E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten
McCarthy Something In The Water:
1. Auflage 2019
ISBN: 978-1-78117-752-5
Verlag: Mercier Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
How Skibbereen Rowing Club Conquered the World
E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-78117-752-5
Verlag: Mercier Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Kieran McCarthy is the longtime sports editor of TheSouthern Star, West Cork's weekly newspaper. A Kerry native, he won the Local Ireland Sports Story of the Year in 2016 for his coverage of Skibbereen Rowing Club. He was also awarded Ladies Gaelic Football Association Local Journalist of the Year in 2018. This is his first book.
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
1
the ilen
John Whooley stood at the water’s edge, where the land gave way to another world, a utopian existence where it was simply rower, boat and river. He had stood here before, thousands of times, and always followed the same ritual. He looked to the sky, where, in this case, the clouds sat sullen. There was a faint outline of the sun behind them, a lowering grey shadow waiting for its chance to shine. The seagulls were in, which meant it must be rough to his left, the west, where the Ilen River introduced itself to the Atlantic Ocean.
The Ilen is the playground for Skibbereen Rowing Club, its boathouse and clubhouse sitting behind John on the riverbank. Just metres separate these structures from the river.
The Ilen had been home to fishermen for generations before the rowing club was formed in 1970, but as the fishing died away it was the rowers who reinvented the Ilen. They have it to themselves now, a ten-kilometre stretch from the clubhouse without having to stop. It’s the envy of every other rowing club in the country. Every year 7,000 boats are launched by the club onto the river.
John had it almost to himself on this October evening in 2007. There were four young bucks, early teens, getting ready to go out in a quad scull. They were busy doing their own thing.
The Ilen was in a good mood – not too choppy, not lazy either, but quite eager. The water rushed excitedly against his wellies, waiting to play. Its best time is an hour before high tide; that’s when it’s at its calmest as there’s less current and flow on it.
The wind was in impish form too. It blew from the south-west, racing in off the Atlantic. On its worst days it bullied rowers, daring them to take it on. However, the rowers never shirk a challenge. The wind was simply another competitor to beat and it could be like this on race day. Saying that, when it’s in a real mood, they know better. It’s not worth the hassle on those days. But this evening, with the nights shortening and the temperature dropping, it was calm.
John knew the signs were good. Most of the time he rowed downriver towards Baltimore, going with the current. Other days, depending on the strength of the wind and its direction, the height of the waves, the tide, the weather and the sunlight, he would row upriver, towards Skibbereen town, for its calm and sheltered water. On those other days, when the weather gods played spoilsport, he would stay on land and take out his frustrations on the rowing machine. This evening, though, he would point his boat west.
He headed out on the water in his single scull, a boat designed for one person. This was his familiar Filippi, white with its distinctive blue stripe, which he had bought two years earlier for just under €5,000. It was good value. John and two other Skibb rowers, Richard Coakley and Kenneth McCarthy, bought one boat each in a package deal that Richard organised after competing internationally. This was the first single John had owned. His pride and joy.
A heron across the water stared straight at him, waiting to see what John did next. The bleating of the sheep in Carey’s farm on the far side of the river didn’t stir the heron. Neither did the odd car passing on the road behind it. Instead the heron eyeballed John. It wasn’t keen on sharing the Ilen today. But it knew the signs, so it ultimately spread its wings and moved on.
John had been looking forward to getting back out on the water. By day he worked locally at O’Donovan’s boatyard whenever they needed him – the recession had cost him his job as a CAD & Design Technician in Galway in early 2007 – and in years to come he’d retrain to be a maths and physical education teacher, but on the Ilen he was a rower. Even better, a Skibbereen rower. That’s a badge of honour. It means something.
He lived on the opposite side of town, a short drive from the clubhouse, but for these next eighty minutes he would be in a different world. He quickly ran through his checklist: hat, leggings, enough layers of clothes to stay warm, shades, water bottle. He was good to go.
His bare hands felt the slightest chill in the air. It wouldn’t be long before the fading sun set behind Mount Gabriel in the distance and took a large splash of what little heat there was with it. His right hand gripped both oars, locked into their gates, to keep him balanced as he set about launching his boat on the river. He sat on the sliding seat. His left hand steadied the boat. One leg in, the other out, coiled to push the boat away from the slipway. He was almost free from the land. He used his right oar, as well as his free leg, to gently push his boat into the water. It looked easy now, but had taken plenty of practice in the early days.
Soon he was in deep enough. He was free. It was just him, his boat and the water. Wellies off. Feet into their straps. All set. A quick look backwards opened up a view of the Ilen that stretched for 800 metres. There was no one else there. He was pointed in the right direction and he had it to himself – for now, at least.
The rowers’ code says that your right blade should always be closest to the bank. That’s the simple rule to remember. A handwritten sign on a door in the clubhouse carries other rules:
You must have lights at all times on your boat.
Do not launch without lights.
Always paddle in groups and not alone.
Down – clubhouse side. Back – Schull road side.
Always stay off the centre of the river.
John was experienced enough to go alone. Soon, he was warmed up, the half slide of his seat gone to full slide as his hands felt the oars connect with the Ilen. He pulled in, down and away, and slid his seat under him to take another stroke. In. Down. Away. Reach. Slide. This was repeated, stroke after stroke after stroke. It’s a delicate balance of power and speed. He was in rhythm and conducting his own one-man orchestra. He would take over 1,600 strokes during this training piece. Practice makes perfect in rowing. It’s all about mileage and building endurance.
He was in the zone now, fully concentrating. The boat glided along the water. From a distance, rowing looks deceptively effortless and elegantly beautiful, but life in the boat is different. It hurts and burns and hurts some more, pushing the body and mind to their limits. It’s a life choice. You commit or you don’t. John had committed long ago.
He manoeuvred through the dogleg corners of Newcourt and Oldcourt. The boatyards in Oldcourt were crowded with summer sailing boats, resting for the winter, their masts clanking in the wind.
He saw them first, in the distance. It was that Junior quad. Then he heard them, whooping and hollering, like Indians in a Western film. He was their cowboy. He shook his head. It was Gary, Paul, Shane and Diarmuid, four little terrors that were causing wreck on the river. He knew them all. They were four different bundles of energy, each more wired than the next, some cheeky, others quiet. But none of them ever rested. They were in secondary school now, in St Fachtna’s de la Salle in town. Paul was thirteen, the youngest. The other three were fourteen years old and they were already fearless on the water.
John knew they wanted a race. That’s what they did. It was time to teach these pups a lesson, again.
John was twenty-eight years old and one of the club’s most experienced oarsmen, part of the Senior-level clan, along with Olympians Eugene Coakley and Timmy Harnedy, Richard Coakley (who was an Olympian in the making) and Kenneth McCarthy. Every weekend, when they were out in their singles, this Junior quad turned up and tried to beat them all. They trained all week for the weekend.
‘Old man John,’ broke the silence, carrying over the water. It was Gary.
It was time to race, to put them back in their box. All Skibbereen rowers are taught to race. Whether it’s a training piece on the Ilen or an Olympic final, they all approach it in the same manner: first home, first past the finish line. First, first, first.
Concentration was key. He drove his legs down faster, keeping his balance, not letting his oars hit the water. One of the earliest lessons taught to him was that friction is wasted energy and leads to a slower boat. Those words came from Dominic Casey, who taught him everything he knew.
It was also Dominic who saw a rower in John when no one else did. This tall, gangly teenager was a late starter in rowing, almost seventeen years old when he was cajoled into a sport that he had no interest in whatsoever. But Dominic spotted that there was raw material to work with.
‘One stroke at a time,’ he told John, over and over again.
Always one stroke at a time. Stay in the present, John. If you pull a bad stroke, make sure the next one is better.
‘You can’t control what has happened but what you can control is what you do right now,’ Dominic advised.
John took it one stroke at a time from the very start. And he got better and better. Faster than anyone could have ever imagined, apart from Dominic. His progress was startling.
But so too was that of the Junior quad, who at the time were coached by Gary and Paul’s father, Teddy O’Donovan.
‘Go get those old fellas,’ he would tell the four boys, as they almost climbed over each other trying to get into the boat. ‘Show them no respect.’
John had his game face on. This could be a race day. The quad was a good distance away still. He just wanted to make one burst, one lunatic minute. He made his move,...
