Dan Lahren
I’m not sure exactly how old I was the first time I rowed a boat. I was young. The craft was a jonboat made of aluminum that had seen better days. The venue was Brockway Lake — actually a lily pad-choked pond — just down the road from my childhood home in western Michigan.
Early evening, the scent of irrigated grain, a loud chorus of bullfrogs. My dad cast a Jitterbug while I tried it. The oars had aged to a silvery color, were warped, and had splinters. The mice lived in the boat we kept flipped over behind the garage, with them. The boat fit in the back of my dad’s pickup. The boat had no life jackets or seats, only two aluminum benches which got very hot when exposed to the sun. Maxwell House was filled with concrete and an eyebolt was embedded before the cement set. A tangled yellow nylon rope was tied to bow eye.
I don’t remember rowing instruction, although there must have been some. I remember my hands being rough and sunscreen getting in my eyes. I remember trying to make even strokes and wanting to track…
