I light the red candle. Blue digits indicate 05:04. Compressor hums. Birds sing. My face is illuminated by the laptop screen. A car pulls out from the building in front of the patio. Where do I begin?
I close my eyes. Heart knows. Mind wanders.
Fingers dance across black keys. Words appear across the white screen. Figments of my imagination come to life, dancing to a hesitant melody. Where do I want to go today? How do I get there?
I see the rowing machine next to the open patio. Sea mist fills the air, and I remember when I started this exercise.
I joined the crew team while at university. A gruesome activity for someone who needed a lot of sleep. We would have to leave dormitories before 5 to be on the water by 5:30am. Carin or Katelyn often comes up to get me. A sleepy head. Door swings open, white light spills into the room, blackness fading away. I would put my clothes on as quickly as I can, rubbing my eyes.
We drive the 15-seater van. 20-minute drive. We walk to the boat house to unstrap the boat. Oars, twice as tall as me are carried. Equal number of people on either side, we walk it towards the dock. One person holds on to the boat, as we glide the oars across gunnels. We all strap our feet on massive shoes made for men. The coxswain gets in, and we push off. Water is calm, like glass.
We always start at the catch position. Legs bent, arms grabbing the handle. We look like recoiled springs, ready to release. We wait for the coxswain to give order. We are the engine that moves this boat, on command.
“And row”, Herb would say.
We dip the oar in, perpendicular to the water’s edge. Pushing hard as we can, exploding off the foot stretchers. Pulling the boat forward. At the end of the stroke, arms just below the chest, we lift the oar out of the water, turning it parallel to glide across the water to back to the stroke position. This is called feathering.
We go back to the catch position. Dip the oar, pull while exploding your power, feather, glide and catch again. Catch, pull, glide, release, feather.
While not every stroke is perfect, we must move in the same rhythm, the one behind following the one in the front. We are facing the back of the boat, and so, only the coxswain can see where we are going, steering as she goes. My favorites were the Power Tens. Coxswain would count, “And one, explode off your foot stretchers” Assuming an average 23 strokes per minute times 30 minutes, this equates 690 strokes, the four of us in perfect harmony. One following the other.
Once we are done, we row back in pairs, to come back to the dock, using the currents and strokes to get us home. We would skip morning formations and go straight to breakfast without having to put on dress blacks before classes began. We hear the marching bands and color guards, as the six companies report to the regimental commander.
I stuck it out for two years, becoming coxswain my second year. I quit because I needed all the sleep I could get. I joined the cross-country team before graduating.
But I kept using the Concept 2 Rowing Machine. I always set the resistance lever at the maximum: 10. Display screen set on meters and average strokes per second. I strap my feet in. I tie the shoelaces tight and adjust the black straps.
On the seat, I glide back and forth, checking for smoothness. Bumpy? I grab a rag to wipe down the dirt.
My legs bent, arms grab the handle. I look like a recoiled spring.
This is the catch position. Imagining myself on the water, with the oar is parallel above the water surface. Using my outer right hand, I imagine me turning it perpendicular to catch the water before pushing my entire body weight against the foot stretcher. Legs straighten. Arms extend past the hips.
Power comes from the legs, and transfer my upper body. This is how I used to move across the water. At the end of the stroke, arms position below the chest, oars parallel against the water’s surface.
I become the spring, gliding towards the catch position.
This love letter is for my legs. Legs that could barely support my weight as a child. In all my photos, I’m propped up against a blanket covering a box, because I was too weak to sit up by myself. I missed all my milestones of standing and walking. No way, people would gasp. You look so strong. You see, looks can be deceiving.
While at university and in my younger adult life, because my diet wasn’t appropriate for all the leg work out, I would sometimes awaken with pain in my calves, as they knot and clench up. Bananas and Avocados help.
It’s been twenty years since I first started to row, and this rowing machine keeps my body in top shape. I bought Concept 2 in 2020, in the height of Covid. I sold it to a friend and bought it back in 2024. Best two decisions.
My legs have carried me to the city of Cape Town, home for now. To the most amazing and beautiful places. They allow me to carry things and people to safety. I am grateful for the strength and endurance of the engine that carries me.
I used to walk into situations and places of danger like a zombie. Unconscious and directionless.
I have not only learned to walk away from places and people that no longer serve me but also towards joy.
I no longer need to escape from the darkness. Because the light inside me burns brightly. This morning, I walk along the promenade as the sun rises. Tonight, I shall attempt to Salsa, forgetting the steps and rhythm of the three dances. But I continue to move. Just for the fun of it. No expectations and no destinations.
I have nothing to fear, and nothing to run away from. My legs connect me to this earth, keeping me upright. My legs keep me grounded, safe and secure.
Does this qualify as a love letter to my legs? Sure, why not?
Day 2 dotted and hung out to dry.
What do you get when you connect two dots?
A straight line. Something to hang onto.