‘DAB UP!’
Despite yesterday’s brutal storm, the conditions are near-on perfect for the first outing of the morning, the Nut Rock Race. A beautiful day, clear water ahead. There are cheers and whoops from spectators and rowers alike, the atmosphere thrilling.
Coxswain Gill Pender, with her advantageous physique – body the size of a storm petrel, lungs the size of a beer barrel – braces, and at the signal shouts, ‘STROKE!’ and they’re off.
Gill is peeved because Mary Enys was obviously on the piss last night, and nerves or no nerves, today is too important to risk. The five other rowers are taking up some of her slack.
Pilot gigs are heavy boats, with a history of rowing out in heavy seas to rescue ships in distress. The first gig to get to the ship would be paid. Money is on the line today, but more importantly, pride.
Gill urges on her girls, aiming for that moment when the 270individuals blur into a single unified machine, powering the boat onwards. The Newquay crew are out on their right. The young Bristol rowers are showing their inexperience, already lagging behind.
They need to make a good showing today. They’re in desperate need of a new boat, built to spec, which will cost upwards of thirty grand. They need to attract sponsorship.
There’s no way they’ll beat the American team – glossy-haired Amazonians who train on Power Plates apparently, with an actual sports psychologist making the trip over with them. But as long as they come second, all will be well. No one takes the Americans seriously. Gill is embarrassed to admit that she and some others started a rumour that the American women are all on steroids. By the looks of their shoulders, it might even be true.
‘STROKE!’ she screams louder, working at least as hard as the rowers. They just need to beat bloody Newquay.
When they finish there’ll be a few pints in the Mermaid first, standing outside in the glorious sunshine, then it’s over to the Old Ship, where you won’t be able to get served for at least twenty minutes, so you need to get three rounds in at once. It will be heaving tonight.
The gig starts to pull ahead, and Gill is filled with a sense of wild joy.
She takes in a huge lungful of oxygen and screams, ‘STROKE!’
The gulls wheel above, crying encouragement.
She’s left the kids home alone for the first time today. Right now she guesses they’ll be doing their hair and putting on too much make-up, because they’re at that age, thirteen and fourteen, and in an hour both of them will be outdoors watching the races from the Tresco end. She’s not worried though. Safest place in the world.