A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  They started, the blades entering the pond at perfect intervals, droplets of water falling off their oars, tiny rain showers on each side of the shell. Croke watched them like an osprey spying on brown trout. He knew he had only a short time to get it right.

  “On the count of two, I wants three and four to join in with five and six.” Watt’s coxswain’s voice rang out clear over the still water. “One, two.”

  Croke plunged his oar into the lake, deeper than when they first left the dock. A lump was beginning to form in Watt’s throat. He didn’t want to single Croke out again. “Stop rowing,” he shouted. “Let’s try that again, but I just want three and four to row.”

  The crew was growing restless. Some looked up, others looked at the bank. They had been on the water ten minutes. A rocky boat, rowing in pairs, rowing in fours, and now stopping again. Mutinous murmurs ran along the inside of the shell.

  “they’re rowin’ rough, b’ys.” Clements peered around the trunk of the giant beech tree behind Summers’s barn.

  “Croke, is it, the man on number three?” Neddy’s voice was full of scorn. “Thinks he’s hauling a killick over the side.”

  “Look, they took in water trying to turn the boat into the breeze,” Clements said, laughing. “They stinks. I believes that Croke fella is trying to kill the eels at the bottom of the pond. He got that oar buried halfway up the shaft.”

  “You can’t get a boat moving quickly with a man like that in it.” Neddy gazed at Watt’s crew.

  “Did he ever row in the regatta before?”

  “Of course not, b’y,” grunted Neddy.

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t, until he pushed off the dock and took that oar in his hands.”

  Clements smirked. “Old Watt must be nearly cracking up.”

  “Slim pickings for rowers in Outer Cove this year, I suppose. If they had Jack Doran in the boat I’d be concerned, but he’s not there. Them Roches and Kinsellas are rowing again, but they’re no good.”

  “Well, if I could beat Dan McCarthy at anything, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.” Clements ground his teeth.

  “The only way to heaven with rowing is going through hell first.” Neddy placed his hand on Clements’s shoulder. “If that fishermen’s race is close, you’ll feel like hell.”

  Tapper and Manning, who had been silent, looked at Neddy. “You had us thinking we could beat them,” Tapper said. “Now you’re saying it could be close.”

  “I didn’t say it could be close, I said if it’s close,” Neddy growled. “You boys go back to your nap.”

  “Watt Power can teach a monkey to row,” Manning said. “If he can’t figure that Croke fella out, no one can.”

  “I wish they’d sink. I’d fix their boat if I could get away with it.” Clements spat into the wind.

  “What?” Neddy grabbed him by the shirt.

  “You know, cause an accident.”

  “Drop that evil idea now,” said Neddy, pushing him away.

  “Just fooling, Neddy. Just fooling.” Clements took out a pocket knife and slowly skinned the bark off a low-lying branch. The bark rolled into a coil, like the shape of a snake poised to defend itself. He grinned at the others. “Suppose we all go for a hop beer at the Happy Fisherman?”

  “No. Nobody has liquor until after the races.” Neddy looked into Clements’s eyes. “Nobody. If you really wants to dislike someone, a certain crew, perhaps, the best thing is to give up something you likes. That will only make you dislike them more. It will also make you stronger.”

  “You know, that makes sense, Neddy. If they’re the reason I quits having a drink for the summer, I’m going to want to beat the living daylights out of them.”

  Neddy grinned. “You’ll enjoy the drink much more as a victor than a loser.”

  They slipped out past the beech and maple trees to the lane behind the boathouse. The wind had shifted to the north and become cooler. Watt’s voice followed them, echoing across the pond. “Now, b’ys, let’s try rowing in twos again.”

  Clements laughed out loud.

  “no talking.” watt gazed at the bow. “Like I just said, I wants three and four to row. Everyone else, lay your blades on the water. Don’t force the blade into the water, Croke. Let the weight of the oar take the blade to the water. For God’s sake, did you never hear of gravity?” He sighed. Croke was in danger of breaking his oar with the force he applied to the shaft. Watt hoped no one was watching from the shore. Again, he called on them to stop rowing.

  “You needs to row together, all six of ye.” He lowered his voice. To show his frustration to the crew would only make them lose confidence. “Ready. Go.” The boat moved forward immediately, dipping down on the stroke side. No one was at ease, but Watt was not discouraged. He had to get them some precious water time. It was only six weeks to the regatta.

  The boat moved on. The other five rowers were putting on a brave face, Watt noted, but it was clear that they couldn’t wait to get out of the boat. The shell continued to yaw all the way back to the dock. “Let her run.” The muttering crew let go of their oars and the boat glided to the dock.

  After they had gotten out of the boat, Croke moved away from the rest of the crew and grabbed his coat from the rail. He had never felt so alone in his life.

  Chapter

  19

  Watt tossed and turned, wrestling with one thought after another. How could he get Croke to harness his powerful stroke? Keep rowing in twos? He’d tried that already. It took too much time away from all six practising together. Move him up to number five behind John, who had the perfect catch, finish? No, that would upset Dan, because he would have to move to number three oar. Get Croke closer to the cox’s seat? Maybe, but that might make him even more anxious. Watt struggled to come up with a plan. Daylight was breaking, and he still hadn’t slept. He got up, made some tea, and drank it. Then he went straight to John’s house.

  “I knows why you’re here, Watt. I couldn’t sleep much, either. Come in and sit down. There’s no one up yet, except the birds.”

  “What do you think I should do with Croke, John?”

  John sighed, took a deep breath, and tapped his fingers on the table. Steam rose from the teapot. Needles of blasty boughs cracked in the stove. He got up, took two slices of bread from the loaf on the counter, put them on the stove damper to toast, and then sat down again. “Let’s have a mug-up and put our heads together on this.”

  “I can’t understand it,” Watt said quietly. “Nothing seems to work with him.” He placed his elbows on the table and his hands over his eyes. Croke couldn’t seem to learn the catch. It seemed so simple to him and John: ease the weight of the oar when you reach ahead, in time with the other oars; put the blade in the water square to the water, like you’re cutting butter. That was the catch, and Croke wasn’t getting it. Watt didn’t know if he should pray or cry.

  John sat quietly, dipping his spoon into the cup over and over again as if he was in a trance. Watt uncovered his eyes and stared at John as he stirred his tea. He jumped up suddenly and slammed his fist down on the table. “I’ve got it!”

  “Watt, you’ll wake everyone from here to Logy Bay. Sit down, b’y.” John stopped stirring. “What is it?”

  “We had the same problem with young Hickey when we rowed nine twenty in the Myrtle. Had to get him away from rowing in the punts and skiffs for a couple of weeks.” Watt’s voice rose with every few words.

  “Jeez, Watt. Come on, let’s go out to the barn.”

  The two men crept across the kitchen floor to the porch, put their boots on, and went outside. The sun was opening its eye over the Rocky Hills. Two crows were cawing on an old dead spruce tree. John opened the latch to the barn door and they stepped inside. Prince swung his head around and looked at them.

  “John,
I just remembered Hickey telling me that the only way he could get the catch right was to stay clear of the ocean for a week or so. You knows how high those big boats are off the water compared to the shells.” Watt scratched his head. “It makes sense. Croke never rowed on the pond before. He’s used to hauling a load of fish through a rough sea. All he thinks about is driving the oars in, trying to get the boat through the waves.”

  John nodded and then looked intently at Watt. “But who’s going to row for Croke when they’re coming and going in the trap skiffs? He got to go fishing.”

  “I’ll talk to his father about that, John. Will wants to see his son row in the regatta. We’ll think of something.”

  Chapter

  20

  The morning sun poured through the kitchen window. Outside, the warm wind raced through the tall grass, bending and shifting it as if some giant stood above the meadow blowing with all his breath. Summer had finally taken hold in Outer Cove.

  “Do you want another fish cake?” Ellen stood next to the table with the teapot. Dan’s eyes seemed focused on something in front of his plate, but there was nothing to look at except the oilcloth. As for another fish cake, he had barely touched the one on his plate. She poured some tea into his half-full mug, just to get his attention. But her son continued to sit there, motionless. Only the occasional blinking of his eyes distinguished him from a corpse propped up in a chair. Ellen decided to take the bull by the horns.

  “Dan, what ails you, my son?”

  “Liz is going away.” Dan didn’t look up from the table.

  “Going away? Why, where would she go? Dan, you never done nothing to her, did you?” Ellen sat down heavily in a chair on the other side of the table.

  “Of course I never done nothing to her, Mother. My Jesus, this has been some year. First the tangle trying to get to the seal hunt. Then the rowing, and that cursed Din Croke. And now Liz says . . .” He took his fork and stabbed it into the half-eaten fish cake.

  “Liz says what, my love?”

  “She’s going to Boston.”

  “Boston? Sacred heart of Jesus, what would she be going there for?”

  “To work for her Aunt Annie Walsh.”

  “I suppose you’ll go, too?” Ellen held her hands together as if she were about to begin a prayer. “When?” The last word was said in a whisper.

  “I don’t know. I can’t go yet. She’s leaving next week. Got her passage paid for.” He shifted his chair back, rose up, went to the window, and looked out at Fitzgerald’s meadow. Soft sunlight poured down the valley to the Big River. The Queen Anne’s lace by the fence looked like it belonged in a bridal bouquet.

  “Truth be told, if it weren’t for you and Din, I’d go with her now.” He turned his back to the window.

  His mother’s voice was so low he could barely make out her words. “What about the regatta?”

  “I don’t know, Mother. There’s so much going on. I’m going in to John’s before I goes to the beach.”

  He took his old black jumper off the hook on the back of the door and left. The gusting wind slapped his hair away from his brow. At the end of O’Rourke’s Lane, he came face to face with Din Croke.

  “Where are you going? The beach is that way.” Dan pointed toward the ocean.

  The younger man glanced in the direction Dan was pointing. “I’m done with going on the water for a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t Watt tell you? He don’t want me rowing out to the traps for a week at least, maybe more. No rowing in the skiffs. Says it’s what’s making me so rough in the shells. I’m staying on shore, splitting fish.” He shrugged. “Heading home for a mug-up. I’ll be back down at the stage in half an hour. Suppose I’ll see you at the pond this evening, if this wind drops off.” He touched his cap and started to walk away.

  “Wait a minute.” Dan grabbed him by the sleeve. “Who’s rowing in the skiff for you?”

  “Watt.”

  Dan stood on the road, watching Din Croke’s back and feeling more confused than ever. He started to walk to his house and stopped when he realized he was going in the wrong direction. There was no need to go to John’s now. Watt was well on his way to fixing Croke’s problems. For a moment he felt he should stay right where he was, on the road. If he went to the beach, he was going to get in a racket with the others in the crew about how bad the rowing was. If he went home, he would have to look at his mother, who was upset about his Boston talk. He sat down on the side of the road, plucked a piece of grass, and chewed on the end.

  “Hello, Dan. What are you at?” Tommy Slater ducked through a gap in the longer fence and gained the road.

  “Hello, young Thomas. Where are you coming from?”

  Tommy raised his hand to show off two brown trout hanging from a spruce twig.

  “They’re grand, Tommy. You’ll have them for supper, I suppose.” Dan laughed.

  “I can’t catch them on a pole, so I set some lines in the river overnight.” The boy sat down beside Dan. “I seen you walking back and forth on the road. Did you forget something on your way to the beach?”

  “No, I was thinking about something. Thinking about a lot of things.”

  “Uncle John is always thinking, especially when Watt Power’s been to the house. They’re always trying to figure things out, like how to fix Din Croke’s rowing.” He laid the trout on top of a large rock, their mouths wide open, fins stuck against the plump bellies. The sun turned their scales into diamonds. “It’s too bad Jack Doran can’t row. Wouldn’t be such a fuss if he was in the crew. But I wouldn’t row neither if my brother was crippled and needed help at the fish.”

  “Dick got spina bifida. He was born with a bad spine.” Dan touched Tommy on the back. “I got to go to the beach now, Tommy. You should come along. Sure, you can clean those trout down at the stage.”

  “Naw. I’ll clean them at the house, see if Aunt Kate will let me fry them up right away. I’m some hungry.”

  They strolled down Slater’s Hill together. “Tommy, why aren’t you off swimming with the other boys on a day like this?”

  “I don’t like swimming. I likes to go trouting.” Tommy kicked a stone. He could feel his face burning and hoped that Dan didn’t see the red flush. “I got to go home now and cook me trout.” He turned around abruptly and sped away like a scalded dog up Barnes Road.

  “What’s wrong with you, Dan? I only asked a simple question.” Martin stepped back.

  “There’s no simple goddamn questions, Martin.” Dan grabbed a spool of twine. “Women aren’t simple. Fishing is hard. Rowing is hard.” He held the spool and let it run out until it hit the beach rocks. “What’s easy about anything?”

  He walked to the open door of his stage and went inside. No comfort there, only flies competing for fish guts. Martin came in behind him.

  “You got a face on you like a boiled boot. What is it?” Martin walked over to the puncheon, batted the flies away, and placed a cover over the livers.

  “Me woman is moving away, away to Boston. We were supposed to marry in August. I don’t know what to be doing.” Dan sat down on a pile of nets. They felt good to his tired body.

  “Sure, you’d go with her, wouldn’t you?”

  “I can’t go yet, can’t leave Din and Mother in the lurch. Can’t leave Watt and the rest of them in the lurch, either. I wishes it was September.”

  “You know, Dan, my father always told me that when you’re rowing on the pond and the boat is running well, all of life’s problems just floats away.”

  “Jeez, Martin. Our boat is not running well and I got an ocean of troubles. Got any more remedies?”

  “When’s Liz leaving?”

  “Five o’clock Monday evening.” Dan looked down through the spaces in the stage floor. The tide was creeping up under
neath him.

  “I sees her off at Baird’s Cove wharf and then goes to the pond for practice.” He looked up at Martin. “Ship my woman off to the Boston States and then go for a spin on Quidi Vidi. Some life.”

  Martin reached down with his large hands. “Come on, Dan, b’y. Get on your feet.” He pulled Dan up. “We got practice in a few hours. Let’s go home, get a bit of rest. I’ll pick you and Din up on the way this evening. Give Belle a break.”

  * * * * *

  Dan had cleaned the carriage and polished Belle’s harness until it shone. The afternoon sun burnished Belle’s bay flanks. The solstice was past and summer was in full swing. The clear sky, the voices of the songbirds, and his spotless rig didn’t help the growing emptiness in Dan’s heart. The ride to Liz’s seemed shorter than ever. The door to the house was open when he arrived and Liz was standing on the front steps beside a steamer trunk. She waved as he pulled up and got out of the carriage.

  “Dan, Father will give you a hand to lift my trunk onto the carriage. I’ll call him.”

  “Never mind, Liz. I can do it.”

  “No, Dan, it’s very heavy. You wouldn’t believe what I got in there. All sorts of things, including things for Aunt Annie. If you hurt your back, Watt will come down to Boston after me.”

  Dan sat down on the trunk and pulled Liz to him. He felt sick. He couldn't say anything, so he moved to kiss her. A man’s voice said, “Hello, my son.” Dan jumped to his feet, and the two men shook hands.