which, translated, surely meant “open sewer.” After scanning the field the first day or two, I saw no crews that we need worry about except the coxed pair from Uruguay. The U.S. crew in that particular event, there on a fluke, were sure to have trouble. The major threat to our straight pair appeared to be our own alternates, Clayton Chapman and Chuck Alm. Being under no pressure, they had begun to give
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 151 Frost and Rogers a bad time. I finally shooed them away, lest they discourage Ted and Bob. The Canadian eight looked as though they might give Syracuse some trouble. National loyalties aside, I could not help hoping that they might do so. We knew all of them, having raced them and enjoyed their hospitality when in Vancouver. The crews from Central and South America made small effort to be friendly - especially at first. Most of them pretended that they could not speak English. I say pretended because we discovered later that most of them could. Actually, a number of them had been to school in this country. They had their hands out because they saw Uncle Sugar as a pushover. Many of them were there only because the USORC had paid their way. After the ice was broken and we started talking to each other, I asked one of the fellows, Santos - a sculler from Peru - how he had learned to speak English so well. I was acutely aware of how little my high school Spanish was helping me. He said that all the kids back home in Lima skipped school as often as they dared and went to the local theater to watch American movies. His partner in the double, Jorge Calderon, only 6 at the time, later came to Seattle where he coached rowing at Seattle University for a time and graduated from the UW. After returning to Peru for a few years, he came back to the Northwest where he now works at Boeing and rows with the Ancient Mariners Rowing Club. Preparations by the local rowing committee left much to be desired. We were told that most of the money spent in putting on the regatta went for a sweetheart contract with one of their cronies to build the float. There was no one to translate at the rowing venue, and all our Latin guests found it easy to pretend they couldn’t understand what they were being told. Our manager spent most of his time out to lunch - or dinner, or cocktail parties - anywhere except where the rowing was. Information for the public relative to the regatta was almost nonexistent. No one in Chicago - not even the newspapers - seemed to know where the rowing site was or, in some cases, that rowing was even on the agenda. Mother and Dad came to watch the LWRC crews perform and had a hard time finding us. Sir William and Lady Stevenson were there from
New Zealand. They had arranged to meet my folks to see the rowing events. When he saw what was going on, Sir William was disgusted with the extreme shoddiness of the whole affair. The only excitement of the regatta, if you could call it that, came the morning after the racing was over. Sometime during the night, the stroke of the Brazilian eight was found murdered, his body stretched out on the very same bench where I was in the habit of taking my daily afternoon siesta. I don’t think it was in retaliation for his crew having lost their race. Allegedly, he had been messing around with a Chicago mobster’s girlfriend, and the problem was solved in true gangland fashion. This story sounded to me like just another of the many tales that gain credence all too easily in the excitement of international sporting events. Whatever the truth was, the fact remained: He was dead, for I saw the body. OUR SHOP HAD BUILT A COXED FOUR FOR DELIVERY TO A Cuban crew who planned to race in Chicago. When I first learned that he had accepted the order, I asked Dad if he had read Time magazine lately. The revolution was in full swing down there and it seemed that the rebels were winning. He was in the habit of sending shells and oars to Cuban customers, always on open account. No one we knew could believe that he had this kind of trust. On the other hand, the Cubans he dealt with appreciated the gesture, and there was never any trouble receiving payment. The Revolution had changed all that. We had shipped several eights and fours down there the previous year and we held out little hope of ever seeing a nickel of what was owed. This time, we did insist that payment be made prior to delivery, though we weren’t tough enough to insist upon payment before shipment. We crated and sent the boat by rail to Chicago, trusting that the Cubans would show up. I’m not sure what we would have done with the boat had they not come. Thankfully, they did. When the Cubans arrived, their coach, Carlos Hernandez, reached Dad by phone at his hotel to find out where the boat was. Dad asked to see the color of his money first. Hernandez, staying at the same hotel, was soon at the door lugging a satchel stuffed with American
V – Lake Washington Rowing Club (1955–1959) – 152 dollars. He handed over a wad of bills and, satisfied, Dad took him down to the railroad yard where the crate was stored. He complained to me afterward about all the screws that I had used to fasten the lid. He had only a small hand screwdriver with him, whereas we had used electric-powered jobs at the shop. Finally out of the crate and transported to the rowing site, the boat was well-received by the Cubans. Their only problem was that they were not a good crew. All they turned out to be good at was fighting with each other, using the stools in the locker room for weapons. I never heard what happened to the boat after the Games were over, nor did I ever hear whether any of the crew returned home. Hernandez did not. He and his bag of dollars stayed here. The LWRC crews won their three races, Parker won his, Kelly and Knecht won theirs. The coxed pair took gas from the Uruguayans, while Syracuse, coached by Loren “Muscle” Schoel, defeated the Canadian eight. The latter was another crew from UBC/VRC, this season coached by Dave Helliwell. Frank Read, their coach in years past, was taking the year off.
When the baggage car was unsealed in Vancouver, pandemonium reigned because of all the boats and oars not on the manifest. The Canadian Customs people went bananas and impounded everything. The Vancouver Rowing Club was accused of all sorts of treachery. Fortunately for them - and for us - cooler heads prevailed. Even then, it took an act by the Canadian Parliament to release the equipment. Eventually, everything was brought back home to Seattle, none the worse for wear. If it had not been for the efforts of our friends in Vancouver and, especially, those of Dave Helliwell, we would have been hard put to mount our campaign aimed toward representing the United States in the rowing events at the Rome Olympic Games the following year. WE WERE LUCKY THAT OUR BOATS EVER FOUND THEIR WAY We might, instead, have had to try for the back to Seattle. Conn and his trailer were gone. Returning them was swimming team. the responsibility of the Olympic Committee, not his. The USORC chose to forget this, and most of its members disappeared as soon as Dan Ayrault’s participant’s ribbon the Games were over. Our manager was still there, but he wasn’t doing Olympic Games - Ballarat - 1956 anything to help. It was soon apparent that our only hope was to stick the boats and oars in the baggage car that the Canadians had waiting to take their eight out to Vancouver. Once they were safely there, we could drive up and bring them down to Seattle. I asked Helliwell if that would be O.K. with him and with his approval, we loaded them into the baggage car. I had little time, my plane for Seattle was shortly due for take-off, and I called our manager and told him to be sure to contact the railroad company the next morning and take care of the necessary paperwork. There was bound to be some, since the car would be going outside the country. He said he would, but didn’t.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 153
CHAPTER VI
W
Olympics (1960)
ITH THE PAN AMERICAN GAMES BEHIND US AND AFTER a brief rest, the squad went back to work. The Olympic Trials were scheduled for Lake Onondaga two weeks after the annual IRA Regatta. We were still using the old system whereby any crew or sculler who rowed for an established club was eligible to enter the Trials. The winner in each event earned that spot on the Olympic Team. Simple and straightforward. This was not the surest way of developing the fastest group of competitors. In many ways, it was an unrealistic system. The best crew in any given event might have an off day and be eliminated, or bad conditions might seriously affect results. Moreover, the best oarsmen in the country were sprinkled widely throughout the entire
field of competitors nationwide. The best coach - or coaches - worked with only a handful of these. In light of the road down which other countries involved in international rowing had chosen to go, we were handicapping ourselves. On the other hand, there was still much to be said for the system as it was. It was a highly personal system. Each organization - be it school, club or university - and the oarsmen who rowed for it had its own identity. Clubs and schools thrive on identity and on the fact that their supporters care - cheering their successes and mourning their losses. Rowing was still an amateur sport, with people participating for the joy of it (after all, the name itself derives from the Latin word meaning “to love”). True, one could point to the men in the
VI – Olympics (1960) – 154 various Services receiving pay for doing little or nothing but train and compete. The incentive to avoid active military duty might have motivated a few, but I venture to say that the rigorous training they anticipated putting themselves through was far tougher than were their regular military duties. During their months of training, most rowing athletes whom I knew carried on their normal workaday life as nearly as they could. Generally speaking, the sport was still kept in perspective. It was something one did to enhance life and to prove oneself, rather than for the glory of science or vitamin manufacturers - or even to enhance the reputation of boat-builders. Whatever the arguments for or against, we knew what we were facing and, with a will to succeed, everyone tackled the job of preparing themselves for what lay ahead. As had been true in the year previous, I insisted that the responsibility of deciding what event to train for, as well as who would team up with whom, rested with the oarsmen themselves. Just as important was my insistence that, once committed and barring injury or sickness, there was to be no changing of minds. When the crews were set, I was willing to coach them if they wanted me to do so. It was a bigger squad. Conn brought up a new partner, Dick Draeger, and a new cox’n, Kent Mitchell, from California. Another pair, Felix Grauss and Gordon Helmers, who had been training down on Lake Merced showed up. Felix, one of the funniest characters one could imagine, helped brighten many of the dark days ahead. Two of the Green Lake Whiz Kids - Holtz and Jones - had decided to go out for the Frosh squad at the UW, as had their cox’n, Ray Walker. (Both oarsmen were on the crew that rowed at Syracuse in June.) The other two, Rubin and Yonker, teamed up with Lou Gellermann, Chuck Alm and cox’n, Kurt Seiffert. A second four included Chuck Bower, Roger MacDonald, Jay Hall and Geza Berger, with Ed McRory as their cox’n. Also among the missing were Dick Erickson, who had left Seattle to coach the Frosh at MIT, and Clayton Chapman, who wanted to fulfill a commitment made with three of his teammates from
Dick Blieden - 1960 Cornell days. They were both good men, and I was sorry to see them go. I worked all the crews very hard out on the water through the long winter months, as did Harry in the gym. He also came out in the launch with me each morning. There, we discussed what each of us thought was needed relative to the development of the men’s conditioning. As winter gave way to spring and the weather began to improve, we saw to it that there was some good fun thrown in along with all the serious, hard work. To this end, we again organized several regattas with crews training in Vancouver. As they had done in 956, VRC/UBC were to represent Canada both in the eight and the coxless four. Just before leaving for the trials, the two clubs had a great race in eights with the UW. I used our fastest four and two pairs. They had no practice before the race except while rowing out to the start at the Laurelhurst Light. A minute or so
VI – Olympics (1960) – 155 into the race, our cox’n shouted in what was afterwards described as a “rather awed” tone of voice, “We’re only two lengths behind ! ” For some reason that hit everyone in the crew right where they lived. They said afterwards it had felt as though the boat had sprouted wings. They were coming up fast as the three crews entered the Montlake Cut. Passing the Canadians, they just missed catching the UW. It was another one of those “if only there had been a few more strokes to go” kind of race. Had there had been time beforehand for a repeat of my 956 ride in the cox’n’s seat, the result might have been different. Later, in Rome, we challenged the Canadians again. By then, there was no way that our pickup crew could catch them. They had become too good. TED NASH WAS A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT. AFTER COMING in from his daily workout in the four, he would take out his single for a second workout with Dick Blieden. One would have thought that rowing with his own crew, and going through the grueling sessions in the gym with Harry - along with running endless stairs over in the stadium - would have been enough. Not for Ted. In punishing himself as he did, he not only became superbly conditioned, but helped Blieden by giving him someone good to pit himself against. Dad spent many hours with Dick, passing on his vast store of sculling and racing knowledge. By the time we left for the Trials, he had become a world-class sculler. Nash was on active duty as a pilot with the U.S. Army. He flew one of those little high-powered propeller-driven jobs that the army used as spotter planes. Those pilots were the kind who were taught to fly under the trees rather than over them. Real scary. To stay eligible for flight pay, Ted went down to McChord Field one weekend each month to put in his required flight time. Early one Sunday morning on such a weekend, I was out with the crews over by Hunt’s Point on Lake Washington. It was a beautiful clear morning. I caught sight of a small plane off in the distance. It was unusual for anyone to be up flying that early. As the plane neared us, I could see its U.S. Army markings. Suddenly, it zoomed up,
flipped over and dove down to fly over us about 20 feet off the water. It had to be Ted. Climbing straight up and over, he came by again, this time upside down. As he passed over he dropped a weighted message with a red scarf tied to it. We fished it out. Basically, the message read, “Get motors.” Again high overhead, Ted proceeded to put on a display of stunt flying that one had to see to believe. Talk about the Red Baron, here he was: von Richthofen incarnate. Skimming over the houses along the shore, he would then zoom up only to flutter down, power off, as though about to crash, and at the last moment restarting his engine to go into another gyration. This went on for some time. By then, any number of people were out on their porches shouting and shaking their fists as he went by. There was nothing we could do other than hope that he was as good as he seemed to think he was. He finally waggled his wings and left, while we hightailed it out of there. Seeing all those angry neighbors, I couldn’t help wondering what the repercussions might be. They were not long in coming. The next day I learned that the university phones had been ringing off the hook with calls from irate citizens who mistakenly thought that our boats were a part of the UW rowing progam. Because those in the boats had seemed to know who was flying the plane, their assumption was that the pilot had some connection with the university. The uproar soon died down and, surprisingly, nothing came of it. We were not asked to leave the lean-to that we used on the campus, which I was sure was bound to happen. It dawned on me that I really did have friends in high places; friends who respected and appreciated what I was trying to accomplish. They were willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. With this thought in mind, I was able to carry on my efforts with renewed confidence. I told Ted that I thought it a stupid and reckless thing for him to have done. Surely, someone must have seen the registration number on the plane. The army would hear about it. He might be kicked out or moved elsewhere, and I did not want to lose him. He said not to worry. The army processed such complaints continually and
VI – Olympics (1960) – 156 A HAPPY ASPECT OF HAVING THE SQUAD BE MADE UP OF separate crews was that almost all the men grew to like one another. Outside observers might have imagined that I ran the risk of having merely several mediocre boats rather than one or two good ones. Just the opposite was what happened. Everyone ended up pulling for each other. There was no desperate struggle to beat someone else out of a seat. Instead, each crew - having been self-selected - developed a sense of pride which made for keen competition between boats rather than between individuals. From what I could see, all the crews benefited from that. A very high spirit was generated within the club. June drew to a close and found me confident that all were ready for Syracuse and the Olympic Trials. The crews had rowed fast final time trials, and the Rowing Sponsors were still behind us. Conn, again, was to drive the trailer, this time loaded with nine shells. The morning before his departure, I found myself mumbling under my breath at being stuck alone securing everything aboard the rig instead of earning my living upstairs in the shop. As I was leaving, job done, I noticed several of the men on the courts playing tennis. Tempted to stop and make a few rude remarks, I thought better of it. They had worked hard all year long - in their rowing and training, and also in taking care of the myriad details of dealing with the Sponsors, the university, the Olympic Committee, their employers and families - and me. What I was contributing was little enough. LWRC four – Lake Albano - 1960 Left to Right: John Sayre, Rusty Wailes, Ted Nash, Dan Ayrault always managed to lose them. Pilots who flew those planes were expected to be crazy. Some days after this, he tried to persuade me to go up with him. Knowing him as I did and suspecting what he wanted to do to me, I declined his offer. I told him that I was a certified, card-carrying coward and as such would prefer to stay out of his clutches.
CONN MADE IT ACROSS THE COUNTRY WITHOUT INCIDENT, again alone. The rest of us flew the red eye DC-6. Jet travel - then very new - cost extra, as did flying at decent hours, and we were definitely traveling on the cheap. Bernie Horton, our spare cox’n and all-round utility man, had made a deal for lodgings at an old hotel in a rundown part of Syracuse. The sign outside boldly announcing AIR-CONDITIONED! clinched the deal. We rented an old wreck of a truck and the battle was joined. Everyone had stayed healthy, and we attacked our preparations for the upcoming races with high hopes.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 157 We entered three coxed fours. In addition to the two boats that had trained together all year in Seattle (which we designated “A” and “B”), we cobbled together at the last minute a third and designated it “C.” This crew consisted of our two alternates, Jay Hall and John Fish, the two UW alternates, John Magnuson and Dave Fulton, and Bernie Horton as their cox’n. All three boats made it to the Semifinals, where our A crew had to defeat the C crew to make the Finals. The B crew had been improving, and I began to think that they might surprise us. The A crew - Rubin, Yonker, Alm, Stocker and Seiffert - had to go like everything to win the Final. Lou Gellermann had rowed in that boat ever since training had begun in September. Unfortunately for him, he developed back problems just days before we left for the Trials, and I was forced to pull him out and replace him with Monty Stocker. With Monty in there they continued to come out on top in any time trial that we held. Once in a position to do so, I named Lou a team alternate, thinking that there would be plenty of time for his back to heal. He deserved the chance to get back in the crew. There was no crew on Lake Onondaga to beat our straight four. Navy looked tough, but in the first heat we defeated them. When our crew came back to the float after that race, I saw that they were all laughing. They could hardly wait to let me know that they had gone past Navy while on their “easy 0.” They went on to breeze through the Final two days later. Let me go back once more: Early that season I had introduced something new. As an ex-oarsman, I held vivid memories of looking down the mile and a quarter to the finish line of a 2K timer. We didn’t race that distance very often, being more familiar with distances of two or three miles. I found the shorter race a real gasser. The reality of just how rotten I would feel in only three or four minutes made it hard for me to start out as though I meant business. I wondered if some of the currant crop might not feel the same. With this possibility in mind, I suggested one day that, in our next time trial, they try a scheme that I had dreamed up. Off the start, they were to go at it as
hard as they could for two minutes - rowing as though that was as far as they were going. After those first two minutes, they could take 0 easy strokes while at the same time sucking in as much air as they could. Following this brief rest and knowing that there were only three or four minutes to go, they could then strike for home with a vengeance. The results were beyond expectation. Times, right across the board, were faster. Better yet, everyone agreed that the effort had seemed less distressing. Later, some of the men came to me, saying that they felt that 0 easy ones were too many; that five or six would be enough. I told them to go ahead and do whatever they liked as long as everyone in the boat agreed on what they were going to do. The “two-minute-hard, 0-stroke-easy start” - I never thought of a good name for it - held physical as well as mental benefits for the oarsmen. For one thing, it allowed them to find their second wind earlier. Also, as the crews came out of their hard starts and backed off, the boats seemed to run free and actually pick up speed. This must have been what happened when they raced that Navy outfit. I had seen somewhat the same thing occur one year at the IRA. It was in the Varsity race of the 954 regatta. The Navy crew, in another of their fabled starts - at 48 or so - were still behind, a full minute into the race. The instant they dropped the rate to 36 they shot into the lead and went on to win. Missing the significance of it at the time, I just thought that they were wasting energy in those starts. I have an idea that the scheme worked for us only because no one in the squad had ever heard of such a thing as taking easy strokes - certainly not legal easy strokes. If they had, they probably thought of it as cheating and felt guilty when they took them. To them, easing off meant not pulling quite so hard. Now, they didn’t have to feel guilty. In the summer of 967, Bill Tytus, John Van Amerongen, Loren Coleman and Pete Raymond were training for the Nationals in a straight four and came to me for help. Having just finished a successful Frosh season of rowing at Princeton under the eye of Steve Gladstone, they were spending the summer in Seattle. Never one to say no to such a request, I agreed to go out with them now and then.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 158 While prepping them for their first time trial, I suggested that they use my “0 easy” approach. The result can only be described as ludicrous. At the end of the first two minutes, they went into a paddle mode and their boat stopped almost dead in the water. After I had composed myself and restored my freshly-battered megaphone to a usable shape, I assured them that we would not try that again. What I had failed to take into account was that they were all too familiar with the idea of easing off. Something to do with the coaching approach at Princeton. Not that there had been anything too faulty with that. Their eight beat everyone they raced (except at the IRA where they came in second to Washington). Whatever the reason, the command “easy” to them apparently meant not pulling at all. I remember one of them - Raymond - in particular. He simply didn’t know how to use his legs. I told him at one point that he might as well cut them off and chuck them overboard to reduce weight in the boat for all the good they were doing him. In 970, he made the U.S. eight that raced for the World title in St. Catherines, Ontario. I was there to watch the fun. One afternoon, Pete came up to me and asked, “Well, Mr. Pocock, do you still think I should cut off my legs?” BACK TO THE 960 OLYMPIC TRIALS. OUR STRAIGHT PAIR OF Frost and Rogers looked, in the early stages of their race, to have their hands full. One of the other outfits grabbed an early lead, but something happened to them with about 500 meters to go, and they ended up on the beach. Because they ran ashore right where I happened to be standing, I saw for myself what their problem was. It was apparent that their bow man had rowed himself completely out. Ted and Bob went on to earn their spot on the Olympic Team. This must have helped assuage unhappy memories of their loss in the WAC four at the Trials four years before. To complete our rout of the opposition, Conn, Dick and Kent had earlier dominated the field and won their place on the Team.
On Portage Bay, UW Medical School in right background - circa 1953 The Lake Washington Rowing Club had clinched all four small boat sweep crew spots on the Olympic Team, a feat never before accomplished by any one club in the history of American rowing. The only event we entered and lost - the single - was a heartbreaker. Blieden sailed into the last 500 meters lengths ahead of his nearest rival. I heard someone behind me mutter disgustedly, “There goes Lake Washington. They’re winning another one.” Just then - with only two or 300 meters to go - Dick stopped dead in the water. Harry Parker passed him and went on to win. I could not imagine what had happened. Had he hit something, or had something broken, or what? I learned afterward that his diaphragm had gone into spasm. He couldn’t breathe and had to stop. What a tragedy! Dick had clearly been in a position to win the race. Later, I was able to name him as an alternate for the small boat squad, but that served as small consolation. There was no way that it could make up for his loss. A few years ago, at a gathering for the celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of our Rome adventure, Dick’s wife, Nancy, told me that in all their years together, he had never been able to bring himself to talk about it.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 159 Jack Kelly and Bill Knecht, Gold Medalists in the double at the Pan Am Games the year before, again won that spot on the team. The Naval Academy - under their new coach, Lou Lindsay - captured the eight. As soon as that crew came ashore after the race, they rushed up to the boathouse - ignoring Lou - to put in a call to Rusty Callow in Seattle. They wanted to tell him the good news. Rusty had retired the year before, and they still considered themselves to be his boys, a kind thing to do for Rusty’s sake, but certainly a poke in the eye for Lindsay, their new coach. (This mirrored Rusty’s experience when he first took over from Buck Walsh at Navy and their varsity squad accorded him a similar lack of confidence; history does repeat itself.) The Navy victory rounded out the Olympic Rowing Squad, there being only seven Olympic rowing events in those days: no quadruple sculling event for men, no women’s races or lightweight events for either women or men. The racing over, I was called before the Olympic Rowing Committee and honored by being named Small Boats Coach for the team. As such, I stood on equal footing with Lindsay. This was the first time that the coach of the eight was not designated Head Coach. Sitting there, wringing wet from the dunking given me by my victorious crews, I wasn’t quite sure whether I was shivering with elation or from being so cold. Though never forgetting for a moment that it was the oarsmen who had earned it for me, I nevertheless saw the honor as fitting reward for all the thought, hard work and sacrifice on my part over the previous two years. It was a memorable moment. The Lake Washington Rowing Club placed on the U.S. Olympic Team the largest number of men from any one organization. In the past this distinction had always belonged to the club or school whose eight had won. Because of the size of its contingent, LWRC should have had the right to name the team’s assistant manager. The Olympic Committee did not act on this or even think of it - nor did I - until it was too late. The job should, by rights, have gone to Bernie Horton, who had earned it.
TEMPERED THOUGH IT WAS BY THOUGHTS OF THE BIG JOB STILL ahead, a proper celebration was held that evening. The banquet took place at the Le Moyne Manor, the same inn where we had held the wake in the aftermath of the 956 Trials. It had been a long wait, but now all of the sacrifices and efforts seemed worthwhile. I still have the menu from that night, signed by everyone who was there. Conn, always thinking, had seen to it that it was passed around and afterward given to me. The only skeleton at the feast was the pall cast by our bitter disappointment over Blieden’s loss. He was such a fine sculler, and we all felt that he was rightfully the one to represent our country in Rome. Years later I learned that he had experienced the same spasm of the diaphragm in practice but had said nothing to either Harry or me. So, in retrospect, his loss might have been for the best. The same thing could have happened had he been our representative in the Games. We headed for home feeling high on ourselves. At our stop in Denver I gathered everyone together and warned them not to be dejected if no one were there at the airport in Seattle to greet us on our return. (We had no publicity department organizing such things.) Sure enough, there was no one. I gave everyone a few days off to rest up before tackling the big task that lay ahead; that of trying to show the four boats how to go faster before we left for New York and Rome. I had about six weeks to do it. IT WAS A HAPPY SUMMER, ALBEIT A BUSY ONE. BESIDES THE burden of trying to do the best I could as coach for the oarsmen, I was faced with my annual task at Conibear of directing the rehabilitation of Washington’s rowing equipment. Also, the next year’s production schedule for the shop needed to be organized. Lois and our children were summering, as usual, at the shack we rented at the beach on Whidbey Island in those days. For the remaining days of July - the shop being closed for vacation - I stayed out there. Although making it to the crack-of-dawn workouts in Seattle was awkward, I arranged
VI – Olympics (1960) – 160 to come in every other day. This meant my having to catch the 4:40 A.M. Clinton-to-Mukilteo ferry. If I missed that, it was an hour’s wait for the next one. One morning I came tearing out on the ferry dock just in time to have the man at the gate slam it down in my face. How unlike in days gone by when the captain would actually come back if a mate or deck hand spotted a late customer! It meant my missing that day’s workout. While not disastrous, since either Dad or Harry - or both of them - were always there and had agreed to go out with the crews should I fail to show up, I was still put out. Calming down as I waited for the next ferry, I realized that there was no cause for concern. Dad had at least as much to offer the crews in the way of advice as did I. Besides, I knew that a change in the sound of the blather issuing from the megaphone is often better than a half-day off for an oarsman. SITTING IN THE CAR GAVE ME TIME TO THINK ABOUT THE ROWING stroke. (What else was new!) Out of that came another change to be introduced that summer. For years I had wondered why many UW crews were so short - not reaching out far enough for the catch - toward the end of a race. It was as though they thought that sprinting only meant their taking as many strokes as possible in the shortest time. How the strokes were executed did not matter. In doing this, crews inevitably slowed down. Unless well ahead to start with, a finishing sprint could be deadly. Could this have come from the emphasis we gave to slowing the slide on the last half of the recovery? I had been taught that rushing into the stern before the catch caused stern check which, in turn, slowed the boat. At the same time, I knew that some coaches advocated a pause while in the bow at the end of the drive followed The “ drive” at dawn by a rush up to grab the next catch. I wondered what they based their theory on. I preferred, rather, to see an oarsman continue “around If they simply rushed up their slides and grabbed at the water, there the corner” at the end of the drive and then come to a dead stop at was no surprise. full reach just before the catch. My gauge of a good crew was always Coming to a full reach in a finishing sprint is almost impossible that of seeing whether I was surprised when they took another stroke. if one is trying to slow the slide during the recovery - there just isn’t
VI – Olympics (1960) – 161 enough time. The natural thing to do, therefore, is to come up only part way. This gives the time needed to slow the slide before the pause. But, a short reach means a slow boat, no matter how hard the pull or how many strokes are taken. It occurred to me that it would be much better were the oarsmen to forget about slowing their slides. Instead, they should focus on sliding all the way out to full reach before coming to a full stop in preparation for the next catch. The next day, after explaining what was being sought, I tried to help the men develop the habit of doing this. One approach was to call the cadence in an erratic manner. Not knowing when the command to catch was coming, they were forced to come to a full stop before each catch. The drill was difficult - especially for those used to jumping on the catch too soon - and they hated it. The idea, as I say, was that they must slide right up to full reach with no slowing, regardless of the rate at which they were rowing. At the slower rates they simply had to sit longer at full reach. The pause before the catch, which we always insisted upon, was designed to eliminate the tendency of some oarsmen to use their rush up the slide as a windup for the catch. I had several who liked to do this. Their argument was that they could make a more effective catch by compressing the body and springing into it, much as one does in the snatch when lifting weights. What they had to learn was that I did not want their catch to be that strong or heavy - just quick. I looked, rather, upon the recovery as part of the previous stroke and the pause as marking the end of one stroke and the beginning of the next one. In using this new approach, we eliminated two of the variables normally present when changing the stroke rate. Rather than easing off at the lower rates as too often happens, the men tended to continue pulling hard regardless of the rate. Also, the speed of movement up the slide would remain nearly the same whether they were rowing at 20 or at 40. Another plus was a physical one. Studies have shown that in any repetitious activity - which rowing certainly is - the human machine functions best if allowed to relax at some point in each cycle. The
pause between strokes gives the instant of relaxation that the body needs. I sought to have the oarsmen consciously relax as much as they could during their run up the slide. I even urged them to let their jaw hang loose during the recovery, rather than grit their teeth as oarsmen tend to do. Loose jaws made them look stupid, but their rowing was helped. After many miles and days of this, the crews learned to keep their full reach at the higher stroke rates. The stopwatch indicated that this was helping them go faster. Looking back on it, I suspect that it would be dangerous to start out by teaching this concept to novices. The more traditional approach of slowing the slide during the recovery should be learned first if one is to develop proper control of the body on the recovery. I soon recognized another significant result gained when sliding up to full reach all in one piece. I should have listened more closely to Mr. Shear, my high school physics teacher, as he expounded upon Newton’s Laws and on the concept of what is designated in physics as “mass.” (This has to do with inertia and how weight behaves when subjected to acceleration.) He would have a hemorrhage if he heard me now trying to explain what I think I learned from reading the book. (He never would answer a question in class other than to say, “loook in the boook” in his guttural Russian accent. Had I done so, I might have tumbled sooner.) The trap that one tends to fall into is that of making the boat, rather than the crew within the boat, their frame of reference. The crew’s weight constitutes as much as 80 percent of the entire system, and it has much more to do with what is going on as the boat is propelled through the water than does the weight or mass of the boat itself. The two parts of this couple (boat, oars and cox’n on the one hand, the crew on the other) make up the system. When at speed - that is, in equilibrium - the greater member of the couple takes over. Its inertia determines how the lesser partner of the couple behaves. Once their boat is underway and up to speed, a good crew never moves aft in it (bad crews do!). They only seem to do so - an illusion created
VI – Olympics (1960) – 162 when attention is centered only on the boat. Video pictures taken of (good) crews in action confirm this. Thus, the movement of a crew within a boat, and their effect upon it, become subject to a whole new line of reasoning. Their rushing into the stern and stopping does not necessarily slow or check the boat. Actually, the boat tends to be pulled forward. I have to emphasize that this is true only when the bodies of the crew move in absolute unison. Should the members of the crew move independently in any way, the effect is lost. Two actions by oarsmen are guaranteed to impede the progress of a racing shell. One is that of bobbing down with the upper body just before the catch. This drives the boat down in the water, and brings with it the likelyhood of missed water. The other disastrous action is that of bobbing down at the end of the drive. This also pushes the boat down, and, at the same time, increases the danger of washing out. In either case, the waterline of the boat is changed and drag increased. To avoid these errors, an oarsman must maintain the same body angle throughout the latter part of the recovery and hold it during the pause before the catch. At the same time, he must make sure to complete the swing of his body and the drive of his legs simultaneously. To those who hasten to say that all this cannot be true, I in turn hasten to point out that the effect is only achieved once the mass of the crew is in equilibrium. Steve Fairbairn (the eminently successful and widely-read author and coach of rowing at Cambridge in the period between the two world wars) denies the reality of this effect in his analogy of the bus heading for London. To my mind, his reasoning does not apply because his passenger had not enough mass - and thus, not enough inertia - to have any effect on the vehicle. Having doped all this out, I found the “pause in the bow, rush up, snatch and grab” style to make more sense than it had before. Still, I was not completely convinced. I couldn’t go along with that approach for two or three reasons. For one, I wanted my crews to initiate the movement of their heads and shoulders out of bow
“on the oar,” using the last bit of oar pressure against the water to do so, rather than to pull themselves out with their feet. (Those familiar with Conan Doyle’s trick of saving Sherlock Holmes from a fateful fall off a cliff at the hands of Professor Moriarty - the “Moriarty Effect” - might see the connection.) For another, I didn’t want them to be sitting in the bow as the boat slowed and the bow dipped. Rather, I wanted everyone out of there while the bow was still up. When they did that, the bow could come up even more or, at least, stay up longer. I can still see the bow of the UBC Canadian Olympic eight of 956 as it leaped up and forward during the beginning of each recovery. This is something I never saw in a boat with its crew rowing the other way (that is, with the pause, rush, snatch and grab). Lastly, I felt that the pause in the stern was an easier rhythm to maintain. When the snatch-and-grab style falls apart, it really falls apart. I dimly remembered Gus Eriksen, while still Frosh coach at the UW, insisting that a shell moved fastest when the oars were out of the water. I wasn’t sure that he knew what he was talking about. Tests since have confirmed that he did, but this phenomenon is not necessarily true all the time. For it to be true, it is imperative that a crew move absolutely as a single unit during the recovery. Only then will their boat momentarily pick up speed after the release. This is the answer to the age-old question among rowing men: How could a shell sometimes feel so heavy and go so slow, while at other times feel so light and seem to fly like the wind? This is what the men in that LWRC eight back in 956 had experienced. They did not begin to go fast until everyone in the crew had learned to move absolutely in unison. The spectator, knowing nothing of rowing, might miss what is actually happening, especially if a healthy stern check is added to the equation. One day a journalism student came in the shop for an interview. She was preparing an article on rowing for the UW Columns magazine. One of the questions this very serious young woman asked was, “Mr. Pocock, how can a racing shell stretch out and then snap back each time the crew takes a stroke?”
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Early morning heading for Kirkland - 1977 I NEVER READ ANY OF THE FEW BOOKS AVAILABLE ON ROWING for fear of confusing myself. Whether any of them mention this phenomenon, I had no way of knowing. For years, in my ignorance, I figured that even if it were true, the extra speed during the recovery would be more than nullified by the inevitable slowing of the boat during the drive. I was even guilty of seeking to keep the variation of speed between drive and recovery at an absolute minimum. Now I knew that it was possible to take advantage of this surge during the recovery to increase a shell’s overall average speed. Dwelling further, I thought of a trick that could be the means of making it happen without fail. In 963 a group of men assembled at the LWRC to train for the next Olympic Trials. Dad and I loaned them a brand-new eight. Thinking that I could give them an edge, I decided to implement the trick by connecting all eight sliding seats
together. When the crew tried the boat, they experienced a grand awakening upon discovering just how far from absolute precision they were accustomed to rowing. One man was experiencing whiplash because he was so far out of sync. A couple of the others were having their seats shoved right out from under them at end of the drive. This I should have foreseen, for each of them was in the habit of moving a slightly different distance on his slide. The experiment was a total disaster. My next step should have been to put stops on the tracks to limit the movement of the crew to that of the shortest man. I just didn’t have the time to play around with it and quickly abandoned the project. Too bad. Every time I see a tandem bicycle going by with those two pairs of legs moving absolutely in unison, I am reminded of that experiment. A question that has always bothered me is often heard: “Is a light boat faster than a heavy boat?” (Better stated: “Can a light boat be moved faster than a heavy one?”) Many coaches insist that the weight of a boat is important and that a light boat is faster. I don’t think this is necessarily true. Even if it were true, the weight of a boat alone can rarely, if ever, be the determining factor in a race. The many errors made by an oarsman or a crew are far more detrimental to speed than is the weight of the boat. On two separate occasions, Erickson, while coaching at the UW, told me that his crew had actually gone faster when weight was added to their boat. At the time, minimum weight standards were being enforced at Pac 0 Championships. Dick was committed to his super light fast boat from Germany, and weight had to be added to bring it up to the required minimum. Just the opposite to what he expected had happened: They went faster A great story regarding weight was told me by Jack Frailey. The incident took place while he was coaching at MIT. That year, with no JV to speak of, he was depending on his Frosh to give the Varsity some competition. Thinking to even things up, he added considerable weight to the Varsity boat to slow them down. As the season progressed, the Frosh were able to give the Varsity a bad time, beating them as often as not. After some days of this, the captain asked whether they
VI – Olympics (1960) – 164
The gang preparing a new C Shell for Mills College - 1984 could take the weights out. He and his crew were fed up with being embarrassed. They wanted to show him - and the Frosh - who was who around the shellhouse. Out came the weights. That night, the Varsity could get nowhere near the Frosh. They were beaten on every run. Not too surprising. Being much lighter, the Varsity shell was sitting higher in the water than it had been and, thus, was less stable.
The crew, not being used to this instability, were handicapped rather than helped by the lighter weight of their boat. Because we are dealing with an unbalanced couple (in the scientific sense), the weight of the boat (and, not incidentally, that of the cox’n and the oars) does have an effect. A lighter boat has less inertia to be overcome as the crew pulls it forward under them. Too, there is slightly less resistance or drag. Another consideration: There is friction developed by the wheels in contact with the track. This resists the oarsman’s movement within the shell. It can conceivably increase resistance to the forward movement of the boat as he pulls it under him in preparation for the next catch, especially as he tires in the latter stages of a race. A squirt of lubricating oil on the tracks keeps that to a minimum (dirty calves, but little drag). If they know - or even think - that they are in a heavy boat, look out. They’re apt to feel it gives them an excuse to not even try to pull hard enough to make it go. On the other hand, a light boat - or even one that a crew thinks is light - can be of great help to them. What the crew thinks a boat weighs is what has the most effect. When all is said and done, the true advantage of a light boat is found when carrying it to and from the dock - it’s easier. An example of that phenomenon was demonstrated one year when a Lightweight men’s crew from Santa Clara came up to Seattle to race the UW 50s on Opening Day. They borrowed one of our brand-new C Shells waiting to be delivered to Mills College in Oakland. We had the boat outside, rigged and ready for them when they arrived for their workout. Never having seen one of this type of shell before, they were curious but cool about it. Finally organized, on their cox’n’s command they lifted the boat off the slings. They all happened to lift at exactly the same instant, and the boat must have felt as though it weighed nothing. They began laughing, yelling and babbling about this new marvel. They put their oars in the locks, climbed in and shoved off. Chattering like magpies, they headed off toward Conibear. I could still hear them as they disappeared into the Cut.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 165 The next day, the UW 50s never knew what hit them. Santa Clara knew that their convincing win was because of (to their minds) their super light boat. What had made that boat so special for them was the illusion that it weighed nothing. (The inch-wide gunwales also helped. On our cedar boats, these were less than half as wide. The wider gunwales distributed the boat’s weight more evenly over the crew’s hands or shoulders, thus effectively cutting the sensation of weight in half. This might be compared to the difference between having your foot stepped on by a man wearing oxfords rather than by a woman wearing stiletto heels.) I can see the winners yet, as they rowed back up the length of the course. Their coach, the late Jim Farwell, ecstatic as he stood on the cox’n’s seat, champagne bottle in hand, toasting his crew as they rowed along, savoring the plaudits of the crowd.
trouble and stop us - but no luck. Fortunately for me, the old boats that we used for training had a brace which came across the boat right over ones stretcher boots. Some called this a lifting bar, although we were never allowed to use it as such. Designed to distribute stresses, it had no other purpose. In my present predicament, I soon discovered one. At the end of each stroke, I hooked the toes of one foot under the brace. Thus, I could keep my other foot in contact with the stretcher and continue rowing, after a fashion. Probably, the two of them - Al and Dad - talking and spinning yarns in the launch, forgot all about what was going on in the shells. Finally, we ran out of lake down at Juanita Beach (“Sonova Beach” in the Husky oarsman’s lexicon) and had to stop. My big toe was bloodied and blistered, but at least I had not fallen out of the boat. Afterward, Dad told me that Ulbrickson had made the comment that I seemed to be the only one in the boat handling the drill. Right. Me, the crossbar and my big toe. That toe and I might have earned our spots in the Varsity boat that morning. Understandably, from then on, I was careful to see that my stretcher was set correctly. My heretical departure from the norm (that is, the fast movement up the slide) changed little as far as the technique of the release was concerned. The only change was in the elimination of the slowing of the slide on the last half of the recovery. I knew through my own sculling and rowing that one could move one’s seat during the recovery at any speed without the feet being fastened. The trick was to press down on the rubbing strip (the rounded bar at the aft end of the tracks) with the calves as one went around the corner with the head, hands and shoulders. With those well into the recovery, a quick lift of the knees brought one out to full reach in no time - poised and ready for the next stroke.
HOW ABOUT THIS IDEA OF THE QUICK RUN UP THE SLIDE ON THE recovery? One squawk immediately heard - and I can almost hear my dad’s voice echoing from the grave - is from those who insist that one must never pull his weight out of bow with his feet. Oarsmen at the UW knew that if they saw Dad in the launch for a turnout, Al was sure to have them rowing with their feet unfastened before the workout was over. The drill was designed to teach oarsmen that they could get their weight out of bow on the oar (Professor Moriarty again), rather than by pulling up on their stretcher with their feet. One memorable Saturday morning in my senior year, Dad was in the launch (one of the few occasions, incidentally, that he came out while I was rowing). We were gathered at Laurelhurst Light, waiting and wondering what kind of misery awaited. Predictably - with Dad there - Ulbrickson hollered, “Feet out!” (feet on top of the stretcher leathers). With feet unrestrained, we set off up the lake. I was in immediate trouble, having failed to adjust my stretcher so that my seat could touch the bow stops at the end of the drive. OUR TIME TRIALS, TAKEN EACH WEEK AS WE PREPARED FOR THE On every stroke, the seat would keep going and my feet would lose upcoming Olympic Trials (we’re now back to the LWRC season of contact with the stretcher, putting me in mortal danger of toppling 960), would have been worth watching had anyone chosen to brave over into the bow man’s lap. I kept hoping that Al would spot my the early morning hours and the too-often inclement weather. With
VI – Olympics (1960) – 166 the number of boats involved - all of different intrinsic speeds - these races took some organizing. We used a staggered or handicapped start. From the records, we knew the approximate relative speed of each crew: the coxless four was the fastest, with the double next, followed by the coxed four, straight pair and single in that order, and, last of all, the coxed pair, which was the slowest. I would line them up on the starting line and send them off in reverse order, the coxed pair going first. Counting down with the stopwatch, I sent off the other boats, each at its appointed time. If the handicapping were done accurately, and if all the crews performed up to expectations, they theoretically would all end up at the finish line together. It never worked that way, of course, which was fortunate: it would have been a mess. Fitting as few as four coxed boats into the Cut at one time is tricky. We often had more than five, and most of them were blind boats - no cox’ns. We could have sold tickets. As it was, about the only onlookers - other than Harry and I and, now and then, Dad - who ever enjoyed the show were a few seagulls and the occasional sea lion that had found its way through the Ballard locks from Puget Sound. I soon discovered that giving the slower boats their calculated handicaps didn’t work well. It was difficult for a crew sent off too far in front - the wheelbarrow (coxed pair), for instance - to really begin to race until the other boats drew closer. After workable handicaps were determined, we had some very competitive rowing. This system proved especially helpful to the crew of the straight four. Being the fastest, they always had to start last and come from behind. Racing in the Finals in Rome, when they had to pull out all the stops, was just the same as it always had been. TO ESCAPE ONE DAY, I DROVE TO VANCOUVER AND WENT OUT in the launch with Frank Read - a busman’s holiday, for sure. He had only an eight and a straight four rowing. Discouraged with their progress, he asked me for my opinion on what I saw. At his invitation, I rode in the cox’n’s seat of the eight for part of the workout. Back at the float, I told him that it looked to me as though he had the wrong
Jack Carver, Aubrey Roberts (ardent UBC/VRC supporters) & their namesakes man at stroke. Asked whom I thought he should put in, I chose not to say, for I wanted him to make up his own mind. He said that he didn’t want to put in anyone from the four. Knowing he had two coxed fours in the boathouse, I suggested that he stage a series of races between various lineups made up of the men from the eight. (This was before seat racing, with all the vagaries attaching to that form of madness, came into vogue - at least, it hadn’t as far as I knew.) I was sure that he would soon discover who belonged in the stroke seat. I hoped, too, that such an interlude in the small boats would provide relief for his men. Despite his pleasant nature, Frank was a relentless taskmaster. A perhaps apocryphal story of his approach to coaching tells of one workout during which he became so outraged by the performance of one of his oarsmen that he made the man jump out of the shell, swim ashore and walk home. His men held him in great
VI – Olympics (1960) – 167 awe and jumped whenever he spoke. They all looked to me to be suffering, too, from the boredom of looking at the back of the same neck day after day, week in and week out. They needed a change. I heard later that Frank had done as I suggested. Jack Carver, a lifelong booster of rowing in the Vancouver area, helped by volunteering his services as cox’n of the second four. Over six days, morning and evening, they raced in the two fours with varying lineups. After the last of these tests, Frank asked the men if they wanted to go over the course with the new lineup that he had settled on. They all said yes. (Knowing Frank as they did, they probably didn’t dare say no.) They posted their best time of the year. When they came down to Seattle to race before heading for Rome, I saw that his new stroke man was the one I had pegged in my mind as the man belonging there.
Early one morning, while awaiting our departure for Rome, I took the squad out to the New York Athletic Club (NYAC) boathouse at Orchard Beach near Pelham Manor for a workout. There, sitting on the racks, I saw the four brand-new eights that we had built for the club earlier that year. They had been brought east in the same baggage car the UW used to bring their equipment to the IRA regatta the previous June. When Jack Sulger, the NYAC coach, showed up, I took him out to the car which was spotted at the New York State Fairgrounds railroad siding. All he had was an old panel truck on which to carry the four boats, along with two young boys to help us load them. They were two tough little kids. The four of us somehow removed the boats from the car and loaded them on the little truck. As I watched him pull away, I felt sure they would never make it. If it didn’t break down first, the police were bound to nail him for the illegal load. Then I remembered that he was a New York City cop. He probably could talk his way out of any troubles with the highway patrol. He made it all right, with no troubles that he would acknowledge. Now, only two months later, all four boats were a mess. Not one of them was rowable, all having been run up on the rocks that stick up all over Orchard Bay at low tide. To make matters worse, they hadn’t been paid for. It was months later, only after many letters and phone calls, that we received payment.
CAME THE DAY FOR US TO PACK UP AND head for New York City. Once there, we went through the processing routine pertinent to our invasion of Europe. The oar blades - our crews had insisted on bringing their own although new ones awaited them in Rome - had to be painted with the official U.S. Olympic Team emblem and colors. I learned that whoever did the job charged 50 bucks each. That stuck in my craw, knowing that Dad and I - who made the oars being painted - had charged the USORC only 35 apiece.
I FIRST MET HELMUT SCHOENBROD THAT DAY. HE WAS DOING repair and maintenance work for the club and trying to figure out how to build racing shells. I suspected that we would hear more of him. Over the years, whenever a new shellbuilder started up, most of the coaches in the East would buy at least one boat from him to determine whether it was any good. Everyone in the rowing game on the East Coast desperately wanted someone to set up a boat-building operation back there. On more than one occasion, we had been offered incentives to make the move. We chose not to do so and, so far, no one else had shown up to fill the bill. Helmut, however, looked to have fire in his eye. I thought then that he just might do the trick. It was to take a while, but he did.
Frank Read - 1936
VI – Olympics (1960) – 168 refueling to break up the monotony, it was a tiring ordeal. Like all things good and bad, it eventually came to an end, and we reached the destination that had been our goal for two long years - Rome, site of the 960 Olympic Games.
Heading for home, Union Bay with UW campus and stadium ahead The rigamarole finally over, we prepared to head out over the Atlantic. The halcyon days of extended sea voyages for Olympic delegations going abroad being a thing of the past, we were packed aboard a Pan American Airways DC-6 chartered plane. The flight went on far too long. The plane was jammed to the rafters with athletes of every shape and size. My most vivid memory of the trip, aside from seeing the Alps for the first time, was a mid-flight search we launched to find Conn. Somewhere along the way, he had disappeared. He was finally discovered in the narrow runway extending out into the wing which was used for inspection and maintenance of the engines during flight. It was the one place he could find with enough room for him to stretch out his long frame. With only a brief stop at Shannon, Ireland for
ONE HAD TO BE EXCITED ON FIRST SEEING THE COLISEUM a nd a l l t he ot her ma r vels, a ncient a nd ne w, a s we rode through the Eternal City. The Olympic Village itself was memorable, lavishly outfitted with anything and everything a person could ever want or need - everything, that is, save privacy. No screens, blinds, curtains or shades, with windows wide open to the salubrious Roman summer night air. I was certain we would have plenty of trouble with bugs. As it turned out, the whole time we were there I never saw or heard a single one. The place must have been drenched with DDT, use of that chemical not yet having come into disrepute. Scarcely in the door, we were told that the crates containing our shells were tied up in a strike on the docks in Naples. Tip Goes, still chairman of the USORC, ranted and raved for a while and then yelled at Jack Sulger, manager of the team, “Jack, go find a car and driver. Get down to Naples and take care of the problem. Right now!” This was about 0 o’clock at night. Jack said, “Sure, Tip,” went upstairs and climbed in bed. Satisfied that he had taken care of everything, Goes went in to take a shower. No water. Water in the lavatory, water in the commode, even water in the bidet, just no water in the shower. Thinking that we might be in trouble before this adventure was over, I suddenly remembered Conn’s admonition of the year before: “You didn’t expect it to be easy, did you?” Of course it wouldn’t be easy. Actually, things could have been much worse: Jack enjoyed his night’s sleep, Tip had his shower (next door), and we learned - before Jack was even out of bed the next morning - that the crates with all our shells and oars were safely at Lake Albano. The plumber who magically appeared within hours of our complaint couldn’t figure out what the trouble was until he had ripped out all the tile and plaster above the tub. The shower head and handles, in
VI – Olympics (1960) – 169 outward appearance properly installed, had only been shoved into the wet plaster during construction. Water pipes had been stubbed in, but nothing was connected. The contractor on that job must have been the very lowest bidder. Before leaving Seattle, I had contacted Bob Will. A good friend and fraternity brother with whom I had rowed at the UW, he now owned Freeway Motors. Through him, I arranged for a new VW Karmann Ghia to be delivered to me in Rome. I hoped that having a car available would give me some much-needed flexibility and save time otherwise lost in waiting for buses going back and forth between the Olympic Village and Lake Albano. Lois would be joining me a week or two after I arrived, and we could grab opportunities during my free time to enjoy the Italian countryside and the sights of Rome. One of the first things I did upon arriving in Rome was to contact the VW agency. No car. Not even an idea of when it would arrive. So much for great plans. I was stuck riding the bus along with everyone else. Lake Albano lies deep in the crater of an extinct volcano some 6 miles south of Rome. The cone sticks up out of the relatively flat countryside. One drives through a tunnel and there you are, right at the lake. The tunnel, built especially to give expected Olympic crowds easy access to the rowing venue, obviated the need to endure the old route - probably first used by Hannibal and his elephants or by some other ancient notable of similar evil intent - that wound tortuously up and over the rim of the crater and down to the lake. As we emerged from the tunnel that first morning, we saw Castel Gondolfo, the summer palace of the Pope, perched high on the crater’s rim. The boathouses strung along the lakeshore below were all brand-new. The architect of the venue, a former oarsman, was on hand to greet us. He had rowed for Italy at Ballarat in 956 and remembered Conn and Dan; the three of them had much to talk about. The next person we saw was Harry Swetnam. None of the oarsmen had been aware that he was coming. Just before leaving Seattle, I had received a call from Stanley Golub, who worked out at Harry’s gym.
The Brain Trust: Stan Pocock, George Pocock & Harry Swetnam - 1960 Stan wanted to know whether it would be OK with me if Harry showed up in Rome. Some of the men at the gym wanted to raise money to buy him a ticket. Delighted, I said by all means send him over. Not only would his help be invaluable to the men, but Harry could hold my hand and perhaps keep me from going over the edge
VI – Olympics (1960) – 170 during the difficult days that lay ahead. Besides, he deserved the trip because of his countless contributions to the development of the LWRC crews. So, there he was. The men were tickled. Someone asked where he was staying. No place, yet. They put their heads together to map out plans for smuggling him in and out of the Olympic Village. The thousands of competitors would experience no privation because of what he might eat - there was enough food in the mess halls to feed all of Rome. Attempting to keep the oarsmen from eating too much in the face of all that temptation was to become an item high on my agenda. The designers, in setting up the regatta site, had saved money by avoiding the temptation to build floats such as those used in most parts of the rowing world. Instead, by dumping fill material into the lake, they created a series of piers that jutted out from the shoreline. Covered with matting, the sides of these piers sloped gradually into the water. Thus, any change in water level posed no problem. The crews needed only to wade in far enough to float their boat. Wet feet were a drawback, but anyone worrying about wet feet would have turned out for some other sport in the first place. The crates containing our shells and oars were soon located. We went to work and, to my relief, found no damage. Bill Schenk, the official rigger for the squad, was on hand to help. (Incidentally, while “boatman” (or “boatsman”) is his official title, the person taking care of shells is usually called a “rigger.” The outriggers of a shell are also usually referred to as “riggers.” Properly written, the term, when used to refer to these, should be preceded by an apostrophe, but that is too much trouble.) Bill was from the Naval Academy, and as anyone might expect, what interest he had in the proceedings was centered around the Navy shell. He had with him a beautifully-inlaid tool chest made for him by Nelson Cox, the Princeton rigger. About the only items of significance in it were his coffee maker and several mugs. He didn’t even have a screwdriver to fit the Reed & Prince recessed head screws that we used exclusively in all our boats. This, despite the fact that in those
days the Academy used nothing but equipment built by us. His lack of tools must have left him with plenty of time to drink coffee. An old Navy carpenter’s mate, he was not only good company but always had the pot on. The team would have benefitted had Dad again been chosen to be the official rigger, a position he had filled at the previous four Olympics. Because his (our) shop had supplied all the boats that our crews would be using on Lake Albano, he could have kept an eagle eye on the equipment while leaving me to worry about the crews. Given his encyclopedic knowledge of racing and of the ways of men, his presence would have been a boon to us all. Happy to step aside, he could have made the trip on his own had he chosen to do so, but taking part in four Olympic regattas was more than enough for him. Had he come, he would have been welcomed with open arms by everyone on the team, for his image in their eyes was enormous. Harry was there, so he certainly should have been. Not long before the racing was due to begin, all four of our crews sent a cable, signed by everyone including myself, urging him to come watch them perform, but he would not relent. Knowing him, he must have felt that it was my show, and that I didn’t want him in the way. How far from the truth that was. We might even have copped another medal or two had he come. He also might have made the difference between winning and losing for the Canadian eight. They were using one of our shells, and he had great influence with Frank Read, who would have welcomed anything he had to offer. The job of boatman (rigger) was often given to the rigger (boatman) of the university whose eight was going to the Games. Dad had the job in 936 because he was the rigger at the UW and, not incidentally, the builder of their shell, the Husky Clipper. My Uncle Dick was chosen for the job when Yale went to Paris in 924 where they used the boat he had built. Jack Donnelly, the Cal rigger, was new on the job in 948 and should have been given the nod, but Dad was named to the post before the Trials had even been held. Both in 952 and 956,
Apologia – i
Look Magazine “Sports Photograph of the Year” – 1953 – by Josef Scaylea
Apologia – ii
Old ASUW Shell House on Montlake Cut – circa 1933
Apologia – iii
“What we did” – 1981 – by Tom Green
Apologia – iv
Apologia – v
Windermere Cup on Montlake Cut – Opening Day of Boating Season, Seattle – circa 1983 – by Josef Scaylea
Apologia – vi
Author & Allan Lobb sculling under New Bridge, River Thames, UK – 1966
Apologia – vii
Portrait of author – 1997 – by Susan Parkman
Apologia – viii
UW turnout – circa 1968 – by Josef Scaylea
VI – Olympics (1960) – 171
George, Stan & Dick Pocock at Syracuse - 1956 he was chosen because he and I had built all the boats to be used by the team. On both occasions and especially in 956, he was of great help to coaches and oarsmen alike. The men who served as riggers at rowing schools around the country deserved recognition. They looked upon the selection as reward for services rendered and, rightly enough, they wanted in on it. The decision was made to revert to the old custom. Thus, at Lake Albano, Schenk was the man. He spent much of his time drinking coffee and grousing about things in general - the age-old enlisted man’s prerogative - but ended up performing well on behalf of the LWRC, as we shall see. Today, with the advent of the composite crew - representing no one - the job is simply passed around. IN ADDRESSING THE TASK OF KEEPING TRACK OF THE SIX CREWS that were my responsibility, I soon found myself running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I thought I was keeping up a good front, but apparently not. One hot afternoon I went to the Red Cross tent in search of ice for the men to take with them when they went for their workout. No one there could speak English, and I was pantomiming what it was that I needed. All at once, one of
the nurses laid hold of me and tried to lead me over to a cot. I must have looked so bad that she thought I was the one who needed the ice. That might have been the morning after Frank’s and my foray through the nightspots of Rome. My responsibilities were not as many as they might have been. We had no trouble with any of the equipment. Kelly and Knecht posed no problem. They rarely mixed with us, staying more or less on their own. They had brought their own boat as well as their own coach and trainer, Jack Trinsey. Unfortunately for them, by coming over later than the rest of the squad, they had not allowed themselves enough time to become acclimated. Both men suffered from the trots and so missed several workouts. Parker trained most of the time with the coxed pair, there being no single for Blieden to use. I didn’t want to tell Harry anything unless he asked me for advice, and he never did. Of all the people on the squad, Ted Nash was the greatest help - when out of the boat. He was constantly ferreting out information and keeping me abreast of what was going on. Bernie Horton, having made his own way over, was a big help as well. I doubt that much of what we did on Lake Albano would ever have found its way into the Seattle papers had he not kept himself busy feeding them information. One morning, we were looking for a ride to the lake. Some of the Russian squad came by in a bus with plenty of room. It stopped and the steely-eyed man in charge indicated that we could ride along with them. We climbed aboard. At first, all was quiet. Then, some of the Russians began to sing. Some of them had great voices and, though we understood nary a word, their songs stirred me - not unlike going to hear Grand Opera. I tried to think of an American song we all knew to sing in response. Rusty Wailes suggested some Boy Scout songs, but they were all turned down. Then someone thought of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” I divided our gang up into two groups, and we started singing the round. The Russians seemed to get a kick out of it. Then I pantomimed that they should join in. The whole crowd was divided up, and we started in again. Everyone had a great
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Author at work by the shores of Lake Albano - 1960 time, even the steely-eyed one. Later that evening, upon returning to the Olympic village, I heard off in the distance some familiar sounds. Looking around, I spotted one of the Russians teaching some of his team mates, “Rrrow, rrrow, rrrow you’ boad…” FROM THE DAY WE FIRST JOINED THE TEAM IN NEW YORK, THERE was angling going on in an attempt to organize an intrasquad race. Lou Lindsay was the first to broach the subject to me He thought that perhaps a 2000 meter brush a week or so before the Games started, pitting his eight against a lineup I put together from the small boat crews, would help his men. I said it would be fine with me, as long as my oarsmen were willing and that there was no publicity. Privately, I thought that the Navy crew had much more to lose than we did. Next, Conn and Dan asked me whether I thought that such a race could be arranged. Both Ayrault and Dick Draeger, Conn’s current
partner, had rowed for Lou at Stanford, and Conn, who lived nearby, spent most of his spare time around the Stanford shellhouse. They were champing at the bit to have a go at Navy. The die was cast when, in Rome, Tip Goes suggested that Lou and I organize such a race. Anyone acquainted with Tip knew that his suggestions were more like orders. Meanwhile, I heard rumbles that the Navy crew were having problems. Seemingly reluctant to listen to Lou, on at least one occasion, they waited until he was not around and then went out to row on their own. Watching this go on, I began to think that, if we were to race them and could give them a good scare, it might prove a valuable lesson. Perhaps they might even begin listening to their coach. If the race were held early enough, there would still be time for them to regroup before the real competition began. One morning, after we returned from our regular workout (which had included, incidentally, a full-scale time trial), Lou came over to say that they were ready if we were. I checked with everyone, and they were eager to do it. Earlier, I had asked Frank Read if we could borrow his shell should such a race be organized, and he was willing. His letting us borrow that boat was an incredible sporting gesture on his part. What if we wrecked it? Again, as in our race against the Canadians in Seattle, I put our two pairs and the straight four together, with Kent Mitchell as their cox’n. Kurt Seiffert and his crew were anxious to race as well. I was able to borrow a second eight, this one from the Italians. That boat, too, was one of ours - a small model built specifically for lightweight crews. It had been bought from us the year before by the Italian Olympic Committee. We were fortunate in that Schenk had become friends with the Italian boat builders - Donoratico - who had set up a repair facility at the lake. Because of his contacts with them he was able to work the deal. Career Navy man that he was, deals seemed to come naturally to him. The Italians actually had four different eights on hand, each one designed to work best under certain specific weather and water
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U.S. Olympic small boat squad about to leave for Rome - 1960 - left to right, standing, back row: Harry Parker, John Sayre, Ted Frost, Dick Draeger, Roy Rubin, Lou Gellerman, Dan Ayrault, Chuck Alm, Bob Rogers, Conn Findlay, Stan Pocock; kneeling: Ted Nash, Rusty Wailes, Kurt Seiffert, Monty Stocker, Kent Mitchell, Mike Yonker, Dick Blieden & Tip Goes
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UW leads, followed closely by LWRC (foreground) & VRC/UBC - 1960 conditions. This one they called their heavy water boat, which gives a clue as to the size of the boats we normally built for American crews. I remembered Dad having suggested to Tip, earlier that year when he was ordering boats, that our team should have two eights, one for rough water and a second for smooth. The suggestion was turned down out of hand by Goes, who paled at the prospect of the extra cost. To join the crew of the coxed four, I stuck in Lou Gellermann along with the two Navy alternates, Jim Hitchborn and Mike McMahon, and Geza Berger. Geza, there on his own, was begging for a chance to race, although he had not rowed a stroke since the Trials. He usually kept himself fit, though I suspected from the look of him that this might not to be true in the present case. I told this crew that they must stop at the 000 meter mark, wanting them to act only in the role of pace-setter to draw the other two crews out. (Also, I didn’t want to kill Geza.) They reluctantly agreed to the stipulation. Rowing to the start gave the two crews their only chance to adjust to each other. The one had been together just once back in Seattle and the other, never.
What did it matter? This was for fun, anyway, and no one was to know about it other than the crews involved, whatever the outcome. As we arrived at the starting line, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The Navy crew were there, but in their launch sat not only their coach, Lindsay, and Goes, the USORC chairman, but also Captain Coward, the Naval Academy athletic director, and - most disturbing of all - Georg Meyers, the sports editor of The Seattle Times. I had known Meyers was in Rome, but this was the first time I had seen him out at the lake. I knew he considered himself a friend of rowing and was sure to make a big thing of this affair - especially if the club happened to win. I had been specific when insisting that there be no publicity. Now, I saw myself as having been put in an untenable position. Though I did not jump out of my skin, I was sorely tempted to turn our crews around and send them back to the boathouse. Being sure, however, that they would be bitterly disappointed were I to pull them out of the race, I gritted my teeth and said nothing. The race under way, our second crew, knowing that they were only going 000 meters, jumped into an early lead. Approaching the 000 meter mark, they were actually increasing that lead. I began to wonder if the small shell they were in had anything to do with it. When they passed the 000 and kept on going, I shouted for them to stop. They kept going. I yelled that if they didn’t stop, I would ram them - an idle threat, with them rowing in a borrowed boat. I could imagine Bernie, who was in the launch with me, silently urging them, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Seiffert, the cox’n, finally gave up and had them quit. Their angry looks let me know how they felt about being forced out of the race. I couldn’t help wondering if they would have felt the same had they been behind. Meanwhile, the other two crews were making a race of it. Time has clouded my memory of the contest other than its outcome. The LWRC took the Navy to the cleaners by a about a deck-length. Now, the fat was in the fire. I knew that Meyers would not keep a lid on it, that Captain Coward would be looking askance at Lou, and that Tip would start throwing his weight around. All this came
VI – Olympics (1960) – 175 true, and I ended up taking heat from people who should have known better. They considered me guilty of ruining the Navy crew. As far as I was concerned, that crew, without outside help, had ruined themselves long before the LWRC crews met them. THE WINNING CREW WERE ELATED AND SHOWED IT, BUT I TRIED to hide whatever feelings I had. I talked instead about the good that had been achieved. For one thing, the result of the race had shown that small boat crews were made up of men every bit as good as those in the eight. They deserved to be in the Olympics. Prior to this drubbing, the Navy crew had been less than cordial with the clubbies, seeing themselves as the elite of the rowing squad. Their loss gave them a new perspective on that misconception. They might now listen to what Lindsay had to say. As mentioned earlier, the Navy crew had been in virtual revolt. While wandering through the grounds up at Castel Gondolfo a day or two before, I had seen Lou hanging over the parapet with a big pair of binoculars zeroed in on the scene below. He claimed it was the only way he could get a look at his crew. I had thought he was kidding. Maybe they just looked better from that far away. Whether his crew started listening to him after their loss to LWRC, I do not know. I hope they did. Right or wrong, Lou was in charge and deserved their respect and support. They seemed to give him no credit for their being there. Whatever went on during the days remaining before racing began must have helped for they did reach the Finals. There, they had to be satisfied with a fifth-place finish and suffer the ignomy of being the first United States eight to miss winning the Gold Medal. SOME DAYS BEFORE THIS, I SENT THE STRAIGHT FOUR OUT alone. (They did look better from a distance.) On their return, they sped to shore where they skidded to a halt. Nash leaped out. Galloping up the ramp livid with rage, he was yelling loud enough to have been heard up at Castel Gondolfo that he would never row with them again. I never found out for sure, but I suspected that it
must have had something to do with Sayre and his fast mouth. As Ted charged up to where I was standing, I blocked his way. With words I was ashamed of later, I bellowed at him that he had no choice. He had to row with them; he had to get back in the boat; the four of them had to hash out whatever it was that had his dander up. Hoping that the wrath of God or the Pope was not about to descend upon us, I happened to glance over toward the boathouses. There, leaning against one of the buildings, stood Ky Ebright with a wide grin on his face. Veteran of three Olympics (in which his crew had won the Gold Medal each time), he was now retired after having put in some 35 years at Cal. He and his wife were on a trip around the world given them by the Cal rowing alumni and the two of them had stopped off here in Rome to see the fun - or the agony. As Ted stomped back down the ramp, I regained my selfcontrol. Looking over at Ky, I shouted, “It’s sure more fun when you don’t have a crew to worry about, isn’t it, Ky?” “Amen to that!” he replied. When the four came off the water, I took Sayre aside. Thinking I might know what the problem was, I suggested that now he knew how to set Ted off, he should back away. They had more than enough to worry about already. The only time I ever saw Conn lose his temper in all the years that I have known him was one day during our last time trial. I was stuck with a launch driver who knew no English. In starting the crews off in their usual staggered fashion, I did not give Conn and Dick enough of a lead - either that or it was too much. Whichever, they didn’t look to be going at it the way they should. The other five crews soon overtook them, and they fell behind. I didn’t notice my driver cutting in and threatening them with his wake until it was too late. Though I tried to make him swing wider, Conn and Dick were washed out and had to stop. Back on the beach, they angrily confronted me. I told them that I had urged the driver to move out or stop. Conn asked why I hadn’t just pulled the key out of the ignition.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 176 I felt like asking him why they hadn’t been going faster. Afterward, We were to receive the blessing in 8 different languages. It was going I was glad I hadn’t opened my mouth. I felt far too much respect for to take forever. After about the eighth or tenth version, some of us him to let a fast lip get in the way of a great friendship. started wandering around in the crowd. The square was jammed full of tourists watching the show. Right in the middle of the square, who ONE DAY THE WIND WAS BLOWING HALF A GALE. THERE WAS NO should we run into but Lois, Sue Ayrault and Aldina Nash! way that any of the crews could risk going on the water. Someone After coming to Europe a month before we did, they had started suggested calisthenics. I thought it a good idea. I had been having their venture in Copenhagen and traveled down the continent. We them do these each day ever since we began the campaign two years knew that they were due in town soon, but our meeting them there before. Besides doing warm-up exercises before going on the water, in St. Peter’s Square was a total surprise. Had we been looking for they wound up each workout by doing squat leaps until they could them we never would have found them in that mob. They had do no more. In the afternoons they ran stairs in the UW stadium, arrived in Rome only that day and, on hearing that the Olympic pushing each other to their outer - and inner - limits. I never let teams were gathered in Vatican Square for an audience with the them run on the flat, thinking this to be destructive to good rowing Pope, decided to come over on the off chance of finding us. The because it used the wrong muscles. I saw stair-running as the ideal off- six of us gathered that evening at their pensione to catch up on the water exercise, not only because the proper leg muscles were used, but story of their travels. also because elevating the person’s weight added another dimension. Lois, who had left Seattle a few days after the other two, told of In recent weeks, we had backed off, doing only warm-ups while how she cried all the way to New York and then across the Atlantic, concentrating exclusively on rowing. We gathered out of the rain in so sure was she that no one would ever find her when she arrived in one of the boathouses and everyone entered in with a will. I gave no Copenhagen. Her fears were unfounded, for Sue and Dina were there thought to the possibility of their overdoing it, but I noticed Lindsay to greet her. Somewhere during their travels, she had been miffed at standing over to one side with a quizzical look on his face. He had being mistaken for Sue’s mother (she was a few years older than the not let his men take part. When everyone had enough, we all dashed other two, but looked more like their sister). I kidded her about this down to the water for a swim. The next morning, I could see that until a few days later when I was mistaken for Chuck Alm’s father. Lou had been right. Most of the men could scarcely walk, their legs were so sore. I felt as though I had allowed the dumbest thing ever THE PENSIONE WHERE THE GIRLS WERE STAYING WAS ON VIA to happen. Fortunately, it was nearly a week before the racing began Tratone, around the corner from Via Veneta and right in the center and all had time to work their way out of it. of Rome. Via Tratone happened to be the street on which the That afternoon we limped over to the Vatican to hear the Pope prostitutes of the city solicited business, and we were to hear some give his blessing to the teams of all the countries taking part in the amusing stories of the various episodes that our three innocents Games. Everyone was expected to attend. We arrived just in time from another dimension observed during their stay. One evening, for an interminable session with a crowd of motor-bikers who were as Frank and I were walking up the street to take Lois to dinner, gathered for the same purpose. They kept revving up their engines one of the women offered her services for “ten thousand Lira.” to spew black smoke over the crowd. His Holiness coughed his way Turning her down, we went on to pick up Lois. As we walked back, through the performance and eventually got to us. we passed the same woman. Frank pointed to Lois and whispered,
VI – Olympics (1960) – 177 “Twenty thousand.” If looks could kill, Lois would have been a goner: This was not her territory. She took it in good fun, but was happy to escape unharmed.
Passing Laurelhurst Light, off on a gut-buster It was now that I regretted not having the car. The long twice-daily bus rides to and from the Olympic Village between workouts ate up what spare time I had. True, those rides gave me a chance to see the local people (women) at first hand, but I soon tired of all the hairy armpits and unshaven legs. The midtown traffic in Rome was awful, parking was virtually nonexistent, and it appeared that having a car might not have been such a great idea after all. Nevertheless, after a few days we rented an ancient Chevrolet from a shady character Lois had unearthed. The three girls made good use of it during the day. Lois and I saw some of the sights in the evenings and at midday when I wasn’t on the water. To my chagrin, I found myself unable to cope with the madness of Rome traffic. Lois, in the Chev that looked like
a Sherman tank along side of all the Vespas and tiny European cars, was willing to try anything, and she did the driving while I hung on with my eyes shut. OUT AT THE LAKE ONE MORNING, FRANK READ AND I WERE standing by his eight philosophizing when two oarsmen - by their accents, easily recognizable as being from Britain - came over. They asked whether we would mind their weighing our boat. We looked at each other and grinned, for we knew what was coming. Frank, feigning indifference, shrugged and told them to go ahead. They busied themselves, weighing first one end and then the other with their spring-loaded fish scales. When through, they came over shaking their heads and frowning. “Sorry to tell you this,” one of them said, “but your boat is almost exactly 100 pounds heavier than ours.” We gave a properly shocked response, and they went away happy. It was the oldest game in the book. If you can’t beat them on the water, try it on land. Here, it wasn’t going to work. Frank’s boat might have been as much heavier than theirs as they claimed, but when the two crews met in the first heat, the Brits didn’t even see which way Canada went. I TOOK WHAT OPPORTUNITY I COULD TO TAKE A GOOD LOOK at the European equipment. There was nothing new or exciting. Our boats and oars were at least as good as any of the others. I wrote home to Dad and the gang at the shop, telling them, “If the Germans, fortunate in having Karl Adam as their coach, win the eight - and it appears to me that they might - it won’t be because of their boat.” An early Empacher, it was an old plywood bucket, heavy and hogged. Kelly and Knecht had brought their own Stampfli double with them. That made sense: They were used to it, and expense meant nothing to them. It was somewhat heavier than the one the USORC had bought for them (despite being a wooden Pocock, the latter weighed only 63 pounds), but they had been told that theirs was light, and that was all that mattered. Everyone else in our squad,
VI – Olympics (1960) – 178 because they used our boats and oars on their home waters, was happy. The Canadians could not say anything bad about either the four or the eight of ours they were using. To my knowledge there was never anything that went wrong with any of our boats during the entire three weeks that we were there. That seemed as good an endorsement as any. Much was made of the so-called shovel blades that the Germans had brought with them, but I don’t think they used them in the Finals. The British had huge oars, but that didn’t help them any more than did their light boat. Earlier that year, I had made a wide-bladed oar for Ted Frost. We sometimes did this for an unusually strong man. In the early 930s, Dad made one for Joe Burk who was rowing for Rusty at Penn. Stub McMillin, #5 in the UW’s 936 Olympic crew, used one. The idea behind a big blade was that it might slow the drive of an extra-strong man, especially if he tended to tear the water, so that he would swing with the rest of the crew. Moving the button in thus increasing the load - would have accomplished the same purpose. In those days we had not yet gone back to putting adjustable buttons on the oars we manufactured. In the present situation, Ted was so strong that I thought he could handle a larger blade and force Rogers to work all the harder. An experiment I conducted some time after showed this idea to be without merit. I’ll return to that later. At the time, I thought that Ted’s big oar was the reason Bob had faded leading up to the Finals. They had taken a fast time trial, and it looked to me that they were good for at least the Silver. Sadly, once the racing began, they couldn’t perform up to expectation. Afterward, Bob told us that, earlier in the week, his weight had begun dropping daily. I was annoyed that he had not mentioned this, either to Harry or to me. Weakened by the mysterious weight loss, he was so done in by their preliminary races that he could hardly climb into the boat on the final day. When they first started training in the pair two years before, they had refused to row a boat without a rudder. Knowing that the memory of Ted’s nightmarish 956 experience in the WAC four was the reason,
I made little of it. Eventually meeting me halfway, they let me cut their rudder down to almost nothing. All they wanted was peace of mind in the form of a trim tab in case of side winds. Also bothering me was the fact that, right from the time I began working with them, they had refused to take the kind of strenuous prerace warmup that I wanted to see. It was perhaps lucky they had stuck to their guns - on both counts. With Bob as weak as he was, had they not done so, they would not have made it as far as they did. Another gimmick the Brits brought with them, along with their huge blades and light boat, was a large black box mounted in their eight just forward of their cox’n. It was a strokemeter with a large dial that stared the stroke man right in the face. This box was probably more entertaining to look at than was the cox’n’s face. In this instance, they might have been on to something, but whatever that was, it didn’t help them. NEITHER WE NOR THE CANADIANS WERE STUCK INTO THE rigging mumbo-jumbo as yet. We laughed at all the measuring and changing going on in everyone else’s camp. They were on the beach while we were out rowing. Anyone who noticed how badly we did once racing began might have concluded that we were missing something. In 978, when Lois and I attended the World Championships on Lake Karapiro in New Zealand, things were much different. The shoe was now on the other foot. The U.S. rowing community was into rigging in a big way. Our crews had arrived at the regatta site two days ahead of us. When we showed up they were still measuring and fiddling and adjusting their equipment. Everyone else was rowing. This activity might have been prompted by their poor showing at the regatta in Australia the week before. We saw the East Germans arrive. They had the whole business down to a science. Within minutes their boats were rigged, the crews on the water and gone. How things do change. All their fussing didn’t help the U.S. crews, who again did poorly.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 179 By now, American crews were rowing in what the experts considered to be fast boats i.e. those made by anyone in the world but Dad and me. These boats might have been fast, but the crews were not. Also, the boats did not seem to hold up very well. The women’s fours had been brand-new when used in Seattle at the National Championships a couple of months earlier. When we saw them there at Lake Karapiro, the crews were still losing and the boats looked ready to be junked. I could not see that the swing over to fast boats was helping anyone, any more than was all the fussing and fiddling. WHERE WAS I? OH, YES. ROME, 960. BEFORE THE RACING began, I told Frank that, in my opinion, trying too hard to win the first heat might be a mistake. Should they win, they would go directly to the Finals. This meant a two-day layover during which they would be forced to sit around stewing in their own juices. They might do well to remain relaxed about the outcome of their first race: if they won, fine; if they lost, they could still make it into the Finals through the repêchage. If they chose that strategy, they would have to be alert to the danger of running up against a crew pulling the same stunt and be ready to go all out in that second go-round. In their training regimen, they were used to rowing a 2000 meter race every day, and the extra race would not hurt them. (Isn’t it amazing how easy it is to talk of having to row an extra race when one doesn’t have to do it himself?) Frank did not agree with my suggestion, and I couldn’t blame him. I knew how easy it is to give opinions when you don’t have to make the decisions. I only wished that I could be as clever while plotting my own six crews’ strategies. The Canadians went out to win that first day, and and win they did. They looked great, and I felt sure that if they rowed as well as that on the final day they had a fine chance of winning the Gold. Their time in the preliminary heat was a fraction of a second better than that of the German crew from Ratzeburg who had been pushed to win their heat in what appeared to be a much tougher race. For the next two days, Frank laid the work on his crew. He
German (Italian?) rig was merciless. While it appeared as though he might be overdoing it, I knew that he was trying to keep them from becoming complacent. When they went into the Final, they were not guilty of that by any means.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 180
LWRC straight four taking the Gold on Lake Albano – 1960 The Germans beat them by about the same margin as the LWRC had done back in Seattle. All other things being equal, we might even have succeeded again that day. They simply did not row well, showing nothing of the class with which they had performed on the first day. Instead, they tried to brutalize the boat, and this never works. One interesting sidelight on that crew was the fact that two of the men - John Lecky, bow and Nelson Kuhn, #5 - had never rowed a stroke prior to that year. That loss must have been a bitter one. They were a fine crew, capable of rowing much faster than when LWRC met them in Seattle. In my opinion, they were good enough to beat the Germans as often as they lost to them, but that is not what matters. The medals only come if you win when it counts. OUR COXED FOUR MISSED THE FINALS BY ONLY A HAIR’S breadth. They had probably never again reached their potential, once past the Trials at Syracuse. Whether they were as good with Stocker
in there as they had been with Gellermann, we’ll never know. As for Kelly and Knecht, they never had a chance. As mentioned before, they came late, got sick, and there was not enough time for them to recover. Both pairs and the straight four made it into the Finals through the repêchage, though in no way by design. The repêchage race for the coxed pair was a heartbreaker, not for Conn and Dick but, rather for the Uruguayan coach, Henry Feode, and his crew. He and I, having met at the Pan Ams in Chicago the year before, had become rather well-acquainted during our stay in Rome. German by birth, he had almost rowed in the 936 Olympics. He told me that in their trials, he stroked an eight from the University of Berlin that defeated the German national team. This win earned his crew the right to represent Germany. He was subsequently declared ineligible for Olympic competition, having signed a contract to coach rowing at a club in Buenos Aires. A substitute had rowed in his place. Maybe that’s why the UW beat them (they came in third behind Italy). When the Second World War broke out, Feode was called back to Germany and drafted into the German Navy. He saw service on the pocket battleship Graf Spee and was aboard her when she was scuttled off Montevideo midway through the war. Interned in Uruguay for the duration, he spent the remainder of the war there. When it was over, he chose to stay and become a citizen. I was aware that Feode knew what rowing was all about, having seen his two pairs in Chicago the previous year. Because his coxed pair were winners there, he was able to find the money needed to bring them to Rome to try for the Big One. Now Conn and Dick were racing them in a last-gasp effort to reach the Finals. As the two crews went by us at the 500 meter mark, the Uruguayans were leading and seemed sure to win. I was about to congratulate Henry when, for no apparent reason, his crew stopped dead. They had not far to go, but our crew had kept the pressure on them, even with defeat staring them in the face. The Uruguayans, finding it to be just too much, gave up. Still, they were an outstanding pair. While I was elated for Conn and Dick’s sake, I had to sympathize with Henry.
VI – Olympics (1960) – 181 Years later, Conn said he thought the Uruguayans’ low stroking style - they never rowed much over 30 - had demanded too much of them. He was probably right. I can remember, while rowing at the UW, how much lighter the work felt at 32 than at the 29 or 30, Al would ask for. I began to wonder whether I had been wrong in insisting that a coxed pair needed a low-stroking pace. I had been adamant on that point with Conn and Dan in 956, and again this time around. If, indeed, I had been wrong, now I could only rationalize the fact by hoping their endless low-stroke mileage had given them a good base for their racing later on - once they were wise enough to quit listening to me. Our straight four had a bad break - literally - in their first heat. Not far off the start, Nash’s oar hit one of the buoys marking the course and his blade let go. With the broken piece hanging on by the copper tip, Ted had to wrestle with the damaged oar all the way down the course - an almost superhuman effort. They finished second to Britain. After the race, the British stroke, Christopher Davidge, came over. He had heard that Ted had broken a “blyde” and asked whether this had affected their performance. Ted quickly broke in to say that it had not, and that they had done their best. He congratulated him and his crew on their win and urged him to go after the Germans. Davidge went away thinking his crew had won the race fair and square. Almost anyone else would have been complaining, making excuses, blustering or sulking, but not Ted. Later, in private, he showed me his arm. It was blown up like a balloon from the struggle he had just endured. His effort on the water that day was a great display of fortitude, his actions on shore a great display of gamesmanship. When the racing was over for the day, I sent the four out to prove to themselves that they could go off the mark without hitting anything. Unlike the WAC IV in 956, they did have a rudder, but might as well not have. Bother me if they didn’t hit the same buoy again! Only this time it was Dan’s oar that came to grief. Poor Dan was fit to be tied. Though he controlled the rudder, in the bow as he was, their erratic steering was not necessarily his fault. Ted had the con. He was always
On the winners’ podium - Lake Albano - 1960 looking out of the boat anyway, and the other three had assigned him the responsibility of watching their course and telling Dan where to go. After that second disaster, I didn’t have the nerve to have them to try it again. We were running out of oars. They entered the repêchage with their light definitely under a barrel. Ted’s response to Davidge had worked like a charm, for the word had spread that their loss to Britain in their heat had been a real one. No one was worrying about them. The German crew were European champions that summer and, as such, were odds-on favorites for the Gold. They had chosen - I think - to go through the back door, the same as I had suggested that Frank’s eight do. This sort of thing is not unknown, but one has to be careful. Rules condemning rowing for place are strict. Any crew that, in the opinion of the judges, eases off to change the order of finish may be disqualified. Despite the risk, it is still done. The Germans thought that they had a pushover in our crew and failed to keep an eye on them. By the time they woke up, it was too late. Though they pushed our crew to a new Olympic record, they were eliminated. Walking past the stands after the race, I
VI – Olympics (1960) – 182 happened to pass Tomi Keller, president of FISA. Thinking he had no idea who I was, I waved an acknowledgment. It took him a moment, but, ever the politician, something clicked and he called back: “Well, you made it the hard way!”
have had to fight them off. For myself, I would like to have put something down on the Canadians. On the strength of their first day’s performance, they should have been even money against the Germans.
BEFORE GOING DOWN TO THE COURSE FOR THE FINALS, WE gathered in one of the rooms at the Olympic Village to “climb the walls,” as one of the men described it. I found it hard to say anything significant to the occasion, never having seen myself as much of a motivator, but I knew that I must try. One of the few times I tried to motivate crews was back while still coaching at the UW. I had become upset with what I sensed as a lackadaisical attitude in the squad. After a spirited talking-to before practice one day, I sent the crews out. On the first stroke three of the men in the first boat broke their oars. Now, I hoped to give them something to take their minds off themselves (without them breaking their oars). I suggested that, at the starting line while waiting for the “Êt vous prêt!” they take a moment to do something for me. I wanted each of them to look across at the crews on either side and, savoring the moment, say to himself, “I am a part of one of the six best crews in the world. I have worked very hard, I have learned to row very well, and I have earned the right to be here. I belong here, and I’m going to prove it.” Then, I told them, just let the habits that they had developed over the past months and years of training take over and…race! Not very deep, I suppose. I could only hope that it helped. There was little left for me to say or do. I went down to the lake to look over the boats and make sure everything was OK. Now, I could relax. My job was done. It was all up to them. All of our supporters were happy that we still had five crews in the running - more than any other country. Along with the three successful LWRC entries, Parker in the single and the Navy eight had made it. Tip Goes was strutting around trying to lay bets on five Gold Medals. I tried to warn him, knowing that this was not in the cards. I hoped he found no takers, though he should
REALITY STEPPED IN WITH A VENGEANCE ONCE THE RACING began. Both our sculler, Parker, and our straight pair, Frost and Rogers, finished out of the money. Findlay and Draeger won the Bronze Medal, coming in behind Germany and Russia. Any glory for LWRC at these Olympics was now left up to Ayrault, Nash, Wailes and Sayre. As they were lifting their boat off the rack, I whispered to Sayre, “Well, John, if anyone can do it, you can!” I knew only too well how much he hated the idea of losing. He had proven that time and again. I also knew that this same desire to succeed dominated the lives of the other three in the crew. When the gun sounded, they got off the mark without hitting anything, but I could see by the huge score board at the finish line that after 500 meters they were still in last place. By the time I could make them out, they were third behind Italy and Russia. They stayed that way for the body of the race until, with less than 500 meters to go, they jacked it up. Russia, blowing up under the pressure, fell back. Passing the Italians just in the nick of time, they went on to win their cherished Gold Medal. As they crossed the finish line I rushed down from the beer garden where Frank and I had watched so many of the races that week. (“Due bira” was about the only Italian I learned.) With no ticket to the finish line area, I had to crawl under the grandstand after wrestling with one of the guards - no guns at the Olympics yet. I could catch just a glimpse of the four men on the victor’s podium. There they were, standing at attention and gazing up at our flag as it was raised to the playing of the Star Spangled Banner. They weren’t “grinning and grinning and grinning” as some idiotic reporter later wrote. I doubt that he was even there. These four - Sayre, Wailes, Nash and Ayrault - were the toughest, most determined racers that I had ever come across. Had they not been, they would never
VI – Olympics (1960) – 183 little square, and we ate and celebrated until the neighbors began to complain. Then we went inside and down into what, I swear, must have been a part of the catacombs. Someone had cleared out the skeletons, and we carried on there into the wee small hours, with the waiters singing grand opera. In my corner, as I mused over what had gone on over the past two years, I was sorry that, after having worked so hard and come so far, not all of these 4 men had won medals. They must realize that all of them had played a significant part in the success of those among them who did win medals and look back on the experience proudly. If they could not do this, it all would have been a waste of their - and my time. They were bound to go on to activities and accomplishments far greater, and my earnest wish was that the struggles they had experienced leading up to this day had helped prepare them for what lay ahead in their lives.
Victory dinner at da Meo Pataca - Trastevere district, Rome - 1960 have reached Rome in the first place, nor would they ever have won that race. It was an emotional moment for them, and I don’t think that I imagined the tears coursing down their cheeks. I know they were on mine. THE OLYMPIC GAMES WERE OVER - AT LEAST THEY WERE AS FAR as we were concerned. Some days before, Sue Ayrault discovered an ideal place for a farewell dinner - hopefully a celebration dinner - before we all spread to the four winds. It was a great restaurant - da Meo Pataca - located right in the center of Rome. Though run by an expatriate American, it was thoroughly Italian in food, atmosphere and entertainment. We gathered there for an evening of enjoyment. Tables were set outside on the street in the
THE NEXT DAY LOIS AND I PICKED UP OUR NEW CAR, IT HAVING been delivered now that the racing was over. As we left the dealership, we discovered that things are about the same the world over. We had not gone half a block before we ran out of gas. We packed everything into the little car - with all the Olympic uniforms and junk, I had almost as much as did Lois - and beat a hasty exit from Rome. With the help of Europe on Ten Dollars A Day, we made the most of the two weeks we had before reaching Antwerp to put our car aboard a ship bound for Seattle. We saw many places most couples have to wait a lifetime to enjoy. Arriving in Antwerp without incident, we left the car at ship’s side, headed by helicopter for Brussels and caught the plane for home. During the two months or more that we were away, it had been reassuring to know that, while I missed our youngsters, they were in safe hands. Mother, my sister Pat and Lou Watne, Lois’s sisterin-law, had taken care of them in our absence. Pat had a real job on her hands. Greg, our youngest, was only 4 months old — the same age as her daughter, Katie. Just like having twins. Ray and Lou
VI – Olympics (1960) – 184 traded off with Mother and Dad in caring for Chris, seven, and Susan, who was just three. Their selfless efforts made it possible for me, mind at ease, to carry through to a conclusion the dream of helping those young men fulfill their aspirations.
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 185
CHAPTER VII
T
Second Wind (1961–1964)
HE LAKE WASHINGTON ROWING CLUB WAS IN GOOD gathering ideas for the 964 Games in Tokyo. After enjoying a royal shape. Because of its accomplishments over the previous two banquet put on by Curly Harris and the Rowing Sponsors at the Harbor years, the club had established a fine reputation and was Club downtown, they asked for a tour of the Lake Washington Rowing now a well-recognized power in American rowing. It also had a Club. We were still operating out of the shed on the UW campus sizable fleet of boats. While still in Rome, I had questioned Tip and warned them that there was not much to see. They insisted, and Goes about the possibility of the we acceded to their wishes. When USORC presenting the racing they saw the miserable shack, shells used by the US crews to they could scarcely disguise their their respective clubs. He said it suspicions that we were insulting sounded like a good idea to him, them by hiding our real layout. They chose not to believe that but he would have to talk to this was what the great LWRC his Committee. Later, he came called home. What could we say? back to me with their decision. Nothing, other than to remind While they did not feel they them that great activities and could actually give the boats great successes need not come out away, they could loan them in of great facilities. perpetuity. Whoever thought up the scheme did us a great favor because it gave the LWRC NINETEEN SI XT Y-ONE WAS the permanent use of the two another banner year for the club. fours and the straight pair. The Prague Many veterans from the previous coxed pair went to the Stanford three years came back, and I again University Crew Association at Conn’s insistence. He and his various accepted their invitation to coach. Everyone seemed serious, though partners always preferred to row under the colors of the SUCA - there wasn’t much in sight to train for other than the Nationals. Then mostly for home consumption, I’m sure. I couldn’t argue with him. we heard of an intriguing prospect in the offing. The State Department, Despite its record and its fleet of boats, the club still had no home. through its “People to People” program, had set aside enough money That did not stop what outsiders had pictured in their minds. A group to send two fours and a sculler to the European Championships in from Japan came to town not long after we returned from Rome. Czechoslovakia the following September. The chance to win this prize Representatives of their Olympic Rowing Committee, they were made the intense training that followed easier for the men to endure.
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 186 When the time came to head for the Nationals in Philadelphia, we entered both pairs, both fours, a single, a double and an eight. The coxed four had Ted Nash, Chuck Holtz, Jay Hall and Bill Flint, with Dave Amundsen as their cox’n. The straight four included Chuck Bower, John Fish, Roger MacDonald and Geza Berger. Nash doubled up by entering the single. Though Conn had trained exclusively in California with his new partner, Ed Ferry, I still saw them as “my boys.” They entered both the straight pair and, with their new cox’n, Kent Mitchell, the coxed pair. WE FOUND BOATS TO USE IN PHILADELPHIA, BUT HOW WE DID it is lost to memory. Conn and his partners drove directly from Redwood City and brought their two boats with them. One morning, Mitchell drove down to the river in the big red Cadillac borrowed from Bill Lang for their long trip east. After parking it on a sloping field adjacent to the river bank, he went in search of his crew. As he left, I noticed the car starting to roll. Across the field, one of the competitors had left his single resting on its outriggers upside down in the grass. This is a bad way to treat a single in anyone’s book, thought I. The Cadillac was aimed right at the boat. Though too far away to do anything about it, I was not concerned because I could see someone running after the car. Screaming and cursing as it rolled faster and faster, he reached the car just as it ran over the single. He jerked open the door of the car, ready to commit mayhem on the driver. When he saw that there was no one inside, his reaction was predictable. Had he been able to push the car on into the river, he would not have hesitated. I hated myself for laughing. It was one of those terrible human dramas one sees now and then. Of such has been the grist of comedy and comedians ever since stage and movies were invented. Later I learned that the boat belonged to the poor guy’s brother, and that he was supposed to have been taking care of it. Though the owner had to withdraw from his race, some good came from this tragedy. Insurance money bought him a new boat, and we were given the job of building it.
Our two fours and two pairs waltzed through their races. Nash started his sculling race, but pulled up midway when it was apparent that he was outclassed, wanting to save himself for the four-oared race soon to follow. Being entered in the race had given him the opportunity to stride around for a few days with his single over his head showing off - Adonis personified - his impressive physique. The race for the eight-oared championship was a cliff-hanger. I had put together a lineup at the last minute, as I had at the Nationals in 959, including in it anyone who had not won a medal. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Waiting for the race to start, Nash and I sought shelter from the rain in entry to the Philadelphia Girls Rowing Club boathouse. He was sore about not being in the boat, but respected me enough to keep it to himself. As the field of crews drew opposite us, Bernie Horton, who was coxing our boat, must have said just the right thing because the crew turned on the afterburners. From a twolength deficit, they came through to take the race and the title. When all the dust had settled, we had won all the heavyweight sweep rowing events in the regatta and would have won the Barnes Trophy had Conn been willing to forsake the Stanford colors. Not long ago I was talking to an acquaintance who lived in Philadelphia at the time. He sculled for the Undine Barge Club and remembered how all of them hated to see the LWRC show up. They knew what would happen: There would be few first-place medals for them to take home. AS NATIONAL CHAMPIONS, OUR TWO FOURS WERE SELECTED TO go to Czechoslovakia. Also named for the trip was Sy Cromwell, the outstanding sculler from the Nonpareil Boat Club, New York. Up until then, American crews rarely if ever rowed in the European Championships, and the World Championships had not been organized as yet. About the only time Americans raced European crews was in the Olympics or at the Royal Henley Regatta in England. Now faced with the opportunity, we had no idea what we were letting ourselves in for. After some weeks of further preparation in Seattle, we took off for Prague to find out.
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 187 Because we needed boats to train in while still at home, we borrowed two boats from Green Lake for the trip. They had to be shipped far ahead of our departure date and Jim Fifer, president of the LWRC by then, arranged for that. Flown to London, they went on a trailer carrying boats belonging to the British entries. Both boats made it to Prague and back virtually intact. What hard work went on behind the scenes! The efforts of men like Jim, Conn, Ted, Dan, Bernie, Harry and Dad - to name just a few - were invaluable to me. Their efforts were the reason the club prevailed. They did everything in the way of decision-making and detail while I just shouted and waved my arms. I was kept busy carrying my share of the load at the shop where, as usual, we were kept hopping. The trip behind the Iron Curtain was a great experience. We flew from Seattle on an Air India Boeing 707. Passenger jets being new at the time, this was exciting in itself. When the captain came through the cabin wearing his turban, I remember someone musing aloud, “I hope he doesn’t think this flight is his time to die.” Apparently, it was not, for we arrived in Prague all in one piece. This was my first visit to a People’s Republic behind the Iron Curtain. It did not take long to discover that the people didn’t like each other any better there than they seemed to in any big city in a Western democracy. This eased my mind. Perhaps they didn’t have a better idea after all. THE CZECH ORGANIZING COMMITTEE DID A FINE JOB TAKING care of the details of the regatta. Communication posed no problem for our party of 11, our having been assigned three interpreters. I became rather well acquainted with one of them, Karel Smolic, and we spent many hours together. A member of one of the local clubs, he would come to my room in the evening, and there we had many interesting conversations. I had brought pictures of the Northwest and of our shell-building operation, and he enjoyed seeing them. One night he brought along an illustrated book on California put out in 929 by his father’s publishing firm. We pored over it while he asked me probing questions about how things were in the States. As he
prepared to leave one evening, he asked me to come along. Leading me down a back street to a private garage, he showed me his pride and joy - a Trabant automobile made in East Germany. Years before, his grandmother in England had sent him the money for it. Automobiles for the average citizen were almost impossible to come by, and he had been on the waiting list for five years. Though gas was extremely expensive and hard to come by, he took me for a ride. We parked for a while in front of what he said was, or had been, the American Embassy. He liked to come there to sit like this, dreaming of the day he might be lucky enough to go to the Promised Land. He was depressed and unhappy because the political and economic situation in the country was so bad, and his future seemed so bleak. His family had been well off until the Russians took over. All their property was confiscated, and his father was forbidden the right to earn money or even to have a ration card. If he were to survive, it would be because friends and relatives fed him from their own meager rations. Karel was permitted to earn money, but only as a printing machinery repairman at very low pay. To make his situation seem even worse, his best friend had fled the country just ahead of the takeover. Now settled in Toronto, he was making a fine living in the television industry. I asked Karel why he had not fled. He said he was newly married at the time, and couldn’t risk trying to take his wife out with him. Now, 2 years later, they had one young son. They rarely saw him because, at age five, all youngsters were taken from their parents to be reared by the State in the politically correct way. Parents were allowed to see their children only on weekends. Karel said that it was impossible for a couple to have more than one child because everything was so expensive. No one in the country bothered saving any money even if they could, because, within memory, the nation’s currency system had collapsed not just once, but twice, wiping out personal savings. He said that the Soviets were extremely cruel - much worse than the Germans had been during their occupation. Many people had been murdered, and life for those who had survived just kept getting worse and worse.
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 188 One day, while strolling downtown, we stopped in front of a bookstore. I asked Karel to translate the titles of books displayed in the window. He did so with acid comments about freedom of the press, the books all being politically-oriented, anti-West writings. Suddenly, he grabbed me by the arm and hustled me around the corner. He was frantic, and I wondered aloud what this was all about. Urging me to keep my voice down, he asked whether I had noticed the man in the green sweater hovering behind us in the crowd. He whispered that he knew the person to be an informer. If he had overheard our conversation, he, Karel, could be in deep trouble. “I could be dead tomorrow.” It was hard for me to believe conditions were that bad. Nevertheless, I was relieved to see that he was still around when I left Prague. Either the man in green had not heard anything, or it was paranoia. After I returned home, the two of us kept up a limited correspondence for several years until, finally, my last letter to him went unanswered. When packing up our equipment back in Seattle, we had used newspapers to wrap riggers, oars and spare parts. As we unpacked the crates in Prague, we were surprised to note that, no sooner was a scrap of crumpled newspaper tossed on the ground than an onlooker would snatch it up. At first I thought they were just being neat. Then I noticed that those who understood English were reading the newspapers aloud to their friends. Others would go galloping off with whatever they might have picked up. None of us had had an inkling of how starved people behind the Iron Curtain were for news - any news - from the West, nor how risky it was to read such propaganda. Later, after the racing was over, Geza Berger - a native of Hungary - decided to go back to his home town to see where he had been born. At the border crossing, he said that the only items the guards seemed interested in confiscating were books or papers Heading out toward Fox Point and Lake Washington from the West. There were other clues to indicate that all was not well in that Communist Party. The local population refused to stand for the country. We received warnings to be careful about what we said Russian National Anthems (two) that were played at the opening of around one of our interpreters because he was a member of the each day’s competition. On the day of my departure, I was escorted
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 189 to the airport and seen aboard the plane by some sort of agent of the government. With plenty of time before my plane was due, I asked questions and learned something of his history. He had served with the Czech forces at the start of World War II. After their resistance to the Germans collapsed, he escaped to England with some of his friends. There, they were organized and trained by the British and continued the fight. He did not see his family for nearly five years. They had suffered terribly and barely managed to survive. He said he would never fight in another war, no matter what. He seemed concerned that my men were not there, my having left them all on their own to return home any time and in any way they wished. I wondered if his purpose in being there was to see that we all left, and whether he had blown his assignment. Suffering from paranoia? Not me, but I was glad to leave. Two years later, I heard news of Vladimir Vizek, another of our Prague interpreters. Hungarian by birth, he was a handsome and personable man. I can see him yet, razzing around the streets of Prague on his motorbike. He was now coaching in Cuba and had brought crews to the Pan Am games in São Paulo, Brazil. His being there was interesting in itself. I knew that single men - which he had been when we were in Prague - were rarely let out of communist countries. Married men had a better chance of receiving permission to travel: Having wives and families back home tended to assure their return. He must have married - either that, or he had clout in high places. Though he had seemed to have little interest in the rowing activities when I knew him in Prague, I heard of him from time to time in the rowing world. Finally, we did get together at the World Championships in New Zealand in 978, where he was in charge of the Czech contingent. I would never have recognized him, even wondering if he could possibly be the same man whom I had met in 96. He was probably wondering the same about me, for the years do take their toll. We had a fine time there at Lake Karapiro as we reminisced about the regatta in Prague. He was an architect by profession and did work for the new Czech government, first in Tunis and more recently in Brussels. In 998 he
sent me a photo of himself. Old and potbellied, he was wearing a tattered Pocock T-shirt given him during my visit in 96. One year later, a letter came notifying me of his death. DESPITE THE UNDERLYING TENSION IN PRAGUE, THE ATMOSPHERE surrounding the regatta itself appeared relaxed and friendly. The Czechs I met seemed partial to the United States and to our party, despite their not thinking much of our rowing. One morning, I had the dubious pleasure of standing with one of the local people and hearing him give a derisive snort as we watched our two fours take a racing start. We should have gone home right then, but we didn’t and, instead, stayed to take our lumps. In an unrelated incident, I grew nervous when the officials seemed to be holding our passports longer than was necessary. I recovered them quickly after pounding on a few desks. The food served to us during the week or so that we were training in Prague was typical of European cuisine, but there was not much of it. Even so, I wondered who was eating less than usual so that all those of us who were their guests might be fed. Our fellows complained because they were used to having big breakfasts after morning workouts. Coffee, chunks of bread and raw bacon just didn’t fill the bill. I went upstairs and insisted that there be eggs for breakfast. The following morning, there were the coffee and bread with raw bacon on it as usual, but with one raw egg on top. Rather than argue any further, I told everyone to go foraging in town to buy their breakfast. This they did, and got a kick out of going into the shops where they could buy milk, meat, cheese, bread - each shop specializing in what it did best. The men - or at least most of them - made good ambassadors for our country among the shopkeepers and all the local housewives out shopping. The women were amused by the sight of all the tall young men with their short haircuts. Long hair for men was the fashion in Europe by then. I asked someone about this and was told that short haircuts smacked too much of the military and concentration camps.
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Seymour Cromwell - circa 1961 ONE OF THE ORDEALS THOSE COMPETING IN THE REGATTA HAD to endure was a thorough comparative physical examination. These exams, we were told, were for a study to determine what the typical physical attributes of top-flight oarsmen might be. In my experience, there was little uniformity to be seen among oarsmen in our country other than that of being tall. The European oarsmen were shorter than those in this country. Various characteristics - lung capacity, hand strength and body fat content, among many others — were measured. One of our men could scarcely make the indicator wiggle in the grip test. He was unmercifully kidded over that, which was too bad. I had always felt that good rowing did not demand a massive grip. The ability to grasp one’s oar handle as though in the throes of death led to nothing but bad technique. When it came time for the fat test, the woman doctor giggled as she measured the roll at the waist of one of the gang. “Just like a woman,” was her comment. Hearing the razzing that resulted, I was reminded of Ed Leader’s belief that what good oarsmen needed was
not the hard, bulging muscles of a weight lifter, but the long, smooth muscles of a woman. In the present case, no one took the doctor’s comment as a compliment. The physical included taking a picture of each man in the nude. The flap a few years ago over Yale University’s onetime pursuits in that direction indicates that such activity was not unknown. I was put in mind of another of Jim Ten Eyck’s stories, this one of how he went about selecting his crew. He said the selection process was an easy one. He simply went in the shower room early in the season and picked out the eight men with what he termed “the biggest knockers.” (Despite his crudity, he probably was not too far off the mark.) I wrote off our concerns as being just another case of pre-race jitters. While I expressed mild disapproval, the only one who strongly objected was Nash, who, as mentioned already, was a commissioned officer on active duty with the army. He had a sense of what use could be made of such pictures in terms of Cold War shenanigans. One of the doctors had even tried to include me in the program, but, not being an active athlete myself, I refused to cooperate. I could see no attribute of a rowing coach that needed testing - save for softness in the head. Whatever the results of these tests proclaimed the typical oarsman to be, our bunch surely skewed them. We had every shape and size imaginable. WE WERE INVITED TO TOUR A LOCAL MEAT PACKING PLANT. Prague hams, a delicacy known throughout the world, were one of the products made there, and this tour promised to be something special. Still, I had my reservations because of stories about people who lost all interest in eating sausages and hot dogs after having once visited a packing plant. Either we were not shown the more grisly aspects of the operation, or these were just old wives’ tales. I, for one, still enjoy an occasional sausage or hot dog. The tour over, we were ushered into a huge banquet hall where our hosts had a spread laid out for us. On display was every product that the plant processed, as well as other foods of all kinds - everything
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 191 for the eating. Vodka was in evidence by the bucketful. I had to tell our hosts that my men must leave, it being time for them to go back to the river for their afternoon workout. With my suspicious turn of mind, I could not help wondering if it were not part of some scheme to slow our crews down. After all, our four had won a Gold Medal at the Olympics the year before. Perhaps we worried them. “If you can’t beat them on the water….” If such were their scheme, it was unnecessary. Our crews posed a threat to no one. What I should have done was to let them stuff themselves to the gills, thus giving them a good excuse for losing. Instead, I sent them back to the course while our interpreter, Niki, and I stayed behind to take care of the social, eating and drinking end of things. That took some doing. I remember nothing of getting back to our diggings except, at one point, fighting my way out of a jam-packed streetcar to take care of some necessities. When we went to board the next trolley, I stuck out my forefinger and middle finger to indicate that I wanted two tickets. The conductor handed me three and wanted more money. Niki explained. In much of Europe, a thumb held up means “one” while thumb and forefinger mean “two.” From there on, the thumb is left out but still counts. Even professional spies have been known to blow their cover by forgetting this, or so I’ve been told. The weather was terrible during our stay in Prague. Cromwell caught a miserable cold. Bunking in the same room, both Berger and I caught the bug from him. I told them Dad’s story of his having come down with a heavy cold just before the race in which he won the prize money that paid his way to British Columbia. Grandpa had told him to forget about it. He was fit, young and ugly, and that would be enough to see him through the race. I hoped this story might ease their mind. Several of those in our fours beside Berger were sick as well.They were still under the weather when the racing commenced. Just how much being sick affected their performance, there is no way of knowing. There was nothing they could do except tough it out. I
LWRC four with Russians - European Championships, Prague - 1961 doubt that either crew, when it was all over, felt that they had been able to do their best. Of course, to my jaundiced eye, the losses could only be explained by their not having rowed the way they ought. American oarsmen in those days tended to work especially hard only when there was something special in the offing - the Olympics, for example. Although our two crews had won at the U.S. Nationals, they were not of a caliber to compete with the competition we found ourselves up against. The high quality of European rowing in that off-Olympics year was easy enough to explain: Rowing throughout the Continent was widespread, enjoying far more popularity there than it did in the U.S. With so much good competition close at hand, good rowing went on, not only in Olympic years, but every year.
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 192 There was nothing I recall about the racing at that regatta other than the high caliber of the Europeans. The Ratzeburg eight did a repeat of their previous year’s performance in Rome, as did the Russian sculler, Vyatcheslav Ivanov. Now twice Olympic champion, he was truly a fine sculler. In the Finals, he stayed back in the pack until the final 500 when he came blazing through in extremely rough water to win. I clocked him at 40 during his sprint. We managed to salvage a Bronze Medal, won by Cromwell. The people in our two fours were serious and tried hard, but did not row well; just hard. I hadn’t paid as close attention, I suppose, as in the past. During the long training season, I rarely went out in the cox’n’s seat to coach. The men seemed to want to row their own way, and I never felt as though I ever got through to them. An interesting incident relative to this matter of oarsmen paying attention to their coach was told to me some years later. After I agreed to coach them back in 958, the men had vowed - unbeknownst to me - to go along with everything I said about how they should row with no argument. This might have been prompted by my original admonition to Conn and Dan in 955: Forget whatever anyone else had ever told them and do what I asked. Failing in this, I was gone. To have any group of oarsmen agree to do this was a coach’s dream. Whether I could have demanded any such thing from those later crews whom I tried to help is open to question. Whatever the reason, in Prague we ended up embarrassing ourselves. It was a relief for me when the whole affair was over, for I felt that I had let everyone down. At the banquet held after the regatta, Cromwell received as much of an ovation as did Ivanov and the Czech - a good sculler, though much smaller than the men he raced against - who came in second. Everyone at the banquet was hospitable, thus making the aftermath of our losing effort as enjoyable as such a thing could be. One of the Russian coaches came to our table and presented me with souvenir banners of his club in Leningrad. I was unprepared to respond to such niceties and had nothing to offer in return except smiles, nods and handshakes. After the banquet - a posh affair that must have stretched
the budget far beyond its limit - I dropped into a pub nearby. Spotting the crew of the winning German eight celebrating, I had the barkeeper send them a round of steins and, paying him, slipped an extra silver dollar in his shirt pocket. Throwing his sweaty arms around my neck, he said, “Oh, how I love you Americans!” I wasn’t sure whether he meant that he loved us or loved our dollars. Either way, I found it much nicer than reading “Yankee Go Home” signs. My trip back to the States began with a flight on a Czech airliner to London. I knew that the plane was not pressurized because, with my plugged-up sinuses, every change in altitude made my head feel as though it would blow off. The sudden descent into Heathrow was the last straw. Thank heaven memories of such miserable aspects of travel soon fade. While waiting for the flight on home, I had another visit with Dad’s old boyhood chum, Jimmy Ottrey, and his wife, Grace, in Windsor. In their dinghy, I sculled them up the river to their hideaway on Monkey Island for afternoon tea. Because of my plugged-up ears, I heard scarcely a word that was said. NOT LONG AFTER I RETURNED HOME, THE LWRC RECEIVED AN invitation for two crews and a coach to travel to Tokyo, all expenses paid. We apparently had not insulted their representatives too grievously during their visit to Seattle the previous year. On the other hand, they might have heard how poorly we had done in Prague and thought they saw a pushover in us. It put me in mind of the long-delayed invitation received by the UW crew to go to Moscow within hours of their having lost badly to the Russian crew at Henley in 958. A four and a pair would race at a regatta in Tokyo leading up to the 964 Olympics. The men were eager to travel to Japan; I was not. My gadding about had to stop. I had spent far too much time away from the shop over the past three years, and, even while in the shop, my interests and thoughts were divided. I had to pay more attention to business, starting now. Besides, I wanted to spend more time with my family. I called Findlay in Belmont and asked him to take my place. He accepted, thus becoming the official LWRC coach for that trip.
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I
N THE EARLY 960S WE TOOK OUR FIRST HESITANT STEPS TOWARD building fibergla ss boats. My first attempt wa s t he wherry. During his two-year “vacation” of 930‒3 (there were no orders of any kind), Dad had made all the jigs and molds for the two-ply cedar standard model that we had produced ever since. There was never a big market for these, but now and then we would build a dozen or so, stockpile them, and when they were gone do another run. It was a tricky boat to build, and we thought that it might be more easily made of glass and resin. Glass technology was in its infancy. Aircraft and aerospace industries were busy in their search for lighter and stiffer materials. Rowing “ in their laps” - how not to row - 1961 Ways of creating lighter structures from these new materials were being discovered, but there was little information to be found on the I can’t recall shipping any boats for the men to use in Tokyo. I was subject. It was all cut and try for us, and we had much to learn. buried in the shop and had put the club and their latest adventure out of my mind. On his return, Conn filled me in on their experiences. DICK GARBORG (I DON’T RECALL WHY WE CALLED HIM DICK, He had been treated royally by their hosts while having his brain being Arnie) was a woodworker whom I had recently hired. He picked. They wanted to know all about our approach to rowing. This had some mold-making and fiberglass lay-up experience, and I was OK by me, for I felt we had no secrets. A picture he gave me put him to work making a plug (master) out of one of the cedar recorded his visit to a women’s rowing club in Kyoto. There he stood, wherries we had in stock. I about went nuts because of the time he surrounded by a massed group of smiling faces. All were staring up had to put in on that job. When it was at last ready, we laid up a at the towering six-foot seven-inch figure of Conn, who had a self- mold on it. The mold came off the plug in good shape - no small conscious grin on his face. In the background hung a gigantic banner accomplishment, given how little we knew. We laid up the first boat celebrating his visit. using a light blue gelcoat on its surface. As we pulled that first part One bonus gained as a result of that trip to Japan was his out of the mold, we all held our breaths - not knowing what to establishment of friendships among the rowing officials. These were expect, but hoping for the best. We need have had no worries. It to serve him in good stead when he returned to Tokyo three years looked beautiful. (From then on, the first boat pulled out of any new hence, for the third time a member of the U.S. Olympic Rowing mold was colored light blue for luck.) Meanwhile, I had designed Squad. Another highlight of the trip, though an embarrassing one, and built the sugar pine and Alaskan yellow cedar interior structure. was the show put on by Jay Hall and Chuck Holtz when they capsized With this installed, and with an empty varnish can fastened in each their pair-oared shell - live - on Japanese national television. end to make sure the boat would float if I turned over, I took it out
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 194 for a spin. I could not have asked for a better result. Then came the designing and building of molds for the cap and the watertight tanks. When all this was done, we had what I thought was a good first effort in a whole new line of work. Although fiberglass is by nature heavy, those early attempts produced some fairly decent practice boats. Three or four years later, we began making a fiberglass single. Again, heavy, they weren’t bad as practice boats, and the abuse given the first few at the UW shellhouse soon revealed their weak points. We made and sold a few of these boats, but because the racing shell line was demanding so much of our time, I soon cast about for outside help. A young man who worked for the supplier of the polyester resin and fiberglass matt and cloth that we used said he was interested. He put forth a good spiel, and I fell for it. Energetic if nothing else, he soon had a shop set up out north of Kenmore where he went to work. If he could have made any more mistakes than he did, I can’t imagine what they might have been. Almost by accident, he made a few boats that were acceptable and then, one day, he just disappeared, taking the molds with him. No one in the area with whom I talked had any idea where he had gone or, if they did, would not admit to it. While we still had the plugs from which we could pull more molds, they were in bad shape and would need many hours of work to make them usable. I decided to drop the project. A year or so later, Jim Gardiner dropped by the shop. He mentioned being on his way to visit someone in the north end of town who had a mold in his garage. He thought that it had lines similar to those of our glass wherry. My ears perked up at this. I collared him, and we went out to see what was what. There they were: my long-lost molds. The rascal was home, but I gave him no chance for explanations. Jim and I threw the molds on the pickup and beat it out of there. I was back in the wherry business. Another, though somewhat less disastrous, arrangement was made with an outfit that built sailboats down in Kent. Then, I discovered a good man in Ted Rumsey. Don Norman, who worked for us, was a neighbor of his and had introduced us. Ted did some good work for me. More of him later.
THE LWRC KEPT UP ITS FURIOUS ACTIVITY DURING THE NEXT couple of years and continued their winning ways on both coasts. Small-boat events were a part of the Western Sprints then, and the club won a number of medals at those yearly regattas. Though still the coach on paper, I took small part in the training and preparation for these regattas, devoting neither the time nor the energy of previous years. Despite this - or perhaps because of it - “my” boys placed four crews on the Pan Am Team for the 963 Games on the Jurubatuba Reservoir in São Paulo, Brazil. Our shop supplied most of the boats and oars for the team, and I was again tapped to be the small boat coach. I chose to stay home and tend to my knitting. Thinking that the LWRC owed him something for his helpful testimony before the Olympic Committee at Detroit in 959, I phoned Ken Blue, who was still coaching at the Detroit Boat Club. His crews at the Trials, both then and currently, were good ones and I was sure he could do the job. I asked him to take my place, and he accepted. NO SOONER HAD THE SHIP CARRYING THE CRATES OF SHELLS anchored in Rio De Janeiro than it became entangled in a stevedores’ strike. Unless something could be done, our crews were going to be stuck with no rowing equipment. The Brazilian Army came to the rescue. The crates had suffered during the voyage, but the boats - except for the single - came through in good shape. The ship had weathered a severe storm en route, and the crate containing the single, which I had insisted be put up on the boat deck out of harm’s way, was crushed and tossed overboard. I never did hear how Cromwell, who was again the U.S. sculler, found a boat to use. Nash, Berger, Holtz and Bower won their event, while Bob Brayton and Dan Watts took second in the straight pair. Findlay and Ferry, with Charlie Blitzer steering, also won their event, but Roy Rubin, Rich Wiberg, Bill Flint, Gene Phillips and Bernie Horton had to be satisfied with a Bronze (in a field of only three entries). Ken never bothered to give me a report on what went on. From what I heard,
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LWRC members on 1963 Pan Am Games team - left to right, standing: John Magnuson, Bill Flint, Rich Wiberg, Roy Rubin, Gene Philips, Bernie Horton, Geza Berger, Ted Nash, Chuck Holtz, Chuck Bower, Jay Hall; kneeling: Dan Watts, Bob Brayton the whole affair was disorganized. Not only that, but some of the men apparently were more interested in the hot-eyed young señoritas hanging around the rowing site than they were in their rowing. A tragic aftermath saw four members of the U.S. rowing contingent - Chuck Holtz, Dan Watts, Sy Cromwell and Ken Blue - die of cancer at far too young an age. Many have speculated, but no one has proven, that these deaths were linked to exposure to some unknown carcinogen during that visit to Brazil. I often wonder whether I would have suffered a similar fate had Ken not gone in my place.
THAT SAME YEAR, THE RATZEBURG RUDERKLUB WAS ASKED TO send an eight-oared crew over to the States. This was the club that had won the Gold Medal at the 960 Rome Olympics and at the 96 European Championships in Prague. They were to race the major college crews in the east and then wind up their tour with an appearance at the Eastern Sprints in May. It surprised to no one when they beat all the several crews they met. This string of victories made them odds-on favorites at the Sprints in Worcester. I had seen them win in both Rome and Prague, and was anxious to have a closer look.
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No washing out, there! LWRC four - 1963 Pan Am Games, São Paulo Left to right: Charlie Bower, Chuck Holtz, Geza Berger, Ted Nash At Lake Quinsigamond, I saw that American college crews appeared to have forgotten how to row. Their coaches must have been reading - or misreading - some of the information that Karl Adam, the Ratzeburg coach, had been spreading. Had he purposely tried to destroy rowing in this country, Adam could not have done a more effective job. Who could have known then that it would take American rowing years to recover? At about this time, a British commentator, speaking of American coaches, parodied Winston Churchill when he said, “Never have so many done so little with so much!” At any regatta I was lucky enough to attend, I made a practice of looking closely at the equipment being used. Almost all the shells and oars used in the country were still being made by us, and I wanted to keep an eye out for problems. The first day at Worcester, as I walked past the boat tents, an eight caught my eye. Its bow was obviously out of true. Shocked, I wondered how on earth we could ever have let a boat as bad as that one out of the shop. I was so ashamed that for a couple of days I carefully avoided going near that tent.
A day or two later, I had to do so when the Princeton rigger, Nelson Cox, asked me to take a look at one of their boats. After I was through talking to Nels, and with that lopsided boat right across the aisle, there was no way I could avoid giving it the once-over. Already knowing that the bow was haywire, I skipped that. First thing I noticed was that all the metal fittings had been changed to stainless steel. I thought to myself, “What a great idea!” Fittings on our boats were of brass, except for the rigger bolts which were of Monel metal (all bright and shiny when new, and great around saltwater, but subject to tarnishing). I had once seen one of our singles down at Long Beach, California, on which all the brass fittings had been chrome-plated. It looked like a million bucks. I investigated the cost of doing such a thing, but decided that the added cost - and the increased price - could not be justified. Shows how much I knew: people would have eaten them up, no matter what the cost. Anyway, I now resolved to switch to stainless on all boats we made in the future. Next, I noticed all the sandpaper scratches running across the grain of the cedar planking. I made a mental note to have the gang at the shop be more careful. When I reached the stern where our logo should have been, lo and behold, I saw that the boat had been built by someone else! Talk about a sense of relief! I could forget all about that wonky bow. The boat was a faithful copy of one of ours, and it had one or two innovations I liked, but it just was not a good boat. I hoped that other people, mistakenly thinking it one of ours, would not have my critical eye. Barring that, with any luck they would see the other builder’s logo before passing judgment. On race day, a large and unruly crowd was on hand. Watching the mayhem, I was shaking my head over their misbehavior while talking with a regatta official. He laughed, saying that in the past their committee held meetings each year trying to figure out how to attract people. Now, he said, all they talked about was how to keep them away. Another of life’s small ironies. Actually, there was more than irony involved here. The crowd at the regatta the year before had turned violent. A bunch of drunks pushed one of the many cars
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 197 lining the bank into the lake. The person inside, unable to escape, was drowned. There were enough entries in the Varsity race to make preliminaries necessary. To everyone’s surprise, the Ratzeburg crew lost to Cornell in the first heat. Because they were guests, and had come so far, the Germans were allowed to row as the seventh crew in the finals. They were put in the extra lane, along the far shore. By starting time for the Varsity race, a strong wind had sprung up, blowing right across the course and putting crews rowing in lanes along the near shore at a decided disadvantage. The Germans, rowing in protected water in the lee of the hill on the far side, won the race. No one appeared to mind. The American coaches seemed to take seriously Adam’s claim that his moving the buttons on their oars after their loss that morning had been the reason for his crew’s win in the final. “Friggin’ with the riggin’” soon became the order of the day in the American rowing community. THE FOLLOWING MONTH - JUNE - DAD AND I WENT TO THE IRA Regatta at Syracuse. Expecting to enjoy the Stewards Banquet the night before the regatta, we instead found ourselves forced to listen to an infuriating address by the main speaker. A Princeton rowing booster, and, not incidentally, a heavy donor to that program, he expounded on the theme that American crews would never be able to hold up their heads again in international competition unless they had equipment such as that used by the Germans. What he didn’t know, of course, was that the guest crew had not brought their own boat with them, but, rather, had borrowed one of our boats for all those races. The Nelson F. Cox was a 22" Standard boats built by us for Princeton - of all places - a year or two earlier. I found myself forced to hold Dad down in his seat to keep him from standing to demand equal time. It must have been then that he said he thought me a “poor ha’p’orth of cheese.” I mistakenly thought that the people in the audience knew the real story, and I was afraid that he would only embarrass himself.
How I wished later that I had stepped in to set the story straight. What I failed to grasp was that the people there were the very ones who bought and paid for boats. Here they were, knowing little or nothing of what went on in the rowing game, being misled into thinking they should look for boats other than ours to give to their schools and clubs. I didn’t even have the good sense to see the man after the dinner to remonstrate. I just didn’t want to make him look a fool. In retrospect, what I should have done was to congratulate him when he was through, tell him I was thoroughly in accord with his premise, introduce ourselves as the builders of the boat he so admired, and offer to sell him as many Pococks as he wished to buy. A subsequent issue of the British magazine Rowing carried an article about that great German crew. Karl Von Groddek - their captain - was asked which boat, of all those they had rowed the world over, they had liked the most. His answer was that, aside from their own boat at home, the one that they had borrowed from Princeton to use while in the United States was the best. (I saw him 26 years later at the World Championships in Bled, Yugoslavia, and he still remembered how much they had liked the boat.) Unfortunately, few of the big spenders who heard the misleading speech at Syracuse ever read British rowing magazines. While the article made me feel somewhat better, it in no way undid the damage. That ill-informed speech could well have marked the beginning of our losing the premier place we had held in the American rowing world for so many years. That, and the fact that the U.S. crew, in one of our boats, had failed to win the Gold at the Rome Olympics three years before. THERE WAS LITTLE IN THE ROWING WORLD THAT COULD BE called new, with the sole exception of new materials that might be used to some advantage. There was some experimenting going on with these marvels. The topic of the moment, however, was the shape of the oar blade, and I decided to find out if there was, indeed, a better idea. My brief experiment with Frost’s oar in 960 still rankled: Was there a difference? I suspected that there was not, having seen the collection
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 198 of variously-shaped oars that had been used and abandoned by Eton College crews over the century and more that they had been rowing. Conn and Ed were in Seattle preparing for the 964 Trials. I knew that they could row a perfectly straight course with their eyes closed. With their help, I might establish the superiority of one shape of blade over another. I worked with the gang at the shop to make up a few variations with which to experiment. After marking off a speed trap along the sheltered canal that ran between the two shellhouses, we went to work. The two men agreed not to look at what oar they might be using. Their cox’n, Mitchell, was not to touch the rudder unless disaster loomed. His job was to record the time of each test run and note any variations from an absolutely straight course. We then went through every combination of the several oars to find out if one type appeared better than another. Not only did we try different pairs of oars, but we mismatched them as well. In this way, if one were better than the other, the boat would be pulled off course. When it was all over, I was content that we had found out what I needed to know. Regardless of which oars were used - long ones, short ones, standard blades, tulip blades, leg o’ mutton (tried at Eton in the 960s and now, as a new century begins, in the guise of the hatchet), mismatched or not - there was no observable variation. Not only did the boat maintain a straight course on every run, but each elapsed time recorded was the same - to the fraction of a second. Both Dad and I tried the same thing in our single on a lesser scale with variously-shaped sculls. Again, we could detect no difference. The happy outcome of this experiment - at least from Conn and Ed’s point of view - was that they felt no need to invest in new, “fast” oars. They went on to the Trials and, ultimately, to Tokyo, fully confident that it was they - and not their oars - that made their boat go fast. In the field of competitors, both at Orchard Beach, New York and later in Tokyo, they were the only crew in their event without fast oars. They received many funny looks and disparaging remarks. Lost on most of those detractors, I’m sure, was the fact that, despite their old-fashioned blades, Findlay and Ferry copped the Gold.
W
E KEPT PUTTING OFF SEARCHING FOR A NEW LAYOUT where we might continue our shell-and-oar-making business. Still thinking of Dad as the boss, I waited for him to act until I realized at length that making the move would be up to me. Getting along in years (though several years younger than I am now), he was, as I learned later, thinking of retirement. When I suggested that we had better start looking for a place, he told me to go ahead, and that he would back me. For months, I searched far and wide for a suitable location. One day, I took him somewhere out in the boondocks to a site that seemed to hold promise - at least it did to me. Looking it over, Dad shook his head and said that he would never build a boat if he couldn’t see the water. If the new shop were not at water’s edge, he would have to hang up his apron. I hated the thought of that happening and resolved to find a waterside site. One Saturday morning not long after that, I received an urgent call from a friend, Bill Taylor. A few nights before, I had seen Bill at a party. Not even remembering that he was in the real estate game, I mentioned the problem I was having. Good salesman that he was, he heard opportunity knocking. Without saying a word to me, he proceeded to look up all owners of property at water’s edge around the city. His search was rewarded. George Popovitch had learned, only the day before, that he was losing the tenant of a building he owned at the north end of Lake Union. He wanted out. Bill determined his asking price and called me. He was coming over to take me to see the man. “Just bring your pen,” he advised. “Don’t argue or try to dicker around. This is the buy of a lifetime. Just sign your name - and sign it quick.” I did. It was just that - the buy of a lifetime. Because Popovitch had acted on sudden impulse, no one else knew that the property was on the market. After the sale was made public, I could have doubled our money twice within the next few weeks.
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LWRC Olympic Games Bronze medalists – Tokyo – 1964 Left to right: Theo Mittet, Dick Lyon, Geoff Pickard, Ted Nash Aside from being a steal, it was a godsend. For one thing, the building already existed - we would not have to build one. It was at water’s edge, where Dad could happily spend his declining years building singles. Because the tenants were not pulling out right away, there would be income from the property while our remodeling plans were being made. (I had no way of knowing how hard it would be to squeeze rent payments out of those people.) It was not far from our old shop on the campus, thus making the task of moving all our machinery and equipment much easier and less expensive than it might otherwise have been. I could bounce back and forth and keep some of our work going in the old shop as our move began and
some of the equipment was being installed in the new place. I also had the lingering hope that, because we were close by, we might one day again be of help to the rowing program and coaches at the UW as we had been in the past. We were under no pressure from the university to hurry our departure. Still, we knew that our move could not be delayed forever. Before that happened, though, we had to convert the original warehouse - which had a 20-foot clearance under the roof trusses into a two-story shop. Those huge trusses, incidentally, came from one of the underground hangars put in at Boeing Field during World War II. All new electrical and mechanical service needed to be installed. I spent my spare moments designing and laying out the various shops. Conn showed up from California one day with a big roll of butcher paper in hand to help me sketch out various ideas. Down at Henry Bacon’s on Elliot Avenue, Dad found a number of 3"x4" fir timbers. Roof joists from an old waterfront pier that was being dismantled, they were just what we needed for bench tops throughout place. As all these activities went on, we were tails up and heads down each day, busily working through the mind-numbing backlog of orders for rowing equipment we had to build for the 964 season. I hoped to take with us some of the equipment from the Conibear shop that belonged there. The explosion-proof light fixtures would have been useful for us to have in the new place, as would the many dozens of fluorescent light fixtures. We were told we could have none of them. No one else got them. In the subsequent remodeling, all were left in place to be hidden when the new drop-ceiling was installed in that part of the building. After being turned down on the light fixtures, I asked Art Pringle, still head of Buildings and Grounds, if we could keep the cyclone dust-collector and sawdust hopper. The University had acquired these through War Surplus and, having no other use for them, had loaned them to us. Charlie May, head of Buildings and Grounds, long-time booster of the rowing program and a good friend of ours had a hand in that. Art said he would have to put them out for bid. He was
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 200 required to advertise the sale of any university property in at least three newspapers. Another disappointment. “But,” he added, “I’ll put the ad in papers nobody reads.” I wanted to put in a bid and asked what he thought it should be. “Oh, how about 25 bucks?” I had to laugh, the items in question being worth many times that. Anyway, 25 dollars is what I bid and, by odd coincidence, I was the high and, likely, the only bidder. Art even had his B&G people come down to dismantle them, truck them to our new place and put them up. On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, 963, I put the gang to work disconnecting the heavy machinery in the old shop and beginning the move. EARLIER THAT FALL, THE LARGE GROUP OF ROWING HOPEFULS mentioned earlier had surfaced. They all had one goal in mind: to go for the Olympic Gold in an eight - the only event in rowing that counts in the eyes of the uninitiated. The 964 Olympic Trials would be on Orchard Bay, near Pelham Manor, New York, a week or two after the IRA at Syracuse. A delegation came to ask whether I would coach them. Many I knew, but there were new faces as well - Ted McCagg, Wayne Frye, Jack Matkin, Theo Mittet, Dick Lyon, Kent Fleming and Phil Durbrow, to name a few. Other names have faded from memory, but they were all good men. I hesitated, knowing that the coming year would be such a busy one for me. Not only would we be setting up the new shop, but we had all those orders to fill. I never should have done so, but, in a moment of weakness, I said that I would. The question still lingered in the back of my mind: Could we possibly have done it - that is, won a gold medal with our eight in 960? Now, here were all these men, looking to me to help them find out if it could be done. There was no way that I could turn them down. Because we were talking about the development of a world-class eightoared crew, our approach needed some thought. Past experience - good LWRC eights having happened to gel - told me that we had been on the right track. At the same time, I was well aware that on those occasions the crews were under no pressure to perform - that they had nothing to lose. Nonetheless, of this I was certain: superior eights could best be
developed from superior small boat crews. With this in mind I would, again, have the men train in self-selected small boats. Bringing these up to Olympic caliber would be our first priority. Once - or better to say, if - we had some small boats that moved fast, we could then try different combinations to see if there was a good eight in there. Should that crew better a time of six minutes, we would enter the Trials. If not, we would fall back on the small boats, where we stood a good chance of succeeding as we had done in the past. When I told Conn what I planned, he wrote back to say that he and Ed would consider having a go in the eight, but only if the crew developed in Seattle could do better than 6:05 without them. If that happened, they wanted to come up to see whether they could help make it go faster. At our next meeting, I laid out my plan. There seemed to be general acceptance. However, the following day Ayrault came into the shop to tell me that he couldn’t go along with the plan as it stood. To take part in the upcoming campaign, he would be forced to put his career on hold. He could justify making such a commitment only if that effort were aimed at an Olympic Gold Medal in the eight. Having already won small boat Gold Medals in 956 and 960, he was interested in the eight-oared event and nothing else. If our eight was not fast enough to enter the Trials - assuming that he was a part of it - he would then have to withdraw from any further participation. This meant that he was in no position to ask anyone to train with him in a small boat throughout the months leading up to the eights decision. Feeling, as I did, that Dan was such a vital part of the whole enterprise, I agreed to change our approach. As a result, we majored on the eight right from the start. BY YEAR’S END, WE HAD OUR SHOP ON LAKE UNION GOING FULL steam. Meanwhile, the LWRC crews were going at it full steam out on Lake Washington. They were using the brand-new shell that Dad and I had loaned them. This was the boat in which I had tried the unsuccessful attempt at connecting all eight seats together (p. 63) The shell was kept tucked under the lumber deck that ran across the
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 201 I built that, members sawed away pilings to make room for the boat, and two of the wives sewed up a canvas curtain to protect it from the weather. Not pretty, but it all worked. The raft and ramp were wiped out only once, a passing tugboat trailing a tow of logs being the culprit. The shell, high up and out of harm’s way, suffered no damage. I worked with the men as often as I could, and Harry Swetnam, who again had volunteered his time and energy, supervised intensive workouts at his gym. He had even scrounged up a coaching launch for us, a godsend for the club and for me. I have few memories of what went on as the months of training passed. My mind was absorbed with problems in the shop and, as a result, I was not doing a good job with the crews. Almost daily, I was visited by one man or another with his idea of what the lineup should be. For some reason, I didn’t think it possible that the crew of an eight could be self selected, though with the small boats in the past, this had been my premise. One afternoon, I was driving to the shop lost in thought while trying to sort it all out. Forgetting what I was doing, I made a left turn in front of an oncoming car. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the crash. That incident reminded me of the evening back in 955 when I received a worried call from Mother. Dad hadn’t shown up at the usual time, and she thought I should find out if something had happened. I went to the shop and traced his accustomed route home, I soon spotted him striding along, disheveled, hat on backward. As I drove him home, he described what had happened: After leaving the shop, he had picked up the mail at the University Station Post Office. There was a letter from Duvall Hecht asking whether we could build a boat for him and Jim Fifer. Having rowed together in the coxed pair at Helsinki in 952, they wanted the straight pair and go for the 956 Olympic Trials. Driving home, mind distracted by thoughts of Pair on the recovery - under Montlake Bridge how on earth we might fit another boat into our already overloaded front of our building. Club members built a large float from logs and schedule, old Dad pulled the same stunt as I had just done and turned timbers donated by Bunny Ambrose, one of the sponsors. Anchored in front of an oncoming car. His car, unlike mine after my goof, was in place, it still needed a ramp were the crew to reach the water. While a mess. Fortunately, he was not hurt, nor was the other driver.
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Olympic Games Gold Medal coxed pair - Tokyo - 1964 Left to right: Ed Ferry, Kent Mitchell & Conn Findlay When the weather finally began to ease that spring, a film maker who had expressed some interest in recording the whole adventure showed up. Hired by a local firm to produce a motivational film to show to its employees, he was enthusiastic about what he saw and took miles of film. Then one day, one of his associates asked, “What if they don’t win?” That put a stop to the project in a hurry. Try as I might, I couldn’t put together a lineup that made the eight go. It was not a particularly happy crowd, and one afternoon they discovered a way to work off some of their frustration. In the cox’n’s seat, I had taken them over behind the log boom out beyond Fox Point, looking for some decent water. As we passed one of the fountains that belched water high in the air over there in those days, the crew suddenly stopped rowing. Ignoring commands from me to
the contrary, they calmly maneuvered the boat under the fountain so that the full force of the waterfall was landing on my head. I tried paddling with my hands, but they easily counteracted that. A newsman was in the accompanying launch, and I wasn’t sure whether the performance was for his benefit or simply a move on the part of the crew to vent their feelings. It was a hot afternoon, and the cold water felt good, but I began to worry that the boat would fill and go down. I thought of diving overboard and swimming to the launch, but I had my wallet and watches with me. I made sure to keep laughing and the crew, seeing they couldn’t get my goat, relented and let me take over. I remember only one workout all season when the eight neared its potential. At the end of a trip around Mercer Island, they were heading into Portage Bay on their way home. The crew smelled the barn and really turned it on. That never happened again. Finally, the effort was given a decent burial, and we went back to concentrating on the small boats. Unless I’ve only driven it out of my mind, despairing over that failure, The club never boated an eight again that year. A good straight four was put together by Ted Nash. He rowed stroke and had Phil Durbrow at #3, Dick Lyon at #2, and Theo Mittet in the bow. Dick had rowed at Stanford and Phil at Menlo Park Junior College, where Duvall Hecht had introduced a rowing program some years before. Mittet’s sole previous experience had been with the Green Lake Junior Crew program. This crew won the Trials at Orchard Beach. They suffered misfortune in Tokyo when, at the last minute, Durbrow became ill and had to be replaced by one of the spares, Geoff Pickard. Despite this change, they won the Bronze Medal. Durbrow was the original hard-luck Harry. A fine horseman, he had qualified for a previous Olympic equestrian team, only to be forced out due to illness. Conn and Ed, along with Kent Mitchell, won the Gold - Conn’s second, along with his Bronze in 960 and his Gold in 956. In addition to creating a stir with the old-fashioned oars they were using, they raised even more eyebrows by rowing down almost the
VII – Second Wind (1961–1964) – 203 entire length of the course and back before the race began. They were taking the extensive warm-up that I had always advocated. More importantly, because the wind was blowing hard that day, Conn wanted to see what conditions were like down toward the finish line. Finding they were much better than at the start, he was content to let the other crews beat themselves up in the early stages, knowing he and Ed could step on the gas in the calmer water to come. Speaking of these two champions, during the three years that he rowed as Conn Findlay’s bowman, Ed Ferry, a fierce competitor, became one of the best oarsmen that I ever had the pleasure of helping. I have often thought about the beautiful boat they used. The planking for it was a single sheet of Western red cedar 35 feet in length. That boat belonged in a museum, but the last time I saw the shell, it was lying, broken and abandoned, in the weeds behind the Syracuse Quonset huts that served as boathouses for visiting crews at IRA regattas. The Vesper Boat Club won the Trials over all the university crews and went on to cop the Gold Medal in Tokyo. I found some consolation in knowing that they had trained largely in small boats. The final shot in the arm came when they added a pair of old stagers from Old Dominion Boat Club, the Amlong brothers. Those two had been on the fringe of winning for years, though never quite making it: the LWRC had always stood in their way. Vesper won with the selfsame scheme that I had so wanted to use. So much for dreams. I had to chuckle when I heard of Karl Adam’s comment that “we’ll just have to go home and find some bigger men” after his Ratzeburg crew lost to Vesper. From what I saw in the pictures of the race, he should have been talking about going back to teach the people he already had to start reaching out. I still think we might have pulled it off. I remain convinced that my original plan would have worked had I stuck to my guns. However, this lapse in judgment was the least of my problems at the time. The various pressures I was under had grown to be almost too much to bear, and I was on the verge of being of no help to anyone. Toward
The needle the end I even found myself out on the lake swearing insanely at one of the more obstinate men. It was then that I remembered back when I had first started coaching so many years before. I had promised myself that if I ever found myself cussing at the oarsmen, I would quit. So, now must be the time…
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Royal Regatta Week at Henley - circa 1900
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CHAPTER VIII
I
Thames River Idyll (1966)
FIRST MET ALLAN WHEN HE CAME INTO THE SHOP ONE DAY. We happened to have a wherry in stock, and I took Lobb downstairs We were still building boats in Conibear Shellhouse at the time. to where it was being kept. Putting it in the water, I climbed in to Introducing himself only as Allan Lobb, he said he wished to show him the ropes: how to ship and unship the sculls, embark and order a single. Dad asked him whether he had ever done any sculling. disembark, hold the sculls, move ahead, stop, back water, turn — how He had not. While driving home across the Lake Washington Floating to execute all of these maneuvers, along with some tips on drills he could use in teaching himself Bridge one afternoon, he had how to scull. He seemed a seen someone getting into a competent and confident man tiny boat of some kind from and, when he was safely in the a nearby dock. Living by the boat, I pushed him off, waved lake on Hunts Point as he did, him good-bye and went back his immediate thought had upstairs to my work. been that this was something An hour or so later I went he should investigate. He out to see how he was doing was vitally interested in his and spied him up against the personal physical fitness, and far shore of the bay in front of this appeared an enjoyable the shellhouse. The wind had way of exercising. His efforts blown him over there, and he to trace down the owner of the was stuck. Sloshing my way boat succeeded, and he had out through the tules, I shoved been directed to us. him off and he eventually Dad told him that there made his way back to the float. was no way that he would Crawling out of the boat, he consider building a single for Author & Allan Lobb in lock on River Thames - 1966 said, “Darn it, you made that someone who knew nothing about sculling. He was willing, though, to sell him a wherry instead. look too easy! Tell me some more!” I went over my instructions again Once Lobb learned to scull that boat comfortably, he would be able and pushed him off. He did better the second time and came back to enjoy a single. “If you can come back here a year from now and in to buy the boat. About a year after that, he showed up at the shop, found Dad, and tell me that you have been out every day in the wherry, I’ll build you said to him, “All right, I’ve done what you said I must do. I’ve been that single!”
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Pocock cedar racing single out in that darned wherry nearly every day. Now, you must build me that single!” Dad couldn’t argue, and he set about building Allan his boat. When the boat was finished, he came by to pick it up and was soon able to report that the yearlong experience in the wherry had served him in good stead. He had found himself able to scull the single quite well right from the start. So began a wonderful friendship between the three of us. In later years, he liked to tell people that he never felt that the single was really his. He always looked upon it as “Mr. Pocock’s boat.” I soon learned that Allan Lobb was Doctor Allan Lobb, a surgeon with his own practice who also served as medical director of the Swedish Medical Center in Seattle. I don’t remember Dad ever calling Allan him by his given name. Lobb was always “Dr. Lobb” to him. Allan affected me in much the same way that he affected Dad, and it was several years before I was comfortable calling him Allan. He was an impressive man, a man of many parts, a man who was a joy to know.
Some time later, he brought in an old Stampfli double of uncertain but ancient vintage and asked whether we could renovate it. He had interested his son, David, in sculling, and they planned on using it together. Old though the boat was, I noticed that its fittings were the same as those used in their latest boats. I couldn’t resist calling Jim Gardiner to come over for a look. After he won the Silver Medal in the double with his partner, Pat Costello, at the 956 Olympics, Jim had found his way out to Seattle from hometown Detroit and now worked for us. I had heard him raving about the modern fittings in the boat that he and his partner had bought from Stampfli for the 956 Trials. Here were the same bits and pieces - original equipment - in this old bucket. I tried to show him why we had abandoned the same ideas many years before. On one of Allan’s visits some months later, he mentioned that David had broken his leg while skiing. He was on the lookout for another sculling partner. Was I interested? As a matter of fact, I was. Just a few nights before, I had seen some snapshots taken at Christmas. Having to look twice to recognize the pale, flabby-looking old geezer in the picture - me - I had decided to do something about it. Here was my chance. I told Allan that I would be delighted to join him, and we agreed to meet at the LWRC shed on the following Monday, the first day of March, at six o’clock in the morning. IT WAS A TYPICALLY MISERABLE SEATTLE WINTER MORNING. AS I drove down in the pitch dark through sheets of rain, I hoped against hope that Allan would not be there. How foolish of me; I didn’t know him yet. He was there, all right. Shivering as I put on my rowing togs in the brush behind the shed, I thought to myself, “I must be crazy!” Then, those Christmas pictures flashed through my mind. There could be no turning back. As we carried a double wherry down to the float, my only thought was that, with me at stroke, I would be able to stop whenever I chose. We agreed I should be stroke. We shoved off and had limped out only as far as Fox Point - half a mile? - before I had to gasp, “Stop!” I had
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 207 known that I was in rotten shape, but never realized just how far down I had gone. Too young to let myself go, I knew for sure that I must keep this up. It would be a long haul, but well worth the effort. We kept it up, going out six days a week before work, his at the hospital and mine at the shop. We were to continue this, summer and winter, for several years. It was not easy, especially at first. One morning after we had been at it for about two weeks, I staggered into the shop to find Dad just inside the door talking to one of the gang. He asked me how it was going. I said, “It must be getting better, I was able to talk this morning.” One dark, frosty morning I lost my footing on the ramp as we crept down to the float with the boat over our heads. When I hit the deck, the boat banged me on the side of the head. Already numb from the cold, I felt nothing, thought little of it and insisted we continue the workout. As dawn came up and we could see what was going on, Allan - in the bow - exclaimed, “What did you do? You’re covered with blood!” Sure enough, I was. When I fell, the boat had done me some damage after all. My ear was dangling by its roots and bleeding all over the place. Thanks to the darkness and the cold, neither he nor I had been aware of it. I felt OK and saw no reason to cut the workout short. We wrapped my towel like a turban to hold all the parts together and carried on. Turnout over, we went down to the hospital, and Allan sewed the ear back on. Workmanlike job that he did, today one can see no evidence of the injury. Once comfortable sculling together in the double wherry, we began using the old Stampfli double. Allan kept it stored in the basement of his Hunts Point home, which meant my driving across the floating bridge each morning. That wasn’t a problem, for in those days there were few people irrational enough to be out and about that early. The foul weather continued week after week, and the cold blustery mornings threatened to dampen the ardor. Luckily, there was no way to call off a workout, neither of us wishing to disturb the other’s household with early morning calls. Compelled to show up, the thought of having rolled out that early without following through
forced us to go out on many a morning when it would have been much nicer to go back home to bed. As we labored along one particularly gloomy morning, I had a sudden mental spasm and blurted out, “Why don’t we build ourselves a boat this summer and go over to England next year for a row down the Thames?” Allan’s voice came out of darkness, “What a great idea! Let’s do it!” Back at the float, we talked it over. Allan said he had always wanted to visit England. Given that both our fathers hailed from there, he thought it the perfect place to go and this the perfect way to do it. Left to my own devices, I might well have let the whole idea drop and never given it another thought, but I still didn’t know Allan well. I did know him to be a man of many parts and a dynamo of energy. Besides maintaining his medical practice and carrying out his administrative duties at Swedish, he had an avid interest in many fields - rhododendrons, exotic birds, Northwest Indian artifacts and Japanese antiquities, just to name a few - and was a dedicated collector. As if all this were not enough, he was an artist of note in oils and other media and a gifted sculptor as well. And here he was, going out with me every morning for our crack-of-dawn workouts. I had to wonder if the man ever slept. Now, the mere thought of this new project dangling in front of him had his juices going strong. There was no way he would let it die aborning. THE IDEA OF GOING TO ENGLAND FOR A SCULLING TRIP ON THE Thames stemmed from a dream in the mind of two old friends, my dad and Tom Bolles, the renowned Harvard coach. While Tom was coaching the Frosh at Washington, the two of them took a spin now and then in a pair. After Bolles left Seattle for the Harvard job, they kept up their friendship over the years by mail, always signing off “your old Stroke” (Dad) or “your old Bowman” (Tom). One of the pet ideas they kicked around was that of one day going to England and rowing down the Thames. Dad had grown up on the Thames at Windsor and cherished fond memories of days spent on the river. Rich in history, the
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 208 Thames and its surroundings are crowded with the remnants of ancient glories dating back to Julius Caesar’s time, and these had excited him even as a youth. As the years rolled by, he dreamt of returning to savor these once more. Listening to Dad had piqued Bolles’ imagination. Holder of a masters degree in history from the UW, he reveled in things historic. His ancestors came from Ireland, and he had once gone back to the “Auld Sod” to kiss the Blarney Stone at the ancient castle in County Cork (the kiss must have worked, for he was a great talker). Despite his Irish heritage, Tom found the idea of visiting England intriguing. Tempting though it was, the trip was never made, lingering only as a pipe dream - something enjoyable to contemplate and to talk of, but not something to actually do. There was no way Allan would let this suggestion of mine go begging. He immediately instructed his secretary to research everything available on the Thames and its environs and take care of all the paperwork such a trip would entail. For my part, I set about solving the problem of what boat we might use and what its special features might be. We wanted a sectional boat that could be broken down for easier shipping and storage. It would need adequate compartments for stowing all the gear we planned to take with us. I knew of no boat that met these requirements and, besides, I was determined that we use one made by me. I would build it, my suggestion in the first place. The shop, closed during July as usual, was available, and the boat could be put together then. Allen said he could take a few days off from the hospital to lend a hand. The boat took two weeks to build. Varnishing and rigging took another week, and by the end of July it was ready. I made a special effort of doing a handsome job of it. Riggers and fittings were done with special care, and all the metal parts chrome plated. Allan was a joy to work with. He was so sharp that he often knew what to do before I had even thought to tell him. When complete, the boat looked good. After our trip, we were invited to put it on display at Seattle’s Museum of History and Industry. I was not ashamed to go over there, now and then, just to have a look at it.
Amateur that I am, I sculled right-hand-over-left. Allan sculled lefthand-over-right, the way one should. It was easy enough to rig our boat to take care of that as long as we stayed where we belonged. A problem arose when we switched and had Allan stroke the boat. We did this on occasion for variety’s sake. The rigging had to be changed each time we did this, often in predawn darkness. Fussing with wrenches and washers to raise or lower the locks was a nuisance. I had a bright idea one morning while groping around in the dark for a wrench I had dropped in the water: Why not use clips that quickly slip on either above or below the rowlocks to change the work height? I made some in the shop that day and brought them to our next workout. They worked like a charm. We could now change our rigging quickly - even in the dark - with no more cussing over lost tools. It wasn’t long before I started including this gimmick on all the shells we sent out from the shop. I thought the clips especially useful for programs in which both men and women were obliged to use the same boats. While I remember no one ever telling me that they liked the innovation, the only complaint - other than that the first ones we sent out wouldn’t float when dropped in the water - was from one coach who felt that they made changing the rig far too easy. Each oarsman was now tempted to be his own expert, and he didn’t like this because he never knew how his boats were rigged. I felt there was nothing we could do on that score, but the other bad feature - the clips wouldn’t float - was soon remedied. Acceptance came about. I noticed - just last year - the same feature on a boat supplied by another builder. Imitation being the sincerest form of…, etc. He has even added a feature to his clips that make them better than mine. WE C ON T I N U E D OU R DA I LY WOR KOU T S I N E A R N E S T, knowing that if we were to enjoy the venture, we must be fit. When the new boat was finished, we began using it right away. As summer stretched into autumn and autumn into winter, we kept hard at it, six days a week.
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 209 Off the water, Allan was immersed in the project which was, ultimately, to fulfill his dream of making Swedish Hospital the major force for medicine in the Pacific Northwest. As we sculled along each morning, he would voice the many schemes swirling around in his head, no doubt wanting to hear how they sounded. I was overwhelmed by the scope of his vision and the breadth of his dreams. Too, I was pleased in the knowledge that his trust in me allowed him the use of the back of my neck as a sounding board. Having little to offer other than that, I contented myself with pulling hard. When I was a youngster there was an ancient tome entitled The Thames, From Its Rise To The Nore kicking around the house. I dimly remembered it as being the first volume of a set of two and of its being tattered and falling apart, evidence of its having been the plaything of small children. Published in the 880s, it had a plethora of etchings and engravings - I don’t remember ever reading any of it, but my sister and I loved the pictures of the towns and places to be found along the historic old river. Things have a way of changing little along the Thames Valley as years pass, and I thought the book might serve us well in planning our trip. Certainly, it would have from a poetic point of view. I rummaged around the folks’ place, but it was gone. While preparing this memoir, I shared a preliminary draft with a friend. Intrigued with the idea of uncovering such a treasure, all without my knowledge he launched a worldwide search for the books over the Internet. Two sets were uncovered: one in Australia, the other in Canada. In collusion with my wife, who agreed to buy it no matter what the cost, he ordered the set offered by Patrick McGahern Rare Books in Ottawa. Blissfully unaware of what had been going on behind my back, I was perched in front of the computer in my basement study one afternoon. I heard my wife call down, “Stan, what’s this bag doing here on the table?” Reluctantly, I tore myself away from my editing and went upstairs to see what the mystery was. The green Marshall Field sack sitting on the kitchen table rang no bells. Maybe the housekeeper had left it behind. “See what’s in it,” she insisted. Opening the sack,
I could not believe my eyes. Here before me were both volumes of the long-lost book in almost mint condition. Larger than most coffee table books, one dealt with the Thames from its upper reaches down to the approaches to Windsor. The second volume continued with descriptions of the river and its environs past Windsor Castle
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 210 and London and on down to the North Sea and Nore Island, whose lighthouse had guided mariners, ancient and modern, to the shelter of the River Thames since time immemorial. All other concerns came to a halt as I leafed through the pages, rediscovering this lost treasure. Sir Walter Armstrong, the book’s author, was a noted Victorian writer whose command of English makes his work a delight to read. The volumes are filled with wonderful etchings, engravings and steel-plates by noted artists, Whistler among them, the whole a testament to the bookmaker’s art. I find in Armstrong’s text and accompanying pictures a tantalizing parallel to the trip Allan and I took on the Thames almost 00 years after the book was published. A selection of those illustrations embellishes this story. LACKING THAT SOURCE, WE FELL BACK ON OUR SALTERS’ GUIDE to the Thames. This handbook, far more up-to-date, is a much more useful book to have. It contains explicit information as to distances from town to town, lists of inns and hotels to be found along the river and descriptions of the many points of interest along the way. It is the equivalent of a AAA travel guide for the boating public on the Thames. Salters’ Brothers are an old firm whose business could have been flourishing at the time the volumes I’ve been speaking of were published. Originally a boat-building concern, their current enterprise is that of running tourist steamers up and down the River Thames from London to Oxford as well as renting out cruisers and houseboats to the vacationing summer crowds. With the help of their book, we organized our itinerary. Starting at Lechlade - as far up as the river is kept navigable - the trip would end in Kingston-on-Thames on the outskirts of London. This meant going through all the locks on the river save one - a total of 42. Knowing that negotiating these locks was bound to cause delays, thus leaving us little time to rubberneck, we tried to keep each day’s row fairly short. Our plan called for nine days on the river and a total distance traveled of 27 miles. We picked distances for each day’s travel that
we thought we could manage comfortably, and, after selecting inns and pubs in which to stay, contacted these for reservations. There were two nights which we decided to leave to chance. Our longest planned row was 25 miles, with three time-consuming locks to be
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 211 negotiated. Going downstream, as we would be doing, might make up for those delays. We were confident that we could make it this far in a day, but not long before we shipped the boat to England we decided to make certain by doing a circuit of Mercer Island. The main idea was to find out if our fannies could stand such a long day in the boat. They held up fine. Luckily for us, the wind did not blow, and we made the long pull with no trouble or serious aftereffects. Even so, restricting ourselves to half-days on the river looked a good idea, not only for the sake of our butts, but for saving enough energy to allow us our afternoon prowls. I tried my best to talk Dad (Mother would never have stayed behind) into coming over to England with us. I proposed hiring a car and driver for them. They could meet us each day after we had done our stint in the boat. Both Allan and I wanted so much for him to show us points of interest along the river as well as all the places of his boyhood. I’m sure he didn’t realize how much this would have meant to us. At 75, though he liked to speak of himself as being “in the sere and yellow,” he was still vital, and they surely would have enjoyed the trip. For whatever reason, he refused to succumb to our entreaties, insisting that it was our trip and that we should enjoy it by ourselves. Maybe he thought someone should stay home and mind the store. I saw no problem. Don Huckle, my mother’s brother, was still healthy and working for us. He could run things while both of us were away as he had done in the past. It could have been worked out. The mistake I made was in not talking to Mother. Years later, she told me that had she known how much we wanted him along with us, she was sure she could have talked him into it. How unfortunate! The four of us would have had such a grand time.
Folly Bridge.
“o”) Bridge, hard by Oxford University. Stored there pending our arrival, they would complete their journey by road to Lechlade. The empty crates would be lorried to Turk’s Boat Yard at Kingston-onThames, our final port of call, to await us there. The two crates were designed so that one fit inside the other when empty. The center section of the boat and the two pairs of sculls fit in one, the two end sections and outriggers in the other. This made the whole business easy to cart around and store. To provide decent support for the boat while rigging or derigging it, I had made a pair of demountable slings which used one of the crates as a base. Much thought went into the whole process - mostly for self-satisfaction. Our itinerary included a stop at Syracuse to take in the IR A Regatta. Then, off to England for an overnight stay at the Charing NECESSARY ARRANGEMENTS FOR SHIPMENT OF THE BOAT WERE Cross Hotel in London where we could recover from our transatlantic completed. Once aboard ship, the crates would go first to London, flight before going on. The trip down river was timed to take us then on by lorry to Salters’ Brothers boathouse at Folly (with a long through Henley during the week prior to the start of the annual
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 212 Royal Henley Regatta. After spending a day watching the goings-on to beat looking around. That is, until you get so old and your neck so there, we would complete the trip to Kingston, there to crate the boat stiff that you can’t. We were not yet to that point. for shipment home. That done, we would go back to Henley in time While on the subject of rearview mirrors - and stiff necks - some to watch that great and historic spectacle. years after this I tried sticking a parabolic wide-angle mirror on the stern of my wherry. The mirror worked, except for one minor detail. ON APRIL THE FIRST, WE PACKED UP THE BOAT - WE NEVER DID The sight of my distorted face rushing up at me each stroke would give it a name - and took it down to the Seattle docks. The only April make me laugh so hard that I couldn’t keep going. Reluctantly, I took Fools’ Day episode sticking in my memory up until that time was it off, deciding to trust to luck instead. that one some 23 years before when I shipped out to boot camp as a draftee in the U.S. Navy. That whole affair had turned out all right NOT LONG BEFORE OUR SCHEDULED DEPARTURE, IT SUDDENLY for me, and I figured this one would, too. looked as though Lady Luck had finally abandoned us: I began We saw the crates aboard ship, fell back on the double wherry and suffering severe pain in one hip. Though it didn’t bother me much used that until our departure in June. I had designed the rowlocks while sculling, walking anywhere made it hurt like the mischief. I and riggers for that boat so it could be rowed as a pair or sculled as had to make a crutch to help me as I worked in the shop. Finally, it a double. On occasion, we carried two oars with us. When halfway was painful enough for me to swallow my pride and say something through the workout, we switched to return home rowing rather to the “team doctor.” At Swedish, Allan pulled in some of his best than sculling. I was tempted to rig our double the same way for our people, and they poked and prodded and pumped me full of shots trip. The thought of having to haul two 2-foot oars around with us, of various kinds. Nothing did the trick. In desperation, I went to see however, had little appeal. Not only that: there was no room in our my friend and counselor, Harry Swetnam. boat for such extra dunnage. While waiting for the light at the corner across from his place, I Allan seemed content to stay at bow. The burden of seeing that we wondered how on earth I could cross the street fast enough to avoid did not run into anything - or anyone - seemed to pose no problem having all of my troubles end too soon. I made it somehow, crept up for him. Having been widely known as one who could run into almost the stairs (how many were the times I ran them in later years when anything, fixed or floating, on Lake Union or Lake Washington, I was working out there), found Harry and unloaded on him. He put me content to leave him where he was. We never came to grief although in the sauna to soak. When I was good and mushy, he brought me we did have a couple of near misses. The closest we came to real out and had me lie on my back on the floor of the gym. Twisting disaster was one foggy morning in the Pot (Portage Bay). We were me into some kind of weird position, he sat on my hip and gave a happily sculling along when, suddenly, a blind four came bursting bounce. Feeling or, rather, hearing something pop, I thought “What out of the mist. Chuck Bower was in the bow of the four, and he had have we done?” He stood and told me to get up. Almost afraid to try, not seen us any more than we had seen him. Oars overlapping as we I did so. Amazingly, I felt as though nothing had ever been wrong. raced by, miracle of miracles, nothing so much as touched. From then The pain was gone. I have no idea whether there was any risk involved. I know I didn’t on, with the foreboding sense of being on borrowed time, we were want to tell Allan about it at the time. Risky or not, there was no extra watchful. We tried a rearview mirror attached to Allan’s cap, and while that made us feel a little safer, in my book there is nothing longer any pain. It was still gone the following morning, and it never
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 213 bothered me again. (At least it didn’t until some 30 years later when an absurdly long row with the Ancient Mariners did me in.) That was my first experience with causes of pain in the body that have nothing to do with the part that hurts (referred pain?) What I was to learn later by going further into the whole subject helps me cope with these Golden Years that I now enjoy.
San Diego Crew Classic - the Pocock shop made every oar, every boat OUR DAY OF DEPARTURE CAME AT LONG LAST. WE SUFFERED through a United Airlines red eye flight to New York City and hopped a commuter plane for Syracuse. We arrived with enough time to collapse for a few hours at our hotel before going over to Lake Onondaga to watch the races. The talk we heard around the regatta site cast the UW Varsity in the favorite’s role, something that had not happened in some time. Predictions notwithstanding, the Huskies finished a distant seventh. With my having no part in UW rowing activities at the time, their loss was disappointing, but did not overly diminish my enjoyment of the regatta.
One couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction, seeing all the rowing equipment there, equipment that we had worked so diligently and with such care to produce. Dad was there, and I’m sure he felt the same. Though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, 966 was to be the last year at the IRA that every shell and oar used in the regatta was made by us in our shop back in Seattle. On another occasion, back in the days when we held the preeminent reputation as builders for the nation’s rowing programs, I was in San Diego for the Crew Classic. Someone there asked me how I felt while looking at all those boats and oars that we had made. He expected some kind of philosophic gem, I’m sure, but all I could say in response was, “Tired!” As we stood one afternoon on the little rise near the Syracuse shellhouse, Dad and I were looking down at one of the fours that we had made. The boat, resting bottom-side up under the trees, was highlighted by the scattered sunlight filtering through. The shining cedar boat looked especially nice. The planking, book-matched either side of the keel, had a beautiful pattern to it and made a lovely picture. Silently contemplating the boat’s beauty, we were about to leave when a young couple came along and paused near us. I heard one say to the other, “Gosh, I wonder who made that!” Dad and I looked at each other, smiling. They might not know, but we did. We had a great time greeting the many rowing friends who were there. Several former LWRC oarsmen who were, by then, spread all around the country had gathered. Nat and Ellie Hawes showed up from Buffalo for our annual picnic in the park. Nat rowed at the UW in the early 960s and his father, Ed, had been graduate manager of the ASUW back around the turn of the century. The old man, while on a visit to our shop some years before, had told of the time in 903 when he and several students paddled their canoes across Union Bay to what is now Broadmoor, Seattle’s exclusive residential district. Felling several huge cedar trees, they towed them back to the shore of the campus. There, they built a float for the miserable hovel of a crew house on Dentistry Point. This was near the site of the
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 214 present Conibear facility. Mr. Hawes later became athletic director at Marietta College where he started their rowing program. Before we left Syracuse, Allan and I made one last stab at persuading Dad to go on to England with us. He just said, “Go ahead. This is your trip. Enjoy it!”
George Pocock, Clayton Chapman, Allan Lobb & author - Syracuse - 1966
The London papers were full of news of a dock strike. Though our boat had been on its way for weeks, we were afraid it might be tied up. Allen phoned Salters’ Brothers, only to learn that they had heard nothing of its arrival. Almost before this news had time to sink in, whoever it was on the other end said, “’Alf a mo’, there’s a lorry pulling up outside. ’Ang on while I see what it is.” After what seemed like forever, he came back on the line with the good news that our crates had just arrived. Allen told him to ’ang on to them — we would arrive on the next London Flyer. Months before, John Carlson, Seattle producer of a weekly television travel show, had heard of our proposed trip and expressed interest in airing upon our return any film we might take of our trip. Despite the limited storage capacity of our boat, we brought with us a 6 mm movie camera complete with tripod and countless cartridges of film. Long before the days of video camcorders in all their simplicity, these items took up more room than did all the rest of the gear we brought with us and were to prove a great nuisance. Later, after returning to Seattle with miles and miles of exposed film in hand, we spent hours cutting and splicing. Taking it around to the station, we heard “the rest of the story.” The TV people would be happy to show our film, all right, provided that we foot the bill for converting it to a format that could be put on the air. We turned that opportunity down. The TV people and the viewing public were the losers. Not many months later Carlson showed film of another trip made on the Thames. A Seattle family had rented a cabin cruiser at Windsor. This gave them all kinds of room for cameras, tripods, light meters, zoom lenses and film, none of which had helped. Their pictures were not a patch on what we had. Not to be denied, we showed the film around town to friends, relatives and associates. They seemed to enjoy it at least as much as we enjoyed showing it.
AFTER THAT SEVENTIETH RUNNING OF THE IRA WAS IN THE history books, we hitched a ride to Boston with Bernie Horton who came to see the regatta from his home in Cambridge. Before going out to the airport we had a shore dinner at one of his favorite spots. Once aboard the plane, Allan soon found himself regretting his choice of meals. He had enjoyed a bucket of clams, but they apparently weren’t enjoying him. He spent most of the flight getting rid of them. By the time we landed at Heathrow, he was worn out. At our hotel he still THIS ALL LAY IN THE FUTURE. FOR NOW, WE PROPOSED TO felt rotten and spent the rest of the day recovering. The next morning enjoy the trip itself. Leaving our extra dunnage in storage at the he felt fine, but it still was an unsettling beginning for us. hotel, we ’eaded for the station. After a pleasant train ride through
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 215 the wet, green English countryside, we arrived in Oxford Town. As we hopped off the train, Allan asked a fellow how to find Salters’. Skeptical about what we might learn from this conversation, I could hear Dad’s story of someone from Oxford coming down to the shops at Eton to take delivery of a boat. The man had such a strange accent that they could scarcely understand a word he said. Of course, that had been 50 or more years before, and one would have thought things had changed. Not so. I can’t begin to imitate the argot that came forth: The conversation was a total loss. Giving it up as a bad job, we wandered on. Salters’ boathouses had to be by the river, and the river had to be down the hill. Down we went and found the place in no time. All gingerbread and eaves and angles, the buildings had a storybook air about them. They looked as though not a single detail had been changed since Queen Victoria’s childhood. The people at Salters’ were cordial and helpful. They soon arranged for a lorry to take us, along with our crates, to Lechlade. Just the trip through the beautiful, lush countryside was worth coming to England for. The rain had stopped, the sun was peeking through and God seemed in His heaven. Upon our arrival in Lechlade, we found a boat livery down by the river where we could leave the crates. We told our lorry driver to come back the next day to cart the empties down to Kingston for storage. First, however, we wanted him to take us to where the Thames River actually started. Some miles away, he showed us a monument in the middle of a field. The legend engraved on its face told us that it had been erected by the Thames Conservancy to attest that here was the “rise” of the River Thames. There was no water in sight. Our driver told us that a local farmer had recently driven a new well in the vicinity. The result was a lowered water table, and the spring - the source of the river - had dried up. It was a handsome monument, and we were sure the river must start somewhere nearby. If any other “source” was marked by a similar monument, it escaped our notice. Snooping around, we discovered the developing stream as it meandered through field, farm and village to reach Lechlade, the starting point of our odyssey on the river.
Our lodgings in Lechlade were at the New Inn. This “new” hotel had the date of its founding, 742 or some such, emblazoned above the entrance. I had to wonder what was considered “old” around these parts. We learned that the bridge crossing the river at the town’s edge had been in constant use since the Thirteenth Century, as had the town’s imposing cathedral, and all those we talked to agreed that they were indeed old. We wandered through the ancient churchyard that lay next to the cathedral. Allan spotted a large and interesting dove cote on the wall of one of the outbuildings. Taking several pictures of it, he said, “I’m going to build one of those for my birds.” Knowing Allan by now, I was sure that he would, and he did. Early the next morning, we went down to the river to unpack everything and put the boat together. When we took the sculls out, one or the other of us stood them up against the wall. I don’t think I was the guilty party, having been around the rowing game long enough to know what wind can do to standing oars. There was a breeze blowing. I had just finished suggesting that I better lay the sculls on the ground when they blew over, and the fall broke one of the blades. A fine start. We assembled the boat without further incident, but had to go uptown for glue to mend the broken blade. We also had to buy a rubber ball to stick on the bow of the boat, a requirement we had missed in our reading of the Conservators book of rules for those using the river. I always figured that bow-balls only poked bigger holes in anything or anyone that boats happen to run into. They do make sense in that they tend to protect people who like to wander around or skylark in boathouses. At the shop, I was in the habit of sticking a rubber scull grip on the bow of any shell under construction or stored there. This was only after Dad, mind engrossed as always, nearly skewered himself while charging through one of the storage bays with his head down as he was in the habit of doing. While crating the boat at home, we must have had confidence in our ability to do things right. We packed nothing in the way of tools or supplies in case of accident, not even Band Aids - nothing but a wrench to assemble and rig the boat. Luckily, I had the foresight
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 216 to carry a screwdriver in my bag to unscrew the crate lids. By some miracle, nothing other than the broken blade was to happen, either to the boat or to us, and we reached home all in one piece - or three pieces, in the case of the boat. Our failure to bring a rubber ball was bad enough. We also were guilty of not sending for a “blue card.” This permit was supposed to be attached in plain view on any boat, be it canoe, kayak, punt, skiff, racing shell, houseboat, yacht or whatever. We were unaware of this - not one keeper at any of the many locks that we went through having noticed that we didn’t have one on the boat - until the last: lock number 42. For a boat our size, the fee for the permit was five Pounds. We coughed up the money and eventually received it by mail months later in Seattle. WE WERE IN ENGLAND AT THE RIGHT TIME. THE CLIMBING ROSES covering the stone cottages to be seen everywhere were in full bloom, and their blossoms gave off an aroma that filled the air. No traffic jams to pollute - at least, not yet. It was somewhat jarring when an occasional lorry did rumble through the middle of town. (With the building of thruways a few years later, even these would be gone, leaving the valley again to its sleepy and bucolic mien.) There were no such distractions that first morning as we prepared to set off on our venture. All was peaceful, no cheering throng to see us off. Nor should there have been. We were used to anonymity, most of our sculling over the years having been done before daylight. The only people whom I recall seeing were three young boys in a small dinghy, intent on their fishing and probably planning to play hooky. We packed all of our clothing and necessaries in plastic salmon bags and stuck them in the under-deck compartments and beneath the tracks in the cockpit. It’s amazing how much stuff can be crammed into a racing double. The movie camera and all its accoutrements were stowed above deck where they would be readily accessible. Finally all was ready. We bade Lechlade farewell and began our long journey to London Town.
As we neared St. John’s lock - the first of so many we would use - I began to have my doubts: the lock looked so narrow. It was narrow. We dug out our bible - Salters’ Guide - and, according to it, St. John’s was only 4 feet 0 inches wide. From tip-to-tip, our sculls spread out about 6-and-a-half feet. Facing backward as we were, it was especially tricky to enter the lock. We choked up on our sculls and crammed ourselves in without undo trouble. The lock-keeper, or “lockee” as he is called, laughed at the performance. As we approached the next lock, we decided that it would be much easier to turn around and back in. We tried it, much to the confusion of that lockee, who looked as though he thought we couldn’t decide whether we were coming or going. We knew, however, and it worked like a charm. We used this same maneuver the rest of the way down river, even though the locks grew much wider as we neared London. There was a fee to use each lock. Safely into St. John’s that first day, we had quite a discussion with the “lockee” relative to how much he wanted. The book said it was nine pence for a rowing boat of two oars, one shilling, six pence for four. There were four oars, but only two people in our boat, and this was the point of our jocular debate. We insisted that the rule meant two or four people, rather than two or four oars (in rowing parlance, an oarsman is often described as an oar, as in, “He was a good oar.”). The lockee finally acceded and charged us the lower amount - equivalent to roughly eight cents American. The 9D (nine pence) fee was collected at each lock with a little basket on the end of a long pole. The rest of the way to London, the question of what the fee should be was settled by the man at each lock asking what the lockee at St. John’s had charged. (He could have earned the Conservancy twice as much had he been stubborn. Forty-two times nine pence does add up.) If only we had found all the expenses of the trip as cheap. Actually, the river portion of our trip was quite inexpensive. The average cost of a night’s lodging varied from five to seven pounds - between 0 and 5 dollars. The cost of shipping the boat from Seattle to London was only 65 dollars. Now, it would cost more than that just to truck it down to the dock.
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Winter on the Thames at Henley
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Lechlade Church & Bridge.
Above the town of Staines, the banks of the river, including the fishery rights, are privately owned. Many stretches are rented out to fishing clubs. Though we saw a few people fishing, I never saw even one of them look up, nor did I ever see a fish caught. A few years later, I read of a salmon having been caught down near London, the first recorded in over a century. All the money and effort being put forth to reduce pollution in the river is apparently having its effect. This was only late June, and there were few boaters to be seen on the river - some campers in the fields along the banks were about all. The biggest crowds we ran into - especially upriver above Oxford - were the herds of cows. They would amble over and line the bank to watch us go by. Obviously, there was nothing much going on along the Thames that time of year. August is the month when England nearly closes down, and that is when the river becomes crowded. A popular way to spend a week or two is to rent a cabin cruiser or houseboat at
either Windsor or Oxford and head up the river. A vacationer can stay on the river itself or go off into one or another of the old canals that branch off from it. In the days before railroads, these canals served the farmers as arteries of commerce and allowed them to move their goods and produce by barge from the countryside to the markets. Some of them are still kept open for use by the boating public. Because the Thames is kept navigable by constant dredging, the water is deep right to the banks. These banks are like walls - rising as much as two to three feet above the water when we were there. A yachtsman or houseboat skipper could pull right up against the bank, heave his anchor ashore, and step out to stroll around, camp, picnic or do whatever else he had in mind. For us, it was a different matter. Sitting no more than four or five inches above the water - and with our sculls sticking out a mile on either side our disembarking often posed a major problem. We found no lowlying floats or docks anywhere along the river that we could use not even at the riverside inns where we stayed. We had to think up some ingenious schemes. Our only break came when we found a place where cows had broken the bank down to reach the river for a drink. Our using these wallows worked fine if they happened to be near where we wished to stop. But even when convenient, we sometimes found them a hazard. A cow often had to stroll over or, in some cases, run down to inspect us and our boat first hand. All the cow pies we had to wade through didn’t help. That first morning, as we paddled along - careful to keep to the right (rather than to the left, as one does when one is on an English roadway) - Allan, all of a sudden, shouted, “Stop!” I spiked my sculls and brought us to a shuddering halt. I had forgotten for the moment that Allan was a bird watcher as well as a collector. He had spotted a bird’s nest of some sort, and there was no way we could go on until we had backed up so he could have a look. We spent that night at The Rose Revived. This lovely inn had been recommended to us by two fellows whom we had met in the pub
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 219 (with its obligatory stuffed and mounted trout - the “biggest one ever caught…,” etc.) at the New Inn in Lechlade. We had mentioned in passing that the next night was one of our unplanned ones. They were quick to say that The Rose Revived was one place we should not miss. We phoned ahead to book a room. In existence for years untold, the Rose was well-preserved and offered every modern convenience - something not offered by every place we stayed. Our acquaintances from the previous night were there. From Brighton, they were enjoying their annual holiday on the river. They owned a small company that made die-cast logos and emblems for General Motors of Great Britain. After being shown through their palatial cabin cruiser, we had one of them take shots of us as we sculled back and forth. We needed proof that, indeed, it was we who had made the trip. It was here that we passed under New Bridge. Again, just as in the case of the hotel in Lechlade, the name belies the fact. Of great antiquity, this bridge is said to be the oldest on the river. The next morning - early - we headed for our next stop: Oxford. It was a warm and pleasant day, though somewhat breezy. England can be cold, wet and stormy that time of year - or any time of year for that matter - and we savored the weather we were blessed with. Our luck was to continue throughout our nine days on the river. Part of one day we had a modest downpour, but that was soon over. Shortly before reaching Oxford, we spotted a cow wallow and decided to stop and stretch. Sure enough, the local cow crowd came running, and we had to take turns guarding the boat. One of the more curious critters tried to climb in for a closer look. We were right next to the ruins of Godstow Nunnery where the fair Rosamund had lived out her life in penance for having diddled with King Henry II. Little was left of the building, it having been the victim of Cromwell and his crowd as they roamed over the countryside knocking over anything to do with the Catholics. About the only good to come of all that activity was that the wreckage provided countless tons of cheap building material for the local population.
The river, as one approaches the town of Oxford, is still rather narrow. As we were sculling along, I heard someone on the bank say, “Hmm, not bad form.” Looking over, I saw a young couple lying on the bank. I assumed that he was commenting on our form rather than on hers. This was a logical assumption, there being much rowing that goes on among the several colleges that make up Oxford University. We had begun to feel as though we were sculling quite well, so perhaps he was right. As we went on by, he rolled lazily back to resume whatever they had been doing. With Oxford in sight, we had to maneuver under one extremely low bridge. I was afraid that it might be too low, but was reasonably sure that we were safe: There must be traffic on the river considerably larger than we. Passing under it with no trouble, we ducked low in the boat just to be on the safe side. From our bible that night, we learned that the clearance was all of seven feet seven inches - not much room, but enough. LEAVING OUR BOAT AT SALTERS’ BY FOLLY BRIDGE, WE SPENT THE day wandering around Oxford and through the grounds of the various colleges, all redolent of ancient Academe. Below the next bridge stood
Drinking Place.
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 220 the Oxford University boathouses (each building housing the boats of a different college). Two or three of the colorful old club barges of Victorian vintage still existed, and they were moored there. Here, the river is called the “Isis” by those who prefer to make things difficult. It was still the Thames to us. I found a shell builder at work in one of the boathouses. He was later to gain fame of a sort after building an eight-oared shell designed for Harvard by a well-known marine architect. Harry Parker, by then Harvard’s rowing coach, had wanted one and sent the drawings to us. The design appeared to us impractical. Were we to build such a boat, it would inevitably become known, disparagingly, as “that Pocock boat.” With that in mind we put in a bid that was triple our going price - Dad’s idea - just to make sure we didn’t get the job. Happily, we didn’t; the Englishman did. As we had foreseen, the boat was a failure and subsequently snubbed by all as “that English boat.” Luckily for Harvard - and for the builder - the boat was soon put out of commission when the trailer on which it was being carried tipped over in a windstorm. I couldn’t help wondering who the “storm” was. When the accident happened, the boat was being brought back to Cambridge from the U.S. Naval Testing Facility near Annapolis. It and three other eights - one of ours among them - had undergone towing tests there. Lou Gellermann was the Varsity coach at the Naval Academy that year and had organized the tests. The findings were interesting. The only situation in which the English boat looked good was while being towed at 30(!) miles per hour. I suspect Parker had some doubts about ever finding oarsmen strong enough to row that fast, though he may still be trying. The boat was eventually repaired and ended up in a women’s program where it was okay when used by the much smaller people. The other conclusion of the test was that, overall, our boat was judged the best. Our stay in Oxford was at another hoary establishment, the White Hart Hotel. A placard at the entrance told us that “Dick Turpin once hid here,” a claim not unlike the “George Washington slept here”
notices seen in some old inns of New England. Turpin was a famous highwayman of the early Eighteenth Century. People took pride in hiding him from the sheriff, and his fame endured. We were taken down in the basement of the hotel to see the cubbyhole where he was supposed to have hidden at one time or another. History paints a poor picture of him. He ended up being hung as a horse thief when he was only 33 years of age.
Oxford, from near Binsey.
A MEMORABLE EXPERIENCE IN OXFORD WAS OUR VISIT TO THE farmers’ market. We went down about five in the morning when activity was in full swing. Its atmosphere had probably not changed much for centuries. Every kind of produce imaginable was there in profusion, along with colorful characters abounding. We went into a shop for a “cuppa” (tea). There, we saw old boys who, having sold their produce, were enjoying themselves. The proprietress sat on a high stool behind the counter, much like a queen on her throne. Almost hidden by two huge pitchers, one of tea and the other of cream, she dealt them out, half and half, into heavy mugs with walls as thick as your thumb. At the same time, she was giving as good as she got from all the regulars. It was almost like being in a movie,
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 221 much like a scene one might expect to see in “All Things Bright and Beautiful” on TV. We each had our “mugga” and, as we left, bought two large pork pies to take with us in the boat for lunch. Lugging them down to Salters’, where we had left the boat, we loaded them aboard and were on our way again. Toward noon, we stopped by a grassy slope near the village of Clifton Hampden, pulled our boat up on the bank and lay there for a rest and a go at the pies. Across the old bridge spanning the river, we could see the quaint old inn, Barley Mow, famous for having been the place where the well-known nineteenth century author, Jerome K. Jerome, had stayed while writing his famous Three Men in a Boat. That book, if not our bible, was the next thing to it. In it, the author humorously describes a sculling holiday taken on the Thames in the 860s The story could well have been written the same year we were there. Little, if anything, along the river had changed, and Barley Mow was much like it must have been when Jerome enjoyed its haunts — and probably for centuries before that. Lovingly restored and cared for by one of the English malting houses, it was worth the visit. We were able to prowl through its tiny rooms with their lowslung, rough-hewn beams overhead. Obviously, the place was built when people were much smaller than they are now. We were not allowed in for lunch, not even for a gin and tonic. The whole place had been taken over by a wedding party from London. We were stuck with our pork pies. Mouth-watering to the eye, they proved inedible and ended up in the river, heading toward London to show us the way. They had to be good for something. The Thames Valley below Oxford loses much of its rural character and begins to take on a more formal appearance. The stretches from Wallingford down to Henley, popular with vacationers in August, were deserted. Restricted to only four miles per hour, what few power boats we saw gave us no trouble. Near Moulsford we found our riverside hotel, the “Beatlum Wedge.” That is what the name sounded like to me when our chance acquaintances at Lechlade had recommended it.
Clifton Hampden Church & Ferry.
We found the true name to be the “Beetle and Wedge,” which didn’t tell us much more. The sign board hanging over the front door told the story. The beetle (hammer) and wedge are used in the coopers’ trade. It was a nice place, and the two of us its only guests. That afternoon we experienced our one spell of rain. I was lying on the bed that night studying the next day’s trip. Adding up the miles, I muttered, “Great Scott, we have to go 25 miles tomorrow!” We both burst out laughing. Just imagine, 25 miles in an era when 6- or 700 in a day is not unusual. The grounds surrounding most of the lock-keepers’ cottages were colorful and attractive. There was a spirited annual competition among the lockees, with a prize going to the one judged to be keeping the best garden. Any one of many could have won the award. Another item of note was the marks recording previous high water levels. Some marks were high up on the lock houses themselves, more evidence that it rains buckets at times in England. PASSING THROUGH THE TOWN OF READING, WE APPROACHED the Reading College boathouse. I saw someone sprinting across the
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 222 circuit right from the start. Being a good sculler in his own right, he knew his stuff - as, I suspected, did Harry. Harry said that he had received a letter just days before from his brother who mentioned in passing that I was heading for England with a friend to scull down the river in a double. Ernie had suggested that he keep on the lookout for us. In the shop that day as usual, Harry had glanced out the window and just happened to see a double going by. It was not of English make. He suspected that it might be us and had run to flag us down. We spent a cordial hour or so sitting on the bank and chatting. Some years later, at my suggestion, Dick Erickson invited Harry to come be his rigger and coach the 50s. Harry was tempted, but decided that, at his age, he would be happier staying with the familiar surroundings of England.
Henley-on-Thames.
field, shouting and waving his arms. As when Allan had startled me on our first day with his sighting of the nesting bird, I wondered what we were doing wrong. We stopped and paddled over to see what was amiss. The man, out of breath, ran up, and I recognized him as being Harry Arlett. I had met Harry five years before in Prague when I took the LWRC crews there for the European Championships, but we had not become acquainted. His name was certainly familiar. Dad had talked of racing against the champion, Jack Arlett. This fellow, one of his sons, was now coach of rowing and sculling at the College. I knew his brother, Ernie, who had emigrated from England to the U.S. some years earlier to become rigger and assistant coach at Rutgers University. Dad had arranged the job for him. More recently, Ernie had gone up to Boston to introduce rowing at Northeastern University. We built several eights for him. He and his crews were successful in the East Coast racing
THEN, HENLEY. IT WAS ONLY A WEEK BEFORE THE ANNUAL festivities were to begin, and preparations were in full swing. We pulled our boat up on the shore near the tents. No one seemed to object. One sees many unlikely-looking crews entered at Henley, and we fit right in. That evening, as we sculled up the course (down river, that is) on our way to Marlow, we must have made a few scullers feel good. If we were, in fact, going for the Double Sculls Challenge Cup, we looked to pose no threat. While wandering around the boat tents, who should I come across but Ed Ferry, Conn Findlay’s partner when they took the Gold Medal in Tokyo. He was now working toward an MBA at the Wharton School in Philadelphia and rowing for the Vesper Boat Club. Jack Kelly was there, with the Vesper eight, also winners in Tokyo. They were on a rowing tour of Europe given them by him and their many admirers. One of the crew had not been able to make the trip, and Ed was filling in. Earlier in the tour, they had stopped off in Egypt for a race in Cairo. Ed described being out on the Nile one evening. While sprinting along full tilt, they rowed right between the upright legs of a very dead camel floating down the river. Their cox’n, heading
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 223 right at it and, thus, unable to see it, had scored a bull’s-eye. Ed had worked for us in the shop for a few months, and he spent his spare time showing off our little double to anyone who expressed interest. A crew from South Africa seemed especially interested, and I hoped that we would end up selling them a boat. That would have helped pay for my trip. They didn’t buy. Also on the scene was a crew from New Zealand. They liked the look of a new eight of ours belonging to one of the visiting U.S. prep schools. They took it out for a spin, but we heard nothing from them either. One old chap took us up to his hotel room. From the window, one could look right up the entire length of the Henley course. The room had been reserved for Henley Week by his family for generations. We had to leave Henley before we wanted to. We knew that we would be back for the racing in a few days, but the crowds were liable to ruin everything. TEARING OURSELVES AWAY, WE CONTINUED ON OUR JOURNEY. Not too far above Marlow, we passed the ruins of Medmenham Abbey, scene of the orgies and excesses of the eighteenth century Hellfire Club. In Marlow, we stayed at the Compleat Angler’s Hotel, storied haunt of the famous author, Isaak Walton. That was a night to remember, costing us more than did all the rest of the trip on the river put together. On our arrival, we parked our boat in the yard of the Marlow Rowing Club, just across the road from the hotel. We met someone there who said that it would be all right. Apparently it wasn’t. The next morning I found a polite, albeit curt note signed by the “Hon. Capt.” attached to the boat. He took us to task for our trespass. Embarrassed and still with no one to be found — sane hours for rowing seemingly the rule around there, I could only leave a note blaming ignorance for our breach of etiquette. On our return to Seattle, I wrote to the “Hon. Sec.,” but received no reply. The roadway running between the rowing club and the Compleat Angler led to an old bridge crossing the river. A wrought iron suspension bridge built in 829, it was one of the earliest - if not the first - of its kind. Now, 37 years later, it was still open to all but the heaviest traffic.
Medmenham Abbey.
THE MARLOW ROWING CLUB HAD BEEN HELPFUL TO THE U.S. four and eight prior to the Olympics at Henley in 948. Dad, anticipating what was bound to be an impossible situation at Henley, had phoned their club manager. He knew they were situated on a nice long reach, it being there that he had won sculling races in his youth. Far removed from the “maddening crowd” and with the possibility of a coaching launch being available, it offered the perfect alternative. He would be able to go out with the crew and keep them on their toes. The club representative, excited at the prospect, had said to come on down. Not only was there room in their boathouse, but he was sure there was a launch to be had. Dad suggested that Ebright bring his crew along, but Ky was cool to the idea at first. It took only one day at Henley to change his mind. Being trundled along the towpath on a tandem bicycle by his manager was not his idea of coaching, and he could see that the crowd of shells
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 224 on the river made any kind of training out of the question. Skip Walz, there as coach of the other U.S. small-boat entries, preferred the color and hubbub of Henley, and turned up his nose at the idea. He, along with the rest of the U.S. crews, remained at Henley and they had little success after competition began. ONCE SETTLED IN, WE TOOK A LONG WALK TO STRETCH OUT our rowing legs. On our way down from Henley, we had passed Bisham Abbey and I wanted to see it up close. As we strode along, a fellow coming the other way stopped us to ask directions. In midsentence he laughed. “I’m sure you won’t be able to help me. You can’t be locals, you both look too healthy.” He had a good sense of humor, but, also, he was right. We were fit and healthy. I felt as good as I ever have, before or since. Our spirits buoyed by this exchange, we went on to find the Abbey. This old relic, given by Henry VIII to Anne of Cleaves after kicking the Catholic Church out, is not a particularly imposing place. It must have looked good to Anne, though. It beat living in the Tower of London waiting to have her head cut off, as some of Henry’s “exes” had to do. The place is better known for having been where Elizabeth was kept prisoner for two years by Queen Mary before she was beheaded, after which Elizabeth took over. Dinner that evening was memorable. The Compleat Angler is an elegant place, popular with the London crowd on holiday. Preparing for the evening revels, we felt the need of proper dress, an impossibility given the limitations imposed by the minimum storage space our toothpick of a boat afforded. We each had a white shirt, tie, walking shorts, kneelength stockings and walking shoes. I was fortunate in having found, at the Bon Marché in Seattle, a sports jacket that had proven indestructible. It simply would not wrinkle, no matter how it was treated - a wonderful buy for a trip such as this. I thought I looked good enough, given the situation. Allan had a seersucker jacket. On a trip down the Thames in a racing shell…forget seersucker. It looked as though he had wadded it up and sat on it all the way down from Lechlade. He took my kidding all in good humor. Who cared? No one knew us.
We bathed and dressed ourselves up as best we could and went into the bar parlor for our evening gin and tonic. The maitre d’ - snazzy in formal soup-and-fish - came and asked us, rather stuffily, if we would be having dinner. We told him that, yes, we would. He handed each of us a menu about a yard-and-a-half long - all in French. Wondering what we might end up with, we gave him our order. About an hour and a half—and several G & Ts - later, he came to announce that our dinner was ready. He led us to the dining room, past all the staring patrons, and seated us at our table. I can’t recall what we ate - didn’t even know at the time. All I do remember is that we had six - yes, six - waiters to serve it to us. Finished at last, we could scarcely waddle back to our room. OUR NEXT DESTINATION WAS WINDSOR, WITH ITS GREAT CASTLE and the neighboring town of Eton, home of Eton College, on the opposite bank. This was the part of England where my dad had spent most of his youth before escaping to the New World. I had visited Eton and Windsor, briefly, both in 960 and 96, but was anxious to see more. I wanted to show Allan the shops and boathouses where Dad grew up and where he had worked while learning his boatbuilding skills. I also wanted him to see all the boats - as many as 600- that filled the many boathouses. At Boveney Lock, about two miles above Windsor, we took a long time finding the lockee. We finally corralled him out in his garden and spent some time chatting with him. He seemed quite willing to talk - more so than I would have expected. Much later, Dad told me he had sent a letter, along with a fiver, addressed to “The Lock Keeper, Whomever he might be, Boveney Lock, Windsor, Berks, England.” In it he asked the keeper to be on the lookout for us. Whether the man to whom we talked received the letter and the money, I don’t know. If he did, he had not kept his part of the bargain, but he was at least willing to talk. Five quid not being what it was when Dad left England in 9, the old gent probably thought he had given us our money’s worth.
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Bathers on the Brocas across the river from Windsor Castle - circa 1936 - (Note: the flag flying above the castle indicates that the king is in residence)
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Eton.
Having heard all the local lore, we left for Windsor. On the way we passed a sight-seeing boat with mostly middle-aged ladies aboard. One of the women called out to us, “Are you for Henley, then?” I answered back in my best North Country accent, “Oh, aye, that we are,” and they all clapped. As we slowly rounded the next bend, there - looming over us - was that “Ancient Pile,” Windsor Castle. Frowning down as it had done for 800 years from atop its hill overlooking the river, it presented an unforgettable picture. It was a beautiful, sunny day with billowy clouds that formed the backdrop to this storied scene. There was
nothing to do but go back up the river to experience it once more. Facing downstream, we drifted with the current to properly record the picture in our minds’ eye and on film. As we drew opposite the castle, a Boeing 707, taking off from nearby Heathrow airport, went streaking overhead to land in the U.S. in a few hours. What a difference to the day when Dad and Dick left this sleepy old place for their month-long trip to the Promised Land. Staying on High Street at another White Hart Hotel (Dick Turpin had purportedly frequented this one, as well), we toured the castle and spent some hours with Dad’s old chum, Jimmy Ottrey, and his wife. Their granddaughter from Texas was living with them. She told me that she loved England because of the freedom she enjoyed. We persuaded her to come to the boathouses and take pictures of us as we sculled by. When viewing the shots later back home, I was amazed to see how good we looked. We actually looked as though we knew what we were doing. (Admittedly, we were a long way away.) We were given a tour of the boathouses and shops by Mr. Claret, the manager. This had been my grandfather’s job, along with seeing to the building and maintenance of the boats, when Dad was growing up there. As we wandered through the shops where he had served his apprenticeship those many years before, I saw a big brass key hanging by the back door. I made some comment to Allan and thought no more about it. That evening, back at the hotel, he slyly slipped the key out of his pocket. He had swiped it! Seeing in it a keepsake to take back to Dad, the temptation had been too great. Back in Seattle, Allan presented it him. The old boy exclaimed, “I can tell you exactly where it used to hang!” Sure enough, he could. As he remembered, they never locked that door and the key probably had not been used since he left the place 55 years before. With the amount of film we had brought, I never imagined we would ever need any more. Nevertheless, we ran out. Allan had been carried away taking pictures of the many bridges we went under. I’m surprised he didn’t build one somewhere. Maybe he did, out at Preston in his Japanese garden. Our camera used 6 mm cartridges.
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 227 Either popular and not easy to keep in stock or, on the other hand, little used and not stocked at all, these were impossible to find. We kept trying, but seemed to hit each town on early closing day. We finally found two cartridges in Windsor which had to be stretched out for the rest of our trip. Saying good-bye to Windsor and Eton, we continued on to Runnymede, site of that great step forward in the annals of English liberty, the unwilling signing of the Magna Carta by King John in the year 25. We walked up the hill above Magna Carta Island to the monument built there by the American Bar Association to commemorate that event. Nearby, we saw the monument to John F. Kennedy. It stands on a plot of ground given to the people of the United States by the people of Great Britain in recognition and appreciation for what he had meant to them. Whatever one’s politics might have been at the time, it was a touching moment for both of us. OUR LAST NIGHT ON THE RIVER WAS SPENT AT SHEPPERTON. Though born in Kingston, my dad spent his early years here before the family moved upriver to Eton. When he, his brother and three sisters were growing up there, it was nothing but a sleepy country village. Now on the outskirts of an expanded London, it has become known worldwide for its motion picture studios. Despite its notoriety, it retains some of its small-town charm, at least it does down by the river where we were. The small church that Dad dimly remembered having attended as a small boy, accompanied by the housekeeper hired by his father, was still there. Their mother was the organist at that church for some years prior to her death when Dad was only two. Dad told me one time that his father had once said, “Your mother was a good woman.” This, and the fact that she was a graduate of the prestigious Conservatory of Music in London, was all that we ever knew of her. In later years he chose, in her memory, to pay for the upkeep of the great Cassavant organ at his church in Seattle. This continued until his death.
Swan-upping.
The next day - our last on the river - saw us sweeping past Hampton Court Palace. As one nears London, the river banks are lined with high-rise apartments, and the waters are busy with recreational traffic. In planning the trip, we had chosen to stop at Kingston rather than going on through Teddington Lock - the final lock on the river - and into the Tideway. We had thought that it might be too busy with commercial traffic down there to be enjoyable. As it turned out, we were being overly cautious. All the London rowing clubs are on the Tideway around Putney, and they seem to manage. It was just as well that we stopped where we did. By the time we arrived in Kingston, we had had our fill of sculling - at least for a while - and were glad to call it quits. It was only a short pull that last day, and we arrived at Turk’s quite early in the morning. Even so, they were ready for us. As we climbed out on the float, Allan accidentally knocked his glasses off, and they fell in the river. I thought to myself, “good-bye, glasses.” They were
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 228 his only pair and, lost without them, he was not about to give them match. A handsome piece of work, he had built it himself and taken up without a fight. The water was far too murky and polluted to it to the States in 893 for display at the Chicago World’s Fair. consider diving for them, so we borrowed a long clam rake from the One of the craftsmen standing raft man. I don’t suppose a clam had been raked off the bottom of nearby said, in an aside to me, the river there in 00 years, but it was just the thing for dredging up “Who are you? Must be somebody glasses. It reminded me of the picture of the Russian sculler, Ivanov, special. I’ve worked here 27 years peering down into Lake Wendouree after his Olympic victory in 956. and I’ve never seen that before.” He had dropped overboard the Gold Medal he had just been presented. I did feel special and, judged by There being no clam rake handy, it was not recovered. Now, sifting the standards of the small but through the muck of the centuries, Allan came up with his glasses! A exclusive world of sculling, we million-to-one shot, and a good way to wind up our trip. The crates were in the presence of a special were there waiting for us, and we made short work of taking the boat man. He’s long gone now, of apart and packing it for the long trip home. course, and I’ve often wondered what might have happened to that I’M GLAD WE ENDED OUR TRIP WHERE WE DID AND THAT WE exquisite model boat. could take the time to linger there. Every corner of the Turk’s Mr. Turk had one son, but we establishment exuded history, and it was worth the visit. The Turk family did not meet him. He had a major had been in business on that site since the early 700s, building boats “By role with the Thames Conservancy Appointment to the Crown” according to a medallion displayed on the and was upriver directing the side of the ancient building. I don’t think there was any boat-building annual “swan upping.” All swans going on by the time we were there. It was, instead, a boat rental layout. on the river belong either to the The old boy, Richard Turk, was still alive, and we were fortunate to Queen or to one of two guilds, talk with him. Champion sculler in his day, he had served as the Royal the Vintners or the Dyers. Early Bargemaster at one time. He remembered my grandfather, who had been in the spring of each year, when Starter and Umpire of the Doggett’s Coat and Badge race when he, Mr. the cygnets are still being herded Turk, won it back before the turn of the century. That must have been around by the mother swans, some 15 or 20 years before my Uncle Dick won in 90. representatives of each guild go After we had talked for some time, the old man went inside briefly out to catch and mark all the new broods to keep ownership of the and came out wearing a jacket with the elaborate Bargemaster’s emblem emblazoned upon it. He said nothing, but was obviously birds straight. Those belonging to proud of it and wanted to show it off. During our delightful Bert Barry, Royal Bargemaster the Queen are not marked, while conversation, he directed two of his helpers to bring down a crate those of the two guilds receive which was stored high in the rafters. Inside was a beautiful one-third their distinctive cut on the beak. This can be painful work, for the scale model of a Thames River double sculling skiff with sculls to swans are protective of their young.
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 229 We met young Turk’s wife. The two of them lived with the old man and took care of him. While inspecting the model, I saw Allan slip her his card with the suggestion that she look him up if it were ever to come up for sale. He told her that he would cherish such a beautiful work of art. I knew that he would, but I also felt sure they would never let it out of the family. They’d be crazy if they did. THUS CAME TO AN END OUR TRIP DOWN THE OLD RIVER Thames. A wonderful adventure it had been. Never a harsh word spoken. We made a good team and looked forward to many more years of sculling together. We weren’t quite done yet, however. There was still the windup - the Royal Henley Regatta - to be experienced. Allan’s wife, Gloria, had come over and she met us at the London hotel where our luggage awaited us. She went with us to Henley, there to see that historic drama enacted once more. For the first two days of the regatta, racing goes on from dawn till dusk, one race every 0 minutes. As the old story goes, the starter never looks up to see whether the competitors are ready. He simply looks at his watch and drops the flag on the dot. That story - or exaggeration - came from Jim Ten Eyck when I was just a kid. He had taken his son Ned, aged 9, to Henley back in the ’90s (890s, that is) and entered him in the Diamond Sculls. The old man told me, “You don’t go there unless you know you’re good!” Young Ned must have been good, because he won the Diamonds. Old Jim seemed amazed that Dad had not yet put me in a boat. I was 2 at the time, and he thought it long overdue. That year Dad brought home the wherry. At the Royal Henley Regatta, one sees some of the best rowing in the world - and some of the worst. Some of the clubs we saw seemed to consider themselves viable as long as they could scrape together enough people off the streets to fill a pair or a four and put them on the list. Composite crews - national team crews, for example - were not yet allowed to enter. While this might keep away the best crews from around the world, I saw several that looked to be hot.
Knowing nothing of the crews on the scene other than Vesper, we didn’t take much notice of the racing. It was much more entertaining to watch the crowd. Many “Old Blues” - members of Leander Club, proudly sporting their pink socks and ties - had showed up in their blazers and caps to parade around. Most appeared to have rustled their clothes from the back of a closet where they had thrown them after the previous year’s post-regatta celebration. To b e a l l o w e d i nt o the Enclosure where the grandstands are located, one must be a member of Leander or be spoken for by a member. Women must wear a hat and proper dress - no shorts, swim suits or bare feet. The same is true of men, excepting the hat. It was, for the most part, a decorous crowd, but I had Richard Turk - circa 1966 to chuckle at the raucous cheering of some of the younger people. They had great fun rooting for college crews from Oxford or Cambridge - crews with such names as “Christ,” or “Jesus” or “Mary.” I doubted whether any of them were actually watching the races. The Pimm’s Cups - ghastly gin drinks - seemed to command most of their attention. After the regatta, Allan and Gloria took off on a trip though Ireland while I hung around London waiting for my flight to Boston where I was to meet Lois. I took in a couple of plays and went down to Greenwich to wander through the Maritime Museum. I looked all over, having been told that there was a portrait of Admiral Sir George Pocock there, but failed to find it. The only item of real interest that I did find was an example of a royal barge. Rowed by eight selected
VIII – Thames River Idyll (1966) – 230
Sitting in a Thames River lock - 1966
Two friends: author & Allan Lobb – 1999
men, such craft were used by monarchs in the Middle Ages. This made sense, overland travel in those days being so dangerous because of all the highwaymen abroad in the countryside. Now, seeing all the traffic around London and its environs, I couldn’t help thinking that such an alternative might be useful in the present day, though for other reasons. This means of transportation was not restricted solely to royalty, and was used by anyone who could afford such luxury. These privatelyowned rigs often had more than eight oarsmen (for added speed to escape the king, perhaps). However, eight remained the royal number.
According to Dad, this was why eight was decided upon as being the proper number for the crews of interscholastic racing boats. I wonder. He had more than a little of the romantic in him. A DEDICATED PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON, ALLAN LOBB SPENT nearly his entire life caring for others. While doing so, he forgot to keep a close watch on his own health. In 997 he was diagnosed with an advanced cancer that proved untreatable. In July 998, at the age of 78, he died. The world was made a lesser place, and my life a diminished one, with his passing.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 231
CHAPTER IX
A
Home Stretch (1967–1976)
FTER OUR TRIP DOWN THE THAMES, ALLAN AND I but wisely dropped it after discovering that it didn’t serve his needs. continued sculling together - though not with the same He spent his summers working for Jim Gardiner at the Seattle Tennis fervor. As is bound to happen, circumstances changed. Club while staying with Mother and Dad in town, so he never had to Having spent our summers in a rented shack on Whidbey Island for endure the isolation of island living. The younger two, Sue and Greg, never objected. some 0 years, Lois and I bought a piece of property on the beach at Useless Bay. I kept both a single and a wherry at There, we built a summer place of our the beach to use on weekends as often own. We found island living so much as I could. The fresh Puget Sound air to our liking that we decided to make it and the beauty of the surroundings our permanent home. Selling our place were hard to beat. Bird life abounded, in the Mount Baker district of Seattle, and sometimes I scared up a Great Blue we headed for the beach. This meant that Heron from the shallows. The noise I had to commute to the shop on Lake they made when taking off was enough Union in the university district each week to make one jump out of the boat. I day (and most weekends, too.) The hour almost did a time or two. Now and and a quarter lost morning and evening then, a sea lion stuck its head up to have devoured time I might otherwise have a better look at this great long object given to sculling or coaching in town. I going by. I even sculled out alongside a fixed up a small apartment in the shop huge gray whale one day, trusting that and during the busy season spent two he wouldn’t take offense. Often our dog, nights a week there. This allowed me Stony, followed me along the shore. If two mornings a week in the double with I were in close enough, he would swim Allan. I liked the extra hours of work at out with a grin on his face, and my Author - Saratoga Passage, Whidbey Island - 1960 the shop with no distractions. Lois said own laughter made it hard to escape she was willing to bet that our laundry was the only one around that his joining me in the boat. During the summers months, Lois and had pajamas with varnish on them. I rarely saw the beach in daylight I encouraged the youngsters vacationing with their families along except during the one month each summer when the shop was closed. the beach to use the two boats. Ten trips in either one earned them It was worth it because Lois loved living there. Our older son, Chris, a shirt and membership in the Useless Bay Rowing Club. A few of was at South Kent where he did some sculling. He became quite good, them went on to row in high school and college. Those hours at the
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 232 beach, limited though they were, gave some compensation for the Right from the start, he made a difference. His innovative ideas and long hours of commuting. boundless energy gave the place an entirely new character, though its To become acquainted with more people on the island, we started warmth remained. The menus he created began to attract notice, even holding an open house for the neighbors every Friday night. These to the extent of being written up in the Seattle papers. Customers gatherings were great fun and often soon were knocking down the doors. One concluded with dancing at the local pub. had to reserve weeks in advance for the We were treading on dangerous ground, monthly theme dinners that he staged. but no serious damage resulted. For Even with the Inn doing a land office further social outlet, many good times business, he would take no pay. He were spent at the Captain Whidbey Inn seemed almost too good to be true. He near Coupeville. A few months before had to be driven wherever he wished to my first visit to the place, Lois went there go, for he had no driver’s license, and for lunch. She enjoyed it, so one weekend he would not talk of his previous life. we decided to try Sunday dinner there. Something was amiss. The local sheriff, With no reservation we walked in, and one of the “Wednesday Lunch Bunch” the owner, Steve Stone, greeted her by who met weekly at the inn, decided to name. Here was a man who liked people, act. Unbeknownst to the Stones, he used a consummate host who saw that we met his contacts in California to see what everyone in the dining room and lounge. could be learned. His curiosity was amply Not only were we his guests, we could rewarded. The new chef was, indeed, a feel that he wanted to get to know us. lawyer from California, but one who Friendliness pervaded the place, and we had been disbarred for mishandling trust spent many pleasant weekend afternoons funds. He was on the run. This explained and evenings there. Out of those visits the no pay deal (the IRS couldn’t find came memorable friendships. Alan May - circa 1972 him) and no driver’s license (no one else The Inn grew even more popular after could find him). One could even imagine the Stones engaged a new chef and manager. He had been a paying his having engineered the departure of the previous chef in the first guest in one of the quaint upstairs rooms when, suddenly, the chef place. Though some questions had been answered, there was still quit. The man approached Shirlee Stone, who was filling in, and told something fishy: For a thief in hiding, with no pay and no bank her that he enjoyed cooking, though only as an amateur. He thought accounts, he always had plenty of money to spend. it might be interesting to try it as a professional. He portrayed himself With the dining room and lounge catering to crowds of people every as a retired attorney from California who had no need for money. night of the week, the Stones wondered why they were not taking Should she take him up on his offer, he would accept only room and in more money. Their niece was keeping the books, and she had no answer. They put two and two together and went to the chef/manager meals. In desperation, Mrs. Stone decided to give him a try.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 233 for some answers. After some hesitation, he made the mistake of accusing their niece of cooking the books. That did it, and he was fired forthwith. The Inn’s financial health immediately improved. The Stones finally figured out how he worked his scam. A personable man, he was in the habit of wandering through the dining room chatting with guests. When he saw someone laying out cash with their check he would pick it up, saying he would run it through while they prepared to leave. He brought them their change after having conveniently forgotten to ring up the check. A considerable amount of money had found its way into his pockets during the two or three years he was there. A simple ruse and one not uncommon in the restaurant business - or so I’ve been told. The Stones recognized what he had done for the Inn and missed him, but could not forgive him his dishonesty. True to his character, he had the gall to use them as reference when he applied for a job elsewhere. His name kept popping up over the next few years in connection with various con games. Then I heard that he had died, though still at a relatively young age. I couldn’t help wondering if he had met a sticky end at the hand of someone whom he had duped. ONE OF THE DELIGHTS GAINED FROM OUR YEARS ON WHIDBEY Island was our friendship with Alan May. English-born, Mr. May had settled in the apple-raising country around Wenatchee after being invalided out of the British Army near the end of the first World War. Now retired on the island after many years of hard work in his apple orchards, he had built his home on Double Bluff not far from our place on the beach. We were introduced to him one evening at the Inn. The subject of a museum that Mr. May maintained came up. I expressed interest, and he invited us to come see it. He had a nice piece of land right on the tip of Double Bluff overlooking Admiralty Inlet. In his mid-seventies, he was lean as a whip and did all his own work around the place. Passing boats and ships were still throwing trash overboard in great quantities in those days, and he had the more interesting pieces collected in unique
displays around the place. After a cook’s tour of his house and garden, I mentioned the museum. The size of a single garage, it was stuffed to the rafters with curios gathered in his worldwide travels. The first thing he said was, “I’m not going to tell you anything. If you see something you want to know about, just ask me.” Thinking to myself that two could play at that game, I decided to say nothing. Finally he could stand it no longer. Taking an object off the shelf, he asked, “All right, if you’re so smart, what’s this?” By luck, he had hit on one of the few curios in the place that I could identify. It was an otolith - part of the ear of a whale. Hilmar Lee, the old Alaskan sourdough who worked for my dad, had given him two of these as keepsakes when I was just a kid. After hefting it and studying it a while I said, “Well, Mr. May, that looks to me like a whale’s ear bone.” His jaw dropped, and he exclaimed, “How on earth did you know that?” Dissembling, I said, “Oh, it was just a lucky guess.” From then on, we were the best of friends. From his years spent roaming the banks of the Columbia River near Wenatchee, Mr. May had gathered an extensive collection of native artifacts. His observations, along with much reading on the subject, had gained him a thorough knowledge of the area’s archeology, and his articles on the subject had appeared in various scientific journals. Out of these had come the opportunity to take part in three separate expeditions to Alaska sponsored by the Smithsonian Institute. Many artifacts that he came across while in the Aleutians were to be seen there in his museum. He even had a few hand-wrought iron nails that he had salvaged from the wreckage of what was thought to be the ship used by Vitus Bering during his voyages of exploration. He was quick to point out that he had never kept anything other than what was rejected by the boss of the expeditions. Mr. May was told that he was the first American since the Revolution to be allowed access to Russian territory in the Bering Sea. He was seeking traces of human migration across the land bridge thought by some to have connected Asia and North America in prehistoric times. He found no evidence to confirm the migration
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 234 theory, but had interesting tales to tell of his adventures there. Among them was the story of his near drowning when thrown overboard while trying to reach shore during a violent storm. With the help of the only two non-natives living on the island, he survived. He talked at great length about their many kindnesses, but remembered how afraid they were of expressing themselves on any subject, terrified of the consequences of anything they might say, should rumors somehow reach Moscow authorities (this was in the era of the Stalinist purges). Years later, with World War II on the horizon, Alan had his brain picked by United States Navy people who were looking for any information relative to the Russian islands. That story was featured in Life Magazine in the late 930s. Those spare-time expeditions were taken during the off-season while his apple trees were working to make him more money. After retiring, he traveled extensively. Pins stuck in a map on the wall of his home indicated places in the world that he had visited. From the look of it, the only part of the globe he had not visited was the USSR (excepting the island of his Bering Sea adventure). Borneo had intrigued him the most. He had not met any native there who admitted being a headhunter, something he had hoped to do. They were said to still exist in the back country, and one fellow he met told him his father had been one. He had a great story of an episode that took place in Tahiti. He and his wife were aboard a French liner on an around-the-world cruise in 940. Caught in the onslaught of World War II, they were stranded in Papeete for the better part of a year. Always consumed with curiosity about anywhere he chanced to visit, Mr. May explored the island extensively. One day, while walking on the beach, he happened upon a human skull. He took it back to their leased cottage and put it on his desk as a whimsical paperweight. A native acquaintance saw it one day and asked him where he had found it. When Alan told him, the Tahitian was distraught. According to him, that beach was holy ground, and anyone disturbing the remains buried there did so at great personal risk. He begged him to take the skull back and rebury it immediately.
Alan (I took the liberty of calling him by his given name by now) thanked him for his concern, but passed it off as mere superstition. Not long after this incident, his health began to deteriorate. Growing sicker by the day, he finally went to the hospital. The doctors there tried every medicine and treatment they could think of with no success and, at length, gave him up for lost. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he rallied. The doctors were elated, but had no explanation. Slowly, he regained his strength and was able to go home a month later. He noticed at once when he sat at his desk that the skull was missing. His wife admitted, reluctantly, that when the doctors abandoned hope, she could think of only one thing to do that might help him. In desperation, she had taken the skull back to the beach where he had found it and reburied it. It was shortly thereafter that he began to rally. In retelling the story to us and our friends - which he would do if we pressed him - he always insisted, while swearing that the story was true, that he put no credence in the assumption that there might be a connection between the reburying of the skull and his subsequent recovery. He always added, with a twinkle in his eye, that those hearing the story were free to think whatever they wished. LOIS AND I BECAME GREAT FRIENDS WITH ALAN. WE SOON recognized that he and Dr. Lobb would enjoy knowing each other. Both had a consuming interest in Northwest Native American art and artifacts, and we felt they would find much in common. Allan Lobb owned an unsurpassed collection and would appreciate seeing what Mr. May had. As we drove him over to Mr. May’s place for their first meeting, Lois admonished, “Now Allan, don’t you dare try to buy any of his things!” He said, “Well, OK, but if he brings it up, I can’t guarantee a thing.” He did end up buying many of Mr. May’s artifacts, but only after the two of them had become fast friends. Mr. May would never have parted with any of his collection had he not found in Dr. Lobb a kindred soul. As one might surmise, New York collectors calling to make lucrative offers were turned down out of hand simply because he didn’t like the sound of their voices.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 235 To finance his many trips in the past, he had sold off - piece by piece - the various properties on Whidbey Island he had bought as investments over the years. With these gone, the transactions with Dr. Lobb (out of respect, we still often called him that, just as we often addressed the other as Mr. May) enabled him to continue his travels. He was twice-blessed in this because he was selling his collection to someone he liked and respected. The money Alan M. received from Allan L. proved an indirect blessing for me, for I was able to accompany him on two extensive trips he could now afford. The first of these was to Mexico and the Yucatan Peninsula, where we tramped through the Mayan ruins of Chitchen Itza, Uxmal, Tulum and others. Palenque was the most intriguing of them all. Up to that time, its pyramid was the only one in all the New World found to have a tomb within. The jade armor-clad skeleton discovered in the burial chamber was that of a man estimated to have been at least six-foot five inches in height. We were escorted through those ruins by the man who had made the discovery. He was now archeological director of the Mexican National Museum. To wind up the tour, we spent several days at a brand-new hotel in Cancun. It was a fancy place, save for the crude oil which fouled all its deep-pile carpeting and smeared the otherwise pristine, snowy white beaches of the bay - the result of a major oil spill. The other trip Alan and I took was to China, Thailand and Nepal. The previous year, shortly after the Communist regime reopened their country to Western visitors, he had traveled to China by himself. The Chinese people still revered old age, despite the horrors perpetrated by the Red Guard radicals during the Cultural Revolution and Great Leap Forward, and he loved the way he was received and treated. Several years after my trip with him, he went again to celebrate his ninetieth birthday. Speaking of age reminds me of an episode one evening while we were in Beijing. We were staying at a hotel built by the Russians during the period when they were still in favor with the Chinese. Everything the Russians built tended toward the gigantic, and this
The Great Wall hotel was no exception. We had completed our dinner (chicken heads and feet, or whatever the dainty morsels might have been) and were heading for our room in hopes of recovering. The one (and only) elevator in the place being on the blink - as it was almost any time we tried to use it - we tackled the grand staircase. We had hiked about halfway up to the next floor when we heard someone calling to us. Looking down, we saw a bellhop or flunky of some sort. He was pointing to his heart and indicating that the elevator was now working. He obviously thought we should come back down and use it. Alan nodded at him, winked at me, turned around and ran up the rest of the way. When he reached the top he turned and, with a big grin on his face, waved at the porter far below. I thought the little man was the one in danger of a heart attack - his Chinese upbringing making it impossible to understand how an old man in his mid-eighties could behave like that, much less be able to do what he had just done.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 236 The next day, we went out to the Great Wall. Extensively restored to accommodate the demands of tourism, remains of the original structure were still visible. After climbing up to the roadway that runs along its top, I stomped my foot on the bricks and thought incredulously (and in poor English), “This is me, and I’m really here!” We started out toward the sentry tower at the far end of the restored section. It was some distance away and required steep climbing to reach. Alan told me he would wait for me, having already made the climb only the year before. Taking him at his word, I headed off. It was a climb, all right, and when I reached the tower, I was winded. Hearing a chuckle behind me, I looked around and there, sure enough, stood old Alan, looking fresh as a daisy. While on the Wall, I picked up a small stone as a souvenir of the occasion. When our bags were being inspected at the airport in Tokyo on our way home, the customs official came across it and asked what it was. “A rock,” I said. “Oh,” she said. On the way back to Beijing, we stopped and went down into the Ming Tombs. They were a great disappointment. All the treasures had been removed and replaced by wooden crates with signs on them to tell people what they weren’t seeing. The next day, we went to the Forbidden City. While some of it was in the process of restoration, the palace itself looked to be nothing more than a large, dirty imitation of the Fifth Avenue Theater in Seattle. Our original purpose in visiting China was to see the recentlydiscovered terra-cotta army buried near Xian. We finally were taken to the site, but only after paying extra yuan to the bus driver. Though excavation had begun, nothing was going on that day. We were allowed into the pavilion built over the field, and we could see the few figures that had been uncovered. We were forbidden to take pictures. FROM CHINA WE WENT ON TO THAILAND AND NEPAL. THE contrast between the ordered, sanitized picture of China that we as tourists were allowed to see there, and the wildly undisciplined reality of those other parts of Asia is unforgettable. Our last stop was
in Hawaii where Lois had soaked up the sun while we explored the world. Alan called a neighbor at home to see how things were and was told that half of his property had slid into Puget Sound. That put a damper on our layover, for a time. Happily, the report later proved to be greatly exaggerated. Alan had many good years left in him and went on to live far beyond his wishes, finally passing away a few years ago at the age of 97.
Turnout begins
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 237
T
HE YEAR WE MOVED TO THE BEACH - 968 - WAS ALSO the busiest year we ever had in the shop. During those months we built 25 boats of all sizes - better than one every two working days. This included 47 eights. The large volume that year was due, in part, to an order we received from the City of Long Beach, host to the Olympic Rowing Trials. These had been awarded to them after local promoters promised to supply all the equipment (with the exception of the eights and singles) needed for the competition. That order for 30 boats, along with 96 oars and sculls, came on top of an already overloaded backlog of business. I did not want or need the work and tried to talk them out of it, saying that I thought it a waste of money. They could just as easily borrow the equipment. Never to be deterred, they ordered the boats anyway. (To prove that I had no need for the extra income earned from all those evenings and weekends of overtime, I invested it in some kind of tax shelter and lost most of it.) Those boats were to prove a boon to rowing in the Long Beach area. This was only because of an old timer, Pete Archer. Pete had rowed and coached thereabouts for years, and was currently taking care of the rowing equipment for Cal State. After the Trials, he was hired by the city to maintain all the new city-owned boats and oars. He did it with a vengeance, ruling that boathouse with an iron hand. Years later, I visited him there and found most of the boats still looking as though they had just come out of our shop. Remarkable under any circumstances, it was all the more so, considering that they were rowed on saltwater, an environment notoriously tough on boats. WE WERE NOT ASKED TO BUILD ANY BOATS FOR THE U.S. TEAM to use at the Games in Mexico City. While there was enough time after the Trials for any boats there to be trucked down, the City
of Long Beach didn’t want theirs used. Though I never heard any complaints from the competitors who used those boats in the Trials, one thing was certain: the movement away from our boats had begun in earnest. One of the few, perhaps the only one, to be used in those Games was the coxless four belonging to the Canadians. My overriding concern during the Trials was that all the equipment we had supplied would hold up. I felt no close connection with any of the competitors, although I should have. Nineteen sixty-eight was the year I tried to coach an Olympic selection camp in Seattle in hopes of developing some competitive crews for the Trials. It was one of two similar camps set up - the other was at the Union Boat Club in Boston. Participants in the camps were selected from a broad field of aspirants. Applicants were asked to submit recommendations from their coaches, along with the results of a series of monitored physical tests: bench press, pull-ups, mile run, jumping squat leaps and others. Some fine oarsmen showed up, among them locals Bill Tytus, Loren Coleman, Roy Rubin, Geza Berger, Jim Ojala, Dave Kroeger, Dick Moen, Chad Rudolph, Greg Miller, Terry Efird and Charlie Campbell, along with individuals from other parts of the country: Dick Dreissegacker from Brown, Craig Bleeker and Bob Newman from UCLA, Steve Pierce and Norm Bliss from Cal, Ron Arlas from Cornell and Jeff Young and Skip Spiering from Oregon State, to name a few. A number of less prominent collegiate programs were represented. Those included Notre Dame, St. Mary’s, Oregon and Pacific Lutheran, among others. Also in the mix was a group of men who had spent the winter and spring rowing small boats for LWRC in hopes of recapturing some of the club’s past glory. Except for Geza and Roy, none of the men in the camp had rowed for me before. Guilty of thinking myself some kind of guru to whom everyone should pay attention, it took me awhile to realize that this wasn’t happening. Most of the men didn’t want to listen. I felt that their unquestioned acceptance had to exist if my efforts to help them were to succeed. The oarsmen first had to agree to this, or all was lost. After weeks of frustration, I saw that the program was in trouble for
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 238 I was getting nowhere with them. By then, I also saw that even were they to commit themselves wholeheartedly to my way of thinking, I could no longer take the time to do an adequate job of coaching. The task I was burdened with in the shop was overwhelming me. With the thought that if the men’s own excitement and determination were allowed to run free, there would be a better chance of success, I stepped aside. Dick Erickson took over in my place. Harry Swetnam continued to work with them in the gym. The camp sent crews to Long Beach, where they had no success, although a straight four - Tytus, Coleman, Rudolph and Miller, all men with LWRC ties - lost by the slimmest of margins to an Eastern camp boat stroked by Pete Raymond. Moen and Kroeger, rowing a pair with and wearing LWRC colors fell to a crew from Boston by a scant few feet. I shudder to look back on that summer. Snowed under as I was in the shop, it was then that I suffered question the nadir of coaching experience. I WAS WALKING BY THE GR ANDSTANDS AT LONG BEACH one afternoon, having dashed down to watch the trials. Head down while musing over my failures, I heard someone shouting from high in the stands. Paying little attention, I continued on. The shouting grew louder and nearer until I realized that it was my name being called. I saw a huge man bearing down on me. For a second, I thought he might be one of the disappointed oarsmen from the camp out for my hide. As he drew closer, I could see no blood in his eye. He was someone out of the past, and it took me a moment to place him. It was John German. He had, since last I saw him, grown so - mostly sideways - that I had not recognized him. I had known John as a youngster turning out at Green Lake. After rowing briefly with the LWRC, he had moved to Long Beach. He couldn’t wait to tell me of his life there. Now teaching at one of the junior high schools nearby, he had convinced them they should start a rowing program. His telling me of how much his rowing experiences meant to him, and how excited he was about his new project, made me feel good. Perhaps I wasn’t in the wrong game after all.
Seat racing THE MOST MEMORABLE RACE OF THOSE OLYMPIC TRIALS WAS the eight-oared Final. The trials were split in two: the eights and singles racing in July, the remaining crews facing off in August. Penn and Harvard were considered by the gamblers to be the favorites. Race under way, I went up in the grandstand to watch. When they came into view, those two were neck 'n' neck and well ahead of whoever else was in the race. They stayed that way all down the course. As they approached the last 100 meters, I found myself screaming bloody murder. Never one to do such a thing at a crew race, at this one I just had to yell. When the two shells crossed the finish line, it was anyone’s guess which crew had won. The officials took what seemed to be forever before coming to a decision. I saw Joe Burk, the Penn coach, standing on the float, calmly awaiting the call. At long last, the announcement
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 239 came over the loudspeakers: Harvard had won by only four onehundredths of a second! It was the most exciting race I ever had the good fortune to watch. When he heard the result, Joe didn’t turn a hair. He just stood for a moment and then wandered off the float and into the crowd. Earlier that year, I had suggested to Joe that I build his new eight in two sections for easy shipment should they decide to use it at the Trials. My suggestion was turned down, not too surprisingly, because a sectional joint does add weight. Rather than shipping their eight across country, he decided to borrow one in Long Beach to save money. They used our boats exclusively at home, and there were plenty of Pococks on the West Coast. I was disappointed that they hadn’t brought their black box with them. An electronic device mounted in front of the cox’n, the box indicated how hard each of the men in a crew was pulling. As described to me, the display panel which faced the cox’n had a series of lights - four for each man. One light lit for any given station in the boat indicated that man wasn’t pulling very hard. Two lights meant normal pulling; three, very hard pulling and four, the man was busting his gut. If all 32 lights were lit, the cox’n, theoretically, might have to look out when going under low bridges. Every position in the boat had its own indicator lights to let each man know how hard the box thought he was pulling. The cox’n - after commanding the crew to row at a certain pressure, that is, one light, two lights, and so on could tell immediately how well they were responding. At the same time, each man could be confident that the others were working just as hard, or as easy, as he was. It was a means of developing unity within a crew. Penn, using it in competition, had won races with it aboard - despite the added 50 pounds. Their crews reportedly thought the handicap worth it. I never saw the contraption myself, and it soon faded out of the picture. One danger inherent in using the box might have been that it could mislead oarsmen into thinking that hard pulling was all that was needed to make a boat go fast. While coaching Frosh at the UW, I set
up a demonstration in an effort to refute that misconception. The idea was to have each crew run over a measured distance at varying rates. The sheltered canal joining the old and new boathouses, down which the crews could row one at a time, still existed. At the end of each run, they could circle around and be ready at the starting line when their next turn came. A manager with a flag signaled as each outfit passed the starting line, and I recorded their time as they passed me at the finish. The distance was not great - perhaps a quarter mile - and the crews could make the run a number of times without suffering. They were to row each run at rates increasing progressively by two-stroke increments, beginning at 28, on up to 36. On their final run, they were to throw caution to the wind and row at any rate and in any way they wished. Well warmed-up by then, they need have no concerns about overdoing it. The idea was to go all out and move their boat as fast (in their minds) as they possibly could. The experiment went off like clockwork. I checked the rating as each boat came down the chute to make sure they kept to the schedule and recorded their elapsed time. As expected, the times decreased as the rate went up until they reached 34. Then they tailed off. (Remember, these were freshmen, not yet capable of rowing at higher rates.) As they each made their last run - the one on which they were to go as fast as they possibly could - I could see that all stops were out: cox’ns screaming, spray flying, boats leaping up and down and back and forth. Naturally, my expectations, not theirs, were borne out. In each case, the last - fast - run was appreciably slower than the best runs of the day. The following afternoon I went over the findings with the crews. I think they all saw the point: High rates and hard pulling, when combined with bad rowing, do not make a boat go fast. Many schemes have been tried since boat racing began in attempts to help the coaches and oarsmen find out what goes on in a boat. One old-time sculler in England had a buggy whip sticking up on the stern of his single. If the whip didn’t snap at the catch, he knew he wasn’t checking the run of the boat. I tried the idea on one of my eights, but learned nothing. In a four or an eight the cox’n’s butt indicates
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 240 everything he or she needs to know - if they know what to look (or better, to feel) for. In my single out on Useless Bay, I sometimes tied a length of kelp to a rigger and towed it behind. That told me all I wanted to know. The simplest scheme is to splash a little water in the bottom of the boat and watch it slosh around. If the water stays against the after bulkhead of the cockpit, then you know you’re moving. The trick is to discover how to make it do that; it took me years.
Boeing B-1 – Lake Union, Seattle - circa 1920 LATE IN DECEMBER 967, WE WERE ASKED TO BID ON A PAIR OF pontoons for a replica of the C-, the first airplane Boeing built and sold. The plane was to be flown in conjunction with the company’s fifty-fifth anniversary celebration in 97. For the same man who built the floats for the original plane to have a hand in building them for the proposed replica would have been notable. The trouble was, our building schedule for the coming year was already over-filled. We were all just too tired, and I knew there had to be a limit. Everyone in the shop needed a rest. Dad and I talked it over and reluctantly turned down the opportunity. Boeing’s woodshop ended up doing
the work. The plane actually flew, and now hangs in the Museum of Flight at Boeing Field. A good example of early Boeing work is on display at Seattle’s Museum of History and Industry. The B- was built in 99 and used to carry the U.S. Mail to Victoria in the early 920s. Dad and his helpers worked on that ship. He liked to tell of the disagreement he had with the company draftsman over what the ultimate shape of the hull would be. His reading of the drawings told him that, based on his boat-building experience, the fuselage would be somewhat different from that shown in the artist’s rendering. He insisted that because the ribs or frames maintained their same curvature right through to the aft end, the resulting structure would appear to be sucked in rather than full. No one would listen, and the result can be seen to this day. IN 970, I TOOK THE TIME TO GO TO ST. CATHERINES, ONTARIO, to see the World Championships. I knew many of the people - coaches and competitors alike - who were still active in the game, and each regatta was sort of like an Old Home Week. The races themselves were not the main attraction for me. Rather, it was the fun of joining friends and acquaintances, seeing what kind of rowing was winning races and observing what other boat builders were doing. One day I watched the Australians trying to put together their new Karlisch. The boat was equipped with adjustable riggers, and the oarsmen were having an awful time assembling them. I knew that such riggers tend to slip and asked their coach how they liked the adjustable feature. He said, “Oh, it’s all right once they rust up.” On the final day of the regatta, I watched two races in which the outcome was decided by the failure of an adjustable rigger or rowlock. I happened to spot the builder of both of those boats sitting just below me in the stands. Head in hands, he was suffering as only an honest man suffers when a product he has made fails to measure up. I felt sorry for him. At the same time, I faulted him for listening to customers who probably did not realize what they were asking.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 241 Dad loved to tell Hilmar Lee’s story of the Indian canoe builder. This old fellow was in the habit of working alongside the trail where those passing by could see him at work. Many would offer suggestions for improving whatever canoe he happened to be working on. Agreeably, he made the suggested changes. One day, as his latest creation was nearing completion, it suddenly dawned on him that in no way would it be the kind of boat he wanted to build. Throwing up his hands, he abandoned the unfinished canoe, gathered his tools and retreated deeper into the forest where he thought he might work unmolested. A few days later, a hunter happened on the little clearing and stopped to have a look. It wasn’t long before he started to say what sounded as though it might be a suggestion. The old canoe builder held up his hand “Stop” he growled! This my canoe. Him…,” pointing back toward where the unfinished one lay, “…Him, everybody canoe!” Dad’s attitude was similar to that. If people didn’t like the boat he built, they could go buy one from someone else. He had spent so many years with coaches and oarsmen throughout the country hanging on his every word that he had no desire to cope with the new breed. A fatal flaw, I fear. I, on the other hand, tried to listen and pay attention to what people wanted, but that proved almost as fatal. To satisfy the whim of every customer could drive even a saint to drink. I was able to avoid either saintliness or drunkenness, but spent many an unpleasant hour in the midst of it all. TH E AUS T R A L I A N M E N’S E IGH T PROV I DE D T H E MOS T excitement at the St. Catherines regatta. It all began when, in their preliminary heat, they were left at the gate. The starter’s helper had failed to see their cox’n’s hand still in the air when he gave his “All are ready” signal. When the gun went off, the Aussies weren’t ready. Furious, they started late and just paddled down the course. They then sat at the finish line and raised an awful howl. Refusing to clear the course, they demanded satisfaction. The air was blue - blue as only Aussies can make it.
Eventually, officials were shown a photo taken at the start. The upraised hand of the cox’n was plain to see. They agreed to listen to the protest, and the crew cleared the course so that the racing could continue. Later, the ruling of the judges was announced: The Aussies must row the course that evening, alone. If they could better a certain stipulated time, they would be allowed to row in the Final as the seventh entry. They went on to qualify, but could only beat one crew (the Poles). I experienced somewhat of a comeuppance at that regatta. Sitting in the grandstand one afternoon, I heard the announcer’s voice booming over the loudspeaker: I was wanted at the boathouses immediately. Imagining that there might be someone wanting to order a boat or, perhaps, an old friend wishing to see me, I hurried off. It was a warm day, and the boat sheds were a mile or more away. Arriving all in a sweat, I found waiting for me neither someone wanting to talk about an order, nor an old friend wanting to reminisce, but, rather, an irate young woman from a rowing club in Philadelphia. I had sent their women a coxed four that spring. Unhappy with it, they didn’t like the sloped landings supporting the stretcher beams. This innovation didn’t change anything other than make it possible to accommodate short people - of which they had many. With the stretcher pulled in close, one could still row comfortably. We had done this on boats being used by women in Seattle, and they all liked the idea. I explained the concept, but she didn’t get it. I agreed to send fittings to retrofit the boat to her liking. She was also sore about the sheepskin butt-pads I had attached to the sliding seats. For many years, such pads were a standard feature on all the boats we built. I could remember, as a youngster, seeing them kicking around the UW shellhouse. One fellow, Art Mortenson, who rowed at the same time I did, had the nickname “Butt-pad Head”, his hair being blond and tightly curled exactly like sheepskin. The function of these was, not only to make the seat more comfortable, but to lessen the chance of an oarsman slipping off the seat in the heat of a race. In more recent years, in order to cut costs, we had
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 242 stopped supplying them. Obviously, this woman had never seen or heard of them. With the best of intentions, I had put them in to raise the women up in the boat to facilitate their rowing. Again, my explanation fell on deaf ears. She was sure they were intended as a derogatory statement about women’s rowing. Nor did she like the leather clog flaps with the hair still on them. These were a feature I had seen on Australian boats. I was dismayed. I had gone all out to make the boat into something special for them. Obviously, the misunderstandings stemmed from a lack of communication, a fault I suffered from often in my dealings with customers. After returning home, I spent hours designing and making the pieces needed to modify the stretchers. Several years later, I happened to come across that boat while on a visit to Philadelphia’s Boathouse Row. It had been bought from the original owners by another club there. The stretchers were still as we had made them. I don’t remember that the butt-pads were there, or the flaps, for that matter. Whether they were or not, the present owners said they liked the boat just as it was. There at St. Catherines, I beat a retreat and was trudging dejectedly back to my motel when a truck and trailer with several shells aboard went sailing by. The driver apparently recognized me, for he jammed on his brakes. I went over to see what other squawks awaited me. The man launched into a story about a wreck that one of his eights had suffered recently. A crew of his, in one of our two-ply molded eights, had been run into by another outfit rowing a European boat. While his boat suffered only superficial damage in the collision, the other boat had been utterly destroyed. He couldn’t say enough about how happy they were with our boat. I thanked him and walked on, feeling much better. WE MADE OTHER ALTERATIONS IN THE DESIGN OF OUR BOATS to accommodate women’s physical characteristics, most of them well-received. These included changes in width, depth, length and rig, as well as sloping stretcher landings (but no more butt-pads or fancy clog flaps). There was one equipment innovation we made that
received little notice: a change in the distance between the holes in our seat tops. I knew from experience that our sliding seat (and everyone else’s, for that matter) could be extremely uncomfortable, even for some men. With the seat shaped as it was, I had suffered the tortures of the damned through all my years of rowing. Accepting that misery - along with the murderous headaches I experienced while racing - as just being a part of rowing, I gave it little thought. As I grew older, and perhaps smarter, I came to realize that there might be something that could be done about the sore butts (if not about the headaches). We were at last prompted to make changes thanks to a remark made by a young woman who rowed at Southern Cal. She collared me one year when I was in San Diego to watch the annual Crew Classic. In the course of our conversation, she said she thought we should make our seats more comfortable. The holes in the seat are intended to relieve pressure on one’s flesh caused by the ischia which project down from the pelvis. Because the distance between these two projections (I chose to call this the individual’s “gauge”) varies considerably from one person to another, our seats were uncomfortable for some people, while suiting others just fine. Their original shape had been determined decades before by Dad sitting on a big lump of clay. If you were wider or narrower than he was, you were in trouble. Someone sent me an article about a study made to determine the difference in gauge between men and women. The results of that study indicated that, on average, a man’s pelvis is one-half inch narrower than a woman’s. Remembering my conversation with the young woman from USC, in the next boat ordered by them I increased the spread of the seat holes by one-half inch. I never heard anything one way or the other from them about the change, but discovered that the wider seat suited my broad tail just fine. Ultimately, we supplied a choice of three gauges. This was a pain for the boys in the shop — almost as bad as that caused by sitting on a seat that didn’t fit. I thought of using an oval hole to simplify matters, but never did.
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No joy. In rough water alongside Evergreen Point Floating Bridge BACK TO ST. CATHERINES AND THE WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS OF 970. The East Germans won the men’s eights title. As they stood on the victory stand, I couldn’t help noticing their appearance. At a time when young people in the West were doing everything they could to antagonize the so-called Establishment, this bunch looked like what old-timers tend to think of as “All-American boys”. The American and Canadian crews, by comparison, looked bad, while the Brits defied description. I wondered how they kept their hair from catching in the tracks. While interesting to observe and grumble about, the grooming (or lack of it) was not of major concern. I was more interested in the rowing. It was reassuring to note that winning crews - the Easties and the New Zealand crews who were dominating the scene - still rowed in the manner I would have sought. The U.S. men’s eight, in contrast, looked to be all blood and guts - no technique at all - and came in third.
There was much talk in the world of sports about what might be going on behind the Iron Curtain. Alleged drug use and questionable training practices were being used as excuses to explain the rowing dominance of the East over the West. To my eye, they were winning because they were rowing far better than we were. Until we improved our rowing technique, they would continue to do so. After the regatta, I ran into Dick Erickson and expressed my views, but he disagreed. In his opinion, intense training was the answer. He had heard that the Kiwis depended on ergometers (calibrated rowing machines) and he was determined to go home and buy some. I went to the annual National Association of Amateur Oarsmen (NAAO) (or was it the United States Rowing Association [USRA] by now?) convention held in New York in December. Rusty Robertson, coach of the New Zealand National eight, was the main speaker. He was asked, afterward, how often he used his ergometers. According to him, he used them once while selecting the men who would be a part of their national team. Then, he locked them up. At the next convention, I attended a lecture being given to a group of aspiring coaches. In the course of his talk, the speaker said that, had it been necessary, he would have sold half the boats in his shellhouse to buy ergs. When I saw his crew struggling down the course at the IRA Regatta the following June, they looked to me as though they were rowing ergometers and not an eight-oared racing shell. They were tough, but going nowhere. I have never been opposed, on philosophic grounds, to the use of ergometers. They are great for discovering how much energy an individual rower is willing or able to put out. They also provide an excellent means for both the oarsman and his coach to chart the progress of his physical conditioning. Their danger lies in the fact that rowing (an unfortunate perversion of the term) on one of them in a manner necessary to achieve high scores bears little resemblance to what one must do to make a boat go fast. If one learns to row well first, and then performs on the erg as though actually rowing a boat, the machine becomes an indispensable tool.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 244 THE NEXT OLYMPIC YEAR - 972 - DREW NEAR. AGAIN, WE were not asked to supply equipment for the Games. At the same time, we were aware of agitation to have Congress remove import duties on racing shells. As the law stood, foreign boats and oars could be brought in, duty-free, during the year prior to the Olympics, a measure designed to assure that domestic boat builders would not be snowed under with orders. As far as I could recall, we had never turned down an order, so availability was not the problem, though I must admit having tried to dissuade the Long Beach committee in 968. Nothing was said about the wild discrepancy between the wages we paid our employees and those being paid in Europe. We were effectively blocked from those markets by our higher costs. Clubs in Canada or New Zealand wanted our boats, but prohibitive import duties and taxes kept us out. Canadian clubs at times lent a hand. It was not unknown for them to come down here to race, bringing old boats with them. They would head for home after the regatta with mysteriously-new boats in place of the old junkers. I even heard of one outfit rowing a new boat into Canada in the dead of night. Because we had what was mistakenly seen as a protected monopoly, we were sometimes accused of gouging the rowing people of this country. Few, other than Dad and I, knew the truth. At the price we were asking, we would have had to sell 50 eights each year just to cover our direct labor costs. I never once built that many. Cost of materials and overhead needed to be added to that figure, as well as any profit that we hoped to make. We kept ourselves in the black by building and selling small boats, oars, sculls and replacement parts. I was relieved when Helmut Shoenbrod, once he had the East Coast market for eights well in hand, doubled his prices. Import duties - or lack of them - be damned, he would ask for what he thought his boats were worth. I wish I had had the nerve to do that.
one who kept it going. The Western Sprints included races for small boats in those days, and he organized crews to enter those regattas. With the help of his wife, Aldina, he introduced women’s rowing at the club. These women, along with a few lightweight men, became the mainstays of the organization. Ted also encouraged youngsters to learn to row, and, for a while, even had some blind people coming down. With all this going on, the equipment took an awful beating, and nothing was being done to replace it.This was how Frank Cunningham came into the picture. With all his years of experience at Green Lake behind him, he had become an expert at repairing racing shells. When Ted left Seattle for the Frosh coaching job at Penn, Frank became the LWRC’s leading light.
WHEN THE UW CREWS MOVED TO CONIBEAR IN 949, THE OLD shellhouse - it never had an official name - became the new canoe house. The old canoe house next to Conibear, watched over for many years by George Leese, had conveniently met its demise when it burned to the ground (through what was generally recognized as a fraternity prank). What today is called the canoe house is still the old shellhouse to me. When that building was put on the National Historic Register, the club was kicked out of the shed at the back that had served it in its glory years, and it was torn down. Erickson came to the rescue and let them move their boats over to Conibear from which they rowed for the next few years. When Dick was told by the athletic department that this was no longer permissible, the club’s future looked bleak. It was Cunningham’s turn to come to their rescue. He scouted around and found an old floating boathouse that was for sale. Taking the bull by the horns, he put some money down on it and came to me, among others, to scrounge more. John Bisset present director of alumni relations at the UW, had the key to the safe where unused funds left THE LAKE WASHINGTON ROWING CLUB WAS SOON TO TAKE A from past fund-raising efforts by the Washington Rowing Sponsors new lease on life. After the 964 season, I had dropped out of the were kept. We went to see John and were given that money. That picture, but kept watching from the sidelines. Ted Nash was the gave Frank the amount he needed, and the deal was closed. The job
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 245 remained to transform the wreck into something usable. I told Frank that he could park it in front of our place on Lake Union and use our electricity while it was being rebuilt. It was towed over, and work began. Club members put an incredible amount of time and effort into the conversion. Once the job was done, and permission given by the city, it was moored at the foot of Garfield Street on Lake Union. At long last, some 4 years after its inception, the Lake Washington Rowing Club had a home of its own. Had it not been for Frank, this never would have happened.
a launch nearby and came over, thinking to give help should they need it. Their shell - one of ours - had suffered no damage, but the metal pontoon was heading for the bottom. Tony said he saw Stampfli shaking his head and heard him say, “My boats could never withstand that.” I didn’t know that Stampfli could speak English, but that’s the story, anyway. Hough’s new partner, Dick Lyon, had rowed at Stanford and then for the LWRC in the four that took a Bronze in Tokyo, 964. After they - he and Larry - won the Trials for the 972 Games, they chose to train in Redwood City. I received a long IN THE SPRING OF 972, I RECEIVED letter from Larry, listing their troubles. an order from Larry Hough for a super The major one was that they weren’t very light cedar straight pair. Years before, Larry fast. They had believed that having a light and Tony Johnson had teamed up to win boat would help correct that, but it had the World title. Tony had represented us not solved their problem. I could have told at the 964 Tokyo Olympics, rowing with them that. Their only hope lay in learning Jim Edmunds, another Syracuse graduate. to row better. One of my many errors relative to the He sent me some film, and I compared LWRC and its fortunes was my having it to an old reel I had of him and Tony discouraged Tony when, upon graduation, taken in their prime. The contrast was plain to see. I sent the two reels to him and he had written to ask whether I could find a job for him. He wanted to come suggested they run them simultaneously and compare the new with the old. If they to Seattle and row for the club. I turned were to do that, they should be able to him down. He ended up rowing for the Potomac Boat Club in Washington, D.C. spot the source of their problems. Frank Cunningham - 1990 where he hooked up with Larry Hough. Later that summer, I received an Tony told me a great story of the accident he and Larry had when urgent plea begging me to come help them. I hopped down on they were training for the World Championships in France. Sprinting a Friday afternoon and Kent Mitchell, Conn’s old cox’n, took me along one day, they ran smack into one of the large aluminum bridge out in the Stanford coach boat the next morning. About all their pontoons that were anchored to mark the course. The bow of their light and flexible shell was doing for them was hiding how much boat punctured the pontoon and, when they backed away, it began they were abusing it. The bow and stern looked stable enough, to sink. Mr. Stampfli, of Swiss racing shell fame, happened to be in but the middle was bouncing up and down like a yo-yo. With no
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 246 hope of changing what they were doing at such a late date - they were leaving for Munich shortly - I wracked my brain in search of something that might help. Back at the float, I described to them two images that, should they keep them firmly in mind as they rowed, might do the trick. They looked at me and one of them said, “Yeah, Stan, but….” I held my hand up to stop whatever he was about to say. I told them that, while I had enjoyed the boat ride and the chance to see them again, I had not come down to debate. They had heard exactly what I thought would help them and chose not to cope with the “Yeah, but…” generation. At Conn’s urging, I made the mistake of applying to the USORC for the cost of my flight. I knew that the designated small boat coach, Tony Johnson, Larry’s old partner, had had his way paid from the East Coast to have a look at them and thought I deserved as much. I should have known better, for I really had done nothing to help them. Anyway, it was too late in the game for me to change my stripes, preferring, as always, to pay my own way, beholden to no one. Vic Michaelson, the current USORC Chairman, helped me in this by turning down my request.
I had the address of the woman whose apartment Conn had said we could share. Finding my way from the airport proved to be not the problem I had anticipated - the cabby spoke good English - but the apartment was locked up tight. I chucked my bags behind the bushes and headed over toward the stadium, which I could see, only a few blocks away. On the way, who should I run into but Conn. Back at the apartment, we found a friend of his whom I had met when he was an oarsman at Stanford. He had studied all the documents and passes issued to official members of the team and was busily at work, creating phony IDs for us. The organizers of the Games - meticulous in their planning - had printed all the Olympic materials using uniform color schemes, layouts and ornamentation, making it easy to falsify documents. By using the official brochures and ticket stubs, which were scattered all over the place, he needed only to cut and paste to make whatever IDs we needed. He sent me down to the bahnhof photo kiosk to have my picture taken - two Deutschmarks - and, in no time, I became “J. Doe, Technician.” Those phony IDs gained us admission anywhere we wanted to go, including the dining halls. We borrowed meal tickets from the cox’ns, who dared not expose themselves to the temptation of the chow lines. We ate all we could BACK HOME, AND BACK AT WORK, I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM hold, and saw many events in the bargain. Conn (he never used the telephone), suggesting that I make the trip to Munich and join him for the Games. He was going and knew of THE ROWING EQUIPMENT FOR THE U.S. TEAM WAS BUILT BY someone who had an apartment near the stadium. There would be Stampfli in Zurich. This made sense, since most of our crews were plenty of room for me on the floor. The shop - closed for our regular using his boats by then, and it meant a great savings on transportation summer vacation - posed no problem, and Lois and I were taking a costs for the USORC. At the first rattle out of the box, all the stretchers year’s vacation from each other. The flight from New York to London in the boats began to break. Kurt Drewes from Wisconsin, the team was made in the company of a crowd of demented used-car salesmen on rigger, had his hands full rebuilding them. (Born in Munich, Kurt had a sales-award junket. They spent the entire trip trying to convince each emigrated to America in the 920s to settle in Madison. He told me other - and the rest of us - how much they were enjoying themselves. once that he often wished he had kept going west.) Not only were the I arrived in London unconvinced, and with the granddaddy of all stretchers no good, but the outriggers were unusable. New sets were headaches. My eight-hour layover there gave me enough time to find rushed in from the plant in Zurich, and, at last, our crews could resume a chemist. The trip on to Munich is lost to memory; the pills he had their training. Though our crews did none too well once the racing prescribed, whatever they were, worked wonders. started, I’m sure the delay had little effect on their performance.
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 247 Except for the eight, our entries were simply outclassed. This was the first time that the national team approach was used by us (the selection camps put together in 968 for the Mexico City Games were trial runs). The eight and the coxed four were selected using this procedure, the rest in the traditional way. Harry Parker was coach of the eight, and he had a fine crew, no match, however, for the New Zealand crew coached by Rusty Robertson. Rusty was of the Old School, a coach who believed that how you rowed was at least as important as how you trained: he demanded perfection. I recall seeing him still coaching his crew as they rowed to the starting line for the Finals. They won, while our crew came in second. There was much made over the boat the Kiwis were using. A Karlisch built in West Germany, it was supposed to be something phenomenal. Several years later I was in New Zealand for the World’s. While visiting Tony Bone, an acquaintance living in Hastings, I learned that his club had bought that eight from their Olympic organization. We went down to have a look, and I ran my rule over it. The boat could just as well have been the Nelson F. Cox, the shell liked so much by the Ratzeburgers when they raced in it in 963. They must have returned home raving about it. This business of copying was nothing new. We were aware that builders measured our boats whenever they (the boats) showed up at Henley. (The Russians were the only ones who ever asked permission.) This boat was identical to what we called our 22 inch standard lightweight eight, down to the minutest detail. The sole difference it was one inch deeper to accommodate a heavier crew.
sandwich for the hull. Boats built with this innovation were said to be not only light, but stiff as well. The West German team were given an eight, a coxed four and a single. These boats were closely guarded when the crews were off the water, and no one was allowed near them. The four was used to win the Gold. Nicknamed “the Bulls,” this crew had not lost a race in two years, so the boat itself probably had little to do with their win. With their eight finishing fourth, there was no great furor over the new departure, certainly none such as there would be in the future. The East Germans also had a glass boat. They were not bothering to hide anything, and I had a good look at it. It was simply a wooden boat with a fiberglass skin. After looking around to make sure that no one was watching, I pressed on the bottom to see how stiff it was. My heart skipped a beat. The skin was so flexible that one had to be careful. German builders could get away with this because they depended on the framework of their boats for stiffness, whereas we depended on the hull itself. All their skin had to do was keep out the water. That boat was used to win the Gold for the Easties. There again, the crew had been winners over the past year or more, despite their having used old-fashioned, “slow” boats.
IN PREPARATION FOR THE GAMES, MUCH TIME AND MONEY WAS spent by the Germans in creating what was supposed to be the ideal rowing venue. The entire facility - boathouses, gymnasiums, grandstands and amenities - was beautiful. The racecourse itself had been created by dredging a ditch across a huge field. Weather records kept for the past century were scanned to determine the direction in which the course must be oriented. They wanted a guarantee that any THE BIG ITEM OF CONVERSATION AT THE MUNICH GAMES WAS wind that blew would be a tail wind. In the event of a wind blowing, glass. The West German government had given large sums of research records must fall. money to their several shell-building firms. The same effort had A strong wind did blow on the day of the Finals. The trouble was, been made by Germany prior to the 936 Berlin Games. Metal was it blew in the wrong direction. Statistics said the wind never came the main area for research then, but nothing had come of it. This from that direction, but on that day, it did. Even worse, because the time, Empacher had created a fiberglass-fabric and honeycomb-core planners had never expected the wind to blow up the course, they
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 248 had built a vertical concrete wall behind the starting line. The water, blown against this wall by the wind and rebounding back upon itself, created an awful mess for the small boats. No records would be broken that day. Some competitors did not want to risk it, and races were delayed. When I was a coach, I always told my crews that they could almost count on unfavorable conditions on race day. This was borne out time after time. That regatta marked the beginning of a resurgence in British rowing. Coached by the fellow who was to take a major part in developing the Carbo Craft racing shell, their coxed pair won. We would hear about him - and his boats - in the future. THE ROWING R ACES OVER, I TOOK THE TR AIN DOWN TO Garmisch-Partenkirchen, site of the 936 Winter Olympics. Conn and a couple of the others had said they were going there to do some hiking. I wandered around for a while, hoping to run into them, but soon gave up and dropped into a café for lunch. The waiter, probably wanting to practice his American, commented on the terrible thing that was happening up in Munich. That’s how I learned of the terrorist standoff which would result in the murder of Israeli athletes in the Olympic Village. I decided to leave Germany immediately, caught the first train back to Munich, rushed to the apartment, packed and grabbed a cab for the airport. The first plane I could book a seat on was headed for Copenhagen, and I took it. Upon my arrival there, I heard that the Munich airport had been shut down shortly after I left. The Seattle flight wasn’t due to leave for two days, so I found a small commercial hotel in the center of the city. At dinner that evening, I sat with a man who had spent the entire war in Copenhagen. He told of Bob Stiles & George Pocock - 1972 the incredible privations and mistreatment the Danish had suffered. The following morning I chanced to see the famous statue of the SHORTLY AFTER I RETURNED TO SEATTLE, BOB STILES, NEW Little Mermaid out in the harbor and was surprised at how small and Zealand’s premier boatbuilder, passed through Seattle. Bob’s shop close to shore it was. Not long afterward, I read of a vandal wading was located in Christchurch, where their National team normally out and cutting off its head. trained. He supplied the boats used by the team, often went out in
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 249 the launch to watch their workouts and regularly clocked their trials. himself, Al Ulbrickson. The hours we spent there in the boardroom Needless to say, he had fully expected to build the eight they would were great fun, and I cherish the memory of them. use in Munich. He finally had to ask what the deal was. The chef de mission told him that the committee had ordered a boat from the German builder, Karlisch. This was the boat of the moment, and they wanted the best. That decision made some sense, because of the great cost of shipping a boat to Europe and back. Stiles had to wish them luck, despite his bitter disappointment. Some time later, a letter from Munich arrived. The writer was beside himself. Out with the crew that afternoon, he had timed them as they rowed a 500 meter test. He couldn’t believe his watch. It showed the unbelievable time of :23. The decision to bypass Bob’s boat for a Karlisch was vindicated. What he did not know was that :23 was precisely the same time the crew had posted in one of Bob’s “slow” boats the day before they left Christchurch for Munich. Hearing the story, all I could think of was that the German boat at least had not slowed them down. UW Women’s crews on Union Bay, Laurelhurst in the background - pre-WW I DAD, AT 8, WAS IN HIS DECLINING YEARS. ANOTHER CANCER was sapping his energy - his energy, but not his spirit. He remained busy every day in his little shop while building racing singles. Often, one saw him pretending to scull around the room as he demonstrated to visitors the right way of doing it. He and I spent a couple of hours having lunch together each day at Voula’s Offshore Cafe across the street from the shop. Those long lunches were meant to keep him from tiring. I could always come into the shop early or stay late to make up for the time spent. Voula’s became known among the rowing fraternity as the place where “the Board” met and where Dad could be found. The two of us would sit in the back room - our boardroom - and welcome anyone who happened to come by. Often, there were several people sitting in, and the stories ranged far and wide. I should have had a tape recorder under the table. When no one showed up, the two of us had a great time just chatting. I could make him chuckle at my jokes, though I know he did not like some of my sarcasm. I could not help using that form of humor, having learned it from the master
WOMEN, AFTER A HIATUS OF SOME 50 YEARS, WERE AGAIN rowing at the UW. I visited their turnouts now and then to see what was going on. John Lind, their coach, was friendly and appeared receptive to what I had to say. He never seemed to apply anything that I suggested, but he enjoyed listening. At that time, any woman who showed up to row was welcomed. Size was not a consideration; numbers were. With no money for equipment of their own, they had to row in boats made for men a foot taller than most of them and much heavier than any of them, and pull on oars that they could scarcely lift. Some of the women were so short that they used barely half their slide and could not reach out past the perpendicular. Even had the money been available, no one was building equipment that was suitable. Someone in the game needed to remedy this. To help the tiniest of these women athletes realize their potential, I decided to build a boat meant only for them. There was a coxed four Flyweight category for women in those days, an event limited to crews averaging 5 pounds or less. I built a boat using the lines
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Lucy Pocock, winner of the Daily Mirror Championship of the Thames, being assisted by a former winner of Doggett’s Coat & Badge - London - 1912 of a men’s coxed pair, but with all interior dimensions and rigging reduced by 0 percent. The four oars, when cut down to suit, were not much bigger than sculls. I took the boat over to Conibear one afternoon and found that it carried a crew of flyweights nicely. The job done to my satisfaction, I then had to give the boat a name. Because I meant to donate it to the UW, I reserved that right. To honor my Aunt Lucy, I named the boat the Lucy Pocock Stillwell. She was a champion sculler as a young woman in England and had coached women’s rowing at the UW before the Great War. She was a tough, hard-working, wonderful woman. At 3, she had taken on the responsibility of caring for her father, two brothers and little sister, their mother having died. After emigrating to Seattle with her younger sister, Kathleen, to join their two brothers, she was hired to cook for the Varsity Boat Club. Each day, she would scull her wherry down to the south end of Lake Union. Leaving it at the Brace and Hergitt Mill dock, she then hiked over to the Pike Place market. There, she bought
fresh vegetables, then hauled them back to load the boat and scull back to the clubhouse. This, on top of all the cooking she had to do. There never was a formal christening of the Lucy, but I splashed a little lake water over the bow to give her a proper as she was set in the water for the first time. Anxious to try the boat, the women were guilty of expecting too much and were unhappy with it at first. They complained that it was too unstable and cramped, and everyone was too close together. What they were experiencing, for the first time, was what rowing in a true racing shell was like. Once they grew accustomed to the boat, you could not keep them out of it. The Women’s Intercollegiate Nationals, held in Seattle that year, saw them entered. They won handily, their winning time comparable to that of the Heavy Varsity four. I had the pleasure of presenting them their medals. On the strength of this win, they were sent east the following year, where they successfully defended their title. Speaking of handing out medals, that was the year I was asked to present awards to the crews of the eights. A Canadian crew had won the race, followed by the University of Wisconsin. I first gave out the second place medals to the Wisco crew, shaking hands with each one. Those women were not only big, but each had a grip like a logger. When I gave the Canadians their medals, I found their grips to be rather gentle. This must have come from the way they were taught to row, and might have been the reason why they beat the much huskier crew from Wisconsin. It reminded me of my admonition to the crews of so many years before. As in the Havoline Motor Oil ad that used to appear, I often adjured them to be “tough, but oh, so gentle.” A year or two after the 978 season, the Flyweight event was eliminated. Small women no longer had a place in intercollegiate rowing, and the Lucy had outlived her usefulness. I suggested to Bob Ernst, new UW women’s coach, that he give it to Bush School. Bush had mostly smaller people turning out - boys as well as girls. Perhaps they might benefit from its use. Sadly, they had not the faintest idea of how to use her, and Lucy languished on the rack gathering dust. It wasn’t until years later that I hit on a good home for her.
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W
E BEGAN TO DELVE DEEPER INTO THE USE OF GLASS materials. While German developments seemed to pose no immediate threat, composites were certain to be on the cutting edge of the future. During July, while on another of my laughingly-termed vacations, I asked Conn - in town for a while - to help. Using one of our cedar fours as a mold, we made a one-off hull of glass cloth and epoxy resin. We used a wooden frame inside to create a boat similar in concept to the East German boat I had seen at Munich. It was a crude job, but Conn took the boat with him to California, where it was used for years. I remember mucking around in the resin bare-handed, not considering the risk we might be taking. Had I kept on treating the resin in that way, I would have regretted it. Despite that initial carelessness, no apparent harm has resulted. Over the passing years, much has been learned about resins and their properties. According to what I’ve read, the epoxy resin itself does not constitute the risk. Rather, it is the various chemical hardeners and catalysts that are the problem. Some of these can be lethal. A number of such agents now have been invented that are benign. I found myself caught on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, Dad always insisted that a shell must not be absolutely rigid, while, on the other, the heavy thinkers in rowing were insisting that a boat must be stiff - not “kinda’ stiff,” but “real stiff.” I hardly knew what to do, for I didn’t want to spit in Dad’s eye. As mentioned much earlier, I liked a twisty boat. Such a boat helped me spot trouble in a crew and pinpoint the culprits. Dad and I both thought that a boat that gave (twisted under stress) was more rowable and would last longer. Our concept was similar to that used in designing the earthquake-proof buildings built in Tokyo after the devastating quake of 923. In those structures, alternating floors were designed to be flexible. A look into one of our old cedar boats would show how we did this. If, that is, you
Author & the National Champion UW Flyweights, Green Lake - 1978 Julie Jones, Mary Hartman, Cathy Hamlin, Di Schuler, Lisa Drumheller (The Lucy Pocock Stillwell just visible in the background) can find one. About the only chance, now, would be to peek up in the rafters of some restaurant or bar, or into Conn Findlay’s garage. I was reasonably sure that many of the stories about stiff boats were fairy tales. I had trouble swallowing the claim from one of the coaches about how light and stiff the Russian women’s boat was that he had seen in Europe. The crew using it had run away with the World’s title and, in his mind, the boat had been the reason for their victory. He wanted a boat as stiff as that, and lighter, if possible. He should have been looking at the crew inside, not at the boat. I saw that same boat at Lake Karapiro, in New Zealand, in 978. Admittedly, it was a light boat, but it was a sorry sight. In place of ribs and frames, the builders had glued four-inch-wide strips of carbon fiber cloth every foot or so along the inside the hull which was made of
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 252 extremely thin plywood. As the wood absorbed moisture once the boat was in use, it had expanded where it could. The carbon strips prevented this wherever they were located. The result was a hull with the aspect of a starved horse. When no one was looking, I laid a straightedge across the lumps. Some of the hollows were three-quarters of an inch deep. (I was told that Russian women hated the boat, and had tried without luck to find a substitute.) We had made somewhat the same mistake some 30 years before when we built the Washingtonia. I lifted the bow to see how stiff it was. The bottom hit the rack above before the boat cleared its middle rack. The one truly good feature of the boat was the outriggers. They appeared to be of titanium and were beautifully made. The Russian women won despite their boat. They were a big crew and rowed extremely well. (Don Hume, gold medalist from the Husky eight in 936, visited the Soviet Union many times in his capacity as a consultant in the coal industry. Because of his Olympic record, doors to any shellhouse were open to him. One day, he went out in a launch to watch this crew. The Russian coach told him that the women had been given extensive ballet training. What they had gained from that might have been the reason that their men’s national team eight refused to race them over short distances. Now, here I was, being told what a wonderful boat they used. I couldn’t help wondering to myself yet again, “Am I in the wrong racket?” Perhaps I should return to coaching, I mused, where I could make boat builders’ lives frustrating and miserable. Consoled by my awareness that a coach’s life could be just as frustrating and miserable as that of a boatbuilder, I decided that I should relax and be content to stay with my chosen headaches.
impossible to find. Also, I hoped that using glass would reduce our labor costs. Yet, I hesitated. To make a glass-skinned boat light enough to be readily acceptable, our inside framework would have to be completely redesigned. A thin glass skin could never supply the stiffness that a cedar skin could. Deciding to forge ahead, I tried to come up with a stiffer frame, without copying what others were doing. For better or worse, we built molds for an eight, a coxed four, and a straight pair. While this was going on, we kept from going too far in the red by continuing to build the few cedar boats still being ordered.
THE DEMA ND FOR GL ASS SK INS WAS SENSIBLE ENOUGH, especially in parts of the country where ice on the water was a problem. Skim ice in the late fall or early spring raises havoc with wooden shells. The need to repair that sort of damage, along with the regular maintenance required by wooden shells, made glass an attractive alternative. From our point of view, good cedar was becoming virtually
A WIDELY HELD VIEW WAS THAT POCOCK BOATS WERE TOO heavy. Granted, many of our designs were heavy. When we received an order for a boat that did not specify a target weight, I didn’t worry about it. We were aiming to build boats as light as possible, but ones which gave good service - stainless steel rigging and fittings, lots of varnish - the works. For many struggling programs, this was well-
UW Women in the Cut - circa 1978
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 253 received - as witness the episode at St. Catherines. We could, and did, build lighter boats, if that was what the customer wanted. Most of the problem stemmed, again, from a lack of communication. At the same time, few coaches bothered to find out for themselves what our boats actually weighed. When the Women’s Nationals were held in Seattle in 978, I decided to clear the air. Renting a pair of freight scales, I stuck them on the beach over at Green Lake, where all the crews were training. I talked two or three of the coaches into letting me weigh their equipment and kept a record on a paper taped to the scales. It was not long before people were standing in line clear down the block, waiting to weigh in. They cooperated by dutifully writing down what they found. I doubt that many of them had ever seen a boat on scales before. The results of the weigh-in surprised many. Our boats and oars proved to be in the same weight range as the other makes and, in some cases, lighter. I saw a couple of the coaches shaking their heads in dismay - and anger, I’m sure - on finding out just how much their so-called light boats and oars actually did weigh. I heard one of them complain, “But they told me it only weighed two hundred and forty-five!” Earlier that spring, I had built two extremely light boats, an eight and a coxed four, for the UCLA women’s coach. His many specifications included a maximum weight of 20 pounds for the eight; if the boat were heavier than that, he would not accept it. There was a similar requirement for the four. Along with these specifications was a demand for adjustable features within the boats that had to add weight. After struggling to meet these demands, we completed the boats and shipped them. I soon received an irate call from the coach. “You lied to me,” he shouted, “You said the eight weighed two hundred and ten pounds. We just put it on the scales, and it weighs two hundred and eleven!” His behavior gave weight to my old conviction that rowing coaches must be avoided, if possible, during the racing season. I knew that the boat weighed less than the required two-ten, because I always added two or three pounds when saying what our boats weighed, just to be on the safe side - somewhat the same as the baker’s dozen of
olden days. I asked him whether he had installed his Cox Box and speakers before weighing the boat. Dead silence. He had to admit that he had done just that. Later, their eight-oared crew lost in the championships, and the boat, despite being very light, was blamed. The Bruin crew, rowing their light four won, and were happy to give that ultralight shell some of the credit. We had built the lightest single there, with one exception. That boat - built somewhere on the East Coast - could not be rowed. It was so flimsy that it had blown apart while being car-topped out for the regatta. It was after that same regatta that I was able to do a favor for the Lake Washington Rowing Club. Their eight-oared women’s crew had borrowed the University’s Arthur Campbell from Erickson. At the finish of their race - which they won - they didn’t respond properly to their cox’n’s command “Hold all!” and smacked into the dock that lay just beyond the finish line. The collision knocked the bow clean off, about three feet back from the stem. Worried sick, several of the crew came to me, asking what on earth to do. I told them to gather up all the broken pieces, load the boat on their trailer, and take it down to our shop. I would take care of it. It was a glass-skinned boat, and I was sure that a quick repair could be made. I spent the rest of the weekend working on it. They picked up the boat on Monday and returned it to the UW shellhouse. I’m not sure Dick ever knew that it had been damaged. When asked how much they owed me, I told them I’d done it for free. At their next meeting, they made me a Life Member of the club. I don’t know how many people have that distinction. Frank Cunningham is the only other person who comes to mind, though others doubtlessly deserve the honor. Documenting the disappointments of those years would serve little purpose. Frustrations are part and parcel of any business enterprise. I was doing my best to give people what I thought they wanted and needed, but that was not enough. As previously mentioned, communication, or lack of it, was one of my weaknesses. I was so busy in the shop surrounded by shavings, sawdust, glue pots and
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 254 varnish buckets, that I felt unable to take the time to go around and to have a place to work, volunteered to work on the buildings if I talk to customers in person, or even to do so by phone. For two years provided the materials. I told him to go to it. I took Dad, quite feeble by now, out to show him around the place. running, I did not have a listed phone at the shop. Friends of mine He liked the layout, though there was no water to be seen. He had who had businesses of their own couldn’t get over that. never experienced much luck with investments in real estate, but my IN THE SUMMER OF 975 - A FEW MONTHS BEFORE DAD DIED - I previous good fortune in this field put his mind at ease. As I hoped purchased some acreage out in the country north of Seattle. There it would, the investment turned out to be a profitable one. Ted, with his typical energy, flew at it. He converted one of the I planned to set up our growing composite-structures operation. buildings into a woodworking shop and joined the two loafing sheds This kind of work does not mix well with a woodworking shop, and I wanted to keep the two functions separate. Ted Rumsey together to make a building long enough to accommodate eights. had been making our glass wherries and singles on piecework in Shops were set up, and production soon began. The only temporary his garage in Brier, a bedroom community out toward Everett. hitch in the proceedings came from resident cows (I had rented out The Brier city fathers, growing testy about there being such an the pastures to help ease the financial burden) who took offense at enterprise going on within a residential area, told him to shut our intrusion. Ted and his helper had just pulled the first hull out of down. He suggested that I let him look around for a suitable place its mold and laid it temporarily on the floor. A cow came in through out in some rural area where I could set him up. He eventually the open door, walked down the middle of the boat and smashed it found a likely place at Maltby, some miles east of Lynnwood. to smithereens. That’s what she thought of all that smelly stuff. Maltby, now nothing but farmland and a general store, was A GIANT COTTONWOOD TREE STOOD ON THE PROPERTY. I HAVE originally platted as the town of Yew. Back around the turn of the century, the envisioned town had been laid out by a developer with no idea how old it was, but it was big. Close to our northern boundary unrealistic dreams. A flyer sent out at the time included descriptions and leaning over the line, its presence worried neighbors in the mobile and drawings of what was planned. A plat of the town shows Chicago home court next door. They were afraid that, should a strong southerly and Park Avenues, Broadway, etc., with 20-foot lots lined up on such storm come in, the tree might come crashing down on them. One streets as Date, Elm, Grape, Fig and Holly. The dream never realized, woman was particularly vocal about it and began writing unpleasant though a number of lots were sold. According to county records, some letters and harassing the young couple who were renting the cottage of them were still owned by the original investors or their heirs. I tried on the property. Though a beautiful tree, it served no real purpose to buy the lots to square up the property lines, but no one would sell. and was showing signs of rot. There seemed no imminent danger, but Some dreams never die. I decided that the neighborly thing to do was to take the offending Along with a small house on the property, there were several tree down. Counting on their help, I talked to the gang at the shop. rundown buildings which could be made revamped and into shops. It would be something like a day off for them. The house could be rented to someone who would be our night One Thursday afternoon, I decided that if the wind weren’t blowing watchman. The only drawback: All of it sat on 29 acres of land. the following morning, we would tackle the job. Denny said he had a This represented far more of an investment than I had anticipated. chain saw that was big enough. He said he had had experience cutting Nevertheless, I sucked in my gut and made the plunge. Ted, anxious down big trees out on the Olympic Peninsula. Don said he had a
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 255 steel cable long enough to guy the tree so it couldn’t fall the wrong way. Jerry, the studious one, agreed to study the situation. Dave, the religious one, would lend moral support. The next day dawned reasonably clear and quiet - scattered rain, with some storm clouds around the edges, but no wind. That should have alerted me (the old lull before the storm deal again). Denny’s chain saw didn’t look to be nearly long enough, and Don’s cable was old, kinked and rusty. Despite any misgivings, I sent the four of them off. By the time I showed up, they were already at work. Denny’s plan was to saw nearly all the way through, leaving only a hinge of uncut wood on the side toward which he wanted the tree to fall. Then, after cutting a notch above the saw cut, he would insert our 30-ton hydraulic jack into the cavity and use that to force the tree over. I knew Denny to be an ingenious rascal and had counted on his knowing what he was doing. The chainsaw they had was not really big enough to complete the job. I tore off to see whether I could rent one with a longer bar. Finding one in Lake City, I rushed back about the time the lull was over. The wind had begun to blow - from the wrong direction. We put the big saw to work to finish the cut and made the notch to take the jack. Cottonwood trees of that size, full of water as they are, weigh a whole lot more than 30 tons. There was no way we could budge the monster. Meanwhile, the wind grew stronger. Neighbors had heard what was going on and were gathered to watch. I could sense their hoping that the tree would go the wrong way so they could contact their lawyers and file claims with their insurance companies. The wind, meanwhile, was blowing in exactly the right direction to keep the tree from toppling over. Were it to shift even a few degrees, there was real danger that the tree could rotate, twist Denny’s hinge loose, and crash into the mobile homes next door. I was tearing my hair out while my gang - their dread work done - sat around looking innocent. I ran across the fields to a nearby heavy-equipment outfit, desperately hoping that they had a bulldozer big enough to push the tree over. They did not, but the owner knew
someone down in the south end of Seattle who did. They called him. Yes, he was available - for $250. I told him to come ahead, but that time was of the essence. Running back to the scene, I was in a muck sweat, not only from the unaccustomed exercise, but from imagining the upcoming litigation. The crowd was restless, wanting the tree to fall in a hurry so they could catch their lawyers before they left for the day. The wind - increased in strength - was howling as it approached gale force. The trunk of the tree ground around on its stump, its huge limbs thrashing about overhead. Suddenly, the gale changed direction, swerving around a full 80 degrees. Now coming from exactly the opposite direction, it blew the tree down precisely where Denny had planned for it to go. No sooner had the tree crashed to earth, than the wind ceased blowing, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the thump of my beating heart and the disappointed mumbles of the onlookers. The disgruntled crowd wandered off, while I ran back to the sandblasting outfit, hoping that the bulldozer was not yet headed our way: $250 was still $250. Fortunately, the rig operator’s idea of what the expression “time being of the essence” meant was different than mine. He still had not left his office. The next day, I took a jug of Chivas Regal around to the sandblaster. A nondrinker, he said he thought he might know someone who could use it. I had hoped he would offer me a shot. That extreme anxiety can turn one’s hair white overnight is no doubt an old wives’ tale, but I do believe I earned mine that day. I don’t know for how long it continued, but - night after night - each time I closed my eyes, all I could see was that melange of wildly waving branches. Dave, my religiously inclined one, had said that he thought it was the hand of God at work. I don’t know about that exactly, though I was flattered by his perhaps unintended compliment that I could possibly deserve such a dispensation. DAD, REALIZING THAT HIS HEALTH WAS FAILING, HUNG UP HIS apron in the fall of 975. I learned of his intention during my birthday dinner at our home in October. Fastened to the birthday card he and
IX – Home Stretch (1967–1976) – 256 Mother gave me was a small brass plaque on which were engraved the words: “To Stan, by George.” This was to let me know that he had built his last boat. For Fathers’ Day the previous June, I had written him a letter addressed to my “Dear Ancient Relative.” In it, I expressed my love for him and told of how much our friendship throughout the long years of our association had meant to me. I asked that he build me a single before he decided he had had enough. If he were to do that, I promised to keep the boat and cherish it, and that it would remain in our family forever. Now, he was telling me that the boat had been built. What a sad, bittersweet moment that was. He continued to come into the shop almost daily, welcomed by all. He wanted, especially, to keep track of how we were coming along with the first of the glass-skinned shells. He was as excited about them as I was. We still had lunch at the Offshore Cafe every day, where we shared nostalgic memories. He never talked of dying, or even admitted the possibility, and much was left unsaid. IN JANUARY, LOIS AND I VISITED ST. CROIX IN THE VIRGIN Islands with our friends, the Stones. Shirlee’s aunt owned a resort there. Everything was in order at the shop, and I figured that my absence for two or three weeks would be welcomed by the gang. I was concerned about being so far away with Dad’s illness obviously growing worse, but he insisted we go. Throughout the trip, I tried to call Seattle each evening to chat with the folks and tell them what we had been doing. I could tell from both their voices that those calls were good for him. On our way home, we rented a car in Miami to make a circuit of the state and call on customers. Before we left Miami, I located a group made up of former members of the five Cuban rowing clubs (Cienfuegos, Varadero, Havana Yacht Club and two others) with whom we had dealt prior to the Revolution. These men had fled Cuba when Castro appeared to be succeeding. One of them told me he had been a practicing physician in Havana before he was forced to flee. He had only now - some 7 years later - been certified to practice medicine in Florida. He estimated that 95 percent of the members of
George Pocock - Montlake Cut - circa 1940 the rowing clubs had left Cuba. Many of those who stayed behind had been killed. Happy in their new homeland, some of them had recently formed a club and named it the Big Five Rowing Club. I watched them trying to rig a brand-new Schoenbrod they had just received. They were having an awful time trying to assemble the adjustable rigger parts. I did not offer to help them, but neither did I ask why they didn’t seem interested in paying any of the money their clubs still owed Dad and me. They had troubles enough. It was on that same trip that we made an overnight stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico. The year before, I had sent two fours to a club organized there by some other expatriate Cubans. I finally found the place, but soon regretted it. It was a beach club, situated right on the ocean, but there was no boathouse to be seen. No one around, I searched everywhere, I found the two shells stuck up in the rafters of
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Shell car, loaded and ready to head east - circa 1965 a shed. Hopelessly blistered, broken and full of sand, they must have been kept out in the open and launched into the surf until wrecked beyond repair. Focusing on the positive, I remembered that we had been paid for them! ONE MORNING, BACK IN THE SHOP AND BUSILY AT WORK, I received a panicky call from Mother. Dad was in great pain and needed to see his doctor at once, but she was afraid to drive downtown. Please, could I come over? Dropping everything, I reached their place as quickly as I could and drove them to the doctor’s office at breakneck speed. Blessedly, Seattle’s traffic was not what it is today; still, the trip seemed to take forever. When we arrived, Dad fell into the doctor’s office, insensible. The doctor quickly inserted a catheter to drain off fluid and relieve the intense pressure and pain. We then took him to the hospital to have him admitted. After sitting for what
seemed like hours, with Dad’s pain back and growing worse by the minute, we found someone willing to admit him, and I helped carry him to his room. Another interminable wait. I kept going to the nurses’ station, but the nurses offered no help. I was making a frantic call to the director’s office when I spotted a young intern strolling down the hall, idly swinging what appeared to be a catheter. I dropped the phone and ran to ask whether he was headed for room such-and-so. He said that he was. I explained the severity of the situation and he rushed to give Dad the relief he so desperately needed. “Someone should have told me,” the doctor said. “I was just cutting off a cast. I could have been here much sooner.” After the doctor left, Dad - somewhat recovered - whispered, “Now I know why people jump out of windows.” This, from one of the toughest and bravest men. The memory of that day continues to haunt me. I’ve pondered on what I might have done differently. It seems obvious to me now that I should have taken him directly to the emergency room. I can only hope someone will take better care of me, should I ever be in such a pickle. Other episodes that went on while he was a patient there before being sent home to die weren’t much better. We were understandably distraught, but it did seem as though the impersonal approach to care-giving was being carried to extremes. Such a situation was not the intent of the hospital, I am sure. It’s just that when any enterprise grows too big, things personal are bound to take a beating. While still in the hospital, Dad received visits from many oarsmen, past and present. One day, the whole UW Varsity squad came to see him. Erickson undoubtedly engineered that. A group of old-timers came on another occasion to present a dramatic bronze sculpture of an oarsman. The sculptor was from a rowing family, both his father and his uncle having rowed on UW crews. After we took Dad home, I moved in to be with him and give support to Mother as best I could. Mrs. Blix, a retired registered nurse, lived next door. Dear lady that she was, she came over every day to help. She was a great comfort to him as well as to Mother, my sister
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and me. Though still very uncomfortable, Dad no longer suffered great pain, but found the reality of dying difficult to accept. I think he believed it a sin to admit to himself that dying was a possibility: One must keep on fighting. Finally, he had to give in, passing away quietly the night of March 9, 976. The nurse’s aide, watching over him, was reading the Bible to him when he slipped away. She said that the last word that she could make out was “Amen.” Amen, indeed, to a memorable life. He was my dearest friend and greatest supporter, and I was to miss him beyond words. It was a long time before I stopped catching myself thinking, “I should talk to him about this” or, “I think this is a good bit of work; I’d like to let him have a look at it.” The questions I wished I had asked him when he was still alive were legion. Along with Mother, Pat and me, he left behind a host of friends and admirers. The positive influence that he had on all of us, young and old alike, during his lifetime can scarcely be assessed. Rowing and racing shells were the media in which he had worked, but Life - and how it might be lived to its fullest - was the lesson he strove to teach. I doubt that the world often sees his equal.
George Yeomans Pocock, 1891‒1976
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 259
CHAPTER X
I
“Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984)
WAS INVITED TO BE THE BOATMAN FOR THE U.S. WOMEN’S both countries swooping all around us. What a travesty! The Olympic Olympic Team at the Games in Montreal. Not comfortable in Games were intended to promote peace and goodwill among nations. accepting, I was sure that none of our boats or oars would be There were metal detectors at all entrances to the Olympic Village. in use, either by our women, or by anyone else. I only accepted at One saw the military’s presence everywhere. Two soldiers, armed the urging of my old friend, Bernie with rifles, accompanied each Horton, then a member of the public conveyance. I was riding United States Women’s Olympic a bus downtown one day when I Rowing Committee (USWORC). noticed the young private at the Knowing that Conn had worked on rear nodding off. His superior, a every make of boat that there was, I corporal, rushed back to give wrote him to ask what he thought I him an awful tongue-lashing. should take along with me. He sent That evening, resplendent in my me a long list. Gathering all the Olympic uniform, I started up the bits and pieces together, I headed back stairs of my dormitory in the for New Hampshire. My stays at Olympic Village. I wanted to go Hanover, where the crews trained to the roof for a view of Montreal out of the Dartmouth shellhouse, at night. Suddenly, at one of the and at Montreal, where the Games landings, a soldier burst out of the were held, gave me an interesting door with a rifle pointed at me that summer vacation. looked as big as a cannon. Appearing to be someone with Memories of t he A meric a n whom I was likely to have no athletes having treated the 968 Opening ceremonies – Montreal Olympics – 197 6 common interests, he growled, Games as a platform for political “What are you doing up here?” comment, combined with those of the terrorist disaster at Munich “I’m just going up to the roof garden for a look at the city.” in 972, guaranteed a tense atmosphere in Montreal. It was almost as “No b—— good. Nobody allowed up here. Get out, NOW.” though the host country didn’t care if the Games came off. Their only I was not about to argue with that cannon, or with the soldier, concern was that there be no incidents. We were transported from the for that matter, so down I went. I never did find out who was being staging area in Plattsburg, New York to Montreal under heavy military escort. That escort included any number of army helicopters from hidden, nor did I ever enjoy my desired view of Montreal.
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 260 OFFICIALLY A PART OF THE WOMEN’S ROWING CONTINGENT, I had little to do in Montreal. Wendell Badger, the Dartmouth rigger, was taking care of the men’s equipment and needed no help from me. I filled my time by keeping Jack Frailey, USORC Chairman, amused. He and I bunked in the same room and, between laughs, unburdened ourselves when we felt like doing so. He knew I would keep my mouth shut, should he say anything too bad, and I was sure he would do the same for me. The men’s rowing effort was in a sad state. Dissension within the squad was rife. Not only that, they seemed to me far more interested in what they were or were not receiving in the way of “goodies.” For bragging rights, many manufacturers had foisted all manner of products on the Olympic organization. Along with the several uniforms and heaps of other clothing that we were issued, there was a myriad of junk: tote bags, suit cases, cameras, film, chewing gum, shaving gear, even a hair dryer. Most of the men were wearing their hair long by then, so, perhaps, both the men and the women needed them. What little hair I had left made one unnecessary for me. As a member of the women’s contingent, I was also issued a woman’s swim suit. I never used that, either. Some of the freebies never showed up. One rig arrived with what was supposed to be a trailer-load of bicycles for use around the Olympic Village and at the various sports venues. When the 40-foot container was opened, it was empty. Someone had hijacked the load en route. According to rumor, the same fate befell a trailer crammed with Adidas products. Most of our crews — both men and women — were rowing badly. One day, I overheard the men’s trainer reminding them that they must be sure to drink their Gatorade. I thought to myself, “they need more than Gatorade if they hope to win anything.” I found it frustrating that no one sought my advice, for I thought that I had some worthy insights to share. Frailey soon put my mind at ease. One evening, after listening to my grousing, he said, “Never mind, Stan, they all think you’re old-fashioned, so forget it.”
Old-fashioned, maybe, but I still knew bad rowing when I saw it. A day or two later, in desperation, Jack said he was tempted to fire the coach of one of the crews if I would agree to take over. I told him that, while I might justifiably be considered old-fashioned, I wasn’t crazy. Making such offers must be standard procedure in the frantic days leading up to regattas of major importance. A similar proposition had been made to me in Rome in 960. The only boat in evidence that I had built was a wee little double sculler bought a year or two before for a prep school sponsored by the Undine Barge Club of Philadelphia. It was unique: a stretched-out teardrop single, rather than a shortened version of a four (which was, in turn, a shortened version of an eight), as was our standard model. Happy with the boat, I was disappointed to find it cooly received. Now, to my delight, were two lightweights, Dick Klecatsky and Bill Belden, using it — and apparently happy with it. There were no men’s lightweight events at the Olympics as yet, but these two had entered the Trials, anyway. By defeating all the big bruisers from the sculling camp, they had won a spot on the Team. They qualified for the Finals, only to face a stiff head wind on that day. This proved their undoing, and they finished out of the money. To my eye, they were by far the best of the U.S. men’s entries. One morning, I thought I might at last have the chance to be useful. Two women’s doubles — the Norwegians and the Americans — had crashed head on. One crew or the other was going up where they should have been coming down. Luckily, no one was injured. The two boats, on the other hand — one an Empacher, the other a Stampfli — were a mess. Surveying the damage, I felt dismay, for there was no way I could fix our boat with the tools and materials I had with me. Providentially, each of those builders had repair facilities set up on site. The Stampfli people quickly grabbed our boat and hustled it off. All I could do was go over to their tent and watch. The Swiss were excellent workmen, and they enjoyed showing off their ability and experience. The Empacher people were every bit as competent. Both boats were back on the water in an amazingly short time.
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 261 There was little maintenance for me to do on the boats that our crews were using. Aside from filling an absurdly small scratch on one of them, my biggest task came down to scaring up some sandpaper and supervising the wet-sanding of the women’s boats the day before the racing began. I felt something of a fool, believing, as I did, that the crews needed far more help than what that would give them. Still, I knew that it was a way of keeping their minds off their troubles, and entered in with a will. In the Finals, the women’s eight came in a creditable second out of four entries. This was the first year that Women’s Rowing was included in the Olympics, and it was a good beginning.
PRIOR TO THE START OF THE GAMES, THERE WAS SOME agitation from his friends to have Conn designated U.S. standard bearer in the Opening Ceremony. He was the only member of our team competing in the Games for the fourth time, having rowed and earned rowing medals in 956, 960 and 964. He would not hear of it. This time he was sailing with Dennis Conner, who was later to gain fame and notoriety in America’s Cup competition. On the final day of racing, they looked to have a gold medal sewed up when disaster struck. Conn was hanging out on the stainless steel cable, acting as a counterweight. The cable snapped, throwing him into the water. Rules required that Conner turn back to pick him up. He did so and they finished far back in the pack. Despite the fiasco, IT WAS AT THE 976 GAMES THAT THE SO-CALLED FIBERGLASS because they had done well in their earlier races, they still salvaged boats first enjoyed a big play. (“Fiberglas” is the copyrighted name, a Bronze Medal. but, as with “Refrigerator,” “Kleenex” and “Coke,” common usage has made the word “fiberglass” the generic term for all glass-fiber THE INTERMINABLE PARADE OF NATIONS IS AN IMPRESSIVE materials). The Empacher firm, after introducing their honeycomb ceremony in which to take part. This was the first time for me — when sandwich concept in 1972, had been busy with a well-planned I was in Rome in 960, only the competitors were permitted to march; merchandising campaign. Their name was on every lip. Several of coaches and all the supporting cast watched from the grandstands. their eights and fours were used in Montreal, with varied results. Any Now, everyone even remotely connected with our Olympic effort was boat with a German name on it had great appeal. While no one else included. When this horde was forming outside the stadium, a feisty seemed to notice the incongruity, I found it ironic that, while it was USMC Major tried to whip us into some semblance of a gung-ho the East Germans who were dominating the rowing world by then, military formation. Some tried to cooperate, while others paid little all the German boats being bought were made in West Germany. The attention. I couldn’t help making a comparison to Dad’s story of his Easties’ boats were built in their own country and never sold in the being in the parade on Opening Day in Berlin 40 years before. There, West. I took a good look at their eight and saw nothing to rave about. the word went through the American ranks that everyone should keep Heavily built, it was a good, serviceable job. The outriggers were fixed, purposely out of step. No one wanted our team looking like a bunch of while everyone else had swung over to adjustable ones. The East tin soldiers — there were enough from other countries looking like that Germans had not yet been distracted by all that monkey business and already. The ragged performance of the American contingent as they were still paying attention to the more important aspect of rowing: circled the stadium might have led to the illusion harbored by some how a crew rowed their boat. Across the board, results confirmed Germans that they could beat us when the next war came along. the wisdom of their approach. While performance-enhancing drugs The roar that met us as we entered the stadium, ragged looking might have had a part in the picture, the East German crews were though we were, was awesome — more a blast of emotion than of rowing better than those in the West. sound. Even the tough, sassy little boxers who happened to be near
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 262 me in the formation were visibly moved. As we marched around the oval, the Queen of England gave us her regal wave. Once the panoply of nations was gathered in the center of the stadium, the torch bearers — both a man and a woman took part — arrived to light the Olympic flame. The Queen’s speech, declaring the Games open, was lost in the babble of voices rising from the ranks of excited young people. IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE HANKY-PANKY SURFACED. ONE OF cour coaches happened to spot the Czech crews rubbing a suspiciouslooking substance on their boats. Officials were rounded up. It was determined that the stuff was a substance that had been officially banned from use in Olympic competition. The ensuing uproar seemed silly. Here we were, rubbing the finish off the bottom of our boat, hoping to reduce skin friction. The Czechs only hoped to accomplish the same result by putting something on theirs. I saw no reason for concern. Even if the stuff actually made a difference, it would probably wash off before a boat reached the starting line. The penalty decided upon was that every boat of all countries must be washed before being put on the water for each race. Nothing was said about wet-sanding. This episode took me back to the Games in 956 when Walter Hoover, with his magic goop, was laughed at. Rowing was not the only sport where cheating occurred. The Russian Judo competitors, for instance, were discovered changing into illegal robes after having been checked out and passed by the judges. In another case, one of the Russian fencers was found to have an electronic device concealed in the handle of his foil. By pressing a button, he could flash the light that normally came on only when he actually made a touché. In none of the three cases of which I was aware was any penalty imposed. These offenses were nothing, however, compared to the appalling nature of the scoring and judging that went on. Officials from the Iron Curtain countries seemed afraid to vote sanctions, even for outright cheating, or to give bad scores to Soviet or Eastern Bloc athletes. In too many cases, these judges were in the majority, and their decisions showed their prejudice.
A BIG FLAP OCCURRED IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP. THEIR COACHES had been on a kick of having their crews row endless low-stroke miles. Every day, they rowed up and down the course — seemingly by the hour — with a 2000 meter speed trial thrown in every now and then. I marvelled that the Russian rowers could stand it. That form of training, appropriate during the bulk of a training season, was better backed away from when actual racing was near at hand. While I knew that tapering off too much or too soon before a race was dangerous, I felt that these coaches were going too far in the other direction. Apparently, some of their people felt the same way. Plainly fed up, after their men’s eight failed to qualify for the Finals, the whole team went home. This was seen — by some officials, anyway — as a serious breech of sportsmanship, deemed much worse than the cheating and bad officiating that was going on. Transgressions such as those could be overlooked, but not one such as this. It took a lastminute trip to Moscow by the FISA chairman — and the threat of throwing them out of the organization — to persuade the Russians to come back. The rest they enjoyed must have done their athletes some good. They beat our men’s eight in the Petit Finals. ON THE LAST DAY OF THE REGATTA, A LARGE CROWD OF competitors began to gather outside our shed. They were not there to cheer the American crews on to victory, but, rather, to trade, buy or sell pins, uniforms and even rowing equipment. Some in the multitude — Iron Curtain people in particular — had stripped their boats of parts to sell for dollars which they could spend on goods not available at home. When the time came for the U.S. men’s eight to boat, they could scarcely make their way through the mob. Since they were only in the Petit Final, no one — not even other members of our own team — paid them the slightest attention. I stood with Jack Frailey on the bank as they rowed up toward the starting line. He asked me whether I had any idea how much the USORC had spent on that crew over the past two years. I didn’t, of course, so he told me: over a quarter of a million dollars. Though only a fraction
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I
DECIDED, THE FOLLOWING SPRING, TO SPEND TIME WITH Erickson and the UW crews. I had gone down to Corvallis to watch them race OSU. As in the past, the Huskies had expected the Beaver crews to be pushovers. Having heard grumbles about their being forced to waste time by going down there, I saw the Huskies as being ripe for a fall. And fall they did. OSU won. The vagaries of currents had nothing to do with the result. The UW Varsity lost, fair and square. This loss was not the fluke that it might have appeared to be. The older brother of one of the OSU oarsmen had rowed in the U.S. coxless four at the Olympics the year before. Learning from that experience, he brought back many useful tips which he passed along to the OSU squad. After the race, several Huskies came over to where I was sitting Long-hair days in Ballard’s Chittenden Locks – 1973 and asked, “What happened?” of what is spent on developing crews today, it seemed scandalously “Well, you got beat! And not only beat, but beat by a better crew.” high then, and it still does. “What were we doing wrong?” “Don’t ask me. Ask your coach.” One of the more memorable entries at those games was the men’s eight from Cuba. All blacks (by comparison, few African- “He told us to talk to you.” “I’ll have to hear that from him. Where is he?” Americans participated in American rowing at that time), they were They didn’t know, so I went looking and found Dick sitting behind in magnificent physical condition, rowed well and beat the crew the UW trailer, the very picture of dejection. Earlier, with high from the United States. In fact, the U.S. men’s eight finished ninth overall, a disastrous performance and one that would take a while for hopes for the coming season, he had slated an appearance at Henley for the Varsity — provided, of course, that the crew earned the American rowing to overcome. With the rowing competition over and all of the boats loaded, I right to make the trip. He had been raving to reporters, friends and left Montreal as quickly as I could. I was given a personal escort to supporters about how good this crew was and, now, they had been the airport — a Canadian Mountie in full dress uniform — the soundly beaten by the upstart Beavers. Hardly the way to start the fear of incidents still being uppermost in the minds of our hosts. season should one wish to encourage support from the alumni for a Disappointed by the whole affair, I was glad to be on my way. With return to Henley. I told him that the crew had come to me, and he Dad gone, and with the full load of the shop now on my shoulders, confirmed his having sent them. To cheer him up, I said that I’d be glad to start coming out with him to watch their turnouts, if that was I was needed at home.
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 264 OK with him. Maybe, between the two of us, we could turn things around. He said he’d be glad to see me, and I promised to be at the shellhouse the following Monday. First, however, he should send the crew over to the shop. I wanted to demonstrate how important catching together was — something they were not doing. The men showed up on Monday, and I took them upstairs to watch two of my gang put plastic sleeves on oars. This was an interesting procedure in itself, and one that I was certain none of them had seen. It took two men to do it. In the event they did not heave on the oar at precisely the same instant, the shaft would stick part way and the sleeve would have to be cut off and thrown away. This was always bad news, because the sleeves were expensive, as was the men’s time. I had them put on two or three to demonstrate how easily they went on if the operation were done right. Then I had them show what happened if the two were slightly out of time. The result was another wasted sleeve. Next, I had two of the oarsmen have a go at it. Perfect timing, successful job; bad timing, wasted labor and materials. I told them to apply what they had seen to their timing in the boat. It would not be easy. For eight people to act as one is much tougher than for two people to do so. Still, it was worth a try, because I could guarantee that their boat would go faster. When I joined the turnout the next day, I found that Harry Swetnam, the trainer from LWRC days, was again helping Dick. This was the first time the three of us had worked together since the summer of 968. I hoped that our collaboration this time around would be more successful. Out with the crews each morning, Harry was also supervising their afternoon workouts in the gym. We soon settled into an enjoyable routine. Dick would bring along a jug of coffee from the kitchen, Harry supplied the doughnuts, I entertained the two of them with my rowing stories. These yarns must have made life look brighter for Dick. His more cheerful outlook was sensed by the squad, and their rowing probably became more fun for them. Now and then, I slipped in a few of my ideas on technique, hoping some of them would be passed on to the oarsmen.
As the season progressed, the Varsity rowed one or two near-record timers. The season ended on a high note when they beat Cal, and the alumni came through with money for the trip to Henley. Dick asked me to accompany them. I saw my fortunes as riding with UW rowing, felt sure that my time would be well spent, and agreed to go.
Royal Barge with Princess Anne aboard – Henley – 1977 THE 50# VARSITY EIGHT, COACHED BY FRANK COYLE, WERE TO make the trip as well. I remembered Frank as being one of the toughest little strokes ever to turn out at the UW. Some of the great collegiate crews of the past had been stroked by men who were small by rowing standards. I remember, especially, Randolph of Cornell’s 1946 Varsity and, of course, Harvard’s Varsity in 1947 with Cunningham at stroke. Sadly, young Coyle’s technique and determination were not enough, and he was overlooked by the coach. After doing a good of coaching the 150s at the UW for several years, he then became involved in the administrative end of the rowing game.)
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 265 boat would not fit in the cargo bay of any plane they flew, but we had the answer. The Dale Hoaglund, twin of the Nelson F. Cox — the boat that the Ratzeburg crew had liked so much when they borrowed it from Princeton in 963 — was a two-piece sectional eight. Its two 30foot sections suited our present needs perfectly; they fit easily inside the airplane’s cargo hold. My unspoken hope was that our Varsity, rather than the 50s, would be the crew to use the Hoaglund at Henley. No bigger than the German crew had been, they had rowed a fast time trial in it not long before we took it up to Vancouver. Someone had the idea of wrapping the boat in padding to protect it during shipment. When we unwrapped the boat in Nottingham, we found the skin of the boat split in many places. I had brought adequate repair materials with me and was able to patch the cracks and make the boat rowable again. It would have been much better had we left the boat bare in the first place. That way, the cargo handlers could have seen what they were wrecking, and, perhaps, would not have kicked her around quite so much. Dick Erickson UW Varsity coach, 1968-87 His crews were a lighthearted bunch, as 150s often tend to be. Back in the days of the 3- and four-milers, the Varsity squad thought this could only be explained by the Lightweights had to race a mere 2000 meters. With Frank, Dick and Harry as companions, I looked forward to being part of a happy team. Lois and Dick’s wife, Irma, planned to join us in Nottingham, where the two crews were slated to race in warm-ups for Henley. One of the crews would use the shell stored in England by the USRA. That boat, built in Germany, had been given to the association several years before in recognition of a win by a U.S. men’s eight at a major European regatta. We had to take an eight with us for the other crew. The quickest and cheapest way to ship it to England was with Ward Air, a combination passenger/cargo charter outfit operating out of Vancouver, British Columbia. A full-length
THE USR A BOAT WAS KEPT AT THE ROWING CLUB ON THE Trent River, right next to our hotel in Nottingham. Dick decided to have the Varsity take their first workout there, prior to moving the boat over to the racecourse which was some miles away. With no launch available, he asked me to cox them. When we took off, I was dismayed at how rough a crew they were. Here was pure, savage, raw power, unleashed and on the verge of being out of control. For the first half of the workout, I was sure that we would capsize. They had great strength — far greater than any eight that I had ever coxed before. It was a revelation to me that, despite all that wasted energy, they were as fast as they were. Still, I could not imagine them beating any highly-motivated crew who happened to be rowing well. The facilities at Nottingham were exceptional — much better than those at Henley — but lacked the latter’s century-and-a-half-old air of tradition. Dug out of a gravel bed alongside the Trent River, it was lined by grandstands, boathouses and all the amenities one could
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 266 imagine. These included an elevated road that bordered the course. Trucks with bleachers atop used the road to accompany each race. Spectators were thus afforded excellent viewing, start to finish. This was great for coaches, too, for they could see their charges performing under actual race conditions. The days preceding the regatta were hectic. Dick was shifting his lineup daily, as was Frank. They each had two alternates. These were moved in and out either before or during every workout. Whichever four men were not in the two eights were put in a four that Dick had borrowed. To add to the uncertainty, the Varsity and the 50s were being shifted back and forth between the. To my eye, whichever crew was in the German boat went the poorest. I must have been the only one who saw it that way, for the Varsity finally settled on it to race in. Disappointed, I pretended it made no difference to me. IT STRUCK ME THAT OUR LIGHTWEIGHTS MIGHT BE IN FOR SOME trouble when we showed up for the required weigh-in one morning before the regatta. Frank and I had gone down with them to take care of that ceremony. Two of the Lights, normally over the weight limit, had forced themselves to take off too many pounds. Weak as kittens, they shuffled in, pale-faced and drawn. Just then, the British crew we had drawn came rushing in. Little fellows and hard as nails, they were bursting with energy. My heart hit bottom, and I thought to myself, “Good-bye, UW, that’s all she wrote.” My feelings of foreboding stayed with me at Henley, where it’s one loss and you’re out. The performance of our two eights at Nottingham was not impressive, and the crews would arrive at Henley dismissed as dark horses. There were, however, a few bright spots. Perhaps the most successful oarsman on the squad was Mike Fountain, spare man for the 50s. One of those rare birds who loves to race, he was in our four that won. He also stroked an eight to victory in a pickle boat race. Light boats were causing a stir at Nottingham, especially those from CarboCraft, a new entry on the boat-building scene. Made in England, they were of composite construction. Much was made
Harry Swetnam at Henley – 1977 of how light and stiff they were. Their structure looked too flimsy to me; not designed to withstand the stresses that I knew wrecked racing shells. Their rigger timbers were bound to fail. How I wished for access to some scales with which I could discount some of the outrageous claims about weight that were circulating. Nevertheless, the boats looked modern and different, and I was sure they would find a ready market in the States once they became available there.
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 267 A major argument in support of light boats was the claim that they were “fast off the mark.” During the several days of racing at Nottingham, I kept a record of which boats did what off the line. When the regatta was all over, it looked to me as though the fast crews — and those who jumped the gun — were the ones that got away in front – not the crews in the light boats. I read somewhere of a statistically-minded fellow who kept a record of the results of all the major races in Europe over a period of two years. Correlating these results with what the various winning boats weighed, he found that about half the races were won by a crew using the lightest boat, the other half by those using the heaviest. The conclusion I drew from that study was, to paraphrase the Bard, “the crew is the thing,” and that the issue of weight is moot. AT HENLEY, WE STAYED IN A LOVELY OLD MANOR HOUSE ON A hill overlooking the river. It was owned and run as a hotel for visiting crews by a middle-aged woman. She employed no help and expected to cook for this mob of ravenously hungry oarsmen all by herself. Fortunately, Irma and Lois had joined us by then and they pitched in to ease her load. Training at Henley around Regatta time, as I’ve mentioned before, can be a losing proposition. There are too many crews on the river, and no launches are allowed. Coaches riding the tow path on bikes are a joke. Such activity only lets them kid themselves into thinking that they are doing something useful. I did not whether coaches were allowed to cox their crews in practice. That would have been worth a try. Crews can often benefit from last-minute coaching — as long as it is their own coach doing the talking. This is true right up to the moment a crew backs into the starting gate. The right word at just the right moment can work wonders. ONE MORNING, THE 50S DECIDED THAT THEY WOULD TRY TO lighten up the atmosphere. They thought it would be great fun to be known as the first and, perhaps, last 10-oared crew to row up the
Henley course. We had brought with us from Seattle a two-seat insert which could be used to convert our two-piece Hoaglund into a 10. I had built it the previous spring at the suggestion of the then national team coach, Allen Rosenberg. Its purpose was threefold: first, a 10 would be a fast pace boat for a Varsity crew to row against in practice; second, it would allow two alternates to keep rowing and ready right up to race day; finally, because the boat was faster than an eight and everything in it happened more quickly — it would sharpen a crew’s technique. Reconverted to an eight-oar for the race, it would give the oarsmen a slight sense of rowing in slow motion. Little use had been made of the 10 while we were still at home. Its worst feature was that it was too long to fit in the shellhouse. We went to the trailer for the insert and found it missing. Afraid that it had been stolen, we were relieved when told that the driver, worried about the chance of theft, had stored it elsewhere. There was no time to find it. Deprived of that diversion, the crews mooched around as the weather turned soggy. Time dragged, and it was a relief for us all when the day of the first heats arrived. The Royal Henley Regatta is on the official list of annual social events, one of those at which anyone on the social register must be seen. Princess Anne, representing the Royal Family, arrived. Shown into the tent where our two boats were kept, she patted the bottom of one of them. I privately hoped that her pat would make the difference between winning and losing. On the day of the Finals, Anne was rowed up the course by a crew of Doggett’s Coat & Badge winners in the replica of a Royal Barge. The boat, built some years before, was used in the filming of the movie, A Man For All Seasons, Hollywood’s version of the life of Sir Thomas More. On this day, the barge was steered by Bert Barry, the current Queen’s Bargemaster. I remembered being introduced to him at age four and recalled his comment about me to my dad that, “He has a broad beam, just like his mother.” Oldtime professionals were not known for their couth. Barry had come to Vancouver for a professional sculling race against Major Goodsell, an Australian. Goodsell was living in California, where he later started
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 268 the rowing program at UCLA. Though not a military man — Major being his given name — he liked to be known as “the Major.” WHEN ALL THE JUGGLING OF OUR LINEUPS WAS AT LAST complete, the four men left out of the two eights were Paul Quinney, Skip Miller, Mitch Millar and Kris Schonberg. Duly entered in the Visitors’ Cup for straight fours, they made it through to the Finals and looked to have a fine chance of winning the trophy. These four enjoyed the chase, especially the two lightweights, Paul and Skip. Such passion can carry an oarsman a long way. As Dad was often quoted as saying, “You’ve got to want to do it.” The Varsity faced an enormous challenge. In the days leading up to the regatta, I had looked over the field. While no Eastern European eights had entered, two tough-looking British outfits made up for that. Harvard and Cornell, perennially tough, were the only other American crews there. Another crew — made up of wild-eyed policemen from Ireland — looked especially mean. After drawing a bye for the first day, we raced the Irish on the second day and barely beat them to gain the Finals. I had wangled a seat in the official’s launch that followed that race. At one point, I found myself urging our crew on. The referee heard me, looked around and said, quietly, through clenched teeth, "Shut up, or get out of the boat!” I shut up. Our crew won, anyway. In that race, the #4 man in our boat, Ross Parker, rowed himself completely out and took a long time to recover. No one believed that he could bounce back quickly enough to race the next day. Dick faced the unpleasant prospect of having to yank one of the men out of the four. That would mean that they would be scratched, frustrating their quest for the Visitors’ Cup. Fortunately for all concerned, Ross recovered enough “to want to do it,” and the four was left intact. The next day, they added their names to the long list of Henley victors.
UW Henley champions (plus spares) in the “X” – 1977
we were to race, had broken a stretcher. Nothing could be found to repair or replace the broken fitting. I was surprised by the delay, for Henley is famous as a regatta in which, if you aren’t at the mark on time, the race goes on without you. I should have known better. After all, this was the Final of the Grand Challenge Trophy Cup Race — the blue ribbon event of the entire regatta. One could understand the officials wanting it to go off in its entirety, even if not on time. During the delay, I spent time talking with Harry Arlett, who had come down from Reading. He had brought the Henley Town Regatta Trophy to show me. His father, Jack, had retired the cup some 60 years before, having won it 0 times. I saw engraved on it the inscription, “G. Y. Pocock, 90.” Dad had won it as a young lad when he beat the elder Arlett. In telling the story, he was always quite willing to admit that the old-timer was “over the hill” by then. Harry went on to describe the near-misfortune experienced by Joe Burk when he sculled for the “Diamonds” just before WW II. THE GR AND CHALLENGE FINAL WAS DELAYED FOR WHAT In the Final, his blade hit one of the piles that line the course, and seemed like hours because someone in the Tideway Scullers, the crew he momentarily lost control of the oar. Able to stay in his boat, he
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Dick Erickson, Frank Coyle & author, with Visitors’ Cup & Grand Challenge Cup – Henley – 1977 quickly recovered and went on to win. He was upset with Harry, who had been pacing him on a bike, supposedly to help keep him on course. (No longer allowed, such a practice was permitted at the time.) Poor Harry, who is by nature soft-spoken, said he had been shouting as loud as he could to warn Joe, but could not make him hear. In the midst of this conversation, I was suddenly aware that our crew were putting their boat on the water. I had hoped for a chance to say a few words to them before they went out to race. I ran over, but by the time I reached the dock they were in the boat and pulling away. Catching the eye of the stroke, Mike Hess, all I could think of was to bend over and pound my fists on my thighs. I hoped that he understood that he must, at all cost, remember to use his legs. (Long
after the race was history, Mike told me that, all the way down the course, he kept reminding himself, “Stan said, ‘Use your legs, use your legs, use your legs….’”) I was fortunate to follow that race in the umpire’s launch. At the last moment, Dick told me that he couldn’t bear to watch and gave me his ticket. It’s too easy — especially when one is merely a hangeron — to be unaware of what agony and stress the dedicated coach suffers as he watches the results of months of work being played out before his very eyes. I knew exactly how Dick felt; unburdened by his responsibilities, I was delighted to accept his offer. I had little hope of a Husky win. When, on the second or third stroke, someone on the starboard side caught a horrendous crab, I lost even that. The boat stopped almost dead in the water and veered toward Temple Island. By the time they were straightened around, they should have been well behind. It was only then that I looked over at the other crew. They must have done something awful as well. The two crews were still deadlocked. I started to breathe again. As they neared halfway, it looked as though the race might have to be stopped. There was a dinghy in which two drunken idiots — who obviously knew nothing about handling a boat — were struggling along in the middle of the course. I kept my eye on them, and it soon became apparent that they would be out of the way in time. I shouted at the referee, who was about to stop the crews, to tell him that the dinghy was clearing. He looked again, saw that this was so and put down his megaphone. After the race, he came over and thanked me. He was the same man who had bawled me out the day before. That our crew won after such a disastrous start speaks volumes. Perhaps Princess Anne’s pat on the bottom of the boat helped, but winning the Grand Challenge had called for everything they had in them. The victory must have compensated in part for the tribulations they had experienced along the way. As with thoroughbred racehorses, handling men such as these must have been a daunting task. Dick did the job, earned his wrinkles and white hair and deserved all the credit.
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 270 That 977 Varsity stands out as one of the best in the history of UW rowing. Not the greatest, perhaps, and certainly not the prettiest, but one that surely deserves a secure place in the annals of Washington sports. I can still name them: Mike Hess, Jesse Franklin, Terry Fisk, Mark Miller, Mark Umlauf, Mark Sawyer, Ross Parker, Ron Jackman and John Stillings. In 999, they received their due when they were inducted into the UW Husky Sports Hall of Fame. Races over and all pictures taken, we had a jolly celebration aboard a Thames River barge put on by the parents of some of the oarsmen. Fitted out to accommodate parties, it was the perfect place. The date was the Fourth of July, which gave us a double excuse to celebrate. PRIOR TO LEAVING SEATTLE, THE VARSITY CREW HAD BEEN entered in an international regatta on Lake Rotsee near Lucerne, Switzerland. After their unprecedented victory at Henley, I tried to talk Dick out of going. Their victory in the Grand should have earned them something special. In my opinion, his men had worked hard enough, and deserved a rest. Why not give them a few days off before the charter flight back to Vancouver — let them see a bit of England and the continent? I could not imagine an amateur American collegiate crew showing well against the East European pros. Why not go home on a high? On the other hand, I had not expected them to win at Henley and they had proven me wrong. If these men were willing and eager, perhaps they could perform another miracle. We spent a day sightseeing in London and reached Victoria Station in plenty of time. There, we misread the signs and watched our train for Dover as it pulled out. The resulting snafu cleared up, we took the next one, reached Dover and caught the night boat for Calais. During our channel crossing, Dick pulled off a stunt typical of his creative turn of mind. To go back a bit: Throughout our stay in England, he had kept in touch with one of the radio stations in Seattle. It was not the station that broadcast UW sports events. Rather, it was the station that employed a pilot acquaintance of his. Every time I heard him call the station, he opened with the reminder: “I didn’t call you, did I?”
Winning despite “ isometric” rowing – Andrews Bay – 1973 From his launch during the regular season at home, he talked daily by radio with his friend hovering over the Evergreen Floating Bridge in the station’s traffic spotter, giving him the dope on what was going on with the crews. These reports were relayed to commuters below. Traffic was all too often jammed up on the bridge, and listeners heard the inside scoop as they watched the crews rowing alongside. During our trip across the Channel, the Captain of the ferry happened to pass through the passenger lounge. He offered to show us through the ship. In the wheelhouse, he explained all the navigation equipment that was so necessary aboard any ship in the incrediblycrowded English Channel. As we prepared to move on, Dick asked whether it might be possible to raise Seattle by radio. The captain said he had no idea, but suggested we go up to the radio shack and ask “Sparks.” Sparks said he didn’t know either, but, with the captain’s permission, he would give it a try. Within minutes, Dick was in contact with the radio station in Seattle and patched through to his friend’s spotter plane over Lake Washington. By coincidence, it was five o’clock Seattle time, when evening traffic on the Evergreen Point Bridge is at its heaviest. Dick was put on the air and the commuters
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 271 One of the few benefits derived from that trip to Switzerland was the chance to purchase quantities of low-priced ski equipment. Some of the men took advantage of this opportunity, hoping to smuggle their booty home. Stuffed in the equipment trunks and oar boxes, the swag would have been a prize catch for Customs. Happily, at the border, no search was made. Those were simpler times.
UW Varsity in the George Pocock – 1977 – Millar, Jackman, Miller, Parker, Sawyer, Fisk, Franklin, Hess, Stillings (this was the San Diego lineup that year) below were treated to a blow-by-blow account of the major victory of the UW Varsity at Henley just the day before. Anyone who has not heard Dick describe a crew race has missed something special. His talents extend well beyond the confines of the coaching launch. Lucerne was a disaster. The boat we had been loaned was unrowable. I had my toolbox with me, and Dick and I rushed around to find enough stuff to take care of the needed repairs. Worse, none of the Varsity seemed happy to be there. With this kind of attitude, there was no way they could hope to repeat their Henley miracle. They ended up fighting Cornell for last place. That comedown put a damper on the sense of exhilaration that we had all experienced following their Henley victory. The only thing good about it was the fact that the season was finally over, and we could go back to living normal human lives again. Despite the letdown, I was grateful to have been included in the adventure and felt good about having added my bit to a largely successful UW rowing season.
THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE NEXT RACING SEASON (978) WAS THE contest on the Montlake course between the UW and Cal. Kept busy in the shop all year, I had not been to the shellhouse for any of the turnouts. The day before the race, Dick came over to the shop and asked me whether I could take the Varsity out that evening. He was tied up with preparations for the regatta the next morning and didn’t have the time. Nonplused, I wondered what I could possibly say to them that would be helpful. I knew there was nothing to be done about their technique, certainly not on a spring afternoon on Lake Washington, and especially not on a Friday with all the weekend boaters heading out. To make matters worse, the newspapers had been crowing about how good they were and I knew the deadly effect of “printers’ ink poisoning”. Steve Gladstone, then in his first stint as coach at Berkeley, was developing first-class crews, crews that could beat the UW as often as not. This year’s crew was no exception. I could just imagine Cal waiting in ambush. Perhaps the Huskies could benefit from a lecture on the subject of Effort. Despite my reluctance, I agreed to go out with them. I had them row over into the Arboretum for some flat water where they could sprint back and forth a few times to work up a sweat. While they cooled down, I shared with them some of my thoughts on Effort and on “paying the price.” The gist of my talk was this: If they were as good as the papers were saying, they must have the will to live up to that billing. They had to be willing to pay the price. Newspaper praise never made a good crew. Praise alone, no matter what the source, simply will not cut it. Success on the morrow would be theirs only if they were willing to pay for
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 272 effort. As I passed them, Mike raised his head and, with a wry grin, croaked, “Well, Stan, we paid the price, all right.” In comparing the oarsmen whom I have known over the years, Hess was the most intensely competitive of them all. He just did not have the word “lose” in his vocabulary.
Mike Hess, Mark Tuller & author at christening of the George Pocock – Conibear shellhouse – 1977 it. The price would be a steep one, but it would gain for them what they sought. That race with Cal was one I won’t soon forget. When the two shells passed under Montlake Bridge — only two or 300 meters to go — they were neck 'n' neck. If anything, Washington was a few feet behind. In the last 20, Mike Hess, the UW stroke, led his crew in a burst of speed that brought them across the line, winners by no more than three feet. I know that for a fact. Convinced that this was going to be one helluva boat race, I had staked out a spot for myself right on the finish line. Were I to ask Steve about that race today, as I have done on several occasions over the years, I am certain that he would still insist that he and his crew were cheated out of a victory. Hours afterward, I was walking across the lawn in front of Conibear shellhouse. There I saw, sprawled on the grass, Mike Hess and a couple of the other men from the Husky crew. Pale and exhausted, they were obviously still struggling to recover from their incredible
MOTHER AND PAT AND I DONATED A WESTERN RED CEDAR to the University of Washington in Dad’s memory. I enjoyed the privilege of christening it the George Pocock. Many years before, when a UW crew he had helped wanted to name their new boat for him, he had told them, “Wait until I’m dead.” That boat, the only one ever built of golden Alaskan yellow cedar, was christened instead the Pay Streak, a name suggested by Hilmar Lee, the old sourdough. “Pay streak” was the appellation used by Alaskan prospectors to describe the elusive veins of gold they sought (almost as elusive as Olympic gold). Now Dad was gone, and he had “his” boat. Dick came over to the shop one day and asked me to cut the George in two and make a sectional boat of it. He wanted to take it to Henley for another go at the Grand. It was while I was doing that job that a TV outfit showed up to take some shots for a documentary they were making about youth rowing in the Northwest. As I sawed the boat in half, I harked back to Grandpa Vickers and his sawing up Henry Stanley’s Lady Alice. Unlike that episode, this one was broadcast on National Public Television for all to see. I never saw the program myself, but did receive a call from a friend vacationing in Hawaii., While hiding from the rain one afternoon, he had chanced to see it. He assured me that I had looked appropriately evil. (Only evil people cut racing shells in half.) A FEW YEARS BEFORE THIS, I WAS OUT IN THE LAUNCH WITH Erickson one morning. We were sitting near Laurelhurst Light while the crews rested. In the distance, I could see the Frosh crews headed our way. I thought they looked awful and said so. I could only see one man in the entire squad who was rowing well and pointed him
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 273 out to Dick. As they passed us, I recognized the man. It was Eric Watne, Lois’s nephew. I had not known he was turning out. His sister, Kathy, had rowed at Green Lake while in high school, but he, an outstanding tennis player, had not. I was pleased to find him in the turnout, and delighted to see how well he rowed. I figured he must have the right genes. Both of his uncles, Roger and Paul, had rowed at Washington as had his grandfather, Paul Meyer, Sr. (It was the latter who was instrumental in introducing rowing at the University of Puget Sound and Pacific Lutheran University.) Eric went on to race as a freshman and then rowed several more years with the Varsity squad. He stroked the JV on occasion, but had to languish in the shadow of others who suited the coach better. He took some solace in being able to run up a higher ergometer score than the Varsity stroke could. The Varsity didn’t race in the George at Henley, preferring a foreign-built boat similar to the one used to win the Grand in 977. Prior to race day, Dick, taking a page from my book, went out in the cox’n’s seat. He embarrassed himself by running into one of the infamous pilings that lurk along the course. It can happen to anyone, especially in a boat such as the one they were using in which the cox’n was hunkered down right on the bottom where he could see little or nothing. Fortunately, there was only minor damage, and they stayed with it, hoping to find some magic in the boat. They found none and lost. Maybe it missed a pat on the bottom from Princess Anne. I thought the JV, also on the trip, used the George, but they did not (see picture on page 279). Pat or no pat, they won their race. Eric Watne stroked that crew. They had courtesy enough to send a photo taken at Henley as they poured Thames River water over the bow of the George to properly rechristen (the rite had been performed when the boat was new using water from Lake Washington). Dad would have loved this sort of gesture. In 936, he had raced up to the Ave to buy a can of sauerkraut juice with which to christen the Husky Clipper, hoping this would help the UW win a trip to Berlin. It worked.
With Green Lake coaches, Chuck Moriarity & Frank Cunningham– 1948 CARBOCRAFT EIGHTS SOON MADE THEIR APPEARANCE ON THE West Coast. The first of these was purchased by OSU. Their Lightweights used it to defeat UW on Lake Samish, near Bellingham. I didn’t think much of the way the UW crew were rowing, and felt they would have lost no matter what boat OSU used, but — they had lost to a crew in a Carbo. This was bound to have meaning. After the race, I saw the losing crew huddled around the boat as they gave it the once-over, and sensed a cold wind blowing. That evening I approached Dick and asked his blessing on a project that I had in mind. This was to follow my instincts and begin work on a composite eight-oared shell. Were I to do so, I needed his help in
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 274 SMARTING AT HAVING BEEN BYPASSED, I WAS BLESSED WITH THE unexpected reappearance of an old friend, Bob Lamson. He and I had worked together a few years before while trying to develop a new concept in oar construction — one made from a combination of sliced spruce, Kevlar, fiberglass and epoxy resin. The resulting oar was not too bad, but it was far too much trouble to make, and the effort was abandoned. An aside: Bob’s mother once saved me from what I saw as a fate worse than death. Forced to take piano lessons when I was very young, I showed no talent whatsoever and hated the lessons, the hours of practicing and, especially, the recitals. I often locked myself in the bathroom when I saw Dorothy Eyck, my piano teacher, coming. Mother, concerned by my attitude, asked Mrs. Lamson one Bob Lamson, retired Boeing test pilot, advanced materials expert – circa 1950 evening during a car ride home from church, where the latter had just given a talk on child psychology, “What about Stanley and his testing it. Dick’s response was, “Forget it. I don’t want to fool around piano lessons?” “Is there anything else he enjoys?” Mrs. Lamson asked. with anything like that.” “Oh, my yes! He loves working in the basement, making things.” Taking him at his word, I put the idea on the back burner. Imagine “Well, that’s easy, then. Buy him some tools and encourage him to my surprise and dismay when I received an invitation from the athletic department, the following summer, to attend the christening follow his instincts. The world needs people who can make things at Conibear shellhouse of a new composite shell made in Germany. far more than it needs more piano players.” A retired test pilot for Boeing and a person of infinite curiosity I knew then how the builder in the Harvard boathouse must have felt — some 60 years before — when the coach there ordered two and imagination, Bob had kept himself busy since our abortive oar eights from Dad after the UW, for the first time, won the big race at venture building a pressurized, high-altitude sailplane at home in his Poughkeepsie. That was in 923, the year I was born. Years later, Dad garage. While experimenting with various composite structures for told me of how badly he had felt for the man. He built fine boats and that project, he had learned a great deal. The plane had turned out should never have been bypassed. Here we were, full circle. Perhaps well and was used to set a new high altitude record for sail planes. I must face up to the fact that we had had our turn, and now it was Long since retired, the Alcor was hung on display at the Museum of someone else’s. People will always follow the winner. I knew I could Flight at Boeing Field in Seattle until damaged while being moved. live with that, though there was no more logic to it now than there Bob was sure that some of the know-how that he had developed had been then. Despite my feelings, I went to the christening. As I while building the Alcor could be used to good advantage in racing stood beside Mr. McCurdy — whose money had been used to buy shell construction. He was anxious to work with me. In the face of the boat — he whispered to me, “If I’d known they were going to new developments abroad, I wasn’t about to give up without a fight and took him up on his offer. do this, I would never have given them the money.”
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 275 Our shop was on a 0-hour, four-day week at the time. This gave me Fridays to work with Bob. We decided to go for a coxed four as a first effort. One of our Middlesex hulls was used for the plug. We ran into unexpected hours of effort, but eventually completed what I considered a satisfactory job. With trepidation, we laid up the mold on this plug, hoping that we had done a proper job of applying parting agents to its surface. If we had not, we could end up with nothing but a 43 foot long anchor (made of money) to throw in the bay. The mold came off, though it was a struggle.Next came molds for the interior structure and decks. Knowing as little as we did about the whole process, it seemed an unending task. After much stumbling around, we at last completed what I whimsically chose to call our “C Shell.” The designation, “C,” (for “composite”) was selected because of the several different materials used. These included fiberglass, urethane foam, Kevlar, carbon fiber and epoxy resin. The boat was light, stiff as a poker, and I was happy with it. I loaned the boat to Fil Leanderson, who was now coaching crews at Western Washington University in Bellingham. His crews liked it, and won a race or two using it. One day during practice, the brand new shell was run up, high and dry, on a pile of rocks. They brought it back with no apologies. Amazingly, we found only superficial damage. We patched it up and sold it — for next to nothing — to a fledgling program recently established at the University of Oregon. They used and did well with it, but squawked because the paint wouldn’t stay on. Because our initial results showed promise, we charged ahead and made the mold for an eight. For that plug, we used the hull of what we called our Smoothwater boat. I was fortunate to receive an order for one of the first of these from the women’s coach at the UW, Bob Ernst. In his new position, he had first placed an order for one built in New Zealand. The man he dealt with was new to the shell-building game. He had set up his shop only recently after having served out his apprenticeship in Germany. Months went by, no boat appeared and Bob, seeing no chance that the boat would be ready in time for the racing season, canceled the order. He still had the money — donated to the university by Hunter
Early spring delivery destined for the East Coast – 1978 Simpson and his wife — and showed up at our doorstep, having heard that we were developing the C Shell. His desired date for delivery was near at hand. I told him it would be nip and tuck. He gave me the order anyway. We went right down to the wire, but finished just in time for the unveiling. Christened the Bodacious, the boat was used by the UW women to win several national championships. We sold a few of our new boats because of that, and they were used successfully by various crews. Still, I was not satisfied with those early glass eights. They were heavier than I would have liked and not nearly stiff enough to satisfy the experts. Years before, when the search for the magic boat by rowing coaches in this country was beginning in earnest, I urged those whom I dealt with to approach the search in a rational way. They already knew from past experience how fast our boats could be rowed. Before committing to a new boat, they should demand that their best crew first become that fast in one of ours. That accomplished, they could then put that same crew in whatever new boat they might have bought find out whether they could make that boat go any faster. I
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Getting ready for Henley – 1977
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 277 was confident that such a test would settle any questions about fast or slow boats. They might still stick with whatever other boat they had bought — people often tend to defend their mistakes vehemently — but at least they would be making their choice with no illusions. I remember Charley McIntyre telling of his watching Jack Kelly and his father as they compared one of our singles — used by young Jack to win many races (including two Olympic medals) — with a new boat the elder Kelly had just purchased from Switzerland. Jack would scull over a given distance repeatedly, first in one boat and then in the other, with Mr. Kelly carefully timing each run. When it was all over, the times were so close that the only conclusion to be drawn was that there was no difference between the two boats. Kelly chose the Swiss boat, but only because he liked it, not because he could go faster in it. One couldn’t argue with that. I had to chuckle when our paths crossed at the ‘72 Olympics in Munich. There, he “damned [me] with faint praise” by introducing me to his niece and nephew, the Princess and Prince of Monaco, as the “best builder of racing shells…” then belatedly adding “…in the United States.” To my knowledge, none of the coaches with whom I talked ever tried my suggestion. One coach used his new European boat in what seemed to me to be a counterproductive way. Excusing the poor progress of his crew during the season in our boat, he consoled them by saying that he knew they would start to fly when they climbed into their new European marvel. Maybe that worked. The exhilaration of being in a new boat is undeniable, and the placebo effect of having been told that the boat was fast might have helped the crew row over their heads. One day a fellow, lately from Denmark, dropped into the shop. Now living on Vancouver Island, he was active in a newly-established rowing club near Sydney. Shortly before the start of the Second World War, he had rowed on a good Danish crew. At the European Championships, they were second to the Germans. He and his crew were convinced that they could have beaten those Germans had they had one of our boats to use. They no doubt had in mind Washington’s victory in a Pocock eight at Berlin in 936.
The notion of the magic boat is a nebulous one. Aside from the fleeting exhilaration (and the placebo effect) experienced in using a new or different boat, what determines how fast a boat goes is how the crew rows it. A racing shell never goes fast by itself — the crew makes it go fast. A crew should expect of their boat only one thing: that it enables them to row their best. The skill of the crew is where the true magic lies. With this in mind, the coach must focus on imparting and honing those skills. Undeniably, as a boatbuilder, I relied on “magic” to sell my products — it certainly helped that many crews used Pocock boats to win Olympic medals. Nevertheless, I always tried to make it clear that I thought they must depend on how their crews rowed rather than how fast my boats were. Having confidence in one’s own worth diminishes the risk of being intimidated by gamesmanship. A coach who is a fairly regular winner can sow confusion in the minds of opponents who lack selfconfidence, simply by switching the make of boat he uses from race to race or from season to season. At various times, this shell game has been played using Donoraticos, Stampflis, Karlisches, CarboCrafts, Schoenbrods, Kaschpers, Coffeys, Robinsons, Empachers, Vespolis, Resolutes, even Pococks. Those who tend to buy the brand du jour can be stampeded into jumping from one boat to another to another and made to forget that good rowing is what wins races. JUST TO PROVE THAT NOT ALL MY IDEAS AND PREJUDICES WERE cast in concrete, I can cite two examples of boats seeming to make a difference. We at the UW were always sure that the Loyal Shoudy had something going for her. The Shoudy was one of those rare ones that kept its camber throughout its lifetime. Boats that had significant camber seemed to retain a certain liveliness. We were very big on camber, though some people questioned its value. Ulbrickson liked to see it in the boats we built for him. Stork Sanford at Cornell felt the same. In fact, he kept asking for more until finally, in 1956, he let us know that even he thought we had put in too much.
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 278 What caused a Western red cedar boat to assume camber and retain a certain liveliness or spring over an extended period of time was a mystery. It had something to do with the particular tree the timber came from, as well as with the relative moisture content in the various components that went into the boats. We were never absolutely sure of what we had when building a particular boat until it came off the stocks. Fortunately for us, the coaches with whom we dealt had varying opinions — some preferring no camber at all, while one or two of them actually wanted a reverse camber. (“Hogged” is what we called them — the boats that is — which gives one some idea of what we thought of them.) Anyway, I always thought there was something special about the Shoudy. Another of the UW boats that seemed to have magic to it was the Washingtonia. The third or fourth boat at the shellhouse to have carried that name (I always sensed Dad’s hand in the naming of those, knowing how drawn he was to things smacking of Academe), this latest one was built by us in 948, thinking Al might use it in the Olympic Trials. It was the one I mentioned briefly, in which we had tried substituting glass cloth strips for the usual ribs or frames. Those strips had proven inadequate, and the boat was relegated to a top rack, even after we retrofitted her with ribs. Because the Washingtonia differed from the rest of his shells, Al wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to see all his crews rowing in identical equipment. The boat sat unused for several years before I worked up the nerve to ask Al whether I could use it for the Frosh. He said go ahead. I soon found that it suited whichever crew rowed in it, and we used it successfully in the few races we had that year. Some time later, while reviewing the record of the weekly ham 'n' eggers, I noticed that a surprising percentage had been won by crews using her. Still convinced there was no magic in the rowing game, I had to think for a while. I decided that crews found her more stable because she was wider than our standard boat and — with her V-bottom — sat deeper in the water. This offered a distinct advantage for novice crews — especially of the ham 'n' egger variety. They could attack
their rowing with more abandon, having to worry less about balance. Known by only a few was the fact that the lines of the Washingtonia were exactly those of the John Bracken, used by the UW Frosh to win at Poughkeepsie in 947, and of the shell used by the Naval Academy to win that same year. The only drawback to the design was that it did not perform as well in rough water as did our Standard boat. Luckily for Navy — and our Frosh — the Hudson was calm that day. What it comes down to is this: certain weather and water conditions, along with a crew’s size, can make one boat design better to use than another. That’s why we offered several different hull shapes, ranging from our Standard eights, designed for the rough waters of the Hudson River at Poughkeepsie, to our Lightweight eights, a narrow version of our Standard eight designed for 50s, to our Batt boats (short for “battalion” — the designation used at the Naval Academy for our two-ply molded eights), designed for novice crews, to our Smoothwater boats, designed for skilled crews rowing in good conditions, to our shallow version of the Smoothwater boats, designed specifically for women, to our SuperCedar versions of all of these boats, made entirely of Western red cedar to be as light as possible. I INSISTED THAT THOSE ROWING FOR ME — ESPECIALLY first-year people — must never look at another crew. The only exception to this rule was while they sat at the finish line watching the losers trail across. I didn’t want them to see how the other crews were rowing. I knew of the tendency among rowers to wonder why they weren’t being taught what they saw others doing. I think that I convinced the Frosh with whom I worked that to avoid doing this made sense. (At any rate, they pretended to follow my dictates.) Later, working with the more experienced people at the Lake Washington Rowing Club, I didn’t make such an issue of it. Perhaps I should have. This was brought to mind after seeing for the first time the squareblade drill. It was being performed by a Russian four in Rome. I thought they were trying to kid us. I said to someone standing nearby,
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 279 the Canadian eight after the latter’s blade-work came unglued due to the up-and-down vertical motion the crew had learned while doing their square blade drills.
I
UW JVs win at Henley – 1978 – Gary Evans, Eric Watne, Gary Dohrn, Guy Lawrence, Dave Lauber, Ed Ives, John Christiansan, Blair Horn, Brad Schock “I’ll bet they stop that as soon as they’re out of sight.” A few minutes later, I spied our straight four going by, doing the same drill: They had to have been looking at the Russians. I blew my stack. After they returned to shore — though I had no megaphone at hand to bash up to emphasize my displeasure— I read them the riot act. They learned, in no uncertain terms, that I would much rather see them simultaneously rubbing their heads and patting their bellies. That would be just as good a way of developing coordination and would not destroy their rowing technique. My feeling was that the square-blade drill had to be destructive to good rowing Of course, now — 40 years later — the square-blade drill is widely practiced. Some of the crews who use it become fast. Jack Frailey, back in 976, might have been right: Perhaps I am oldfashioned. But, I have seen some crews with decent potential ruined by coaches who fall into what I call the politically correct approach to rowing. From what I saw in the video of the Finals of the men’s eight at the Barcelona Games, the charging Germans almost caught
N OCTOBER, 978, LOIS AND I FLEW TO NEW ZEALAND FOR the World Championships. Our itinerary called for several weeks of sight-seeing prior to the regatta. Upon our arrival in Aukland, we were told by the Customs and Immigration agent that we couldn’t stay in New Zealand for as long as we had planned. Our travel agent had apparently not known that 30 days was the limit for any single visit. This meant our having to miss the races unless we decided to stay permanently, and we weren’t about to do that. Our only purpose in visiting New Zealand in the first place was to see the regatta. If we were forced to shorten our stay, we would not only miss the races, but would have to pay a bundle to reschedule our nonrefundable return tickets. What could we do? The agent suggested that we hop over to Australia for a few days. After taking in the sights there for a few days, we could return to watch the regatta that we had come so far to see. That way, the length of our visit would be cut down enough to satisfy the rules. I found this a perfect example of bureaucratic thinking, but decided to go along with it. The trip to Sydney and back would cost extra, of course, but not near what rearranging our flight home would. I rushed over to the Australian consul’s office, and they were happy to issue the necessary visas. I was glad, afterward, that we were forced to take that side trip. There was a major regatta scheduled in the town of Penrith, some 40 miles out of Sydney. It was a tune-up for crews planning to take part in the Worlds in New Zealand later in the month, and most of the major countries would be there. We rented a car and arrived in Penrith intact, despite having to become acquainted with the wrong-side-of-
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 280 the-road driving. We were lucky to find perfect accommodations. A late cancellation gave us a motel room on the shore of the course, right at the finish line. Excellent TV coverage of the regatta allowed us to watch the start of each race and follow it until the crews hove in sight. We could then trot out on our balcony, drinks in hand, to see the finish. Several American crews — both men and women — were there, but they did not fare as well as we had hoped. While wandering around the boat tents our first day there, I ran into Ernie Arlett. He presently lived in Florida, having retired from his coaching job at Northeastern. He seemed unusually depressed, and I asked him what was bothering him. He said it was our scullers: They were terrible, and he could do nothing to help them. Though he was on the books as the sculling coach of U.S. team, he could see no reason to be there. He said that if his wife had not been looking forward to the trip so much, he would have resigned long since. Earlier that year, after accepting the coaching position, he had flown up to Boston, where the scullers were training. One of them picked him up at the airport. On the way into town the young man said to him, “Ernie, we’re glad to have you come with us. Just don’t try to tell us anything. We already know what we’re doing. Just leave it that way!” He was probably right in saying that, insulting though it might have appeared to be. Ernie said he had been sorely tempted to have the fellow turn the car around and take him back to the airport. Having second thoughts, he decided to stay, thinking he might yet be of some help. Such was not to be the case. Now, hating what they were doing to their boats and to themselves, he was embarrassed lest someone think he had something to do with the way they were sculling. I could see Ernie’s problem from both sides. For someone to succeed in changing the way people already row, try as he might, is a long shot at best. Cunningham tried it when he traveled to Europe with the team. He was squashed by those who ought to have been hanging on his every word. Even if the advice is sought, as was the case with Jack Kelly and Dad in 956, it will still do little or no good. Habits ingrained by months or years of practice are bound to return when
the rower becomes exhausted in the latter stages of a race. Only the coach who has worked with a crew constantly throughout one or more seasons has a chance: no one else does. Money spent to send a coach who has not worked extensively with the crew or crews involved is money wasted. Still, attending regattas can be a great learning experience for a young coach. He might have to put his convictions — should he have any — on hold, but, by just hanging around with his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut as he watches what goes on, he can benefit. Other than that, cheering people up is about all he can hope to do to earn his keep.
Blades of all nations – which shape is the fastest? – circa 1988 HOWARD CROKER, THE AUSTR ALIAN OAR MAKER, WAS IN Penrith. He and I had run across each other occasionally over the years. I found him an enterprising young man. We drove with him and his family along the coast to Oxley Island, where he had recently relocated his plant. He had done this with the help of an interesting program financed by the Australian government. Any manufacturer
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 281 who was willing to move his operation away from a densely populated urban center received favorable grants and other assistance. Howard and I had a great visit, even spending one night out in the bush at a logging operation. Thanks to him, I saw where ironbark timber comes from. One of the hundreds of varieties of Eucalyptus native to Australia, ironbark was used by us to reinforce the backs of our racing oars. I had brought pictures of our operation in the States and of the oars we manufactured using that timber. The loggers were amazed that such beautiful products could be made from the timber they were wrestling out of the forest by brute force. In Australia, ironbark is used mainly in construction as studs, joists and beams. That night, after a couple of quarts of beer apiece, we spent several hours looking for wombats to chase through the forest. I never saw one, though some of the others claimed they did. I wondered if I were not being made victim of something similar to the snipe hunts of Boy Scout days. On our return to Sydney, Lois and I went to some of the places where all tourists go including, of course, the famous Sydney Opera House. I dropped by the Sydney Rowing Club, but saw no familiar faces. Somehow, both of us caught a bug which had developed into low-grade pneumonia by the time we arrived back in New Zealand. WE DIDN’T SEE NEARLY ENOUGH OF THAT LOVELY COUNTRY, though we did visit the Bay of Islands. In the museum there, we saw a half-scale replica of the HMS Resolution, used by Captain Cook on two of his extensive voyages of exploration in the late 1700s. While browsing about, I noticed a marine chart of the bay. Prominent on it were Mount Pocock and Cape Pocock. Through the window and the mist, I could just make them out across the bay. As we were leaving, I signed the guest book and mentioned to the lady at the desk about the coincidence. Excitedly, she said they hadn’t had anything like this happen in a long time. Were we willing to wait, she could run home to get her copy of Cook’s log. She wanted to show us the entry telling of his visit to the bay.
It was pouring rain outside, but, paying our remonstrances no heed, she grabbed her umbrella and trotted off. After not too long a time, she was back, dripping wet and out of breath, with the big book under her cape. Searching through it, she eventually came across the entry in which Cook had recorded his naming the mountain and cape for his good friend, Admiral Sir George Pocock. This was the self-same Hero of Havana whose portrait I had sought without success while visiting the Maritime Museum at Greenwich. Later, I learned that the portrait I sought did indeed exist. Sy Cromwell, the sculler, saw it when he was admitted to the sanctum sanctorum of an exclusive rowing club in Buenos Aires. There, he was shown the vast collection of silver trophies from a bygone era and Sir George, hanging on the wall. Not much better than a pirate himself, the admiral was probably lucky not to have been pictured hanging from a gibbet instead. (Family tradition has it that he was a pirate.) We stayed several days in Auckland with Sir William and Lady Ruby Stevenson. Mr. Stevenson was the salt of the earth and usually played down his knighthood, but one evening he showed me a large oil painting of himself in knightly regalia that he kept hidden in a back room closet. A shrewd and successful contractor and businessman, Alf was also one of the most openhanded men whom one could ever hope to meet. Now semiretired and with time on his hands, he took us to see examples of his largesse. Among these were a church, a retirement village for war veterans, swimming pools in towns that he had discovered had none, and the rowing club of which he was the sole source of support. He told me he liked to stay away from the office as much as he could, Whenever he showed up, half his day was spent listening to people with their hand out. It was hard for him to let go for he was often on the radiophone talking to his two sons, who now ran the business, just to keep them on their toes. We flew in his private plane to the sheep ranch he was developing on South Island. The New Zealand government provided tax incentives to anyone who could show how to make profitable use of land considered useless. Gorse, a ground cover native to England
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 282 and introduced into New Zealand by some misguided soul, had flourished in the fertile volcanic soil, rendering unusable much of the undeveloped land on the South Island. Alf had taken over many thousands of acres to find out what he could accomplish. He owned heavy earth-moving equipment — machinery left over from a major job that his company had recently completed, These were just the thing for the task. They were used to gouge out the gorse that was as much as 20 feet deep in places. With it torn out and the land cleared, he planted turnips to hold back the gorse and provide fodder for the sheep which he brought in. I asked him how many. He said they had 60,000 lambs drop the previous spring. He planned on building the herds up to around 250,000. We arrived at La ke K a r a pi ro a nd f ou nd Don Rowla nd s, who wa s in cha rge of t he regatta. Rowlands was the New Zealand sculler whom I had watched and admired at the 954 BEG in Va ncouver. I had last seen him in 975 when he visited us at our beach place as he passed through Seattle on his Sir William & Lady Ruby Stevenson
way to meet with FISA officials at its headquarters in Switzerland. He was planning to present a proposal by the New Zealand Rowing Association. They wanted to host the 978 FISA Championships. It had seemed such a long shot that I was surprised when, a year later, I heard that the competition had indeed been awarded to New Zealand. Apparently, what had clinched the deal was their promise to buy all the rowing equipment brought into New Zealand for the regatta. This would save the visiting countries enough money to make the long trip feasible. Little thought was given to the effect that such a wholesale purchase would have on Bob Stiles, their only shell-builder. All those boats were certain to flood the New Zealand market for years. I visited Stiles at his shop in the town of Christ Church. The first thing I noticed as I walked in the door was that he was making the stems and sterns of his boats the same nontraditional way I made mine. I had devised the system several years before as a labor-saving innovation. He must have seen it during his visit to Seattle in 972. The most arresting sight in the shop was the matte finish on his boats. This gave them a sleek, unblemished look that was eye-catching. Sighting along the bottom of one of them, I saw what I knew I would find: the hulls were every bit as irregular as plywood hulls tend to be. I looked at him and laughingly commented, “a dull finish sure hides the lumps.” He good-naturedly agreed, but added that anyone who saw an example of the matte finish demanded the same on any boat they ordered. Many people think that a dull finish causes less friction because it feels so smooth to the touch. I prefer a glossy finish. While water on a shiny surface tends to bead up and run off, water on a wet-sanded or matte surface simply spreads out and stays put. This indicates to me that such a surface on a racing shell probably drags water as it moves along, rather than slipping past it. That said, I must say that wet-sanding the bottom of a boat before a race does little harm and helps settle nervous stomachs. I once made the mistake of opening a book on the science of racing shells and rowing. The writer began his preface by advising his readers “I don’t know anything about rowing, but….” I slammed the
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 283 book shut. “But,” indeed! Perhaps he talked about drag, but I’ll never know. His opening words tickled me almost as much as the report I later read, presented by another expert. This man used a system of computerized graphics with which he analyzed the actions of athletes in motion — golfers, baseball players and, to my surprise, oarsmen. His aim was to show athletes how to improve their performance. From what he had observed relative to an oarsman in motion, he made some reasonably cogent recommendations. His statement, however, that “an eight-oared shell will only move its fastest when the crew has two oars on the drive at any given moment” drove me to shut that book as well. He obviously did not know that the British, who will try anything, had attempted the same trick many years before, only to discover that it didn’t work. This should have been no surprise. Speaking of what gimmicks the British will try, I saw an interesting innovation at the 976 Olympics in Montreal. Their pair-oared crew had oars outfitted with adjustable buttons that could be moved in or out. They could shift gears while rowing — that is, change their workload — with a lever on the handle of each oar. They did not win a medal, so the scheme will probably never be seen again. The suggestion might have had merit. I have seen many races lost by crews who simply petered out in the last 500 meters of a race because they were overloaded. If the load — tolerable in the early stages of a race — grows too great for tired oarsmen, form deteriorates and their boat inevitably slows down. While bad pacing or poor conditioning might be contributing causes, seeking relief by shortening up is the prime culprit. In the same vein, I think it a great mistake to force smaller rowers to shorten up by increasing the spread of the rigger and moving the oar buttons out. This lightens the load, of course, but the resulting shorter reach is devastating. Decreasing the load as the rower tires warrants consideration. I once fantasized over making a blade that would partially melt away, thus decreasing the load on the crew in the latter stages of a race. Full reach and solid blade-work could be maintained. Frivolous though the idea seems, I think it has possibilities.
Another spasm of thought I experience during an occasional restless night is to have the cox’n slide fore and aft in unison with the crew. He — or she — could be fitted out with a sliding seat on tracks. If it is true that the moving weight within a boat can help a crew move faster, as I have come to believe, we are missing a grand opportunity. At present,, a crew has to drag the weight of both boat and cox’n forward as they move up during the recovery. Were the cox’n able to move in unison with the crew, his weight would become a part of the mass which keeps the whole system moving ahead. The cox’n then would truly be one with the crew because his physical action was actually increasing the speed of the boat, not slowing it down. This is another of my ideas that causes eyes to spin and heads to shake. Were it ever tried, and the crew using such a boat happened to win a race, the innovation would probably be banned immediately. Such a ban would be justified. By moving back and forth, the cox’n would be expending energy, even with no oar to pull. We would be looking at a nine rather than an eight. Still, it would be an interesting experiment. The moving weight of the oarsman within a racing shell only appears to be a deterrent to speed. Such a conclusion is logical enough when one sees the bow of a boat dip down at the finish of the drive. The single with a fixed seat and moving outriggers was an interesting attempt to overcome this effect. Tried by the Germans as far back as the 920s, it was resurrected and tried in this country some 50 years later. Scullers who otherwise had a hard time beating anyone, began winning races using fixed seats and moving riggers. To some, this was evidence enough that such a setup was faster. What was happening, of course, was the elimination of the need for one of the skills that enables the good sculler to make a boat go fast. The dip of the bow is caused, not by weight sliding into it, but, rather, by the downward force imparted to the boat by the bad sculler, accompanied, as it usually is, by his washing out at the end of the drive. The good sculler never bobs his boat, but takes advantage of the positive effect gained by the fore-and-aft movement of his weight within the boat. This, by good fortune, was recognized, and the sliding rigger was soon banned.
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UW Varsity, 1977 winners of the Henley Grand Challenge Cup, defeating Cal in Montlake Cut – 1978 – left to right: Jesse Franklin, Ron Jackman, Mark Miller, Ross Parker, Mark Sawyer, Terry Fisk, Mark Umlauf, Mike Hess, John Stillings
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 285 below freezing — and only permitted him to take a stroke or two before pulling him back. They were scheduled next for a patrol in Arctic waters, and he hoped to claim the distinction of being the only man ever to scull in both Arctic and Antarctic waters.
Sculling on McMurdo Sound, Antarctica ONE MORNING I WAS SITTING IN THE OFFICE WHEN A YOUNG Coast Guard officer came in. He introduced himself as being the one to whom we had sent a fiberglass training single the previous year. He was currently stationed aboard an icebreaker, Polar Star, due to head out from Seattle for an extended voyage to Antarctica. He had persuaded his skipper to allow him to take his single along. He hoped to be the first man to scull in Antarctic waters and wanted to know whether I thought the boat would be OK in such cold conditions. While I knew that resins grow brittle when cold, I thought that the glass fibers would retain their strength and told him so. I suggested, however, that he might be wise to stay close to the ship. As he walked out the door, I grabbed one of our T-shirts and caught up with him to ask whether he would wear it as he sculled among the penguins, seals and whales. He promised to send me a picture. Months later, a large envelope arrived. In it were shots of the man wearing the Pocock T-shirt as he sculled on McMurdo Sound, Antarctic ice shelf looming in the background. His skipper had been extremely nervous about the venture — the temperature of the sea was actually three degrees
PRIOR TO THE OLYMPICS IN 984, SOMEONE CAME OUT WITH a transparent plastic film covered with microgrooves. The material was meant to reduce the skin friction generated by space vehicles as they moved through the atmosphere on their way into outer space. Apparently it had helped. In a search for broader markets, it had also been applied to the bottom of power boats with some success. The idea occurred to someone that it would be a great way to speed up racing shells. With only enough material to cover one four, they asked the crew of our coxless four, considered by the experts to need the most help, if they wanted it on their boat. They said no. They wanted to succeed, of course, but they would do it on their own. The crew of our coxed four agreed to have it put on theirs. No one asked whether it was legal. By the rules, since the film had not been available on the open market for the requisite two years, it should have been banned. The four with the magic bottom on their boat made the Finals, where they led in the early stages. In the last few hundred meters, the British crew put on the pressure. Steaming by our four, they went on to win. A fine crew, the Brits had not let the NASA material on the Yanks’ boat bother them. Theoretically, it should have allowed that crew to go faster, but, with the low speed one finds in rowing, its effect had to be minimal at best. One aid to human performance that I believe could be applied in rowing is the sound of music. This idea came from something I observed at a dance downtown when I was still in college. It was not at the ill-fated VBC Ball of my senior year, but, rather, when my date and I went to hear Woody Herman and his Woodchoppers that same year. We were pressed up against the bandstand and, from where I stood, I could only see the feet of the members of the band. From
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RAMs (Really Ancient Mariners) on Lake Union, Seattle – circa 1992 From the bow: Carl Harris, John Aberle, Bill Meyer, John Sundqvist, Lyman hull, Guy Harper, Rod Johnson, Bill Cameron, Paul Brown one side of the platform to the other, they were tapping absolutely in unison. None of the band was watching the leader. The rhythm of the music kept them in time. It was not until years later that the significance of what I had seen struck me. What a great way to assure perfect timing in a crew! The sound of music has other attributes. When I was very young, I saw a movie short that featured Ted Lewis and his band. It pictured an incident that supposedly took place during the Great War. An exhausted squad of men were straggling back from heavy action. Just when it looked as though they weren’t going to make it back to the safety of the trenches, good old Ted showed up. He lined his band up in front of the platoon and struck up a march. In no time, the men were “hut-two-three-four”-ing along, singing and whistling with all thought of pain and exhaustion gone. They made it back in jig time, probably just in time to go out on the next patrol. Lewis was awarded a medal. A somewhat similar theme was depicted in the movie, The Bridge on the River Kwai, years later. Music lifts the spirit, and rowers could benefit from that.
After the 960 Trials, Swetnam and I went down to see the Big Apple. We spent the whole day of one day walking from one end of Manhattan Island to the other. We were up by the Columbia boathouse looking around when we suddenly realized that we were pooped. It was a hot day. Thinking it would be even hotter down in the subway, we decided to hoof it back to our hotel, which was clear down on 42ⁿd Street. We were dragging along, feeling sorry for ourselves, when I suggested that we try whistling a tune. We did — don’t remember what it was — and it worked. Anyone watching us probably thought we were nuts, but it was worth it. We saved the five-cent subway fare, worked up a great sweat and felt like a million bucks afterward. Another music yarn: I was resting on the bank of the Seneca River at Syracuse, enjoying a respite from the goings-on around the boathouses. Far up the creek, I saw an eight coming my way. The mishmash of blade colors told me it was a pickle boat. For a pickup crew, they appeared to be going along quite well. As the shell drew near, I could hear someone in the boat singing “Play Mister Banjo.” It was my dad, who was riding in the cox’n’s seat. The crew were
X – “Twenty to Go!” (1976–1984) – 287 swinging along in perfect time. I ran back to the floats to assist them in landing. The stroke was a fellow named Bob Thomas, whom I had coached as a freshman. Now a senior, he had never lettered, but was here as a spare. Bubbling over, he bounced out of the boat, saying, “That was the best boat I ever rowed in!” Again, it was the music. The trick would be to find the right music. It’s out there somewhere, and if ever found it could work miracles. While in Montreal for the ‘76 Games, I broached the subject to one of the officials of the Women’s Team. It was soon apparent that she was looking for a graceful means of escape, so I shut up. Years later, I suggested to Guy Harper, now rowing with the Ancient Mariners Rowing Club, that he try to rig up something to pipe music into one of their boats. In response to my suggestion, Guy went to the trouble of setting up a sound system. We tried various tunes, but nothing suitable was found. It was near Christmas, so he put in a tape of carols. These didn’t help the timing or speed of the crew — the chances of that ever happening were practically nil, regardless of the tune — but, when combined with the Christmas lights strung along the gunwales, their early morning rows during that holiday season were the hit of Portage Bay. SEEKING TO ESCAPE THE DUST AND SMELLS OF OUR FIBERGLASS operation, I started sculling at noon with Jim Fifer. He had shut down his business in Lake Oswego and was living in Seattle. For a year or two, we took out the Thames River double each day instead of eating lunch at Voula’s. We had many enjoyable outings, and I began to feel fit once more. One day, I suggested that we do the quick run up the slide combined with the pause at full reach that had seemed to work so well with LWRC crews in the past.We went at it and Jim was amazed at the result. He said it felt to him as though we were surfing on the crest of a wave. The only other time I persuaded anyone to try this was during a workout early one morning when I was still rowing with the Ancient
Iron men and women, Glass boats – circa 1987 Mariners in Seattle. This was a few weeks after our futile experiments with music. As we prepared to head back into the Seattle Yacht Club float, I suggested that we try this scheme. For some reason, everyone agreed. I think it was the only time that ever happened. Because we did not have far to go, the crew entered in with a will. We were scooting along when our cox’n began to yell. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but, when we were back on the float, he was jumping all over the place. He said he had never felt anything like it. I suspected that he probably never would again, at least not with this outfit. To make a shell go fast, everyone in the crew has to be willing — and able — to work like the dickens. Most of us, by the age of 65 or 70, have learned to depend upon too many defense mechanisms. Rowing “all out”, even for short periods, just doesn’t seem the sane or sensible thing to do. Also, old fellas of that age — thick through the middle and stiff with their years — are handicapped by thinking they must row with rigging and oars designed for virile young men who don’t even know their own strength.
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Into the Montlake Cut – circa 1954
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CHAPTER XI
R
“Ten to Go!” (1987–1992)
OWING AND CANOEING EVENTS FOR THE 984 LOS ANGELES he had bought from Yale University for a song. For a temperature Olympic Games were scheduled for Lake Casitas. This indicator, it had a bit of copper tubing sticking up through the front site - some 60 miles up the coast from L.A. - was chosen hood. When steam started squirting out of the tube, we knew it was despite the advice of many rowing people who felt that there were time to stop for water. On bald tires - only one of them let go on the better places in the region. Conn Findlay would be helping with trip - we reached the lake. the television coverage of the T he boat s were qu ic k ly assembled - I only lost one of races and wrote asking me to join him. Conn’s wrenches - and we soon Several months earlier, he had settled into our daily routine. been awarded the contract to The training and racing had to build two catamarans for ABC be done early in the day, to avoid TV. The boats were needed for the onshore winds that built up broadcasting the events - both around 0 in the morning. As a row ing a nd c a noeing - on result, our daily activities began Casitas. As his work on the long before dawn. The T V boats proceeded, Conn had kept cameras aboard each cat had me abreast of his progress. Each to be warmed up well ahead of cat was made by joining the time, and this meant our leaving hulls of two old eights - relics the hotel in Oxnard around 4 of which he owned a number. a.m. The early start shut down any nighttime activities - except One of them, the Washingtonia II, was a shell I had sweated in Look out, we’re coming home! for those of the TV camera men. while an undergraduate at the They didn’t let the schedule UW. Curious to see how its reincarnation had turned out, I jumped interfere with their social life. I had the feeling that they never slept, at the chance and flew down to Redwood City. Conn had done a until I noticed that they took turns during the day, some sleeping fine job, and the catamarans looked great. Each craft was powered while the others worked. A happy-go-lucky bunch, they were fun to by two 60-horse outboards and could make 30 knots with virtually be around. I had, however, no desire to keep pace with them, nor no wake - of critical concern around fragile shells and canoes. We did I even try. Being addressed as “Pop” only once by one of them trailered the dismantled boats to Lake Casitas using an old van that took care of that.
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 290 was the commentator riding with us. Dick has his tongue hung in the middle, and, by radio, gave stirring and entertaining accounts of the races for the crowds in the grandstands at the finish line. Conn had me ride with him. He was boss of the catamaran operation, and this allowed us to juggle the schedule to our liking. For the last day’s races, we were especially interested in three events: the men’s eight, single and double.
Conn Findlay’s catamaran - Lake Casitas - 1984
AMERICA’S RECORD AT THE 984 GAMES THROUGHOUT WAS somewhat better than in recent Olympiads. This performance was helped, to some degree, by the absence of most of the Eastern Bloc countries. They had stayed away in retaliation for the U.S. boycott of the 980 Games in Moscow. This made it easier for some of our crews, but the competition was intense, nonetheless. Romanian crews, despite their political affiliation, showed up. With the exception of the eight-oared event, their women dominated the rowing. Our women’s eight, coached by Bob Ernst of the University of Washington and steered by Betsy Beard, ex-UW cox’n, broke the Romanians’ string of victories and won their cherished Gold Medals. An interesting sidelight to that race was the performance of the Dutch women. Initially, there were only five eights entered. To fill out the field, regatta officials prevailed upon the Dutch to enter a pickup crew. This meant that some, if not all, of the women racing in their eight would likely have already raced that day in a previous event. This wasn’t as bad as it sounds, because women were still racing only 000 meters in the Olympics. They earned third-place Bronzes. Their success might have been attributable to the fact that members of their crew had raced previously that day, and that served as a proper warm up for them. In my opinion, crews tend to spend far too little time warming up.
ONE GOOD ASPECT TO OUR EARLY SCHEDULE WAS THAT, WITH all rowing activity over by 11 in the morning, we had afternoons and evenings (abbreviated though they were by the need for our early rising) to ourselves. Despite the long drive, we went down to the Los Angeles Coliseum several times to see other events of the Games. In addition to the two TV cameras mounted on each catamaran, a number of them were placed at strategic spots along the shore. The coverage was thorough, but virtually none of the broadcasts were destined to appear on American television. This gives one an idea of what TV producers think of the place that rowing has in the minds of the American viewing public. Fortunately, the broadcasts were taped and sent to Europe via satellite. Kent Mitchell, also on hand to help Conn, wangled a tape of the entire affair. The schedule of races, compressed to allow each day’s events to be JOHN BIGLOW QUALIFIED. AS A YOUNGSTER, JOHN HAD ROWED run off before the wind began to blow, left little time between races. for Cunningham at Lakeside School. From there, he went on to Yale, Hence, the need for two boats: One to accompany a race, while the other returned to the starting line to cover the next one. Dick Erickson where he excelled, not only as a student, but also as an oarsman. When
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 291 academic demands precluded his trying out for the Yale eight, he turned to sculling. After many miles under the tutelage of McIntyre and Cunningham, he learned to scull well enough to take third at the World Championships in 982. He was now our premier sculler. Brad Lewis and Paul Enquist, finalists in the double, had an interesting history. I knew Paul well. He, after having rowed at Washington State, had taken up sculling at the Lake Washington Rowing Club. There, under the tutelage of Cunningham and McIntyre, he learned well. He became good enough to catch the eye of National Sculling Camp recruiters. There he met Lewis, another good man. After enduring the rigors of camp life for some weeks, both ended up being rejected. Too proud and stubborn to accept the judgment of the experts, they had joined forces in a determined effort to prove them wrong. They made their point by winning the Trials. We were happy to see the men’s eight qualify. A selected national camp crew, they were coached by Kris Korzeniowski. They had done well in tune-up races in Europe and stood a good chance of winning, though the crews from New Zealand, Australia and Canada were sure to keep them honest. LAKE CASITAS IS A RESERVOIR, PART OF THE LOS ANGELES WATER system. Because of environmental concerns, only a limited number of people - 0,000- were allowed near it at any one time. Surprisingly large crowds showed up each day - much larger than what I would have expected in this country, where rowing holds so little public favor. This unprecedented interest in rowing events could only be attributed to a last-minute media blitz in the L.A. area. When it became known that tickets were available, the Coliseum and other popular venues were quickly sold out. Sports enthusiasts then had to settle for less popular events, rowing being one of these. Sellouts were the result, even on the day when only repêchage heats were run, something never seen in Europe. From what I was told, twice as many tickets could have been sold.
Medalists Betsy Beard (gold) & John Stillings (silver) - L.A. Olympics - 1984 On the days leading up to the Finals, the morning fog cleared away in time for the races to begin on schedule. On the day of the Finals, however, it decided to hang around. Everyone worried that the wind would come up before the races were even started and ruin everything. At last, the visibility improved enough for the starters to at least see the crews at the starting line, and the racing began.
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 292 Biglow had a tough time of it. Bothering by a sore back, off and on, all year, the trouble had cropped up. Burdened by this handicap, he finished out of the money. As mentioned earlier, our four with John Stillings (UW), cox, had to be satisfied with Silver. The U.S. coxed pair - stroke Robert Espeseth (Wisconsin), bow Kevin Still (UCLA) and cox’n Doug Herland (PLU) - finished third. U.S. men were still looking for something other than Silver and Bronze when it came time for the men’s doubles event. Enquist and Lewis had the outside lane right next to our catamaran, thus affording me 50-yard line seats. In the early stages of the race, our prospects didn’t looked none too good - unless one knew something about racing. Though well behind the leaders, they were a stroke or two under the rest and looked to be well within themselves. The Belgians led most of the way. Going into the last 2- or 300 meters, they began to look worried, and with good cause. Paul and Brad were closing while holding their stroke about the same. The Belgians panicked and raised their stroke to sprint for home. In doing so, they shortened their reach and - inevitably - slowed down. Keeping it long, Paul raised the stroke a beat or two, and he and Brad went right on by to win. It was a classic example of how to row a race. Hard on your supporters, perhaps, but murderous on your opponents. Our men’s eight were confident of victory. They failed to give Canada the respect they deserved, however, and paid too much attention to New Zealand, who had received considerable pre-race support. Busy worrying about the NZ All Blacks, our crew let the sleeper, Canada, gain too large a lead in the early stages of the race. One rarely hears, at a crew race, such a volume of cheers as that which poured from the stands as the two crews sprinted for home. Despite the crowd’s heartfelt urging, the U.S. crew, in their last desperate dash for the finish line, failed to make up the deficit. To have come so close, only to fail by a hair’s breadth, was heartbreaking. One ached for them as they mourned their loss. Meanwhile, the third place Australians were the picture of exhilaration and good fellowship, elated at having beaten New Zealand, their arch rivals.
IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER THE LOS ANGELES GAMES THAT I BEGAN seriously to look for someone to take over my shell-building business. Neither of my two sons seemed interested in carrying it on, although the older one, Chris, had worked for me off and on. My daughter, Susan, would have made an excellent administrator, but she also showed no interest. It was tempting to shut the place down and walk away, but I wanted to keep it going for the sake of the gang. Over the years, I had been blessed with these capable, creative, hard-working men. Bob Brunswick had worked in the shop almost as long as I, and was an artist at the machines and with hand tools. Don Norman was a marvel at devising the various jigs needed for fabricating parts. Dan Raetzloff, our oar maker, was the epitome of a dedicated, trusted man. Jerry Norman could be counted on to tell me where in the shop even the most obscure, seldom-used tool or part could be found. Denny Deusen, our machinist, was a genius when it came to devising methods for raining out the many metal bits and pieces that we needed. Ed Van Mason, with his ever-cheerful disposition, was a life saver up in the office. Others who had gone before - Don Huckle, our trusted lead man when I was away, Ormand Koskela, whom I missed more than words can say when he had to leave, Hilmar, David, Charlie, Mel, Mike and of course, the Old Master himself - all had left their indelible mark on me, on my feelings for the shop and on what I was trying to accomplish there. In no way could I let their legacy disappear. After a false start or two, I had about given up hope when a likely-looking prospect - a sculler whom Dad had once coached - appeared. I had first heard of Bill Tytus in the mid-960s, when he and four of his classmates were given permission by Lakeside School to go to the East Coast. Seniors, they rowed together as a coxed four. Their ambition was to invade New England, the hotbed of interscholastic rowing. They were encouraged by their class advisor to organize and
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The Shop & the Gang “Building Boats To Help Build People”
Ed Van Mason at his desk
The Old Master
Jerry Norman
Mike Rados & Ordy Koskela
Framing a four - Mel Graham in front, author in back
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Top left: Bob Brunswick Top right: Don Norman, atop the load Marietta, Ohio Bottom right: Denny Deusen Bottom left: Dan Raetzloff
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The gang - 1975 - left to right, back row: Stan Pocock, George Pocock, Rick Van Winkle, Chris Pocock, Jerry Norman, Bob Brunswick, Don Norman, Harry Kirschner, Ed Van Mason; front row: Dan Raetzloff, Mike Rados, Gary Rathe, Ordy Koskela, Denny Deusen
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Top left: Author, Royal Brougham & George Pocock top middle: shop entrance by Lake Union; top right: crated oars ready to be shipped bottom left; Hilmar Lee, Mac MacNaught & George Pocock in old shop; bottom right: the shop on Lake Union
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 297 McIntyre, Jim Gardiner and Dad, Bill became an excellent sculler. In 969, he sculled for the Diamonds at Henley. He reached the Finals, only to lose to a very fine East German sculler. A year or two later he represented the U.S. at the Pan Am Games. After graduation from the UW, he went into teaching and spent some years in the Boston school system. While there, he and some of his associates filmed A Symphony of Motion, a haunting, evocative film on the beauties of sculling. Whenever I chanced to see Bill as the years rolled by, he talked of coming back to Seattle with a bucketful of money to take over the shop. After the untimely death of his wife, Anne, he moved his two children, Kate and John, out to be near their grandparents. Once he had settled in, the two of us sat down and worked an agreement for him to take over the shop.
Bill Tytus & George Pocock at Henley - 1969 carry out this foray as their Senior Project. The trip was organized by the boys themselves, and they went off with no chaperones. They raced several different schools and beat them all. Tytus stroked that crew. Upon graduation, all five went east to college. Bill rowed one year for Steve Gladstone at Princeton, where he stroked a successful Frosh eight. After that, he came back to Seattle and the UW. He turned out for the Varsity squad, but, disappointed by what was going on there, took up sculling. Under the watchful eyes of Charley
WHILE BILL WAS BECOMING ACQUAINTED WITH OPERATIONS IN the shop, I kept myself busy making the molds for a fiberglass version of our Roughwater coxed four. This was the model used by the only U.S. crew to ever win that Olympic event up until that time. This boat had a teardrop shape that could carry two very big men in the bow and still ride out onto the water when rowed properly. With the men in the game growing ever bigger, I thought there might be some demand for such a boat, but it turned out to be a waste of time. The swing was toward hell-diving boats that were very fine forward. Current coaches seemed more comfortable with the bow stuck down in the water, rather than riding up on the surface where it ought to be. I received a call one day from Dan Ayrault out at Lakeside School, where he was now headmaster. Though considered by many to be too young for the job at the time of his hiring, he had long since proven them wrong. He supported the Lakeside rowing program and even coached their crews for a time. One of their crews had speared a fishing boat with their brand-new eight, the Parents’ Pride. No one was injured in the collision, but the shell was a mess. He asked
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 298 whether I had the time to patch it up. They were especially upset because the boat was hardly out of the box. I was upset, too, because it had not yet been paid for. I told him to have someone bring it in, and I would see what could be done. When I saw the damage, it was evident why they were upset. Its bow completely broken off just forward of the bow seat, the boat was indeed in need of major surgery. Thinking that here was another good chance to prove that these new composite structures could be quickly repaired, I flew at it. When working on a wooden boat, with its clear finish, one can’t hide anything. All is there for the world to see. Repairing one takes an artist who knows what he is doing. When fixing a boat made of fiberglass, carbon fiber, foam and resin, one can hide the repair work with paint. Within a couple of days the Pride was looking as good as new, and I gave Dan a call. Delighted that it was ready so soon, he asked how much the repairs would cost. I told him there would be no charge. All I wanted was for him to have the cox’n come in for a lecture. A Lakeside instructor brought the young girl into my office the next day. Frightened out of her wits, the youngster obviously expected a rip-roaring tirade from me. Appalled by the manner in which too many coaches were in the habit of treating their people, I didn’t plan on falling into that trap - she had punished herself enough already. Following my coaching approach of always trying to avoid saying what was expected, I gave her a calm and reasoned talk, reminding her of the primary reason for cox’ns being in the boats - their eyes - and of the grave responsibilities that were theirs. She could scarcely hide her relief at having been let off the hook so easily. I still felt that my working on the boat for nothing had been time well spent: hardly the way to pay the bills, but good for my psyche. Several days later she called. Excitedly, she told me that she had just received her letter of acceptance from Yale University, where she planned to turn out as a cox’n. Years later, I learned that she had enjoyed a successful academic and rowing career there. I never heard of her wrecking any more boats.
The Pride went on to prove itself another jinxed boat. Not long after, while bound for a regatta in the Tri-cities area, she was blown off the trailer by strong winds near Vantage Ferry on the Columbia River and broken in two amidships. By then, Tytus was running the shell-building business, and it was up to him to rebuild it. Being as busy as he was, it took him a while, but she was finally put back in service at Lakeside. There, where she remained serve that rowing program for years to come. THE YEARS WERE TAKING THEIR TOLL ON ME, TOO. AFTER ignoring the signs as long as I could, I succumbed to another urge to shape up. This happened to me sporadically. What prompted it this time was an outing in a four with some of Martha’s Moms. Still huffing and puffing on my return, I contacted Frank Cunningham. We started going out in a double several mornings a week. Sculling along each morning, we talked of almost anything under the sun - including rowing and sculling. An erudite and thought-filled man, Frank was a joy to be with. He soon adjusted to my sculling idiosyncrasies and, in between talking, we could make the boat go along quite nicely. It was not long before I began feeling good again. Sometimes, I took out a single in the afternoon. I actually learned to enjoy sculling in rough water. The weather was such that working out at the north end of Lake Washington would have been a dream, had it not been for the water skiers. These kept the lake in constant turmoil. Avoiding traffic by going up the Sammamish Slough was out of the question - too many twists and turns for my age-stiffened neck. There was nothing to do but grin and bear it: was rough water or nothing. I found, surprisingly, that I enjoyed the challenge. It was summer, the water was warm and splashing didn’t bother me. It was great fun. I even found myself no longer cussing at the lunatics zooming by in their ski boats and cutting as close to me as they dared. In the early mornings, Frank and I kept up our sculling right through the summer. We even rowed together in an eight at the Masters’ Nationals on Green Lake. Our crew might have been old, but we were
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Bill Tytus outside the old UW shellhouse - 1969 also slow We did not win - not even with the help of the significant handicap that we were allowed because of our advanced age. For years, Frank had been doing the rigging at the Lake Washington Rowing Club and at Lakeside. He recognized, as did I, the need to adjust the existing equipment - all of it built for big men - to suit small people who wished to row. Frank’s work with such aspirants had always been focused on sculling. With a four of the right size, he could begin teaching proper rowing to them. I suggested that he see whether Bush School would loan him the Lucy, which had been sitting unused for too long. He talked to Joe Johnson, the current Bush coach, who agreed to let him use it. In the ensuing years, Frank has made excellent use of the boat. Many of those with whom he has worked have reached a potential far beyond what they would have achieved had they been forced to use the equipment normally available. Not long ago, the LWRC bought the boat at Frank’s urging. The Lucy had at last found its home.
NE DAY, EARLY IN 987, I WAS IN THE SHOP, BUSILY working on the mold for a new composite eight I had dreamed up, when Bill came down from the office. I knew that he was coaching the 50s over at the UW in the early mornings. He said Erickson had asked him whether he thought I would be interested in helping with the Varsity squad. I should have known better, but could not resist the clarion call. What’s more, I had the thought in the back of my mind that Dick might give the newlydesigned eight I was working on a decent trial if he felt that he owed me something. Whatever the reason, I went over to Conibear the next afternoon. While Dick appeared happy to see me, he seemed fed up with coaching. I decided to go out with him, hoping I would be able to cheer him up and help him in his dealings with the men. Watching the crews row that first afternoon, I had the impression that any concept of the right way to row had been lost. Granted, the men were working hard, but their technique was awful. Dick suggested that I start taking out two different eights each day to see what I could do to help them. I agreed to do that. Over the next few days, I posed three questions to each group: Did they want to win races? “Yes.” Did they think they could work any harder than they had the year before? “No.” What was left for them to do if they wanted to move faster? I answered that question for them: They had to change the way they rowed. If they were willing to listen and take to heart what I had to say, I might be able to help them. After that, I kept my mouth shut until I could call everyone in the squad by name. One blustery afternoon, when the crews were limited to parading back and forth between Laurelhurst Light and the Cut, I decided to act. I took my launch out to Fox Point and tied up. From there, I could have a good look at all the men of the various crews as they passed back and forth. As the afternoon went by, I jotted down the names of
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 300 eight oarsmen whom I thought were rowing fairly well. Only one of them was a man I saw as being one of Dick’s fair-haired boys. (Rob Sheppard, a sophomore, went on after graduation to row with the U.S. National Team.) There was another man in the squad - extremely strong - whose rowing I liked (as a person, I did not trust him and would have hesitated placing him in any boat of mine), but he was missing that day. I then picked a second lineup of those men whom I knew Dick would have picked: strong, aggressive types (i.e., those with the highest ergometer scores). Back at the shellhouse, I showed the two lineups to Dick and suggested pitting the two crews against each other. Looking at the one I preferred, he laughed and asked whether I was kidding. Only one of his stars was in there, and one of the others normally rowed in the sixth boat. Dubious, he put the two lineups on the board for the next day’s workout and told me to take them out. When they boated the following day, I did not put the man whom I considered to be the best candidate for the stroke position in that seat. He was a mouthy little guy, and no one seemed to like him. Knowing from experience how hard it was to keep one’s mouth shut when rowing at stroke, I chose to overlook that quality in him, but I still held back. When the two boats first headed out, they seemed to be about equal. This was interesting in itself because, physically, there was no comparison between the two crews, and the macho outfit should have been able to clobber the other. The next day I switched the mouthy one into the stroke seat and, with him there, the higherg crew could not keep pace with my chosen eight. The harder they pulled, the further the other crew crept ahead. After I had stopped them for a blow, the losers, egos seriously damaged, wanted to know what gave. I told them that the answer was simple enough: the other crew were rowing better than they were. Meanwhile, the men in the other boat were in seventh heaven. For some of them, this might well have been the bright spot of their entire rowing experience. I asked the heroes in the losing boat if they were now willing to listen to what I had to say. I reminded them of my words from the first day: improving their chance of winning
Martha’s Moms depended upon their changing the way they rowed. To accomplish that, they must be willing to listen. Humbled by the embarrassment they had just suffered, they agreed. Later that week, Dick and I took the whole squad out together, eight shells in all. The two crews I had been working with were kept intact. Dick put all the crews through a punishing workout. On every run, my handpicked “good” crew came out in front, with the strong crew pushing them, those two boats far ahead of the other six. Finally, on the last run into the shellhouse, the “nobodies” ran out of gas, and the other crew beat them. Afterward, I asked Dick whether he had learned anything. All he would say was that those I had picked would give up when the stroke rate was raised later on in the season. I said that might well be, but my point was that he had better teach his favorites to row like mine. Otherwise, he - and they - would again be eating dust when the racing season came along. As the weeks passed, I began to see some improvement. Dick named a Varsity made up of some very tough people, and I thought we had them
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 301 rowing fairly well. Shortly before we took off for San Diego and the annual Crew Classic, he told me that he had never had crews moving as fast as this so early in the season. Excited over their prospects, it was devastating to him - and to me - when the Varsity came in second to Harvard. I had no chance to find him after the race to commiserate. I should have made every effort to do so, for what he needed right then was a friend. Whether I could have been of any further help to him that year, I’ll never know. With a terrible sense of failure, I withdrew from the scene and returned to my work at the shop. The season deteriorated into one of total disaster and, that summer, Dick resigned. It was sad to see him come to such an end. Though he pulled off some questionable stunts along the way (as do most of us who have ever been in the coaching game), he was one of the most creative and hardest-working of men, one with his heart and soul in Washington rowing, and must be remembered as such. He should have gone out with a winner, for he deserved that consolation. The following summer, I chanced to be at Bill Cameron’s home where I met his son, Kevin, in town on vacation from school. He had been a member of that Harvard crew in San Diego. We started talking about the race. Anyone who has rowed on Mission Bay will recall the wind. By afternoon, when the Varsity crews race, it comes in from the Pacific Ocean and raises hob with water conditions. While the two lanes closest to shore are reasonably sheltered for most of the course, the two open stretches that have to be crossed can be rough in all six lanes. Most crews, while crossing these stretches, tend to ease off and wait for calmer water before going back into high gear. I remembered the Harvard crew, in lane two, as being none too big. According to young Cameron, his crew knew they had their hands full, with Washington enjoying the shelter of lane one. Before going out for the Final, they put their heads together and decided that, when they reached the second opening - some 800 meters from the finish - they would go all out, despite the rough water. They figured that, should the Huskies ease off while crossing that stretch, there was a chance that Harvard could grab the lead and hang on.
The plan had worked like a charm. They pulled ahead of the Huskies in the rough stretch and went on to win, despite a great closing rush by the UW. Erickson’s crew had lost by being outsmarted. Though it’s often said that rowing is only for those with strong backs and weak minds, success in the sport does in fact require a strong mind, plus a keen awareness of ones body, ones boat, and the wily stratagems of ones opponents. WITH DICK GONE, MY LAST CONNECTION WITH UW ROWING was severed, and, to occupy myself, I decided to offer my services elsewhere. At Dan Ayrault’s urging, I tried going out with the young coaches at Lakeside. My first ride with them was an education. There might have been two, perhaps three, experienced boys in each boat; the rest of the rowers were raw beginners. By the time the eights were heading back to the shellhouse, the coaches had them trying racing starts. Mayhem ruled, with the coaches laughing themselves silly. I decided that I didn’t want to associate myself with their approach. Not about to give up, I went out the next day with the upper-class turnout. Midway through that workout, the stroke of one of the crews yelled over that he wanted his outrigger raised because he was getting caught at each release. I saw his trouble as being his own fault, not the fault of low rigging. He was yanking his oar down into his lap each stroke to release it from the water. This was causing the boat to lurch to port, making it even more difficult for him. At the same time, he was making it unpleasant for the rest of the crew. I pointed out to him what was causing the trouble. Knowing that he probably would not change, I suggested that what was needed was to lower his lock, rather than raise it. He said, “Yeah, but that doesn’t compute!” (More of the “Yeah, but…” generation.) I said that, compute or not, that’s what we would do. Once the adjustment was made, it was as I expected it would be: He was still getting hung up at the finish and was still unhappy. But the boat was on a more even keel, and the rest of the crew were having a much better time of it.
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 302 Not long after that, I happened to be watching the news on row for anyone. I had a training tub available and put it to good TV. This same lad was being presented a scholarship award by a use by taking the women out in the afternoons, one pair at a time. representative of the President of the United States. He might have The idea behind using a tub is to show anyone that how they row a been smart about some things, but not about rowing. boat determines how the boat performs. At first, some of the women failed utterly to keep the boat on an even keel, much less make it move. These were women who were exhorted every morning to “pull, dammit, pull!” and forced to do racing starts. After a few sessions in the tub, some of them began to improve, and I thought I was helping. Most of them seemed to enjoy learning the niceties of rowing. Giving those lessons which afforded me such pleasure. The sessions also gave me the opportunity to spin my yarns. This, I enjoyed doing more and more as the years passed, with ever fewer old sweats still alive to refute the stories. I was disappointed, though, on hearing that, while enjoying the yarns, some felt that all I had done was confuse them relative to their rowing. Clearly, I was not accomplishing what I had hoped. Also, I erred in never telling those who rowed well that they were doing so. The Masters’ Regionals were held in Eugene that year, and I went down to see how the Moms would do. As expected, their rowing was not what I wished it to be: they lost. They did beat a few crews because of their age handicap. After the race, they came rushing over SYC Women’s Masters World Champions - 1988- left to right: to ask what I thought of their performance. Had they known me Leslie Albertson, Artha Shelver, Irma Erickson, Jane Baldwin, Ellie better, they never would have done so. With tongue in cheek, and Austin, Mischelle Day, Sue McKain, Gretchen Boe & Pamela Blake with them hanging on my every word, I said that I had seen two I WAS ASKED TO HELP OUT A GROUP OF WOMEN - MOTHERS OF good things: they had all worn the same colored shirts and, best of all, Lakeside students - who had become interested in rowing. They called they had all sat in the boat facing in the right direction. They saw no themselves “Martha’s Moms” to honor their coach, Martha Beatty. humor in this at all, and I had to talk fast. Backing down, I admitted Martha had to be absent for a few days - having a baby I think - and that they had come a long way. Still, they must realize that they had I agreed to fill in. Reticent to do this because her approach to rowing a long way to go. If they would listen to me, perhaps - together - we was different than mine, I decided to play it safe by only teaching could accomplish some of their goals. them a few fundamentals - a practice increasingly ignored on the We agreed to meet in the hot tub (not the “tub” that evening before Seattle rowing scene, except where Cunningham or McIntyre were supper. By the time everyone had jumped into the Jacuzzi, the women involved. I might be able to help these women. I tried to assure them were a much happier bunch. With them gathered around, I tried to that, once they had learned these principles, they would be able to demonstrate some of the realities of blade work and the action of the
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Slava Ivanov (stroke) & Charley McIntyre (bow) - 1990 oar in the water. I told them that I thought they rowed as though the sport involved nothing more than waving their oars back and forth. The picture they must keep in mind was that of, first, catching hold of a spot in the water with their blade as the boat sped past it. Then, in the same motion, pulling the boat past that spot. They must also learn how to make the blade of the oar act like the fin of a fish. I demonstrated both concepts - to my satisfaction, at least - there in the hot tub. These were concepts that I had already gone over with them time and time again, but there had not been enough time for them to change their old habits and learn new ones.
N 989, THE WORLD ROWING CHAMPIONSHIPS WERE HELD in Bled, Yugoslavia. Bernie Horton wrote, loud in his praise of that part of the world, he having been there for the championships some 20 years before. He would be going and urged us to meet him there. I was fully retired from the shop by then, and we decided to go. We flew on SAS to Copenhagen, and then on to Yugoslavia. In Zagreb, we stayed at the Esplanade, a beautiful old hotel that evoked images of a romantic past. The drive to Bled was not a long one, but was made to seem so by insane local drivers to whom speed and blind curves appeared to mean nothing. Bled is a picture-book sort of town. We stayed at the Villa Bled, Marshall Tito’s summer palace when he was in power. Though still owned by the state, it was now leased to a private concern and operated as a hotel. Everything there was first-class, including the price. Persian rugs covered the floors, cut glass goblets sat on tables in the rooms (housekeepers scurried in to count them each time we went out), massive bouquets of flowers bedecked all the hallways and public rooms. One afternoon Lois and I, along with Bernie, Kent Mitchell and his wife, JoAnne, went exploring in the VW Golf automobile I had rented. The country lanes our maps led us to were little more than goat trails. The five of us were too much for the little car and on one of these trails we really hit bottom. I was afraid that we had damaged something, but the car kept going. Nearing civilization, I noticed that the fuel gauge read almost empty. The car had a diesel engine, and normal mileage should have taken us much further. I stopped for a look. When I opened the door, the smell of fuel was pervasive. A suspicious-looking trail of liquid on the pavement marked our path. When the engine was revved up, diesel oil squirted out of the ruptured fuel line that ran across the bottom of the car. We weren’t too far from the hotel, so we chanced it, our spoor following closely
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 304 behind. We reached the hotel, but I was afraid to risk going on into town. I crawled under the car to see what could be done. It looked to me as though the plastic fuel line was about the same diameter as the barrel of a ballpoint pen. I took my Bic apart, trimmed off the ragged ends of the fuel line, and slipped the tube over the two ends. Perfect, except that, with no hose clamps to secure it, the connection would just fly apart when I stepped on the throttle. I jury-rigged a setup which worked fine, but I was nervous about going too far from the hotel. Using Kent’s car, we found a garage and the owner scared up a short length of rubber hose and some tiny hose clamps. I asked how much, and he said to take them and, if they worked, to come back in the morning and pay him. Back at the hotel, I installed them, and we were back in business. The makeshift repair lasted us all the way to Dubrovnik, where we were scheduled to catch our plane for England. When I turned the car in, I showed the agent what had been done. “It’s crude, but it works!” He shrugged his shoulders: no problem. I was only sorry that I hadn’t used the pen. It would have made a great story: “Touring the Adriatic coast on a Bic…” The day before the Finals, I chanced to watch our men’s eight. I thought they looked quite good, though they were not at a racing pace. Hope kindled, I looked forward to seeing them in action. That glimmer of hope was dashed in the Finals. We were treated to a great view of the race because of the TV coverage which included monitors in the grandstands for the crowd to watch. At racing pace, our crew were not impressive. In fact, they looked like a bag of rocks. In midrace, East Germany, rowing stroke-for-stroke with them, rowed right past in pursuit of arch rival West Germany. They almost caught them. The West German stroke rate never dropped below 39. The British crew came on strong at the finish to nose out our crew for third place. Afterwards, as I reviewed the race on video tape, it appeared to me as though this happened purely by chance. The Brits were on the recovery, and we were on the drive, as the two crews went across the line. This was the very same thing that had happened in Penn’s heartbreaking loss (or Harvard’s heart-stopping win, depending on how one looked
at it) in the 968 Olympic Trials. Any cox’n who can figure out how to make his crew take their last release just before the finish line in a neck 'n' neck race will win more than his share. The saving feature of the day for the U.S. was the performance of two of our Lightweight women. They won Gold Medals in both the single and the double.
Ready all! Mary-Martha McIntyre & Margaret Berg – 1997 WE WERE FORTUNATE TO SEE YUGOSLAVIA WHEN WE DID. THE people we met were friendly and seemed partial to the West. Not being students of Balkan history, we were unaware of the ethnic passions seething beneath the surface and waiting to erupt. Their economic situation they found intolerable. The country was in the throes of explosive inflation - new exchange rates published every other day. I asked one fellow how they did business under such conditions. He replied that the Yugoslavian Dinar meant nothing to them. Along the Adriatic Coast, where the Germans all came on holiday, contracts were made only in Deutschemarks. Inland, it was U.S. Dollars. We
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 305 heard rumors about the Slovaks and Croats wanting to break off and go their own way, but had no idea how serious they were. On our way down the Adriatic to Dubrovnik, we stopped overnight in Split at a bed-and-breakfast run by an old German couple. Their son, an electronics engineer who spoke good English, was home for a visit. We learned his views of Yugoslavia and its perilous economic situation. His father, a retired firefighter, drew a pension equivalent to $00 a month. That went nowhere in their terribly inflated economy. The two old people eked out a meagre existence by opening their home to tourists and by growing their own vegetables on a small plot of land that they had inherited. The son and his wife, both well educated, wanted desperately to go to America - or anywhere else - where they would have a chance to make a decent living. In Split, we saw the perfectly-preserved example of a Roman coliseum. It looked to be at least as big as the ruined one in Rome. It was still in use every day, or at least it was before the crazies started blowing everything apart over there. We had supper at a sidewalk cafe down by the sea. The Adriatic smells about as bad as any of the polluted waters in that part of the world. We found it difficult to eat and hold our nose while, at the same time, fending off passersby seeking to change their money into dollars at any price. We had to skip Dubrovnik. Lois was feeling terribly sick and wanted to save what little energy she still had. We caught our plane and reached London, where we found an old hotel - out of the highrent district, but within walking distance of the British Museum. I phoned Bernie, who had preceded us, and, while Lois stayed in bed, spent an interesting afternoon up with him up around Windsor and Eton. Hopes of seeing the castle and Eton College boathouses were dashed, all being locked up tight. We walked for miles seeking Pocock Lane, which I had been told existed somewhere, either in Windsor or Eton. We finally gave up our search and went down to Putney to wander around the rowing clubs there. One sociable fellow invited us upstairs to his club room for a pint or two. There, we spent a pleasant couple of hours exchanging rowing philosophy and lies.
Our return home was long overdue. It was now apparent that Lois’s illness was a serious one. The incredibly long hike from the Heathrow terminal to the airplane had been too much for her. Only by snagging a passing jitney were we able to make it to the gate on time. As the weeks passed, her health continued to deteriorate, despite everything we tried. She was ultimately diagnosed as suffering from an inoperable cancer. This was to prove a terrible ordeal for her until she left us a year later. As must be true in all such cases, it was a relief for me - as it must have been for her - when she finally passed away. We had been together for over 40 years, and she was to be sorely missed by all of us who loved her. WITH LOIS GONE, I BEGAN TRYING TO FILL MY TIME BY GOING out again with Martha’s Moms at Lakeside School. At the same time, I also took on a sort of “coach the coach” role with the women’s crews at the Seattle Yacht Club. Brian Wendrey, a likeable young fellow who had done some rowing at Ithaca College, was hired as their coach with the understanding that I would go along in the launch to help him sharpen his knowledge of rowing fundamentals. He was willing to admit his need for guidance and seemed interested in learning from me. For my part, I was eager to teach. After going out at the crack of dawn each morning with one squad or the other, I would go home and sleep until noon. In the afternoons, I took out those who had signed up for lessons in the tub. This activity took care of four mornings and afternoons a week. In my spare time, I began working on this memoir. The Masters Nationals were held in Austin, Texas that September. Martha’s Moms and Seattle Yacht Club, along with several other outfits from Seattle, were entered in a number of races, and I decided to make the trip. By then, I was coaching only the SYC women. The MMs had a new coach and were happy with her. After arriving in Austin, I located the trailer-load of shells. Upon removing the covers, I discovered a number of bullet holes in the top row of eights. Someone had been using them for target practice!
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 306 SYC Women’s crew - 1993 - Front row, left: Coach Brian Wendrey; others, in alphabetical order: Joan Abe, Ellie Austin, Darlene Bartron, Sharon Borgias, Laurel Case, Jan Clottfelter, Barb Connolly, Susan Day, Agna de Clercq, Bridgit Du Ruz, Josephine Ensign, Mary Jo Gillen, Mari Jalbing, Tish Jocums, Melody Kroeger, Sherry Ladd, Helen Mandley, Sue McKain, Carolyn Meredith, Nancy Ringenberg, Sara Stelter, Judy Suor, Mary Jane Swindley, Ann Scales scene, passing through on his way to Florida with a trailer-load of boats. He had all the repair materials needed for the job, so I turned it over to him. The hot sun dried the patching resin quickly, and soon the shells were ready. With every retelling of the incident, the number of holes in the boats grew. The largest number I heard was 29. Far more rowing goes on in that part of the world than I had ever imagined. The course at Austin is on a lake formed by the dammedup Colorado River which flows right through town. Large hotels line the park bordering the waters’ edge. Unlike the competitors, during the hotter part of the day Brian and I could sit in the airconditioned comfort of our hotel room and watch the races. Actually, we were lucky with the weather. Austin was enjoying a cold spell with temperatures averaging only in the mid-80s. Locals told me that it was usually too hot in the summer to row in the afternoons. When such was the case, they rowed early in the morning - just like virtually everyone else in the world. The Seattle crews, of which there were many, left for home loaded with medals. I had done my part for the Yacht Club crews, acting as a kindly old father figure watching over and giving sage advice to all his daughters. Though I fit that character quite well, we all went out the evening after the races and danced the night away. I was the only Panic reigned. I tried to reassure everyone that repairs would not male among some 20 females. pose much of a problem. Finally, calm prevailed. I had nothing to Later, four of them - Laurel Case, Mari Jalbing, Nancy Ringenberg work with, but arranged to visit an auto body repair supply outfit. and Carolyn Meridith - owed at the Head of the Charles in Boston Then I learned that Bill Tytus’s man, Adam Finneson, was on the in a coxed four. They won, despite having to use a borrowed boat.
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SYC four - Head of the Charles winners - 1992 - left to right: Carolyn Meredith, Nancy Ringenberg, Mari Jalbing, Laurel Case, Rachel LeMieux THE LAKE WASHINGTON ROWING CLUB, ITS REQUIREMENTS BY this time having expanded far beyond the confines of the floating shed at the foot of Garfield Street, was renting space in a huge warehouse adjacent to the Lake Washington Ship Canal. That building housed an impressive collection of boats of all sizes. Some belonged to the club, but most were privately owned. Frank and I began spending time there working on various projects. The first was the rebuilding of the Robert F. Herrick, namesake of the onetime coach and perennial financial supporter of Harvard rowing. She (only Russians refer to a boat as “he”) was built during the first winter that I worked with Dad. One thing he always did when building a shell for Harvard was select a pair of planks for the bow that had a red streak in them. That was something special for his old friend, Tom Bolles, coach of the Crimson for so many years. When I told Frank about that,
he - though he had rowed at Harvard - said he had never noticed such a thing on any of their shells. That made me wonder if Tom himself ever had. I doubt that Dad ever mentioned it to him. The Harvard Varsity did the Herrick proud when she was new by taking her to Henley and winning the Grand. After serving out her days at Newell, the Varsity shellhouse, the boat was relegated to use by the intramural crews that rowed out of Weld boathouse across the river. When Harry Parker cleared all the old boats out to make room for the fleet of new practice eights ordered from us for that program, he sold off as many of the old relics as he could. No one wanted the wreck of the Herrick. He called to ask whether it was OK to throw it on our trailer which was about to head for Seattle. I told him to go ahead. If nothing else, it would make a swell bonfire. The boat sat in the weeds over by Conibear shellhouse. Having no desire to do anything with it, I suggested to Frank that he cut her bow off and make a trophy for Parker. He demurred, not able to imagine doing such a thing to what he saw as a usable boat (good old Yankee frugality), so I gave it to him. We brought it over to LWRC to see what could be done with it. While stripping off the heavily-painted glass cloth that covered it, I hoped to find the red streaks. No such luck; they had faded away. Though he didn’t say so, Frank probably thought they had never been there in the first place. We spent many hours working on the boat, and, eventually, it was made rowable. While still working on it, I came across The Book of Rowing by D. C. Churbuck. In it was a picture of the brand-new Herrick resting on the racks in Harvard’s Newell boathouse. There was the red streak. I couldn’t wait to show Frank. The only thing wrong with the restored Herrick after it was varnished was the appearance of the washboards. They were so bunged-up and stained that it bothered me. Frank was away one day, and I grabbed the opportunity to paint them LWRC blue. On his return, Frank said nothing, but obviously didn’t like what I had done. I think he might have preferred red for Harvard, or, what is more likely, to have been able to stop me doing anything.
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Anchorage Rowing Club and the Robert F. Herrick on Lake Lucille - Wasilla, Alaska - 1999 The club enjoyed some use from it, but then, rather than using it for a bonfire, they sold it to a newly-formed club in Anchorage, Alaska. Reports are that, despite its now being 53 years old, they find in it a valuable adjunct to their activities and have won races in it against crews using newer, “fast” glass boats. After next rebuilding a badly damaged fiberglass four, we tackled a big project: the boat that was to become the Harry Swetnam. Some 8 years before, I had used the partially-completed hull of an eight as the plug for the mold from which we pulled our first glass boats. It was a perfectly good hull and, had we gone to the trouble of stripping off all the plaster and gunk, it could have been completed and sold. Instead, we stuck it up in the rafters of our lumber shed where it sat gathering all the crud of the universe. When Tytus decided to move the Pocock
shop to Everett, he wanted to dispose of all the accumulated junk including the old plug. I told him that I wanted it. Were he to let me have a pair of washboards and various other bits and pieces, I could finish it off and make a usable eight of it. He was agreeable. Frank and I towed the hull over to the club one morning and went to work. I shudder to think of how many hours we put into it. When it was finally completed, it looked great. As far as I was concerned, my half of the boat belonged to the LWRC. I told Frank that because he had put so much of his own time and materials in it, he could make whatever settlement with the club that he wished. When it came to naming the boat, I believed I had the option and insisted it be called the Harry Swetnam. All the good advice and encouragement Harry had given me and the founding members of the club in its early days, to say nothing of the countless hours he spent in the gym with the men and out in the coaching launch with me, deserved recognition. His name duly lettered on the bow in gold leaf, we held a christening ceremony with Bernice, Harry’s wife, doing the honors. Frank convinced the LWRC that the boat should be used only by very small people, though, in truth, it is big enough for almost anyone. To digress yet again - a few years after building the Lucy (978), I made a small coxless boat for four young men who rowed at the club. Two of them, Roger Paine and Dan Nelson, worked for me in the shop. Their crew mates were Bill Kalenius and Marty Beyer. After winning the Northwest 50# title, they decided to go after the U.S. Trials and the Canadian Nationals at St. Catherines. I used the hull measurements of a standard-sized coxed pair - just right for a 50# crew with no cox’n. I put only a hand-operated trim tab for compensating in case of side winds, but the crew were not confident enough in their steering to depend on that and rigged up a steering shoe instead. They knew enough to do that without my knowledge. They went east, but took only third place at the Trials. They might have won at St. Catherines, had they not entered so many other races. By the time the straight four race came along, they were so tired that
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Bernice & Harry christening the Harry Swetnam - 1992
and release of the blade and the actions required of hands, fingers and wrists. I devised a fixture which, fastened to the upper end of the rowlock pin of a wherry, held a camcorder. It followed the back-andforth movement of the oar and could be aligned to point the camera toward either the blade or the handle. At the same time it allowed the oar to rotate freely during the execution of a stroke. Thus, with the camera pointed one way, the blade could be shown as it went through successive strokes; with the camera pointed the other way, the hands and wrists could likewise be observed. Because the subject in either case remained centered on the screen, close scrutiny was allowed. An additional advantage was offered by the audio feature. This permitted the sculler to comment as he demonstrated. The major drawback to the idea soon showed itself. More than one observer complained of feeling seasick after making the mistake of watching the background flashing back and forth rather than keeping the eyes focused on the center of the screen where the hands or blade were. In an effort to refine the results, I tried to devise a split-screen setup so both the hands and blade were simultaneously shown, but found that beyond my ability. We taped miles of either Frank, Charley or me sculling and then assembled a video for coaching purposes. We followed that up by having whomever wanted to do so go out and record themselves. These pictures were somewhat of a revelation to many of the scullers who tried it. They also proved of great help to Frank in his efforts directed toward instilling good sculling habits in his students. Later, we rigged a similar setup on a pair, and Frank and I recorded some good shots of sweep rowing. These tapes are still being used by Frank to teach neophytes (as well as experienced hands who will listen) at the rowing club, and with good effect. This is evidenced by some of the excellent sculling one observes as they watch the activity around the club.
they could scarcely get in the boat. They came in second. I had so hoped that they would win, not only for their own sake, but for the sake of perhaps my selling boats because of it. So much for hopes. It was a nice boat, and I later sold it as a quad to the Green Lake program. After the Harry Swetnam was completed, Frank and I tackled A STILL SMALL VOICE KEPT TELLING ME THAT I SHOULD BUILD another project. That was to create a video showing the proper catch an eight-oared racing shell designed especially for small people. I now
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Bill Kalenius, Marty Beyer, Roger Paine & Dan Nelson - 1983 had the time and still had the energy to do it. Thus came about what was to be my last hurrah - at least as far as the shell-building game was concerned. How to go about it was the big question. I couldn’t start from scratch, for I no longer had a shop to work in. Then I remembered an old wooden coxed four gathering dust at the Lakeside shellhouse. Were that available, I could stretch it out and make an eight out of it The Lakeside coach told me that the boat was leased from Conn, but that payments were no longer being made on it. Conn wanted to sell it, but they didn’t want it. I sent Conn a check. We had built the boat many years before for a fellow in Hawaii. He had persuaded three private schools in Honolulu where he lived to sponsor a rowing program. The kind of promoter you had to say “yes” to if you wanted to be rid of him, he had big things in mind. He found the funds needed and ordered six of these fours from us. With these, he launched his program. Over the next few years, he introduced many youngsters to the sport of rowing who might otherwise never have had the opportunity. Among the projects that he promoted were a home-and-home exchange with crews in Seattle. The champion crew from one of the schools even rowed in the Olympic Trials. While awaiting those Trials, that crew took part in what might be termed the greatest race that never took place. As a lead-in to the Trials, a local fellow who coached one or more of the high schools nearby
made arrangements for some of his boys to race this visiting crew. As the day of the proposed race approached, there appeared some publicity in the papers. On the morning of the race, no one showed up except him and the visitors from Hawaii. Undaunted, he had them row over the course, presented them their awards and then, using his gift for the written word, sat down and typed an account of “the most exciting race of the century.” According to his story, everything that could happen did happen in that race. Then, by some rare bit of rowing mastery, the visitors came through in the last few meters of the race to eke out a narrow victory. Given to a sportswriter friend, the epic fantasy appeared in a major downtown newspaper, word for word, the following day. It made great reading, but led people into expecting far too much of those boys when they raced in the Trials. When the promoter left town, the rowing program that he had fostered quickly ran out of steam. Deciding to drop it altogether, the schools advertised for a buyer to take the boats off their hands. Conn was the high bidder. He rented a shipping container to move them to his place in Belmont. When the box was dropped off at the boathouse, the local representative said that he didn’t think it looked long enough. Conn said there would be no problem. At his insistence, they put the first boat in, and the fellow’s fears were confirmed - it stuck out about three feet. Reluctantly, he helped stuff in the rest, whereupon Conn asked him to scare up a saw. That in hand, he cut the stern ends off, tossed them in and slammed the door. The man was sure he was looking at someone who was completely out of his head. He just didn’t know Conn, who was well aware of what he was doing. Once the six boats were where he could work on them, he just fastened the sterns back on. Now, looking at the one there at Lakeside, I could see evidence of the repair, but had to look hard to find it. I must tell something of Conn and his leasing enterprise. He saw a need and an opportunity and made it into a business that still goes on. He picked up old junkers that had been wrecked or, for whatever reason, were no longer wanted. Putting his ingenuity to good use, he repaired them and leased them to struggling programs that did
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Women’s crew from Montlake Bridge not have the money to buy new or even used equipment. Besides picking up old wrecks and putting them back in use, he bought new boats from us and leased them to customers. I know he always told prospective customers that this was the most expensive way to go, but, for outfits with little or no capital, it was a godsend. I often wished that we had something similar to offer. We did not have the capital, nor did I ever want to go to all the trouble Conn did in keeping boats in working order and hauling them all around the country. Apropos of nothing: Many years before, when Jim Fifer was LWRC president, he received a letter from a fellow inviting himself to a banquet that we were throwing to recognize past accomplishments of LWRC crews. The man wished to promote his dream of a Pan Pacific Games that would emphasize the sport of rowing. I knew of the man and warned Jim that we were likely to be sorry if he were allowed to speak. He was invited anyway. We went down at dawn one morning to meet his plane. He was among the missing, having been taken off
the plane en route, the victim of a heart attack. Though wishing him not too much ill will, I had the passing thought that perhaps the gods were with us. No such luck. Not about to let a minor setback like a heart attack deprive him of his golden opportunity, he was coming to Seattle by ambulance. Upon meeting him at his hotel, I was distressed to see that he had not only made a full recovery, but was rarin’ to go. Knowing the man as I did, I again warned Jim that he had better limit the man’s time at the microphone. If he didn’t, we would regret it. The program, too long as it was, already included a testimonial honoring Rusty Callow for all his contributions to rowing. Rusty loved to spin entertaining yarns, and he was bound to need time. Our main speaker was Jack Kelly, and he, too, would have many stories to tell, given his long association with the game. Much work had gone into decorating the hotel banquet room. We even had the bow of the ill-fated New Zealand four hanging out over the head table. I had made a pen-and-ink stand with crossed model oars to present to Rusty. We wanted this to be a classy affair. We should have all stayed home. The harangue - there’s no other word for it - went on interminably. An hour would be far too conservative an estimate. At length, many in the crowd began noisily leaving the room, some returning in the forlorn hope that he might have had another heart attack or, at least, had shut up. No luck. He was on a roll, oblivious to anyone and everything except his own messianic message. To his fevered mind, the extravaganza would overshadow anything in existence. I poked Jim at one point and said, not quietly, that I would pull the plug on the mike if he didn’t intervene. It was about then that the man said, “I could go on all night about this….” Kelly, in a voice surely heard by those in the far corners of the room, growled, “I’m sure that you could!” Talk about a nightmare! How I wished for a repeat of his heart attack: It would have been nothing less than poetic justice. Jim finally stood and put an end to our misery by suggesting that the speaker meet after the program with those anxious to hear more.
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 312 We then settled back to enjoy the address by Kelly - the speaker whom we had all come to hear in the first place. Jack rose and, taking it all in good spirits, said something to the effect that, “My address is something, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Thanks very much for the trip and the dinner.” He then sat down to a standing ovation. When the meeting broke up, Georg Meyer - still sports editor of The Seattle Times and an invited guest - said to me, “You people must really love rowing to be willing to subject yourselves to anything like that!” It was not a matter of love of the sport but, rather, one of having no guts. We should have given him the hook after the first five minutes. I doubt that he found anyone interested in meeting with him to hear more of his dream. I know I wasn’t, didn’t and, instead, joined the crowd headed for the nearest saloon. His proposed international rowing extravaganza never saw the light of day.
Maiden voyage of the Small Wonder, Frank Cunningham coxing - 1992 TO BUILD THE PROPOSED EIGHT, I WAS SURE THAT I COULD USE space in Tytus’s shop in Everett - the new location of Pocock Racing Shells. First, however, I asked Frank whether he thought I could do the work in the Lakeside boathouse. It would save moving the boat
and, besides, I might talk him into giving me a hand. He said there was no problem with my using the place as long as I was out of there by the first of March, when rowing turnouts were due to resume. I had the feeling that he was excited about the possibility of working on the project. To accommodate eight small rowers and a cox’n, my plan was to cut the boat - roughly 42 feet in length - in two at its widest point and stretch it out to 53 feet. Next, I would reconnect the two pieces by splicing in stringers, washboards and skin. The biggest trick of the whole job would be to make sure that the separated ends were lined up straight. I didn’t want the finished product going in circles - at least not by itself. Once rejoined, the hull would have to be gutted, and new rigger timbers, stringers, seat slats and stretcher landings installed. After glassing and varnishing the completed boat, it only remained to scare up accessories - seats, tracks, stretcher beams, clogs, outriggers and hardware. I found timber for the stringers at the Tytus shop, but the big question remained: Where could I find skin and washboards? Luckily, Frank had acquired the two-seat section for the infamous 0 from 977, and it was stored in his attic. Dismantled, it provided the components we sorely needed. Thank heaven, once again, for Frank’s Yankee frugality. At first, I tried limiting my time on the project. Frank had other commitments, and I found it more enjoyable working when he was around. Gradually, as the large scope of the job became apparent, I found myself working longer and longer hours, with March inexorably creeping up on me. Meanwhile, Frank found an old set of oars. With him doing most of the work, they were shortened and the blades cut down. He also had a garage full of rusted-out old riggers. Some of these I chopped and cut down to suit. I made some jigs to hold the various pieces and had Tytus’s man weld them together. Glassing and varnishing completed the job. I sent for a Cox Box and speakers and, once they arrived, all was ready. Ready, that is, except for a name.
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 313 To generate interest in the boat among the several women’s groups in the area, I decided on a “name that boat” contest. First, I made a jig which simulated the rowing station of the boat. Only those who could fit into it were eligible to enter. As a prize for the winning name, I offered a round-trip ticket to Vienna for the World’s Masters Regatta the following autumn. Several from the Seattle area already planned on going. Frank and I were sole judges in selecting the winning name. The selection was not easy, there being 40 or 50 entries. After some deliberation, we agreed that the name, Small Wonder, submitted by Jan Clottfelter, was - hands down - the winner. We held a christening ceremony the next day. When asked by one of the many onlookers what some of the rejected names were, I refused to answer - no use looking for trouble. Two different boatloads tried the shell, and it neither sank nor turned over. The sole problem with the boat was that it could only accommodate a very small cox’n - I would never be able to coach from the cox’n’s seat. Next arose the obvious question: Who would use the boat? To solve that problem, we scheduled a race-off. Again, entries were limited to those women whose size would allow them to row in the Small Wonder. The winner of the race would have use of the boat during the rest of the current racing season. After that, it would be passed around as Frank and I saw fit. LWRC, SYC and Green Lake showed up at the starting line. The race was won by an LWRC crew who had a 5- or 20-year age advantage over the others. Nothing had been said about an age handicap. I was still coaching the SYC women at the time, and they felt badly about having lost. They had not rowed well enough to win, however, and they knew it. I figured that in due time they would have their chance. I still would like to work with a crew using the Wonder to find out whether, indeed, it helps small people. Lucy, the little four, had proven herself in that regard. I have not yet had that opportunity, and for good reason. A much more important event occurred in my life. While Frank and I were still working on the Wonder, I had the rare good fortune to meet the person who was to become the wonder of my life.
WITH LOIS’S PASSING, I HAD RESIGNED MYSELF TO LIFE WITHOUT a companion. Confidant that I could find enough activities to keep my mind and body occupied, I was not overly concerned. Then, through a mutual friend, I met Suzanne Graves. Her maiden name, Brannen, rang a bell. I remembered a Buzz Brannen rowing for me as a Freshman back in 949. Sue was his sister. She and I hit it off right from the start, though neither of us had been looking for a mate. All of a sudden, life took on a cheerier aspect. I didn’t realize that it showed, but it must have. Rod Johnson, who had known Sue in school, told me that he had asked Frank whether I had said anything to him about her as we worked together. Frank’s reply was, “No, but he sings and whistles a lot.” At the christening of the Small Wonder, one of the SYC women sidled over to me and whispered, “She’s a keeper.” The unanswered question: Would she come to feel the same about me? Long before we met, Sue had arranged for a skiing trip to Italy with friends. I hated the thought of our being apart for that long and decided to do something about it. I called my travel agent friend, Illis “Bip” Burke, and asked her to book me a ticket to Florence, where Sue would be staying for a few days after she finished skiing. When I shared my qualms about doing this, Bip immediately growled, “Stan, go for it!” I had sense enough to make sure it was OK with Sue, and, despite any lingering reservations on my part, the trip was on. The plane landed in Cleveland in a blizzard. The storm would not hit New York for a few hours, so on we went. At La Guardia, the snow was just starting to fall. By the time we were due to board for the trans-Atlantic hop, it was really coming down. Passengers were boarded anyway. After leaving the gate, we just sat on the runway. With no explanation, we were stuck on the ground in that plane for almost eight hours. Among the prisoners was an unusual number of families with small children. The fuss they raised as time dragged on added to the agony. After several hours, the flight attendants, in desperation, served a meal to forestall outright anarchy. The captain finally came on the intercom to announce that he had clearance to depart, but that there were 82 planes ahead of us.
XI – “Ten to Go!” (1987–1992) – 314 We took off at last and arrived in Brussels without further incident. There, I heard what the trouble had been: a plane had skidded off the runway at La Guardia and into Flushing Bay, and the airport was closed down. I suspected that they kept us cooped up in that plane so that none of us would hear of the tragedy and be tempted to cancel our reservations. My troubles were not over yet. After arranging a new flight to Florence, I had to sit around the Brussels airport for several more hours. I figured out how to use the Belgian version of a telephone and called Sue in Florence to tell her that I really was coming. After walking out on the tarmac and boarding the aircraft, I dutifully fastened my seat belt, listened to the flight attendant as she reviewed all of the safety procedures and waited for us to take off. Nothing happened - we just sat there. One of the engines would not start. From my window, I saw a truck come bounding across the field. It skidded to a halt, and three mechanics jumped out. They started taking the engine apart. Now I knew that I really wasn’t supposed to be doing this. I watched with mounting anxiety as the mechanics fumbled around, dropping tools, screws, nuts and bolts in the mud and scrambling to find them. About the time I was ready to run for the door, they succeeded in putting everything back together with no parts left over that I could see. The engine started this time and, at long last, we took off. After an uneventful flight, we landed at a small airport outside Florence long after midnight in a raging rainstorm. Waving a 20-dollar bill around, I managed to hail a taxi. Amazingly enough, after all that had happened so far, I was soon delivered to the door of the Pensione Rigatti, where I found Suzanne waiting. My romantic gesture must have hit its mark. The following summer, I asked Sue to marry me, and she accepted. We were married on December 3, 992, after having been lucky enough to book the penthouse of the Sorrento Hotel in downtown Seattle on short notice. We had a private ceremony attended only by our families and closest friends. Conn Findlay graciously flew up from California to be my best man. Borrowing a suit from Ted Frost - the only suits Conn ever
Stan & Suzanne Pocock - 1997 owned were Olympic uniforms - he came prepared. Knowing me to be one who keeps his feelings on his sleeve, he had his handkerchief at the ready. Afterward, we threw a grand bash for all the many friends that Sue’s and my long years of living had given us. It was a great start as we looked forward to spending the rest of our lives together.
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CHAPTER XII
S
“Way Enough!”
OME YEARS AFTER DAD DIED, MY SISTER PAT BROUGHT UP The plan to give our building to the Foundation fell through. This the idea of our establishing some kind of memorial to him. was just as well. The site ultimately chosen for the building that became The shell-building operation, now under the ownership of Dad’s memorial was a much better location. When the enormous Bill Tytus, was being moved to Everett, and the place where Dad sum of money needed to build it became apparent, Pat and I got and the gang and I had built boats for so many years - and which she cold feet. We asked our mother for her help. Enthusiastic over what and I now jointly owned - would we were proposing, she agreed to be empty. She suggested that we take part. Dad had left her some deed it to the George Pocock Boeing stock when he died, and Rowing Foundation. Right on the she proposed making a donation shore of Lake Union, it could be of some of this. We eagerly converted into an adequate rowing supported her in this, seeing it so facility - just the thing for the appropriate that Dad’s memorial memorial we envisioned. in large part be made possible Some months previous to this, through his early association with severa l members of t he L a ke that company. He had worked Washington Rowing Club had come for Mr. Boeing in the early days, to see me. They were establishing a and always cherished memories, charitable rowing foundation and not only of the man himself, but of the struggle he had endured wanted it to bear Dad’s name. It was only natural that part of their in keeping the company afloat after World War I. Almost out interest in the name lay in its fundof respect, he had clung to a few raising potential - a use that would George Pocock Memorial Rowing Center - Seattle shares of stock, taken in lieu of have offended him deeply, were he pay during the struggling firm’s darkest days. alive - but the broadly-stated mission of the organization seemed worthy of our support. Among its stated aims was the building of Those pieces of paper had little value through the ’20s, ’30s and well a rowing center from which programs funded by the Foundation into the ’40s. Then, with the explosive growth of the company brought could operate. This seemed to meet our goal of a fitting memorial. on by World War II and the succeeding Jet Age, those same pieces of After talking it over, we, along with our mother, told them to go paper grew in value and became the foundation for the modest estate ahead. Thus, the George Pocock Rowing Foundation was born. he left our mother. (Ever the idealist, he was concerned lest anyone
XII – “Way Enough!” – 316 mistakenly think he had made his money through the building of racing shells.) Because of successful forays into the jungle of real estate speculation, I had some money and, in Lois’s memory, was able to contribute a substantial sum toward the project. Pat came through as well, and, between the three of us, the Foundation’s capital campaign was off to a rousing start. In the back of our minds - or at least it was in mine - was the hope that any facility built with the help of that money would ultimately become the home of the Lake Washington Rowing Club. Both Dad and I were intimately involved with its founding. In its early years, he was revered as a patron saint by all those young men. It would have been only fitting for the club to call this new building named for him its home. Our decision to deal with the Foundation, rather than with the club, was made for several reasons. For one thing, I had misgivings about the ability of the club to handle the money, should it be given to them. Also, the Foundation bore Dad’s name. Another was the tax consideration. A rowing club was not allowed 50-C3 tax-exempt status because the IRS did not, at that time, consider sports clubs to be charitable organizations. Nevertheless, I hoped from the start that the two organizations would ultimately join forces. After land suitable for the proposed building was found, our gifts were made. Two expensive years of legal roadblocks followed before the way was cleared for construction to begin. By then, costs had gone out of sight. Generous donors came forward, but the members of the Foundation board were still stuck trying to raise enough money. A friendly (0 percent) banker was found and, with no more than the usual frustrations that dealings with contractors generate, the George Pocock Memorial Rowing Center was built. Had it not been for the unstinting dedication of such loyal men as Lyman Hull and Al MacKenzie, along with the help of the architect, Ken MacInnes, the project would never have seen the light of day. It was through their efforts that the dedication at last took place in July of 994.
The Lake Washington Rowing Club - 1999 Meanwhile, the Lake Washington Rowing Club, frustrated by seemingly unending delays and worried lest they lose their own identity should they tie in with the Foundation, decided to go their own way. In view of the growing interest in rowing in the Seattle area, there grew general agreement between the two groups that two boathouses, rather than one, were needed. By then, IRS rules had been relaxed enough to allow tax-deductible gifts to organizations such as rowing clubs to be made. This ruling helped the LWRC’s fund-raising efforts, but, by itself, was not enough. Loyal supporters stepped forward with loans, others co-signed notes, and through these and other means, enough money was eventually found. We now have two groups owing money, rather than one, but time has shown the wisdom of the decisions made. Seattle boasts two gleaming new rowing facilities with all of the necessary accoutrements. Moreover, the LWRC is enjoying a remarkable rekindling of interest and enthusiasm.
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Six generations – clockwise from top left: Frances Pocock (mother) - 1992; with sons, Greg & Chris - 1990; Sir George Pocock, Admiral of the Blue and “Hero of Havana” (great to the nth grandfather) - late 1700s; groundbreaking for the George Pocock Memorial Rowing Center, 1993, with Tori Kusske (grandniece), Patricia Pocock Van Mason (sister), Frances Pocock (mother),Chip Saul (grandson); Fred Pocock (grandfather) - 1936
XII – “Way Enough!” – 318 WHEN I PAUSE NOW TO LOOK AT THE NAME OVER THE ENTRY to the George Pocock Memorial Rowing Center, the thought crosses my mind: were old Dad in a place where he could see what we have done, what would he think? I can imagine him shaking his head and hear him saying: “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Oh dear, oh dear. Fools’ names and fools’ faces are often seen in public places.” In all the years that we were in business together, we had never put our name on the shop. He - and I, too - craved anonymity, wanting the quality of our product to be our only advertisement. Now, my earnest desire is that the quality of the eventual product of this center - the communityoriented rowing projects that we envision - will be known and celebrated for generations to come. These will be Dad’s true, living memorial. WHEN DWELLING ON MY MANY YEARS OF COACHING, I OFTEN asked myself Why do I keep sticking my neck out? I knew why the rowers were out there - they wanted to win races. What was it about this game of rowing and the coaching of it, this activity so merciless in its demands and so lacking in mundane reward? I was content in my chosen world of building racing shells and needed nothing more. Why did I keep coming back despite the miserable hours, pouring rain, freezing cold and time lost from my family. True, my associations with all of those young people were wonderful. Now and then a beautiful sunrise gave some compensation for having had to roll out of bed before the birds. I must admit that having people hanging on my every word (or at least pretending to) was good for the ego. But these hardly seemed adequate answers to my question. The other night, I was once again reminded why. It was after seeing a presentation of rowing pictures by Susan Parkman, accompanied by a lovely paean to the beauties of rowing. I was taken back again to an episode some 50 years earlier, when I experienced the most moving moment of my life. It was during my senior year in college. Author’s father, George Pocock & daughter, Sue Pocock - 1975
XII – “Way Enough!” – 319 I was turning out with the Varsity squad. Late in the autumn, dark, quiet, bitterly cold, with not a breath of wind to disturb us, we were returning from a long row down the lake. Al’s launch was off somewhere with the other boats, and we were alone in the world. As we skirted the shore to head westward toward the shellhouse, I saw, looming behind us, a full moon, awesome in its majesty, rising above the Cascades. I’m sure that the others in the crew saw it, though not a word was spoken. Our boat was going as it had never gone before, steady as a rock, not a sound to be heard, save for the gurgling of water under the keel and the mighty swirl of the puddles — unspoken ecstasy a living presence within the shell. The harder I drove my oar, the greater was the joy of it. Could it possibly happen for just one more stroke. Yes! And yes! And, yet again, yes! Too soon, we reached the float and crept out to put our oars away and carry the boat to its resting place. There was not a word heard, other than the cox’n’s hoarse commands. In the showers, no boisterous horseplay, no bitching about the coach. Dressed, I quickly left for the long walk up to the fraternity house, alone with my thoughts. I knew that I had just experienced something that might never happen again. I had lost myself and, in the process, had truly found myself. I had had a fleeting glimpse of the divine: in George Pocock’s words, “the you of you which is your soul.” Whether the experience changed me or my life in any way is hard to say. Probably not. It didn’t alter my rather wry outlook on the world, but the memory of that night remains. It has stayed with me through all those years of teaching the art of rowing. I wanted people who rowed for me, at least once, to have the thrill of that one moment. Should they be that fortunate, the memory of it would be worth all the hard work, the aching muscles, the missed meals ON THIS NOTE, I WILL STOP. THOUGH WELL BEYOND MY and the sacrifices they were called upon to endure. The momentary allotted three score and ten, I haven’t heard the “roar of the falls” exhilaration of victories won, the soul-searching agony of races lost, yet, and I know that there is much left to do in this life other than even the pleasures of seeking a common goal with others for whom dwelling in the past, so…for now, it’s one felt great respect, and the satisfaction gained from a job well done, “Way enough!” would be transcended by that momentary glimpse of perfection.
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“Way enough!”
Glossary – 321
Glossary As one might expect, coaches have their own interpretation of rowing terms and their use thereof. Herein find my definitionsof those I used when coaching or talking of rowing and which appear in this book. (To clarify certain definitions,some words within the text are capitalized to indicate that their meaning is found elsewhere within the Glossary.) ANGLE: The position aft of ATHWARTSHIPS to which one extends the BOAT(S)MAN: RIGGER: one who takes care of boats oar or sculls in preparation for the catch. Ideally, 52 degrees (more or less, depending upon whose advice one chooses to follow). More angle (over- BODY ANGLE: The angle from the vertical of a rower’s body at reaching) wastes energy; less (short) is the sure guarantee of a slow boat. any point in the rowing stroke. Usually employed in describing the disposition of the body immediately prior to the CATCH. ARM PULL: What one is supposed to do after taking hold of an oar. BODY SWING: One of the four means of applying force to the oar ATHWARTSHIPS: At right angle to the keel of a boat. See THWART. (or, better said, to the water) during the DRIVE. BACK: To back water with one’s oar (or sculls), as in the command, “STARBOARD (or PORT) to back!” when a COXSWAIN (or COX’N) wishes to turn the boat, or the command “Back all !” when a coxswain wishes the boat to be moved backward. When backing, blades are reversed to present the working face to the water. The sole exception to this is when maneuvering at the starting line. There, blades must be in a position to go at any time. Also: That portion of the body hurting (almost as much as the wrists) until one learns not to row hunkered down; instead, keeping the lumbar region tucked in during the RECOVERY and the early part of the DRIVE.
BOW: Front of the boat. Person rowing at the front end of a CREW. BUTTON: Of two parts: A sleeve that protects the OAR from wear in the ROWLOCK AND a movable ring or collar which keeps the oar from sliding through the rowlock. The latter can be moved up or down the oar to change the LOAD to suit varying wind conditions and/or crews’ capabilities, or simply to satisfy the whim of the coach.
BUCKING (OVER THE OAR): Sometimes referred to as bucketing. Excessive reverse swing of the back at the end of the drive. Anyone doing this probably had a solid release but was not coming out on BLADE: The action end of the OAR; the part that transmits force to the oar, that is, only making half a proper release. the water. Sometimes the term is used to designate an oar or SCULL. CAMBER: The upward curve from end to end of a racing shell. BLADEWORK: The movements of the blade relative to the water. Clean bladework, for instance, describes efficient use of the oar. CATCH: Attack the water with ones oar to begin the DRIVE. Also: The beginning of the drive. BLIND BOAT: A boat without a cox’n.
Glossary – 322
CHECK: A crack or split in the wooden hull of a SHELL. The bane of old-time maintainers of racing shells, especially in the days of Spanish cedar and prior to the invention of quick-drying waterproof glue. See also: STERNCHECK. CLEAN: Clean bladework means efficient use of the oar with a minimum of MISSING WATER, WASHING OUT and/or splashing. COLLAR: See BUTTON. A Winning Double (despite being rigged too high!) COXSWAIN: The steersman; the one in charge of the boat. Traditionally seated in the stern of the shell where they can’t see much, they are now often seen lying in the bow of pair- or four-oared boats DEAD SLIDE: Rowing with no movement of the SLIDING SEAT. A where the rowers can’t see them. Everyone, except newspaper reporters, drill used in practice sessions to emphasize BODY SWING pronounce the word without sounding the letter “w”. Usually written cox’n, or simply cox. DOUBLE : A racing shell for two SCULLERS : “II(x)” in the program. CRAB: What happens to an OAR in a moving boat when the angle of the BLADE relative to the surface of the water is reversed. The force DRAG: The resistance to motion due to friction generated by the hull of the water drives the oar deep and puts it out of the control of the moving through the water and, to a negligible extent, through the air. ROWER. A crab destroys the rhythm of a CREW, slows the boat and on occasion can treat the errant rower to an unexpected dunking. DRIVE: What moves the boat; that portion of the complete STROKE that hurts the body the most. Achieved through the use — in proper CREW: A group who row in a RACING SHELL. Used in this sense, sequence — of the CATCH, LEG DRIVE and BODY SWING, combined with the term is treated as plural (“the crew were...” or “they were a good the ARM PULL and, finally, the SQUEEZE. crew…”). Used as an appellation for the sport of ROWING itself, the word is treated as singular, i.e., crew is a great sport, or, crew was EARLY: Catching before the STROKE MAN does. To catch over means popular). Use of the expression crew team, while technically acceptable, the same thing. Any member of the crew doing this is hated by the galls the rowing purist. person rowing in the stroke seat. DEADHEAD(S): Partially submerged logs that had dropped out EIGHT: A racing shell for eight SWEEP oarsmen. Always has a of log booms being towed to one of the many sawmills that once COXSWAIN, but this fact is rarely mentioned, save in the race program lined Seattle’s lake shores. They were bad news for racing shells (and wherein it is (or its crew) is designated “VIII(+)”. cox’ns).
Glossary – 323
ERGOMETER: An off-the-water training device: a rowing machine (which occurs only at the PAUSE following the RECOVERY). Also: used to variously equipped with bells and whistles to measure energy and describe the surface of a racing shell. force expended. Invented by a sadist. FORWARD: Toward the BOW — except when describing a rower ÊT VOUS PRÊT? PARTEZ!: Translated literally, means “Are you moving forward in preparation for the next stroke. In that case, the ready? Go!” or as we said, “Ready all? Row!” French was originally movement is toward the STERN of the boat. (It always confused me, the official language of the modern Olympics, and it has taken rowing too.) people a long time to break away from that tradition. Whether still used when starting Olympic races, I cannot say. Rarely used in this FOUR: Racing shell for four sweep oarsmen. In the configuration country any more. I never did use it. that has no coxswain, it is variously known as a blind, coxless or straight four: “IV(-)” in the program. The version with a coxswain is FALSE START: See JUMPING THE GUN. called a four with, a coxed four or a four plus: “IV(+)” in the program. The coxed version is no longer an Olympic event. FEATHER: To feather (the oar), in rowing parlance, means to rotate it relative to the surface of the water. An oar is said to be feathered or on FROSH: Short for freshman. Describes students who are in their first the feather when, during the RECOVERY, it is at rest in the LOCK with the year of academic work, no matter what their age. While most of the BLADE parallel to the surface of the water. (Actually, if it were exactly men with whom I worked had had no previous rowing experience, parallel, one would be in trouble. If the lock is properly set, the leading those that did could still row only as freshmen; they needed at least edge of the blade is tipped a few degrees upward so it will skip off the sophomore credentials in order to turn out for the Varsity squad. By water should it touch during the RECOVERY.) Blades on the feather offer that same irrational thinking, those students with no rowing experience less wind resistance and can act as stabilizers in rough water. Skilled could not compete as freshmen if they had any previous college work use of the feathering action at the RELEASE and at the CATCH marks the of record. The novice category now gives these a chance. difference between the true WATERMAN and the HAM ’N’ EGGER . FULL SLIDE: Using all the TRACK; something cheaters and lazy or FIN: A metal or plastic blade attached to the bottom of a SHELL to exhausted rowers rarely do. help keep it moving on a straight course. Formerly independent of the boat’s rudder, it provided a pivot point against which the rudder GATE: A latch that keeps the oar or scull safely in the ROWLOCK could act. Most modern shells have their rudder attached to the fin, (unless one forgets to close it.) which is why they are so hard to steer. Sometimes referred to as a skeg, a term which is technically incorrect. GERMAN RIG: One of the few ideas that German coaches could possibly be said to have been guilty of copying, although they might FINISH: The part of the rowing STROKE that completes the DRIVE have been the first to apply the idea to eights. Other than in my own and initiates the actions necessary to release the BLADE from the experiments, the first time I heard of its being used was on the Italian water, (see RELEASE) It does not describe the completion of the STROKE fours in Ballarat at the 1956 Olympics. See ITALIAN R IG.
Glossary – 324
HALF-SLIDE: Rowing while sliding only halfway to FULL REACH. A drill used in practice to emphasize the swing of the body during the DRIVE. Unless one is careful, this drill could lead, instead, to the habit of HOOKING one’s arms at the catch: a definite no-no. Also used by tired rowers toward the end of a race. Known as “shortening up,” this was (and still is) devastating to speed. HAM ’N’ EGGER: A real jerk. Also: One of the appellations for the intrasquad fracas staged weekly by the freshman squad. HANG(ing) ON: Keeping full pressure on the oar until the RELEASE. HANDLE: See OAR HANDLE.
That’s how to hang on! Lucy & the Flyweights
HENLEY DISTANCE: One mile, 550 yards. This measurement was found back in the Dark Ages to be the maximum distance that INBOARD: Closest to the dock or float, as in the term, inboard the REACH of the Thames River at Henley allowed for two lanes. oars. Also, that portion of an oar between the BUTTON and the end of THE oar handle divided by distance from button to tip of blade. HOLD ALL!: The COXSWAIN’s (or coach’s) command calling for a Determines the mechanical advantage of an oar (which, incidentally CREW to put on the brakes. The louder and higher-pitched it is, the is a combination lever of both the first and second class). quicker the crew tends to respond. IGOROTE: A freshman oarsman. See FROSH. HOOKING: Making the CATCH by bending the arms, rather than keeping them straight and depending solely upon the LEG DRIVE and ITALIAN RIG: The usual configuration of a sweep-oared racing BODY SWING during the initial part of the DRIVE. Shortens the STROKE shell sees its outriggers placed alternately on one side of the boat and and causes one to end up ROWING IN THE LAP. A difficult habit to then the other. This necessarily puts the oars on one side ahead of break. One can do so by tensing both the biceps and the triceps at those on the other, thus causing in imbalance of forces which can the catch, thus keeping the arms rigidly straight. Straight arms for cause a shell to turn away from the bow oar. To offset this problem the early part of the stroke soon becomes a habit, and the triceps can in a four, the bow and two riggers can be switched, thus reducing then be relaxed at the catch. the advantage a bow man usually enjoys because the oars on one side are now bracketed by those on the opposite side and the forces more equally distributed. So named because the Italians were the first to be seen using the scheme in Olympic competition.
Glossary – 325
JUMPING THE GUN: Same as false start. A rarely successful the normal procedure is for one to pull the lower scull handle through attempt by a bad crew to beat crews they know they can’t beat slightly ahead of the other to avoid clawed knuckles. On the last otherwise. One allowed per crew per race; two and you’re out. single we built for Joe Burk when he was national champion, one lock was four inches higher than the other. Even then, he often wore JUNIOR VARSITY: The next-to-fastest crew in the Varsity squad. a carpenter’s glove on his lower hand for protection. Usually termed “JayVee” or “the Javvies” and written “JV.” Oftentimes not on good terms with the first crew, especially when they beat them. LEG DRIVE: That portion of the force applied to the oar during the DRIVE by the push of the legs. In proper rowing, the legs are the KNIFING IN: The action of driving the blade into the water at an major source of power. Leg drive initiates the STROKE by shoving the angle rather than squared. If the water is shallow, you hit bottom. BLADE into the water (not nearly as simple as it sounds). KNOCKER PLATES: Reinforcements that were fastened to the LIGHTWEIGHTS: An upperclassmen’ squad of smaller people. WASHBOARDS of old-time wooden racing shells to prevent overzealous Rules were such that lightweight crews could average no more than COXSWAINS from destroying their boats as they beat out the time with 150# per man (later raised to 155#) and the maximum weight of any the KNOCKERS and exhorted their crews to further excesses. one man was 165#. With the advent of rowing for women in this country, the limits established for their lightweights were much lower. KNOCKERS: These handles, attached to the ends of the rudder (There never have been upper weight-limits for so-called “Heavies,” lines, were used to rap out the cadence. If a coxswain had sense either men or women.) Known as “lightweights,” “150S” or, simply, enough to anticipate the stroke man’s catch and, thus, lead the crew, the “lights”, these were often the most cheerful people around the he (I was never fortunate enough to have women try out for the job) shellhouse because they only had to race 2000 meters instead of two, could be of great help. If he merely followed what the stroke man three or four miles. Designated LW or LtWt in the program. was doing, his actions were worse than useless. I usually cut them (the knockers) down to mere nubs to reduce the damage caused by LOAD: The resistance a ROWER encounters. Can be increased or coxswains too carried away in the heat of competition. decreased either by changing the SPREAD, by moving the COLLAR to alter the INBOARD/OUTBOARD RATIO of the oar, or by a combination LATE: The opposite of EARLY. One (or more) in a crew being late at of the two. The worst thing a coach can do is to lighten the load for the catch drives a strokeman as mad as when someone catches early. small people by increasing the spread and the inboard/outboard ratio. This only hampers the rowers’ REACH and lessens any chance of their LEFT-OVER-RIGHT: In a sculling boat, the oar (scull) handles making their boat go fast. Far better for small rowers: decrease the overlap as they pass the midpoint of the stroke. To avoid having spread and give them shorter oars with the appropriate collar setting. them bump into each other, the ROWLOCKS are adjusted so that the left handle is slightly (about three-quarters of an inch) higher than LOCK: See ROWLOCK. the right. This is what the old professional scullers liked. Amateurs settled on the right handle being higher than the left. In either case, LOCKEE: One who operates a lock on the Thames River.
Glossary – 326
LONG: As in a coach’s pleading with is crew to “Keep ’er loooong !”— OUTBOARD: Opposite of INBOARD. That portion of the oar meaning either to keep reaching well out for the next catch, or to keep between the COLLAR and the tip of the BLADE. The OUTBOARD hand the ideal ratio of a quick drive and a long recovery. is the one on the end of the oar handle of a sweep oar. Also: Applies to anything outside or going on outside the boat. MEGAPHONE: Used by old-time coaches to yell instructions, imprecations or — now and then — intelligent information at their OUTRIGGER: The structure sticking out on either side of a racing shell crews. Also very handy for beating on the coaching launch gunwale which supports the ROWLOCK. Often shortened to RIGGER to confuse or even for throwing overboard if the occasion demanded. Coxswains those who happen to hear people talking about the other kind. had smaller ones (strapped to their head, see illust, p. 332) which they used to tell their crew what they thought of them and/or to shout PAIR: A racing shell for two rowers (not scullers). When without a misleading information at crews alongside. coxswain, known variously as a straight, coxless or blind pair, or simply . a pair: “II(-)” in the program. With a coxswain, it is called a pair with, MISSING WATER: Failing to CATCH at full REACH. Losing some a coxed pair and, sometimes, a “wheelbarrow” by masochists who of the stroke by shoving the legs and swinging the body without, at choose to row in one: “II(+)” in the program. Along with the coxed the same time, anchoring the blade solidly in the water. four, the coxed pair is no longer an Olympic event. OAR: The misery whip. Sometimes used to denote a SCULL. Also, PAUSE: That moment of hesitation just prior to the CATCH which though rarely (in this country, anyway), used when describing the separates one STROKE from the next. Second in importance only to a rowing ability of a person, as in “He (or she) is a good (or bad) oar.” proper RELEASE for anyone seeking rowing perfection. OAR HANDLE: The oarsman’s end of the oar. Where blisters on the hands come from.
PIN: Attached to the outer end of the OUTRIGGER, it is the vertical metal rod around which the ROWLOCK rotates. Those really into RIGGING like to experiment with the number of degrees the pin is OARSMAN: Rower: one who rows. For most of my coaching career, I pitched and how far past it the rower slides during the RECOVERY. worked only with men; thus, the use of this term was appropriate. Old habits are hard to break. With the subsequent appearance of women PICKLE BOAT: Crew (usually a four) made up of the squad alternates in the sport, such appellations as oarswoman or (worse yet) oarsperson at a regatta. Sometimes raced similar crews from other schools. have been tried. I found these difficult to use. When, later in life, I was working with masters-level women, I once made the mistake of describing PITCH: The angle of the face of the BLADE relative to the vertical. For an them to my wife, Suzanne, as “my little ladies” (they were little, and they oar to be rowable, the upper edge of blade must lean several degrees aft at the were ladies). She was quick to point out the error of my ways. CATCH, otherwise it tends to KNIFE IN when pulled on. Pitch was sometimes built into the oar itself, in which case the oar could only be used on the side ON KEEL: n. A shell is on (the) keel if it is level, rather than tipped. for which it is designed. More often, pitch was determined by the angle of the working face of the ROWLOCK. We liked six or seven degrees in the lock.
Glossary – 327
RACING START: The series of strokes taken by a crew to get away from the starting line as quickly as possible.Taken at a high rate, these strokes were of varying length and in particular sequence. Of the many we tried, one of them involved using a ¾ slide on the first, no slide on the second, then a ½, ½, ¾, and finally, 10 or more full-so, as witness the Naval Academy crews of 1951-4 and the Ratzeburg eights of the early 1960S. Others held their blades squared and in the water while awaiting the starting command and used no feathering action whatsoever for the first few strokes.This lessened the chance of crabs being caught. Most crews were content to SETTLE into the mid-30s after 20 or so. Overriding all else was the need for those in the crew to do exactly the same thing at exactly the same time. Speaking of high rates: A Japanese crew at Henley A determined Pair, but not a Good Start! in 1936 confounded everyone when they won after having allegedly stayed at 56 for the entire race — the only race, incidentally, that PORT: The left side of the boat if you’re a COXSWAIN; the right side they succeeded in winning during their European tour. The losers if you’re a ROWER or SCULLER. If you’re a coach, heaven help you. at that first meeting, probably bemused by the bizarre performance, accompanied as it was by frenzied shouts of banzai! from their PUDDLE: The disturbance or eddy left in the water by the action opponent, must have forgotten to race. The crew I rowed with in of the oar during the DRIVE. Flat puddles indicate effective rowing, my senior year found we did our best by using one ¾ stroke and while heaped-up, frothy ones are the sign of cavitation, lost energy immediately settling into our racing pace of 32. But then — we and/or phonies on the other end of the oar. weren’t very fast. QUAD: A quadruple sculling boat; one designed for four people: RATE: The number of strokes taken per minute: 24 on down when “IV(x)” in the program. learning, training or simply enjoying oneself; 30–36 for distance races; as high as 40 in sprint races; 45 or more in the early part of a RACING SHELL: A long, narrow, lightly-built boat propelled with race and, sometimes, in the finishing SPRINT at the end of a race. oars used by people to try to go faster than other people. Before the advent of the sophisticated space-age materials of the present RATIO: Time spent on the RECOVERY compared to that spent on day, these were constructed of very thin wooden planking.The term the DRIVE. A quick drive, followed by a slower recovery — as much shell, as in eggshell, first came into use when the original oarsman as one to two — was aimed for, especially in long-distance racing. happened to rest a foot on the bottom of the boat — with predictable In shorter races, one often saw the opposite — the drive being slower results. than the recovery. Crews doing that rarely stayed in front unless all the others were doing the same thing.
Glossary – 328
REACH: The distance an oarsman stretches out with his oar prior ROWING: The sport also known by some as crew. to the CATCH. Also: An unbroken stretch, generally straight, on a river or waterway, as between locks on the River Thames. ROWING IN THE LAP: A singular perversion of the rowing stroke wherein the elbows are hooked down early in the drive. The oar handle RECOVERY: That segment of the rowing STROKE during which the is past the knees almost before the legs have begun their downward oarsman slides up in preparation for the next CATCH. Gives a period of push. Arm pull begun too soon and the body swing too late. rest between strokes. Also: those minutes right after the finish of a race when life no longer seems worth living — unless you’ve won. ROWLOCK: Device within which the OAR is held and which rotates with the oar as it swings back and forth through the arc of RELEASE: That segment of the rowing STROKE which combines the STROKE. Successor to the thole pins of old and variously called a (a) the completion of the DRIVE, (b) the removal of the oar from the lock, a swivel, or, should you wish to be understood in British rowing water and (c) the beginning of the RECOVERY. circles, a rullock. REPÊCHAGE: French for the ‘recovery of something one has lost in the water’. In the international and Olympic format for rowing races, if there are more entries than the available lanes allow, only those who win in the first round are allowed entry at the next level. The losers are allowed to compete in a repêchage race to determine who will advance. The number that qualify in this way depends upon the number of entries.
RUMTUM: First of a series of progressively more difficult sculling boats once used in the rowing program at Eton College in England. These boats included the funny, the whiff, the whiff-gig, and, finally, the gig, all of which led to the best boat or slider. (I had to dredge back into my memories of Dad’s stories to come up with these terms, and they might not be accurate.) Advancement from one boat to the next depended not only upon one’s increased sculling proficiency, but RIGGER: See OUTRIGGER. Also, see BOAT(S)MAN. on adequate academic performance as well — unless an especiallymotivated student could bribe a raftsman to leave a back window RIGGING: The various accessories, outriggers and rowlocks, especially, unlocked so that he could sneak in to take out a slider and enjoy some on a racing shell. Also: Adjusting of the positions of these various bits illegal instruction and/or early-morning practice. relative to each other and to the boat itself. This activity, when carried to extremes, was disparagingly known as “friggin’ with the riggin’.” RUN: The distance a crew makes a boat move for each stroke taken. Can judged by observing the SPACING at any given RATE. Crews were often ROWER: See OARSMAN. reminded to “…let ‘er run!” and thus get the most out of each stroke.
RIG HIGH (LOW): Increasing (or decreasing) the distance of the rowlock above the water to give the oarsman more (or less) clearance. The higher the rig, the less chance there is of catching crabs but the harder it is for the honest oarsman to pull effectively.
SCISSORING: Moving the head and shoulders transversely across a sweep boat during the drive and recovery. Because the rowers are alternately port and starboard, their heads appear to be “scissoring” as they row. If scullers do it, they ought to try another sport.
Glossary – 329
SCULL: To propel a boat with oars (one in each hand.) Also: To use this rather complex alternating action to propel a boat with an oar or scull over the stern. All good oarsmen scull. Also: One of the pair of oars used in sculling. To avoid confusion, the term ought not be used when referring to a single sculling shell. The first time I received a letter requesting the price of a scull, I innocently answered, asking which side was wanted: Port or Starboard. I never got a reply. Such a boat is a single, just as a double sculler is a double. SCULLER: An oarsperson who uses an oar (or scull) in each hand. SETTLE: To lower the high RATE used during a racing start to a more sensible, sustainable level for the body of the race. SHELL: What rowers and scullers race in. Also known as a boat.
Author sculling in wherry right-over-left
SHORT: Not reaching far enough. Also, the description of one who ought to try a different sport or find someone who knows how to rig them properly.
SLIDE: The track and moving seat in a shell. Permits rowers to lengthen their REACH and take full advantage of the long oar and wide SPREAD. It is a relatively recent arrival on the rowing scene. For SHOULDER SQUEEZE: The contraction of the muscles across the thousands of years, rowers were content to sit on a fixed thwart. Then, upper back in conjunction with the final pull and squeeze of the arms. someone noticed that a longer stroke could be achieved by scooting Keeps full force on the oar and leads to a proper RELEASE. Many of back and forth on the thwart. The next logical step was to slather the old professional scullers appeared to be hunchbacked because of one’s shorts with lard to make the sliding easier. Then, a separate seat the extreme development of these muscles. See SQUEEZE. sliding on lubricated glass rods was tried. This was better because it kept one’s pants cleaner and lessened the development of boils on the SINGLE: A racing shell for one sculler. Often called a needle or a bottom, a curse that plagued old-timers. At last the invention of the best boat but never properly a scull!: “I(x)” in the race program. wheel was recalled, and the rest is history. SKYING: Carrying one’s blade high off the surface of the water SLIDING SEAT: See SLIDE. during the RECOVERY. Too often leads to MISSING WATER at the CATCH. SMALL BOATS: Singles, doubles, pairs, fours or quads.
Glossary – 330
SPREAD: The distance from the working face of the ROWLOCK to the center line of a shell. SPRINT: To complete the race for the finish line by raising the rate in hopes of speeding up one’s boat enough to catch whomever might be ahead of you. Sometimes this worked. Also: A short race, usually of 2000 meters or less. A 500-meter sprint is a dash. SQUARE: The BLADE of an oar is said to be square or squared when it is in its pulling position, i.e., more or less at right angles to the surface of the water. See PITCH.
Joe Burk winning the Diamonds at Henley, 1939 note that he is sculling left over right.
SQUEEZE: Employed to complete the DRIVE portion of the stroke. Done with the last few inches of ARM PULL and the contraction of the deltoids and trapezia after the LEG DRIVE and BACK SWING are completed. I can still hear Tom Bolles’ high-pitched, drawn-out exhortations to his crews at the UW to “Squeeeeze!” as he urged them on to greater performance.
SPACING: The distance between successive sets of PUDDLES. In the case of an EIGHT rigged normally (not German or Italian-rigged), even spacing (the space between successive sets of puddle being the same as the distance between individual puddles) at a racing rate — 36 or 37 — indicated that the boat was moving fast. At 24 strokes per minute, we tried to achieve spacing such that, before the next stroke, the boat moved far enough for the bow man’s puddle to be opposite or past the stern of the boat. (Easier to do now that the stern decks of modern shells are much shorter than those of old.) Zero or minus spacing meant that you weren’t getting much for your money.
STAKE BOAT: Small craft anchored on the starting line, one in each lane of the racecourse. Bored people in these boats hold the stern of each shell to keep them aligned until the starter gives the command to row. Essential when the course is on a river. Often, races between two scullers were started by mutual consent, one nodding that he was ready, the other taking that as the signal to go. Saved trouble.
SPIKE(ing): To really jam on the brakes. The action is that of an extreme, but controlled, CRAB. Used in stopping a single or a double quickly, but rarely — if ever — in fours, quads, or eights because the momentum is simply too great: a sure oar-breaker.
STERN: What the oarsman sees while stroking a blind boat, or, if tall enough, what he can see beyond the COXSWAIN or the man in front of him.
STARBOARD: The opposite of PORT. START: See R ACING START.
Glossary – 331
STERNCHECK: Often simply referred to as check, this is the hesitation in the forward flow of the boat that sometimes occurs at or immediately following the CATCH. Its presence is sure indication of a bad crew and a slow boat. Though often caused by the crews’ bobbing down prior to the catch, or by faulty coordination of LEG DRIVE and CATCH, it more often results from a faulty RELEASE (that is, WASHING OUT) of the previous stroke. While most coaches watched the stern of a shell to detect it (hence, the name), I always watched the bow. If the bow stayed up during the recovery, I knew there was no check.
TRACK: What the sliding seat moves back and forth on. Often referred to as “slide” (as in dead-slide, half-slide or full-slide.) See SLIDE. TRIM: A boat is out of trim if it is off-keel (tipped). If level, it is “in trim” or “trimmed.” TUB: A pair-oared practice boat with a coach’s seat at the stern. Used by a creative coach to teach the finer points of rowing.
STRAIGHT BOAT: A pair- or four-oared shell that has no cox’n.
VARSITY: Overall term for the squad of upperclassmen turning out. When the racing season approached and the first (theoretically the STRETCHER: What the oarsman puts his feet on or in while rowing. fastest) crew was named, it was designated the Varsity. Sometimes termed “footboards.” Adjustable to accommodate those with shorter or longer legs, they include wooden clogs (if you are using WASHBOARD: The uppermost strake which enclosed the rowing a really old boat) or, in the newer ones, flexible sneaker-type shoes. section of a wooden shell. Often mistakenly called the “gunnel” (the Either, we thought, could ruin one’s rowing if lashed up tight. proper spelling is “g-u-n-w-a-l-e”) which was actually obscured from view by the washboard. Called the “saxboard” in Britain and other STROKE: One of the interminably-repetitive actions used to propel places. a shell. Divided into the CATCH, the DRIVE, the SQUEEZE, the FINISH (or RELEASE), the RECOVERY and, lastly, the PAUSE. WASHING OUT: Losing the grip of ones blade(s) on the water before the DRIVE is completed. One (bad) way to remove the oar from STROKE(MAN): The sternmost oarsman in a shell; the one who the water at the end of the drive. Done by dumping ones oar handle sets the pace. Often the most frustrated member of a crew, especially into the lap at the end of the drive The slow way to row. when there is another member of the crew who happens to think he (or she) is the stroke. WATERMAN: The taxi driver or drayman on the Thames River in England before the days of bridges and petrol-powered vehicles. also: SWEEP: A classy name for an oar. Used only by those who really The appellation used to describe one who handles his or her boat and are not into rowing. The term “sweep rowing” is used to differentiate oars well: that is, a rowing or sculling craftsman. rowing from sculling. By the same token, a sweep oarsman is not a sculler even though he sculls his oar (if he is rowing properly.) See WATERMANSHIP: The skill (or lack thereof ) with which an SCULL. oarsman uses his oar or sculls and handles his boat. SWEEP OARSMAN: A rower who is not a sculler.
WAY ENOUGH: Yes! See the Apologia at the front of the book.
Glossary – 332
WEIGH ENOUGH: No! See same. WHERRY: A short, wide, open sculling boat used by those learning to scull. Also popular with older people who still enjoy sculling but prefer to minimize the risk of unwanted dunkings. Sometimes called a gig or workboat. WRISTS: These, along with the forearms, are what really hurt if one is rowing or sculling without having first learned to relax. Proper timing, along with employment of the force of the water itself against the face or the back of the blade to assist in feathering, reduces the action required by the wrists. Pain is inevitable if one keeps a death grip on the handle(s) while forcing the blade(s) on and off the feather solely with wrist action. Once the technique is learned, a mere opening or closing of the fist(s), combined with a flick of the thumb(s), does the trick. Then, rowing or sculling becomes a pleasure.
Coxswain wearing a megaphone, knocker in hand
Index – 333
Index A Abe, Joan 306 Aberle, John 286 Adam, Karl 177, 196, 203 Adams, Gordon 72 Albertson, Leslie 302 Alm, Chuck 149, 151, 154, 173 Amlong, Tom and Joe 203 Amundsen, Dave 186 Anderson, Dave 85 Anderson, Ed 136 Anderson, John 22, 33 Andonian, Paul 44, 63, 98 Archer, Pete 237 Argersinger, Ed 8 Arlett, Ernie 222, 280 Arlett, Harry 268 Arlett, Jack 222 Armstrong, Sir Walter 210 Arnold, Don 134 Art, Jim 3 Atkinson, Hale 27 Austin, Ellie 306 Ayrault, Dan 119, 123, 129, 134, 139, 156, 173, 297 Ayrault, Sue 176, 183
B Badger, Wendell 260 Backer, Hans 63, 95, 98 Backman, Don 66 Baldwin, Jane 302 Barr, Bob 22 Barry, Bert 56, 267 Barry, Ernest 55, 73 Berry, Lew 56 Bartron, Darlene 306 Beard, Betsy 291 Beatty, Martha 301 Beggs, Jimmy 91, 126, 134 Belden, Bill 260 Benthin, Bernie 22 Berg, Margaret 304 Best, Gordon 123 Blue, Ken 145, 194 Berger, Geza 149, 154, 174, 186, 195 237 Bergeron, Bob 19, 33 Beyer, Marty 308 Biddle, Brooks 21 Biglow, John 290 Birkeland, Ivar “Buzz” 66, 76 Bisset, John 111, 115, 224, 244 Bishop, Grant 19, 22, 33 Blake, Pamela 302 Bleeker, Craig 237
Blethen, Col. Alden 55 Blethen, Frank 55 Blieden, Dick 139, 149, 154, 158, 173 Blitzer, Charles 194 Boe, Gretchen 302 Boeing, William E. 10, 50 Borgias, Sharen 306 Bower, Chuck 139, 154, 186, 195 Bowles, Thomas 27, 37, 305 Brannen, “Buzz” 313 Brayton, Bob 195 Breidenbach, Tony “A. J.” 40 Brockman, Ken 36 Brougham, Royal 23, 74, 82, 111, 295 Brown, Chuck 24, 26 Brown, Paul 44, 286 Brugman, Billy 7 Brundage, Avery 135 Brunswick, Bob 164, 292, 294 Buckley, Jim 286 Buvick, Norm 89, 107 Burk, Innis 313 Burk, Joseph 64, 178, 238, 268
C Cahill, Jack 66 Calderon, Jorge 151 Callaghan, Jim 75, 79
Index – 334 Callow, Gordon 23, 137 Callow, Russell S. “Rusty” 52, 54, 111, 309 Cameron, Bill 75, 286, 301 Cameron, Kevin 301 Camfield, Roland 66, 76, 97 Campbell, Charlie 237 Carlson, John 214 Carver, Jack 131, 166, 167 Case, Laurel 306, 307 Cassill, Harvey 24 Chapman, Clayton 151, 154, 214 Christianson, John 279 Clark, Doug 95 Clark, Earl “Click” 74 Clark, Steve 101 Cline, Bob 5 Clotfelter, Jan 306, 313 Clothier, Rex “Rick” 117 Connolly, Barb 306 Covey, Dave 115 COACHES Adam, Karl 177, 196, 203 Archer, Pete 237 Arlett, Ernie 222, 280 Arlett, Harry 222, 268 Atkinson, Hale 27 Beatty, Martha 302 Beggs, Jimmy 91, 126, 134 Bisset, John 111, 114, 224, 244 Blue, Ken 145, 194 Bolles, Tom 27, 37, 305 Burk, Joseph 64, 177, 238, 268 Callow, Russell “Rusty” 52, 54, 111, 309 Clothier, Rick 117
COACHES (continued) Condon, Willson 126 Conibear, Hiram 50, 55 Coyle, Frank 264, 269 Cunningham, Frank 27, 244, 273, 305, 310 Ebright, Ky 27, 35, 175 Erickson, Dick 115, 139, 154, 265, 290, 299 Eriksen, Gosta “Gus” 11, 26, 31, 88, 106, 144, 162 Ernst, Bob 250, 275, 290 Fairbairn, Steve 162 Farwell, Jim 165 Feode, Henry 180 Frailey, Jack 163, 260 Gladstone, Steve 157, 271 Hecht, Duvall 126, 128, 201 Helliwell, Dave 152 Hernandez, Carlos 151 Hillen, Bob 116 Hoover, Walter 126, 133, 144, 262 Johnson, Tony 245 Korzeniowski, Kris 291 Leader, Ed 38, 51, 190 Leader, Elmer 51 Leanderson, Matt “Fil” 75, 90, 93, 113, 118, 275 Lickiss, Ed 115 Lind, John 249 Lindsay, Lou 158, 172 Logg, Charles 27, 126 Love, Harvey 8 McDonald, Ellis 47, 136
COACHES (continued) McMillin, Jim “Stub” 27, 33, 72, 178 Melder, Gene 90 Michealson, Vic 246 Nagler, Russ 35 Nash, Ted 115, 171, 195, 202, 244 Ojala, Jim 26, 237 Parker, Harry 146, 247, 307 Parkman, Susan 318 Raney, Walter “Bud” 8, 12, 22, 31 Rathschmidt, Jim 133 Read, Frank 35, 36, 102, 131, 166, 167 Robertson, Rusty 243, 247 Rosenberg, Allen 267 Ross, Jud 148 Sanford, Harrison “Stork” 27, 123 Schoel, Loren “Muscle” 47, 152 Sonju, Norm 43, 99, 111, 123 Stevens, Edward 38 Sulger, Jack 167, 309 Ten Eyck, Jim 144, 190, 229 Ten Eyck, E. H. “Ned” 49 Trinsey, Jack 171 Ulbrickson, Al Sr. 8, 19, 27, 31, 54, 70, 114 Voris, Don 125, 139, 142 Walsh, Charles “Buck” 83, 159 Walz, Alan “Skip” 46, 224 Wendrey, Brian 305, 306 Coleman, Loren 157 Coles, Mike 60 Collyer, John 76
Index – 335 Condon, Dean 16 Condon, Willson 126 Conibear, Katherine 54 Conibear, Hiram B. 50, 55 Conner, Dennis 261 Conrad, Ernie 141 Costello, Pat 126, 134 Cox, Nelson 170, 196 COXSWAINS Albertson, Leslie 302 Amundsen, Dave 186 Andonian, Paul 44, 63, 98 Beard, Betsy 291 Bisset, John 111, 114, 224, 244 Blethen, Frank 55 Blitzer, Charlie 194 Brown, Paul 44, 301 Davis, Rowd 123 Gaffner, Hank 120, 123 Gaffner, Haynes 136 Goes, Clifford “Tip” 78, 117, 150, 172, 173 Grant, Don 26, 51 Griffin, Art 36 Griffin, Tren 36 Harris, R. Bronsdon Curly” 8, 27, 141, 185 Herland, Doug 291 Horton, Bernard 171, 186, 195, 259, 302 Lane, Pete 85 Lee, Bobby 19, 22, 24, 43L Love, Harvey 8 McKeown, Mickey 100, 101
COXSWAINS (continued) McRory, Ed 154 Mitchell, Kent 154, 173, 186, 202, 302 Moch, Bob 72, 83 Morgan, Allen 46, 89, 107 Orr, Shorty 136 Paup, Pete 127, 139, 146 Purchase, Ralph 43, 111 Rossi, Al “Peanuts” 89 Schenk, Earl 143 Seiffert, Kurt 123, 129, 134, 154 Sierpina, Ray 35 Stillings, John 270, 291 Walker, Ray 142, 143 Winter, Tom 60, 75, 78 Witter, Bob 66, 76, 82 Coyle, Frank 264 Craig, Phillip 5 Croker, Howard 280 Cromwell, Seymour “Sy” 186, 191, 195, 281 Cunningham, Frank 27, 245, 273, 305, 310 Curtis, Frank 7 Cushman, Ed 51
D Davidge, Christopher 181 Davis, Rowd 123 Day, Chuck 72 Day, Mischelle 302
Day, Herb 8, 69 Day, Susan 306 Decker, Jay 101 de Clercq, Agna 306 Dehn, Don 19, 20, 26, 42 Deusen, Denny 254, 292, 294 d’Hondt, Walter 134 Dimaggio, Joe 26 Dobie, Gilmour 26, 51 Dohrn, Gary 279 Donnelly, Jack 170 Draeger, Dick 149, 154, 173 Dreissegacker, Dick 237 Dresslar, Dorothy 137 Dresslar, John 13, 19, 88, 137 Drewes, Kurt 81, 246 Drumheller, Lisa 251, 324 Drummond, Ken 35 Durbrow, Phil 200, 202 Du Ruz, Brigit 306
E Ebright, Carroll “Ky” 27, 35, 175 Eddy, Jane 11 Edmunds, Jim 245 Edmundson, Clarence “Hec” 58 Efird, Terry 115, 237 Ellis, Bob 14 Ellis, Jim 14, 124 Ellis, John 14 Enquist, Paul 291 Ensign, Josephine 306
Index – 336 EQUIPMENT “African Queen,” the 108 AOB, the 60, 64 Banana Boat 38 Big Red Boat 81 Big Toe, my 165 Black Box 239 Blade Shapes 198 Broken Oars 69 British Strokemeter 178 CarboCraft 266, 273, 277 C Shell 164, 275 Coffey 277 Donoratico 172, 277 Ebright Outrigger 35 Empacher 177, 247, 261, 277 Ergometers 243 Fish Belly Boat 38 Gear Shift 283 Gimp pad 109 Italian Rig 133 Karlisch 247, 249, 277 Kaschpers 277 Nutty Ideas 282 Old Nero 12, 49, 58 Resolutes 277 Robinson Shells 277 Rudderless boats 121 Rumtum 11 Schoenbrod, Helmut 167, 244, 177 Sectional Boats 34 Stampfli 177, 206, 246 Stiles, Bob 248, 282 Vespoli 277
EQUIPMENT (continued) Wherry 10 “X,” the 268 Erickson, Richard 114, 139, 154, 265, 90, 298 Erickson, Irma 267, 302 Eriksen, Gosta “Gus” 11, 26, 31, 88, 106, 143, 162 Ernst, Bob 250, 275, 290 Espeseth, Robert 291 Evans, Gary 279
F Fairbairn, Steve 162 Farwell, Jim 165 Feode, Henry 180 Ferry, Ed 186, 202, 222 Fifer, Jim 91, 126, 129, 135, 287, 310 Findlay, Bill 119 Findlay, Conn 23, 129, 134, 146, 173, 175, 202, 289, 310 Fish, John 119, 120, 139, 146, 157, 186 Fisk, Terry 269, 284 Fleming, Kent 200 Flint, Bill 186, 195 Fonkalsrud, Eric 75 Fountain, Mike 266 Frailey, Jack 163, 260 Franklin, Jesse 269, 284 French, Doug 98
Frost, Ted 63, 76, 97, 120, 146, 158, 173 Frye, Wayne 200 Fulton, Dave 157
G Gaffner, Hank 120, 123 Gaffner, Haynes 136 Garborg, Arnie 193 Gardiner, Jim 126, 134, 194, 206, 231, 297 Gauss, Felix 127, 138, 154 Gellermann, Lou 45, 111, 154, 157, 173 German, John 238 Gibson, Ted 33 Gillen, Mary Jo 306 Gladstone, Steve 157, 162, 271, 297 Goes, Clifford “Tip” 78, 117, 150, 173, 185 Golub, Stanley 169 Goodsell, Major 267 Graham, Mel 293 Grant, Don 26, 51 Graul, Howard 19 Grauss, Felix 127, 137, 154 Graves, Dorsett “Tubby” 58 Graves, Suzanne B. 313 Gregory, “Blondy” 136 Green, Dick 85 Griffin, Art 36 Griffin, Tren 36 Gross, Bill 139, 142 Gunn, George 27
Index – 337
H Halberg, John 109 Hall, Jay 101, 119, 120, 131, 157, 195 Hamlin, Cathy 251, 324 Hardy, Gordon 76 Harper, Guy 63, 98, 286, 287 Harris, Mike 35 Harris, R. Bronsdon “Curly” 8, 27, 140, 185 Hart, Art 95, 98, 139 Hartman, Mary 251, 324 Hawes, Ed 213 Hawes, Nat and Ellie 213 Hecht, Duvall 91, 126, 129, 135, 201 Helliwell, Dave 152 Helmers, Gordon 15 Herland, Doug 291 Hernandez, Carlos 151 Hess, Mike 269, 272, 284 Hillen, Bob 115 Hitchborn, Jim 174 Hoaglund, Dale 40 Holt, Al 85 Holtz, Chuck 141, 143, 154, 186, 195 Hoover, Walter 126, 133, 144, 262 Horn, Blair 279 Horrocks, Phil 86 Horton, Bernard 149, 171, 195, 259, 302 Hough, Larry 245 Houlihan, Bill 68 Howay, Jim 63, 66, 76 Huckle, Don 57, 211, 292
Hull, Lyman 286, 316 Hume, Don 33, 72 Hunt, George “Shorty” 72 Hutchins, Robert 51
Johnson, Rod 89, 286, 313 Johnson, Tony 245 Jones, LeRoy 142, 143, 154 Jones, Julie 251, 324
I Ingram, Bob 51 Ivanov, Vyacheslav 134, 192, 228 IRA REGATTAS 1947 Hudson River, Poughkeepsie 23 1948 Hudson River, Poughkeepsie 42 1949 Hudson River, Poughkleepsie 46 1950 Ohio River, Marietta 48, 74 1951 Ohio River, Marietta 82 1952 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse 88 1953 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse 99 1954 Lake Onondage, Syracuse 101 1955 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse 110 1956 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse 122 1966 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse 115, 213 Ives, Ed 279
K Kalenius, Bill 308 Keller, Tomi 181 Kelly, Jack 91, 133, 146, 158, 222, 277, 301, 310 Kirschner, Harry 295 Klasell, John 85 Klecatsky, Dick 260 Knapp, Bill 33 Knecht, Bill 146, 158 Korzeniowski, Kris 291 Koskela, Ormand 292, 295 Kreiger, George 5 Kroeger, Dave 115, 237 Kueber, Phil 35 Kuhn, Nelson 179
J Jackman, Ron 270, 284 Jackson, George 7 Jalbing, Mari 306 Jarvis, Lynne 34 Jocums, Tish 306 John, William “Skip” 66 Johnson, Erv 75
L Lacey, Dick 85 Ladd, Sherry 306 Lamb, Lynn 95, 98 Lamson, Bob 11, 274 Lane, Pete 85 Lang, Bill 123 Lauber,Dave 279
Index – 338 Lawrence, Guy 279 Leader, Ed 38, 51 Leader, Elmer 51 Leanderson, Matt “Fil” 75, 90, 93, 112,118, 275 Lecky, John 179 Lee, Bob 33 Lee, Bobby 19, 22, 24, 42 Lee, Hilmar 104, 241 LeMieux, Rachel 307 Lewis, Brad 291 Lewis, Phil 11, 19 Lickiss, Ed 115 Lind, John 249 Lobb, Allan 205, 214, 234 Lobb, David 206 Lobb, Gloria 229 Logg, Chuck 27, 91, 126 Loomer, Laury 134 Lorentz, Bob 18 Love, Harvey 8 Lovsted, Carl 90 Lyon, Dick 199, 202, 245
M MacDonald, Carmelita 95 MacDonald, Roger 139, 149, 154 MacInnes, Ken 316 MacKenzie, Al 316 Magnuson, John 157, 195 Mandley, Helen 306 Martin, Bob 24, 46, 123
Matkin, Jack 200 Maurer, Fred 33 May, Alan 232, 233 Mackenzie, Stuart 134 Mason, Lloyd 51 May, Charlie 199 McCagg, Ted 200 McCain, Sue 302, 306 McCarthy, Charlie 43 McCurdy, Horace 114, 274 McDonald, Doug 35 McDonald, Ellis 47, 137 McFarlane, Bob 33 McGuinnes, Chuck 53 McIntyre, Charley 12, 90, 113, 122 McIntyre, Joe 12, 90, 98 McIntyre, Mary Martha 304 McKee, John 101 McKeown, Mickey 100 McKinnon, Archie 134 McMahon, Mike 174 McMillin, James “Stub” 27, 72, 178 McRory, Ed 154 Melder, Gene 89 Meredith, Carolyn 306 Meyer, Bill 286 Meyer, Georg 174, 311 Meyer, Paul Sr. 118, 272 Meyer, Roger 272 Michealson Vic 246 Miller, Greg 237 Miller, Mark 270, 284 Miller, Mitch 268 Miller, Skip 268
Mitchell, Kent 149, 154, 173, 186, 203, 302 Mittet, Theo 199, 202 Mjorud, Herb 8 Moch, Bob 72, 83 Moen, Dick 237 Moore, Bud 85 Moore, Capt. Paul 19 Morgan, Allen 46, 89, 107 Moriarity, Chuck 273 Moritz, Ken 5 Mucklestone, John 68 Murphy, Mike 51
N Naden, Tom 33 Nagler, Russell 35 Nash, Aldina 176, 183 Nash, Ted 155, 171, 173, 195, 202, 244 Natchway, Ed 68, 74 Nelson, Dan 164, 308 Newman, Bob 237 Nielsen, Dave 74 Nietzschke, Fred 96 Nietzschke, Suzie 96 Norman, Don 292, 294, 295 Norman, Jerry 164, 293, 295
O OARMAKERS Croker, Howard 280
Index – 339 OARMAKERS (continued) Dreissegacker, Dick 237 Reatzloff, Dan 292, 294, 295 Odell, Dick 8 Ojala, Jim 26, 237 OLYMPIC GAMES 1936 Berlin 77, 83 Parade of Nations 261 Shaky Start 83 1948 Henley, England 45 1952 Helsinki, Finland 92 1956 Lake Wendouree, Ballarat, Australia 133 1960 Lake Albano, Rome, Italy 168 1964 Toda Course, Tokyo, Japan 202 1968 Xochimilco, Mexico 237 1972 Munich, West Germany 246 1976 Montreal, Quebec 259 Parade of Nations 261 Hanky Panky 262 1984 Lake Casitas, Los Angeles, CA 289 OLYMPIC TRIALS 1936 Schuylkill River, Philadelphia, PA 143 1948 Lake Carneghie, Princeton, NJ 43 1952 Lake Quinsigamond, Worcester, MA 89 1956 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse, NY 122 1960 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse, NY 157 1964 Orchard Beach, New York, NY 200 1968 Marine Stadium, Long Beach CA 237
ORGANIZATIONS 101 Club 147 Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition 50, 62 Barnum & Bailey Circus 128 Boeing Airplane Company 50, 315 British Rowing Association 136 ChrisCraft 117, 277 Coast Guard 19, 147 Fédération Internationale des Sociétés d’Aviron (FISA) 39 Forest Products Laboratory, Madison, WI 81 George Pocock Rowing Foundation, Seattle, WA 315 IRA Board of Rowing Stewards 47 Japanese Olympic Rowing Committee 185 Kenworth Truck Company, Seattle, WA 143 Life Magazine 29, 234 Literary Digest, the 54 Look Magazine 121 Minski’s, Chicago 74 Museum of History & Industry, Seattle, WA 208, 240 National Public Television 272 NCAA 114 New York Central Railway 47 Phi Gamma Delta, Sigma Tau Chapter 13 Salters’ Brothers, Oxford, England 210 Seattle Post-Intelligencer (P-I) 23 Seattle Tennis Club 141 Seattle Times 3, 55, 62, 174 Seattle World’s Fair 29
ORGANIZATIONS (continued) Smithsonian Institute 233 Swedish Medical Center 206, 209 Thames Conservancy 215 UW Varsity Boat Club 21, 93, 106, 250 UW Board of Rowing Stewards 116 Voula’s Offshore Cafe, Seattle, WA 249 Washington Athletic Club, Seattle, WA 121, 147 Washington Rowing Sponsors, Inc. 141, 156, 185 Women’s Olympic Rowing Committee 259 Orr, Shorty 136 OTHER REGATTAS & RACES 1923 UW/ Wisconsin, Lake Mendota, Madison, WI 24 1945 UW/UBC, Montlake Cut, Seattle, WA 19 1946 Invitational Sprint Regatta, Seattle, WA 27 1947 Class Day Race, Seattle, WA 62 1947 Invitational Sprint Regatta, Seattle, WA 28 1949 Yale/Harvard, Thames River, New London, CT 43 1951 UW/Wisconsin, Andrews Bay, Seattle, WA 82 1956 UW/UBC, Montlake Cut, Seattle, WA 44 1961 NAAO Nationals, Schuylkill River, Philadelphia, PA 185 1961 European Championships, Vltava River, Prague 186
Index – 340 OTHER REGATTAS & RACES (continued) 1963 Sprint s, L a ke Qu insig a mond, Worcester, MA 195 1977 Royal Henley Regatta, River Thames, England 267 1978 Opening Day, Montlake Cut, Seattle, WA 271 1978 Women’s Nationals, Green Lake, Seattle, WA 253 1987 Crew Classic, San Diego, CA 301 1991 U. S. Masters Nationals, Austin, TX 304 Doggett’s Coat & Badge, Putney, England 136, 228 Diamond Sculls, Henley, England 229, 268 Grand Challenge Cup, Henley, England 268 LIGHTWEIGHT RACES 1943 UW/UBC, Fraser River, Vancouver, BC 16 1948 UW/JBAARC, The Gorge, Victoria, BC 39 Royal Henley Regatta, Henley, England 113, 229 UW/OSC, Montlake Cut, Seattle, WA 37 UW/OSC, Willamette River, Corvallis, OR 37 Visitor’s Cup, Henley, England 268 Windermere Cup, Seattle 29 WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS 1970 St. Catherines, Ontario 240 1977 Lucerne, Switzerland 270 1978 Lake Karapiro, New Zealand 178, 279
WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS (continued) 1989 Bled, Yugoslavia 302 Ottrey, Jimmy 192, 226
P PAN AM GAMES 1959 Calumet-Saginaw Canal, Chicago, IL 150 1963 Jurubatuba Reservoir, São Paulo, Brazil 194 Pan Am Trials, 1959, Detroit River, Detroit, MI 143 Paine, Roger 164, 308 Parker, Harry 64, 145, 173, 247, 306 Parker, Ross 268, 284 Parkman, Susan 319 Parrott, Gordon “Polly” 8 Parkins, Wright 51 Paup, Pete 127, 139, 146 Peterson, Ted 97, 98 Philips, Gene 195 Pickard, Geoff 199, 202 Pitlick, Bill 115 Pitzer, Carl 79 Pitzer, Harry 15 PLACES, PEOPLE, THINGS, ETC. Albumin 15 “Alcore”, the 217 Barley Mow 221 Beer 41 Belle Isle Bridge, Detroit River, Detroit, MI 144
PLACES, PEOPLE, THINGS, ETC. (continued) BOYHOOD CHUMS AND FRIENDS Armstrong, Roy 10 Biddle, Brooks 21 Brugman, Bill 7 Cline, Bob 5 Coles, Mike 18 Craig, Phillip 5 Curtis, Frank 7 Eddy, Jane 11 Ellis, Bob 14 Jackson, George 7 Kreiger, George 5 Lorentz, Bob 18 Morgan, Irving “Bo” 21 Moritz, Ken 5 Strom, Richard 7 Captain Whidbey Inn, Oak Harbor, WA 232 Castel Gondolfo, Lake Albano, Italy 169, 175 ChrisCraft 117 Compleat Angler Inn 223 Conibear Shellhouse, Seattle, WA 49, 115 da Meo PaTaca, Rome, Italy 182 Eton 224 Fantome, the 107 GI Bill 21 Gold Cup Race 29 “Greeting” 15 Hell Week 15 Helsinki, Finland 52, 87 Henley 87
Index – 341 PLACES, PEOPLE, THINGS, ETC. (continued) Igorotes 62 Iron Curtain 187 “Joey’s Boat” 98 Laurelhurst Beach Club, Seattle 11 Le Moyne Manor, Liverpool, NY 128, 159 Leaving Conibear 111 Lechlade, England 210, 215 Lucerne, Switzerland 270 Maltby, WA 254 Marietta, OH 47, 75 Muskingum River, OH 78 Naperville, IL 150 Navy Boot Camp, Farragut, ID 17 Newport, RI 20 “Old Tokyo,” Seattle 50 Piggott Insirational Award, UW 86 Pimm’s Cups 229 “Pool Stage,” Ohio River, Marietta, OH 47 Prague, Yugoslavia 187 Printer’s Ink Poison 43 Puerto Rico 257 Red Baron, the 155 Roosevelt High School, Seattle 5 Ruptured Duck 21 Runnymede 227 San Juan, Puerto Rico 256 SOB 60 Seattle Seafair 29 Slo-Mo IV, the 29 Stanley “Stinky” Davis 3 Sun Dodgers 51
PLACES, PEOPLE, THINGS, ETC. (continued) Swan-upping 228 Taihiti 234 Takenite, the 8 “Tenacious Crustacean” 34 Tokyo 192 “Too Old to Cut the Mustard” 95 “Toonerville Folk” 3 Turk’s Boatyard, Kingston-on-Thames 211, 228 USS Montpelier 20 V12 Naval Officers’ College Training Program 15 Varsity Boat Club Ball 22 Vatican, The 176 Windsor Castle 226 “Yeah, but...” Generation 300 Yew, Town of, Washington 254 Pocock, Admiral Sir George 230 Pocock, Chris 80, 231, 292, 295, 317 Pocock, Dick 41, 49, 170, 171 Pocock, Frances 4, 53, 315, 317 Pocock, Frank and Edward 39 Pocock, George 3, 11, 49, 131, 169, 249, 256– 258 Pocock, Greg 80, 317 Pocock, Kathleen 250 Pocock, Lois 80, 122, 169, 176, 267, 304 Pocock, Lucy 250 Pocock, Patricia 3, 315 Pocock, Susan 80, 292 Pocock, Suzanne 313 Popovitch, George 198 Price, Tom 91, 126
Princess Anne 264, 267 Pringle, Art 94, 199 Pritchard, Joel 82 Purnell, Dave 63, 98 Putnam, Dave 101
Q Queen Elizabeth 262 Quinney, Paul 268
R RACING SHELLS Arthur Campbell, the 253 “Blue Bomb,” the 115 Bodacious, the 275 Cascade, the 106 Clipper Too, the 104, 143 Dale Hoaglund, the 265 George Blair, the 86 George Pocock, the 272 Harry Swetnam, the 306 Husky, the 33, 54 Husky Clipper, the 143 Husky II, the 33 “Leaky Easy,” the 128 Loyal Shoudy, the 26, 95, 131, 277 Lucy Pocock Stillwell, the 250, 297 Nelson F. Cox, the 197, 247 Parents’ Pride, the 296 Robert F. Herrick, the 305
Index – 342 RACING SHELLS (continued) Small Wonder, the 311 “X,” the 268 To Stan, by George 256 Tomanawas, the 33 “Tomato Can” 33 Tyee, the 108 Victor Spencer II, the 102 Washingtonia, the 108, 252, 278 Washingtonia II, the 289 Winlock W. Miller, the 118 Rados, Mike 293, 295 Raetzloff, Dan 292, 294, 295 Raney, Walter “Bud” 8, 12, 22, 32 Rantz, Joe 72 Rathe, Gary 295 Raymond, Pete 157, 238 Rathschmidt, Jim 133 Read, Frank 35, 102, 131, 166, 167 Reese, Carl 8 Reilly, Keith 63, 66, 76 RIGGERS Badger, Wendell 260 Cox, Nelson 170, 196 Donnelly, Jack 170 Drewes, Kurt 81, 246 Pocock, Dick 170 Pocock, George 170 Romano, Jerry 41 Schenk, Bill 170 Robbins, Bill 127 Roberts, Aubrey 131, 166 Robertson, Rusty 243, 247 Robinson, Clay 85
RIGGERS (continued) ROWING CLUBS (continued) Roderick, Dave 33 Seattle Athletic Club, Seattle, WA 136 Rogers, Bob 86, 120, 146, 149, 158, Seattle Parks Department, Green Lake 173 Crew, Seattle, WA 26, 60, 138 Rosenberg, Allen 267 Seattle Tennis Club, Seattle, WA 122, 231 Ross, Jud 148 Seattle Yacht Club, Seattle, WA 19, 305 Ringenberg, Nancy 306 Tideway Scullers, Putney, England 268 Robbins, Bill 127 Useless Bay Rowing Club, Whidbey Island, Roberts, Aubrey 166 WA 231 Robinson, Clay Vancouver Rowing Club, Vancouver, BC Rogers, Bob 86, 119, 120, 146, 158, 173 16, 102 ROWING CLUBS Vesper Boat Club, Philadelphia, PA 122, Ancient Mariners Rowing Club, Seattle, 203, 222 WA 213, 287 West Side Rowing Club, Buffalo, NY 4, 43, Big Five Rowing Club, Miami, FL 256 126 Detroit Boat Club, Detroit, MI 126 Romano, Jerry 41 James Bay Athletic Association Rowing ROWING SCHOOLS, COLLEGES & UNIVERSITIES Club, Victoria, BC 33, 39 British Columbia, University of, Vancouver, Lake Washington Rowing Club, Seattle, BC 16, 102, 132 WA 137, 158, 185, 244 Brown University, Providence, RI 237 Leander Club, Henley, England 229 Bush School, Seattle, WA 250, 299 Lincoln Park Boat Club, Chicago, IL 74 California, University of, Berkely, CA 23, 35, Marlow Rowing Club, Thames River, 44, 73, 85, 97 England 223 Clark University, Worcester, MA 90 Martha’s Moms, Seattle, WA 298, 302 Columbia University, New York City, NY 7 New York Athletic Club, Orchard Beach, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY 27, 101, 111, NY 167 197 Oakland Strokes, Berkeley, CA 115 East Germans (National Team) 243 Old Dominion Boat Club, Norfolk, VA Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 27, 203 305 Pocock Rowing Center, Seattle, WA 318 Lakeside School, Seattle, WA 27, 300, 301 Potomac Boat Club, Washington, DC 245 Marietta College, Marietta, OH 214 Ratzeburg, West Germany 179, 192, 195, Mills College, Oakland, CA 164 247, 265 MIT, Cambridge, MA 29
Index – 343 ROWING SCHOOLS, COLLEGES & UNIVERSITIES (continued) Notre Dame, University of, South Bend, IN 237 Oregon State University, Corvallis, OR 273 Oregon, University of, Eugene, OR 237, 275 Oxford University, England 219 Pacific Lutheran University, Tacoma, WA 25, 118 Puget Sound, University of, Tacoma, WA 118 Reading College, Reading, England 222 Rutgers University, New Brunswick, NJ 29, 91 Santa Clara University, Santa Clara, CA 164 Southern California, University of, Los Angeles, CA 116 St. Mary’s, Moraga, CA 237 Stanford University Crew Association, Palo Alto, CA 69, 98, 108 U.S. Naval Academy, Annapolis, MD 25, 29, 83, 158 UCLA, Los Angeles, CA 115 Washington, University of 23, 35, 43, 46, 73, 77, 83, 85 Flyweight Women 249 Lightweight Men 267, 273 Women 58 Wayne State College, Detroit, MI 148 Western Washington University, Bellingham, WA 275 Yale University, New Haven CT 43, 126, 135, 168
Rowlands, Don 103, 282 Rubin, Roy 143, 149, 154, 73, 195, 237 Rudolph, Chad 237 Rumsey, Ted 194, 254
SCULLERS (continued) Enquist, Paul 291 Gardiner, Jim 126, 134, 194, 206, 231, 360 Goodsell, Major 267 Gregory, “Blondy” 136 Ivanov, Vyatcheslav 134, 192, 228, 303 S Kelly, Jack 91, 133, 146, 158, 222, 277, 310 Klecatsky, Dick 260 Sanford, Harrison “Stork” 27, 123, 277 Knecht, Bill 146, 158 Sawyer, Mark 270, 284 Lang, Bill 123 Sayre, John 140, 149, 156, 173 Lewis, Brad 291 Sayres, Stan 29 Lobb, Allan 205, 214, 234 Scales, Ann 306 Lobb, David 206 Scaylea, Josef 121 McIntyre, Charley 12, 90, 113, 122, 360 Scheuman, Dick 97 McIntyre, Joe 12, 90, 98 Schmidt, Hank 8 McKenzie, Stuart 134 Parker, Harry 64 Schock, Brad 279 Schoel, Loren “Muscle” 47, 152 Pocock, Dick 41, 49 Pocock, George Schoening, Pete 49 Pocock, Lucy 250 Schonberg, Kris 268 Rowlands, Don 103, 282 Schuler, Di 251, 324 Smith, Al 122 Scott, Bill 7 Ten Eyck, Ned 49 SCULLERS Tytus, Bill 157, 237, 286, 297, 315 Arlett, Jack 222 Wood, Mervin 105 Barry, Bert 56, 228, 267 Seiffert, Kurt 173 Barry, Ernest 55, 56, 73 Shaw, Sam 51 Barry, Lew 56 Shear, Alfred 161 Belden, Bill 260 SHELLBUILDERS Best, Gordon 123 CarboCraft 248, 266, 273, 277 Biglow, John 290 Coffey 277 Blieden, Dick 154, 158 Costello, Pat 126, 134, 206 Donoratico 172, 277 Cromwell, Seymour “Sy” 186, 191, 195, Empacher 177, 247, 261, 277 281 JenCraft 103
Index – 344 SHELLBUILDERS (continued) Karlisch 247, 249, 277 Kaschper 277 Pocock 277, 292 Resolute 277 Robinson 277 Schoenbrod 167, 244, 277 Stampfli 177, 206, 246, 260, 277 Stiles 248, 282 Tytus 157, 237, 286, 298, 315 Shelver, Artha 302 Shepard, Alan 25 Sheppard, Rob 300 Shilling, Gordon 118 Shoudy Banquet 26, 79, 94, 99 Shoudy, Dr. Loyal 25 Sluter, Chuck 115 Smith, Al 122 Smith, Mac 68 Smith, Glen 35 Smolic, Karel 187 Snider, Bob 8 Sonju, Norm 43, 99, 110, 193 Spencer, Col. Victor 102 Spuhn, Fred 51 Stacey, Nelles 131 Stanley, Henry Morton 39 Steiner, Griff 85 Stelter, Sara 306 Stevens, Edward 38 Stevenson, Sir William “Alf” 103, 281, 282 Stevenson, Lady Ruby 282 Still, Kevin 291 Stillings, John 270, 284, 290, 291
Stillwell, Betty 5 TECHNIQUES & TRAINING (continued) Stillwell, Grace 5 Killer Instinct 59 Stillwell, James B. 5 Moriarty Effect 162 Stillwell, Lucy Pocock 5 Music 285 New Zealand Rowing Style 103 Stirret, Jim 68 Philadelphia “Dipsy-Doodle” 129 Stocker, Monty 63, 93, 139, 149, 157, Racing by pairs 68 173 River Turn 77 Stoll, Fred 101 “Row, Row, and…” 138 Stone, Shirlie & Steve 232 Rules for River Racing 145 Strandin, Ron 75 Sculler’s Catch 72 Straum, Richie 7 Spiking 34 Strauss, Dr. Alfred 74 Square Blade Drill 278 Sulger, Jack 167, 309 Stop-boat Drills 34 Sundqvist, John 286 Thames Waterman’s Stroke 55 Suor, Judy 306 Time Trials 165 Swanson, Jack 19 Tubbing 67, 302 Swetnam, Harry 137, 154, 168, 201, 212, 238, TenEyck, Jim 144, 190, 229 264, 266 TenEyck, E.H. “Ned” 49 Swindley, Mary Jane 306 Thomas, Bob 287 Thomas, Butch 98 T Thompson, Dave 22, 33 Thorstensen, Bob 101 Tidmarsh, Pat 51 Taylor, Bill 198 Toothacher, Joel 65 Taylor, Col. T. A. H. “Tommy” 105, 131 Torrence, Bill 65 TECHNIQUES & TRAINING Toynbee, Tom 35 Conibear Stroke 55 Turner, Charlie 31 Crab Drills 34 Turk, Richard 224 Crabs 12 Trinsey, Jack 171 Cross-river Rowing 77 Tuller, Mark 272 Easy Ten 157 Tupper, Jim 22 Fancy Dan 125 Turpin, Dick 220, 226 Feet Out Drill 165 Tytus, Bill 157, 237, 286, 298, 315 Ham ’n’ Eggers 63
Index – 345 VENUES (continued) Calumet-Saginaw Canal, Chicago, IL 150 Coal Harbor, Vancouver, BC 102, 131 Ulbrickson, Alvin Jr. 90, 107, 122 Colorado River, Austin, TX 304 Ulbrickson, Alvin Sr. 8, 19, 27, 34, 51, 70, Detroit River, Detroit, MI 143 113 Evergreen Point Floating Bridge, Seattle, WA Umlauf, Mark 270, 284 60 UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON/CAL RACES Fraser River, Vancouver, BC 16 1938 Sheridan Beach, Seattle, WA 35 Juanita Beach, Seattle, WA 165 1942 Madison Park, Seattle WA 44 Jurubatuba Reservoir, São Paulo, Brazil 1947 Andrews Bay, Seattle WA 23 194 1949 Andrews Bay, Seattle WA 46 Lake Albano, Rome, Italy 169 1950 Oakland Estuary, Alameda CA 73 Lake Carnegie, Princeton, NJ 43 1951 Andrews Bay, Seattle WA 66 Lake Casitas, Ojai, CA 289 1952 Oakland Estuary, Alameda CA 85 Lake Karapiro, New Zealand 178, 251, 1953 Andrews Bay, Seattle WA 97 282 1954 Oakland Estuary, Alameda CA 100 Lake Merced, San Francisco, CA 154 1955 Andrews Bay, Seattle WA 108 Lake Merritt, Oakland, CA 115 1979 Montlake Cut, Seattle WA 271 Lake Okanagan, Kelowna, BC 137 Lake Onondaga, Syracuse, NY 88 Lake Quinsigamond, Worcester, MA 195 V Lake Rotsee, Lucerne, Switzerland 270 Lake Samish, Bellingham, WA 273 Valentine, Stan 8 Lake Union, Seattle, WA 64 Van Amerongen, John 157 Lake Wendouree, Ballarat, Australia 133 Van Mason, Ed 292, 293, 295 McMurdo Sound, Antarctica 285 Van Winkle, Rick 295 Mission Bay, San Diego, CA 300 Varnell, George 55, 68, 74, 95 Montlake Cut, Seattle, WA 61, 106 VENUES Munich, West Germany 247 American Lake, Tacoma WA 123 Municipal Reservoir, Moscow, USSR 137 Andrews Bay, Seattle WA 29, 61, 271 Muskingum River, Marietta, OH 48 Bled, Yugoslavia WA 302 Marine Stadium, Newport Beach, CA 98 Boathouse Row, Philadelphia, PA 68 Oakland Estuary, Alameda, CA 62, 73, Burnaby Lake, Vancouver, BC 105 100
U
VENUES (continued) Ohio River, Marietta, OH 82 Penrith, Australia 279 “Pisspot Henley,” Seattle, WA 95 Portage Bay, Seattle, WA 11, 158 River, Penrith, Australia 279 River Thames, Henley, England 204, 224, 267, 279 San Pedro Harbor, CA 116 Schuylkill River, Philadelphia, PA 144 Seneca River, Syracuse, NY 99 Sheridan Beach, Seattle, WA 61 “Sonova Beach,” Seattle, WA 165 St. Catherines, ON 102, 158, 308 The Gorge, Victoria, BC 40 The Isis, Oxford 220 The Pot, Seattle, WA 95, 212 Toda Rowing Course, Tokyo 192 Trent River, Nottingham, England 265 Vedder Canal, Vancouver, BC 105 Willamette River, Corvallis, OR 37 Vickers, Grandpa 39 Vizek, Vladimir 189 Von Groddek, Karl 197 Voris, Don 125, 139, 142 Vynne, Sonny 137
W Wahlstrom, Dick 75, 90, 122 Wailes, Ron 98 Wailes, Ron the elder 136 Wailes, Richard “Rusty” 135, 139, 156, 173
Index – 346 Wallace, Howie 115 lsh, Charles “Buck” 83, 159 Walters, Ken 107 Watne, Eric 272, 279 Watne, Lois 80 Walz, Alan “Skip” 27, 46, 224 Washburn, Wilbur 8 Waters, Phil 115 Watts, Dan 195 Wendrey, Brian 305, 306 West, Laurie 35 Westlund, Warren 46, 62, 89 Wetter, Doug 101 White, Bob 8 White, John 72 Whiz Kids 141, 146, 154 Wiberg, Rich 195 Wickman, Bob 32 Will, Bob 33, 46, 89, 169 Wilson, Bob 35 Winter, Tom 60, 75, 78 Witter, Bob 66, 76, 82 Works, Bill 25
Y Yonker, Mike 141, 143, 149, 154, 173
Z Zlokovits, Herman 35
UW turnout under Mount Rainier’s watchful eye – circa 1969
Josef Scaylea – 347
Josef Scaylea (1913–2004)
J
The late Josef Scaylea’s photographs can be found on pages 38, 59, 78, 81, 86, 92, 94, 97, 102, 107, 115, 142, 144, 146, 160, 163, 168, 177, 179, 188, 201, 203, 238, 243, 252, 265, 276, 288, 293, 304, 319, 320, 346, 347 & 360, as well as on the front cover and in the color insert.
OSEF SCAYLEA CAPTURED THE SPIRIT OF THE NORTHWEST better than any other photojournalist of his generation. His matchless images of the region’s mountains and water, landscapes, and people are especially well-known to readers of The Seattle Times, where he served as chief photographer for nearly four decades. A subject Joe returned to again and again in his work is rowing. His photographs of crews racing through the Montlake Cut, of scullers slicing across Lake Washington, of rowers straining at their oars, are timeless evocations of the sport‘s allure and power. Ten times he was chosen West Coast Press Photographer of the Year, and ten times as well one of the nation’s top 0 press photographers. In 953 a photograph he shot from Montlake Bridge of three charging Washington eights with Stan Pocock in his coaching launch trailing in their wakes won Look Magazine’s Sports Photograph of the Year Award, which he received before a national television audience on the Ed Sullivan Show. As Joe liked to tell the story, he first tried to persuade then-Husky head coach Al Ulbrickson to have his crews row beneath the bridge and be photographed, but was rebuffed. He then approached Stan, whose simple reply was, “Where and when? ” At the appointed hour Scaylea waited on his perch. Suddenly Stan’s crews hove into sight, the spindrift from their oars glistening in the morning sun. Joe took his picture and won his award. Readers will find that photograph reproduced (in black & white) on page of the color insert. Interspersed throughout these pages are a selection of his finest studies of the sport and its people. This matching of the photographs of Josef Scaylea with the words of boat-builder-cum-coach-cum-author Stan Pocock demarks a half century of friendship and collaboration between them.
Susan Parkman – 348
Susan Parkman
S
USAN PARKMAN REPRESENTS A NEW GENERATION OF PHOTOgraphers dedicated to capturing the sport of rowing on film. Her chosen medium is photography in many forms, including multi-media presentations, black and white prints, infrared photography, color prints, Polaroid emulsion and image transfer, and hand colored photos. Susan also paints with oils and draws in pencil. Her works have been featured widely at exhibitions on the West Coast and are included in collections at the University of Washington, Seattle; Pocock Rowing Center, Seattle; Wells Fargo Bank, San Francisco; and numerous other public and private collections. Her publications include The Greatest Flight (National Geographic), Women in Water (Linda Lewis), and pieces in the San Jose Mercury News, The Seattle Times, the New York Times, and many magazines. Based in Seattle, Susan presently coaches rowers at the Ancient Mariners Rowing Club and Lakeside School, as well as scullers at the Pocock Rowing Center. She is a 989 graduate of the University of Washington with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Art/Photography. Her hand colored photo, “The Final Sprint,” was chosen as the featured artwork for the 999 Windermere Cup in Seattle. Susan Parkman’s work can be found on the back cover & on pages 112, 206, 280, 286, 287, 289, 299, 300, 302, 311, 317 (2) & 348, as well as in the color insert
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 349
Index of Photographs & Illustrations Dust Jacket / Endpapers
Chapter I – pages 3–30
UW Varsity workout – 1977 courtesy of Josef Scaylea front face /dust jacket
Pocock family (Frances, George, Patricia & Stanley) – circa 1927 author’s collection 3
Portrait of author – 1995 Susan Parkman back face / dust jacket
“Toonerville Folk” cartoon – March, 1932 The Seattle Daily Times 4
On Lake Washington – circa 1950 University of Washington Archives endpaper / inside front cover
Pocock family picnic – circa 1930 author’s collection 5
On Lake Union – 1954 author’s collection endpaper / inside back cover Table of Contents / Apologia UW Frosh on Andrews Bay – 1951 based on photo in author’s collection Table of Contents U W Coach Al Ulbrickson University of Washington Archives ii
Aerial view of Laurelhurst – 1937 PEMCO Webster & Stevens Collection, Museum of History & Industry 6 Interior view of ASUW shellhouse – circa 1922 PEMCO Webster & Stevens Collection, Museum of History & Industry 7 UW Varsity – 1933 author’s collection 8
A e r i a l v i e w o f Un i v e r s i t y o f Washington & Union Bay Village – circa 1947 Museum of History and Industry 9 Gus Erikson & George Pocock – c i r c a 1 9 4 9 a u t h o r ’s collection Old Nero on Union Bay – circa 1940 Seattle Post-Intelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry 2 Author at Roosevelt High School, S e a t t l e – 1 9 4 1 a u t h o r ’s collection 3 Bob Ellis – 1944 courtesy of Ellis family 4 Crews passing ASUW Shell House, Montlake Cut – 1948 author’s collection 5 VRC boathouse with trailer and boats – circa 1930 courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 6
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 350 Fiji Annex gathering – 1945 author’s collection 8
Aerial view of Seattle Invitational Regatta – 1947 University of Washington Archives 28
Author as UW Frosh coach – 1953 courtesy of Josef Scaylea 38
Author stroking UW V12 Varsity –1944 Seattle Times photo 9
ASUW Shell House – 1947 UW photo – author’s collection 30
Father & son – circa 1955 W. Cunningham – Vancouver Daily Province 40
B o Morgan , author & Brooks Biddle aboard USS Montpelier – 1946 aut hor’s collection 2 UW Varsity workout – 1947 UW photo – author’s collection 22 Po u ghke e psie at night – 1937 author’s collection 23 1947 U W Va r s i t y U W photo 24 Cartoon of PLU crew & Loyal Shoudy Seattle Post-Intelligencer, December 5, 967 25 Coaches at Seattle Invitational Regatta – 1946 University of Washington Archives 27
Chapter II – pages 31–70 UW Frosh on Andrews Bay – 1951 author’s collection 3 Author as UW Lightweight coach –1948 Seattle Times photo 32 UW Lightweight crew about to enter Montlake Cut – 1948 author’s collection 33 VRC/UBC British Empire Games winners – 1954 courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 35 The Griffin twins, Art & Tren – 1951 UW photo by James O. Sneddon 36 Curley Harris, Tom Bolles & A l Ul b r i c k s o n – c i rc a 193 0 – author’s collection 37
Author as UW Frosh coach – 1950 Seattle Times photo – author’s collection 42 Husky Olympic four at Henley – 1948 University of Washington Archives 44 Husky four approaching finish line, Henl e y – 1948 A la n W. Richards 45 Al Ulbrickson, UW Varsity captain – 1924 author’s collection 46 Vancouver Rowing Club – 1911 courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 48 “O l d Tok y o” – c i rc a 1913 University of Washington Archives 50
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 351 UW Varsity at Poughkeepsie – 1922 University of Washington Archives 5
Author in AOB – 1951 courtesy of Josef Scaylea 59
Interior of Conibear shellhouse – March, 1950 Seattle Times photo 69
Boeing C-1 – circa 1918 author’s collection 52
UW Class Day Regatta on Montlake Cut – circa 1951 author’s collection 6
Al Ulbrickson addressing crews at Conibear dock – 1954 Seattle
One of two eights built by George & Dick Pocock in Boeing shop – 1920 author’s collection 53
Warren Westlund stroking UW eight – 1950 Seattle Times photo 62
Chapter III – pages 71–92
Bror Grondahl, George Pocock & the Totem – 1927 author’s collection 54
Washington Varsity workout – 1953 courtesy of Guy Harper 63
Interior of the shop – circa 1924 author’s collection 55
UW Crew managers – 1948 courtesy of Ed Natchway 65
Lew & Bert Barry courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 56 Conibear shellhouse under construction circa 1949 Seattle Post - Intelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry 57 George Pocock at helm of Old Nero – circ a 1947 Seat tle PostIntelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry 58
1949 UW Frosh eight UW photo – author’s collection 66 Author coxing a “tub” – 1987 author’s collection 67 George Varnell – 1952 based on photo from author’s collection 68
U W Frosh workout – 1953 courtesy of Josef Scaylea 7 193 6 U W O l y mpi c cha mpi on eight UW photo – author’s collection 72 Ernest Barry, “Prince of Scullers” author’s collection 73 “Click” Clark, UW trainer – circa 1954 author’s collection 74 1950 UW Frosh eight UW photo by James O. Sneddon – author’s collection 75 IR A Frosh champions – 1951 UW photo – author’s collection 76
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 352 UW Frosh turnout courtesy of Josef Scaylea 78
Pair on Lake Washing ton courtesy of Josef Scaylea 92
1954 UW Frosh win on Oakland Estuary author’s collection 0
Old friends: Rusty Callow & George P o c o c k – 1 9 6 0 a u t h o r ’s collection 79
Chapter IV – pages 93–118
Snowfall on cedar shells, II courtesy of Josef Scaylea 02
Family portrait: Stan, Lois, Greg, Sue & Chris Pocock – 1959 author’s collection 80 U W crews with sailboat courtesy of Josef Scaylea 8 1952 UW Frosh eight UW photo – author’s collection 85 Snowfall on cedar shells, I courtesy of Josef Scaylea 86 U W Frosh on Seneca River at Syracuse author’s collection 89 George Pocock with Joe & Charley McInt yre – 1952 aut hor’s collection 90
UW Varsity workout off Laurelhurst University of Washington Archives 93 UW Frosh turnout courtesy of Josef Scaylea 94
UBC eight on way to Henley W. Cunningham photo – Vancouver Daily Province 03 Traffic jam off Conibear docks author’s collection 04
“Too Old to Cut the Mustard” – 1952 author’s collection 96
Pocock oars Susan Parkman 05
UW eight courtesy of Josef Scaylea 97
UW crews & Fantome on Portage Bay courtesy of Josef Scaylea 07
1953 UW Frosh UW photo – author’s collection 98
Author testing a new singl e – 1948 author’s collection 08
Al Ulbrickson, George Pocock & Norm Sonju – 1951 courtesy of Dick Jordan 99
George Pocock, Bud Raney, Stork Stanford & Norm Sonju author’s collection 0
1954 UW Frosh at dock in Syracuse author’s collection 00
Pocock cedar racing shells on the racks at Conibear shellhouse Susan Parkman photo 2
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 353 Dick Erickson with Horace McCurdy & George Pocock U.W. photo – author’s collection 4
Digging the Montlake Cut, II author’s collection 24
Ron Wailes Clipping from The Seattle Daily Times – author’s collection 36
1966 UW Varsity courtesy of Josef Scaylea 5
Barges in newly-opened Montlake Cut author’s collection 24
First LWRC turnout Seattle Times photo 39
T h e W i n l o c k W. M i l l e r – 1965 Ken Dunmire photo – courtesy of Jim Ojala 8
Two gold-medal winning pairs author’s collection 29
“To the Water” artwork by Ted Rand 40
Chapter V – pages 119–152
“Up and Over!” – 1976 Tom Green photo 30
LWRC workout – 1959 Seattle Times photo 9
VRC /UBC Reunion – 1960 courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 3
WAC four author’s collection 20
D a w n o n Mo n t l a k e C u t courtesy of Josef Scaylea 32
Conn Findlay, Dan Ayrault & Rowd Davis courtesy of Sue Ayrault 23
Jack Kelly Jr. Heinz Fine P h o t o g r a p h y p h o t o – 9 6 0 33
Digging the Montlake Cut, I Specia l Collections Division, University of Washington Libraries; Photo by Andrews, Negative No. 65 24
Conn Findlay, Kurt Seiffert & Dan Ayrault at Ballarat – 1960 Ballarat Courier 34 Duvall Hecht, Jim Fifer & Avery Brundage at Ballarat – 1960 Ballarat Courier 35
UW eight courtesy of Josef Scaylea 42 Green Lake’s “Whiz Kids” author’s collection 43 Eight in mist courtesy of Josef Scaylea 44 Charley McIntyre sculling on Lake Washington courtesy of Josef Scaylea 46 Lake Washington Rowing Club’s 30th Anniversary reunion author’s collection 49
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 354 Dan Ayrault’s participant’s badge – 1956 Melbourne Olympics courtesy of Sue Ayrault 52
Jack Carver & Aubrey Roberts courtesy of Vancouver Rowing 66
Workout on Lake Washington courtesy of Josef Scaylea 77
Chapter VI – pages 153–184
Frank Read based on photo courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 67
Italian-rigged eight courtesy of Josef Scaylea 79
Shell with Husky Stadium in background courtesy of Josef Scaylea 68
LWRC wins in Rome courtesy of Sue Ayrault 80
Author, George Pocock & Harry Swetnam Bob Miller photo – author’s collection 69
Gold-medal ceremony, Lake Albano – 1960 courtesy of Sue Ayrault 8
George, Stan & Richard Pocock, at Syracuse author’s collection 7
Victory dinner at da Meo Pataca, Rome author’s collection 83
Napping in Rome – 19 60 courtesy of Harry Swetnam 72
Olympic Gold medal, 1960 Games courtesy of Sue Ayrault 84
Cartoon featuring the LW RC – 1960 The Seattle Times 53 Dick Blieden in single author’s collection 54 LWRC gold-medal four at Rome courtesy of Sue Ayrault 56 UW workout on Portage Bay - 1954 author’s collection 58 Cover photograph from Ready All! courtesy of Josef Scaylea 60 UW eight on Lake Washington courtesy of Josef Scaylea 63 C Shell outside shop author’s collection 64
1960 US Olympic small boats squad Pan American Airways photo 73 UW, LWRC & VRC/UBC sprint into Montlake Cut Seattle PostIntelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry 74
Chapter VII – pages 185–204 Prague based on photo in author’s collection 85 UW workout in Union Bay courtesy of Josef Scaylea 88
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 355 Seymour Cromwell author’s collection 90
Single Sculler courtesy of Josef Scaylea 203
View at San Diego Crew Classic Dennis Huls photo – author’s collection 23
LWRC four with Russians at Prague – 1961 author’s collection 9
Henley in Summer courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 204
Author & Allan Lobb at Syracuse –1966 author’s collection 24
LW RC four S eat tl e PostIntelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry 93 LWRC squad preparing for Pan Am Games – 1963 Seattle Times photo 95 LWRC four triumphs at São Paulo – 1963 author’s collection 96 Bronze-medalist LWRC four – Tokyo –1964 author’s collection 99 Straight pair courtesy of Josef Scaylea 20 Conn Findlay, Kent Mitchell & Ed Ferry accept gold medals – Tokyo – 1964 author’s collection 202
Chapter VIII – pages 205–230 Author & Allan Lobb in Thames lock author’s collection 205 Pocock cedar single Susan Parkman 206 Front Cover Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 209 Front Cover Salters’ Guide to the Thames (London, 964) 20 Folly Bridge Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 2
Winter view of Thames at Henley courtesy of Vancouver Rowing Club 27 Lechlade Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 28 Cows on the Thames Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 29 Oxford Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 220 Clifton Hampden Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 22
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 356 Henley-on-Thames Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 222 Medmenham Abbey Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 223 View of Windsor Castle from the Brocas author’s collection 225 Et on Wa lter A rm st rong , The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 226
Two friends: author & Allan Lobb author’s collection 230
Frank Cunningham author’s collection 245
Chapter IX – pages 231–258
Bob Stiles & George Pocock Otago Daily Times & Witness 248
Author, Whidbey Island author’s collection 23 Alan May author’s collection 232
UW Women’s crews, pre-WWI Specia l Collections Division, University of Washington Libraries, photo by UW, Negative No. 8749 249
Great Wall of China author’s collection 235
Lucy Pocock, winner of Daily Mirror Race, Thames River, London – 1912 courtesy of Grace Brooks 250
At Conibear docks based on Dave Potts photo – Seattle PostIntelligencer 236
Author, UW Flyweight coxed four & the Lucy Stillwell Pocock author’s collection 25
Royal Bargemaster based on Keystone Press A gency photo – author’s collection 228
Seat Racing courtesy of Josef Scaylea 238
U W women’s crew turnout courtesy of Josef Scaylea 252
Richard Turk based on Keystone Press Agency photo – author’s collection 229
B oe ing B - 1 – ci rc a 192 0 Museum of Histor y a nd Industry 240
George Pocock in single author’s collection 256
Alan Lobb & authro in Thames l o c k a u t h o r ’s c o l l e c t i o n 230
UW eight next to Evergreen Point Floating Bridge courtesy of Josef Scaylea 243
Load of new shells on Railway Express car Roger Dudley photo – author’s collection 257
Annual Swan Upping Walter Armstrong, The Thames From Its Rise to the Nore (London, J.S. Virtue & Co., Limited, n.d.) 227
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 357 “To Stan By George” – the brass plate hand-etched by author’s father author’s collection 258
Dick Erickson, Frank Coyle & author at Henley author’s collection 269
Oar blades Susan Parkman 280
George & Stan Pocock Hugh N. Stratford photo 258
UW Varsity in Andrews Bay Bob Peterson, Sports Illustrated 270
Sir William & Lady Ruby Stevenson author’s collection 282
UW Varsity in the George Pocock author’s collection 27
1978 UW Varsity UW photo – author’s collection 284
Chapter X – pages 259–288 Opening ceremonies – Montreal Olympics based on photo in author’s collection 259
Christening of the George Pocock author’s collection 272
U W crews in Ball ard Locks – 1973 Dave Potts photo, Seattle Post-Intelligencer 263
Author, Chuck Moriarity & Frank Cunningham, with Pay Streak Seattle Times photo 273
Royal Barge at Henley author’s collection 264
Bob Lamson, test pilor courtesy of Bob Lamson 274
Dick Erickson courtesy of Josef Scaylea 265 Harry Swetnam at Henley author’s collection 266 The “X” author’s collection 268
Icicles on boats on trailer courtesy of Ted Ramsey 275 UW crew on Lake Washington courtesy of Josef Scaylea 276 UW Jayvees at Henley George Bushell & Sons 279
Sculling in Antarctica author’s collection 285 Really Ancient Mariners Susan Parkman photo 286 Fleet of UW crews in glass eights Susan Parkman photo 287 Two eights entering Montlake Cut courtesy of Josef Scaylea 288 Chapter XI – pages 289–314 Pair off Conibear docks Susan Parkman photo 289
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 358 Conn Findlay’s TV catamaran on Lake Casitas – 1984 author’s collection 290
Don Norman delivering boats to Marietta College – 1979 author’s collection 294
Bill Tytus & George Pocock at Henley – 1969 author’s collection 297
Betsy Beard & John Stillings at L.A. Olympics courtesy of John Stillings 29
The Shop: Denny Deuson Tom Green photo – 975 294
Bill Tytus – 1969 Seattle PostIntelligencer Collection, Museum of History & Industry 299
Logo based on original in author’s collection 293
The Shop: Dan Raetzloff Tom Green photo – 975 294
Martha’s Moms Susan Parkman photo 300
Portrait of George Pocock courtesy of Josef Scaylea 293
The Shop: The Gang – 1975 Tom Green photo 295
Seattle Yacht Club women’s eight Susan Parkman photo 302
The Shop: Jerry Norman Tom Green photo – 975 293
The Shop: Author, Royal Brougham & George Pocock Don Wallen photo – Seattle P-I 296
Charley McIntyre (bow) & Slava Ivanov (stroke) courtesy of Charley McIntyre 303
The Shop: Author & Mel Graham – 1953 author’s collection 293
The Shop: Entrance at Lake Union location author’s collection 296
Mary Martha McIntyre & Margaret Berg courtesy of Josef Scaylea 304
The Shop: Mike Rados & Ormand Koskala Tom Green photo – 975 293
The Shop: Oars crated for shipment Tom Green photo 296
SYC women’s crew assemblage author’s collection 306
The Shop: Ed Van Mason Tom Green photo – 975 293
The Shop Tom Green photo – 975 296
Seattle Yacht Club women’s four at Head-of-the-Charles Sports Graphics, Inc. photo 307
The Shop: Bob Brunswick working on an oar Tom Green – 975 294
The Shop: Hilmar & Mac helping George – the shop – circa 1925 author’s collection 296
T h e R o b e r t F. H e r r i c k i n Alaska courtesy of Roger “Lobo” Hansen 308
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 359 Harr y & Bernice Swetnam at christening of Harry Swetnam author’s collection 309
Sir George Pocock, “The Hero of Havanna” author’s collection 37
LWRC straight pair based on photo in author’s collection 327
LWRC men’s Lightweight four author’s collection 30
Groundbreaking ceremony for Pocock Rowing Center Susan Parkman photo 37
Author sculling a roughwater wherry based on photo in author’s collection 329
Author’s grandfather, Fred Pocock author’s collection 37
Joe Burk winning Diamonds at Henley in a Pocock single based on photo in author’s collection 330
Overhead shot of women’s crew Susan Parkman photo 3 Maiden voyage of Small Wonder author’s collection 32 Stan & Suzanne Pocock author’s collection 34
Chapter XII – 315–320 George Pocock Memorial Rowing Center Artwork courtesy of Pocock Rowing Center 35 New Lake Washington Rowing Club facility based on photo by author 36
Grandfather/Granddaughter: George & Sue Pocock – 1975 Tom Green photo 38 Sunrise over the Cascades courtesy of Josef Scaylea 39 UW crews with Ferry courtesy of Josef Scaylea 320
Glossary
Cox’n, knocker plates, etc. based on photo in author’s collection 332 Index U W workout under R ainier’s watchful eye courtesy of Joseph Scaylea 346 Josef Scaylea / Susan Parkman
Frances Pocock Susan Parkman photo 37
Double scullers at Long Beach Marine Stadium based on photo in author’s collection 322
Self-portrait courtesy of Joseph Scaylea 347
Greg, Stan & Chris Pocock author’s collection 37
UW Flyweights in Lucy Stillwell Pocock based on photo in author’s collection 324
Self-portrait by Susan Parkman 348
Index of Photographs & Illustrations – 360
Color Insert UW eights & Mount Rainier courtesy of Josef Scaylea Insert Old ASUW Shell House on Montlake C u t b a s e d on phot o i n author’s collection Insert Array of Pocock shells Tom Green Insert Montlake Cut colored photo by Susan Parkman Insert Opening Day Regatta as seen from Montlake Bridge courtesy of Josef Scaylea Insert Portrait of author Susa n Parkman Insert Author & Allan Lobb sculling on Thames based on photo in author’s collection Insert Look Magazine’s Sports Photograph of the Year – 1953 courtesy of Joseph Scaylea Insert
Jim Gardiner & Charley McIntyre sculling on Lake Washington – 1969 courtesy of Josef Scaylea 360