Part 6 (1/2)
A boat that you are used to is like a friend. You seem to get right in mood with it, can tell to a second when to humor it, and in return the boat answers to every move you make. If you like a boat and have been out in it, no matter whether the wind comes up suddenly or a storm threatens, you feel perfectly safe. You can take one oar, stand up at one end and make her go like an obedient steed, ride the waves, turn any way you wish, fool around as long as you like, then make a home run up to the dock with flying colors.
You can do that with a canoe-shaped boat, because, if you are turned around by the current, all you have to do is to turn yourself, and either end of the boat is the stern, as you wish. But so much for a rowboat.
Have you ever tried going out in one of those d.i.n.ky little sailboats?
That is Simon-pure sport for you. When the boat is loaded with her living freight she is probably about six inches above the water line.
Any little sudden gust causes her to keel 'way over. Between the jolly captain trying to get the benefit of every puff of wind and the nervous pa.s.sengers you have the time of your life. All other boating fades away compared to being in a sailboat with just enough breeze to send her along while causing her to keel over at the slightest move. You lie on your stomach on the bottom, letting any bilge water slopping around loose soak into your chest. Of course, you have a swimming suit on. That is advisable, in case you went overboard or the boat turned turtle, a custom our little boat showed a tendency to do on the slightest provocation.
She wasn't the kind of boat that you would have wanted to take a nervous mother out in or any one, in fact, that was not well able to swim; but with congenial companions, who could take care of themselves, there was more fun to be got out of that little boat than any in Camp.
Then there were the motor boats; just made for the rapid consumption of oil. Their motto was: ”Maximum of oil with minimum of speed,” made out of deference to the Standard Oil Company. No man not extremely wealthy could afford to own one of them. Between drinking oil by the gallon and quarrelling with their igniter they were in dry dock for repairs most of the season.
The real pets of the Camp were the four-oared barges. You felt yourself some boatman when you went out in one of them. With a nifty c.o.xswain in the stern to keep time for you, plenty of room to make your stroke, one of the best fellows as stroke oar, there was not a pleasanter sensation going than to go for a good, long row.
Sometimes you caught a crab, that caused some little delay, while you were spoken to in a real fatherly way by the c.o.xswain. Then again you persisted in making your time to suit yourself without any regard to orders. On one side the oars pulled a much stronger stroke than the other side, constantly skewing the boat, in spite of the best efforts of our tiller ropes. About the only time you showed any kind of form was on the homestretch. Then, playing to the gallery, you put your best efforts into every move of your body, going by the Camp to the landing stage in a manner to make even the Oxford and Cambridge crews look up and take notice.
All that was only practice. The real thing that counted was when the races were planned. Then the boys began to work, to get up early in the morning for special coaching trips, to train in every way, to leave off all sweets; and when a boy does that, you may know he is in dead earnest, until as the day drew near all they could talk, think, eat and sleep was boat talk.
It is a bad thing to wager on a boat race. Yet what a fascination there is in boosting your own side up. You feel sure they will win. Haven't you with heart, soul and mind urged them on for weeks? How can they lose?
You get out and cheer them along, ready to fight with tongue or fists for the glory of your colors. You know it is against Camp rules to wager; yet in the excitement of the moment you promise to forgive debts if you lose and in every way show your faith in your side.
They are ready to start. With many a cheery word for them you wish them G.o.dspeed, at the same time feeling a perfect hatred, for the time being, for your opponents. Gee! if you could only go along with them to cheer them on the course!
They have started, rowing easily to the starting point. Oh! will they never get there? And yet you have warned them about taking it easy to the starting mark. At last they are there, are turning round; the pistol is fired and they are off. ”Come on, come on!” you yell, long before they can hear you. They seem to be working with might and main, but what is that? The other team seems to be getting ahead. No; it cannot be. It should not be. In your wild excitement you fall off the rock you are standing on, pulling into the water a couple of onlookers with you. What does a wetting amount to, anyway?
You dare not look when you get back on the rock again, yet, like some horrible monster that fascinates you, you turn around, to see your beloved Blues a boat's length behind. If praying would help them, they can know that you prayed; if weeping for them would have been of any use to save the day, you had done that, too; what was left but the deepest despair.
The Reds won, and my whole nature felt steeped in the deepest blue.
The villain came up to me to claim his wager, with a grin all over his face, making you think of a huge Ches.h.i.+re cat.
So ended the boat race I had set my heart upon.
”But what is the use of repining, Where there's a will there's a way; To-morrow our team may be winning, Although your team beat us to-day.”
--Old Ballad.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CHAPTER XII.
Final Contests--Track Work.
After training for weeks one begins to look for some satisfactory results. It is about this time that the boys who have made a special study of track work, under the guidance of a clever instructor, can begin to feel enough confidence in his work to warrant his entering for the final contests.
Oftentimes the boy with the shortest legs has the keenest desire to enter for the standing broad jump. Is it his fault if his legs have not kept pace with his will and brain? You really feel the truest sympathy for him because he always falls an inch or two short. Again he tries, but no go. How can he help it? His spirit is willing, but his legs too short.