Learning Life's Lessons on the Charles

By the time you read this, perhaps you've descended from the ethanol-induced haze that accompanies many a student's Head of the Charles weekend. Or maybe you've finally returned to campus now that the bothersome teenage preppies, shameless radio hawkers, old Harvard oarsmen and just plain crazy rowing aficionados have left town. Whatever the case, welcome back to normalcy: a time when one can stroll peacefully along the Charles, and Harvard isn't a police state.

The Head of the Charles is in many ways an annoyance, but no one can deny that it's an amazing spectacle. Hundreds of thousands flock to the banks of our fair river to watch the shells racing by, some gliding as if guided by an ethereal rhythm, others sputtering along like a beat-up old jalopy. If you're lucky, you catch a glimpse of the eight herculean men who comprise the United States National Team's fastest crew; at worst, you get to witness a spectacular crash or two.

The Head may be an "event" for us, but few realize how exciting it is for the participants themselves. Think about it: We go to football and basketball and field hockey games, but how many of us watch the Harvard and Radcliffe crews in competition? Who even knows where our home race-course is on the Charles? (Rumor has it that it begins way down by the Science Museum, past MIT.)

A friend of mine once woke up at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning in the spring to watch Harvard race, only to realize that the crews battle upstream for two kilometers--so that one can watch the start or end of a race, but never both. Crew is definitely not a spectator sport.

And that's precisely what makes the Head of the Charles so special. For one magical day, we actually get to watch rowers do their thing. We see the true drama of the sport--the painful grimaces, the unflagging pride, the relentless rhythm. We hear the demonic chants of that sadistic admiral in the stern, that Napoleonic scourge--that singular, intriguing athlete--the glorious, glowering, indomitable coxswain.

We experience with the oarsmen the jolt of adrenaline that accompanies "rowing through" a weaker, less competent boat. We approach inner peace as the rowers transcend individuality to form, in the memorable words of a former Harvard crew legend, "a nautical engine vastly more powerful than the sum of its parts," the synchronous clicking of their oarlocks suggesting a driving collective pulse.

We begin to appreciate what it is about this grueling discipline that leads women and men to dedicate their lives (social and academic) to doing something as maddeningly simple as moving a boat fast. We begin to understand--barely--what motivates some of our peers to subject themselves to three or four hours a day of training starting in September for a sport that culminates in a national championship lasting a mere six minutes in May.

It seems clear that rowing is not only about being the first to the line, but also about the very struggle of getting there--and engaging in that battle over self-will head-on. Almost as impressive as the world championship crew that flattens its opposition with finesse and power is the staggering novice boat, decidedly lacking in either trait, that perseveres with no prize to aim for.

As an endeavor that demands sheer endurance, skill and intelligence, rowing pushes you to the limit of your physical and mental capabilities--and once you reach that limit, rowing confronts you with the terrifying prospect of having to determine whether you have the will to stand up to the challenge or just shrink away. Indeed, rowing will educate you in a more valuable way than anything in the classroom can. The moment You resolve to pick up an oar, there's no turning back: you are committed to the very end.

My friends who row find the "rowing is a metaphor for life" idea to be trite, but none denies its truth. Nothing teaches the lessons of life more clearly: the importance of self-directed discipline, of teamwork and cohesion, of sacrifice and toil. Nothing can be so simultaneously frustrating and strangely satisfying. While winning the race is important, equally important is the quality and integrity of the preparation building up to it. And after all that, you still could lose the race by 0.6 seconds--a margin of three feet--as Harvard's varsity heavyweight crew did at last year's Eastern Sprints. Disappointment after a magnificent effort: That's part of life, too.

The Head of the Charles pushes the sport of rowing from relative anonymity to the spotlight for one short weekend and deservedly so. While the event's commercial nature is in some ways at odds with the spirit of amateurism and selflessness that pervades the discipline, it's only right that rowers get their day in the sun and get to show us the fruit of their exertions. Ultimately, they reveal to us some of the life lessons taught not only by their trade but also by their own example. We are privileged to have them among us.

Sujit Raman '99-'00 is a history concentrator in Mather House. His column appears on alternate