The Race.

Alex rowed yesterday.

There were three boats on the Harlem River, two boats were filled with rowers who sweeped, and one boat was filled with rowers who sculled. Sweeping you do with one oar, both hands on the oar. Sculling you do with two oars, one hand on each, pulling your left oar over your right. Sculling requires more coordination than sweeping.

When I rowed for the University of Miami, I sweeped.

I followed the boats into position under a bridge on the Harlem River. A's boat was shaky at first, with oars positioning themselves all over the place, simultaneously. Then, like magic, they moved in unison. He was one of the rowers maneuvering the oars into the visual poetry that were the blue blades into the water, and out. Into the water, and out. Oars folding facing up as they came up for air, then slicing the water perpendicularly as they reached to push the boat further down the river.

Sculling. He was sculling. The sport and pasttime of his grandfather's grandfather's grandfathers.

I was too amazed and happy that A was happy to be part of it all.