The Quiet Exhale

By Campbell Ressler

The laughter in the boat fades, quiet, I wait, each exhale becomes increasingly more opaque in the cool air, were on, I rush up to the catch diving my blade into the water, my hamstrings tighten as I push away from the stern, with each stroke, my hand gets covered in new spots of red and pink. The flesh that has been ripped from my fingers hangs, as if trying to catch the air as it goes by.

My stomach starts to growl in search of nutrients, my intestines cave, cutting in like a sharp blade.

My eyes glisten, wet from the wind that passes by. Sweat and lake water pool making puddles in the boat, reflecting the faces full of pain. Looking past the ponytail in front of me, I start to gaze upon the shimmering lake, holes of white and yellow break the inky sky, shining warmth on our cold and achy bodies.

The coxswain calls us to a stop, the oars sit still as water envelops them, it's quiet, except for the heavy exhales, produced to slow our pulsing hearts. Then as if the coach knew, we sit, ready to do it all over again.