A view “to live for”…

My recent experience with trying to measure up against the mighty Potomac provided the most vivid illustration of this twist of the phrase ”to die for” , which had apparently stuck in my brain after hearing it a while back. Those who had similarly gone through serious situations, fearing for their life, yet in the same time feeling elated, will probably relate. No, I’m not going to recount a pure adrenaline-rush episode some seek on purpose, like plunging at the end of bungee cord. Mine was a less contrived occurrence requiring me to put up a good fight, the reward was not only staying alive but feeling overjoyed about being alive (something I would otherwise take for granted).

My professional career created the opportunity to further expand my… rowing horizons. As of April I became a guest member of the Potomac Boat Center in DC, one of the most prestigious and venerable US rowing clubs, situated on the banks of one of the mightiest North American rivers. After a long winter during which I was reduced to sadly contemplating my little frozen lake, I could not wait one more second to experience water in its liquid form. On my first day as a member, I had been summoned to launch my boat well before the crack of dawn, something I never do back home. I was told the basic rules (needed to use boat lights to be noticed, which side I was allowed to navigate on) and some useful information (how far to the last bridge and ‘current is strong today’).

The mighty Potomac, further inflated by the heavy rain in the last few days, was glowing seductively under the full moon, so there I went, taking on it in a light weight single boat. The power differential was a bit intimidating, but the water seemed rather smooth, and the easy going with its flow enhanced the whole magic of the new experience and my belief that “I can do this”… However, after navigating a couple of turns (in the dark!) the water became very rough just before having to pass under a series of bridges. All of the sudden I was sucked into a vortex, the boat was accelerating toward a huge pillar. I rapidly pulled in my oar (which normally hangs more the 6 feet on the side of the boat) completely into the oarlock to prevent it from being snapped. Of course, the boat was now completely unbalanced so I instinctively leaned overboard on the other side while we were twirling together out of control toward the pillar.

I used the blade as a rudder and just when the light boat was about to crash into the pillar, instead of avoiding it, I planted my blade into the pillar and began to push and extend again the oar redirecting the force to push us away from the center of the vortex. Seemed like time stood still, yet the locked dance with the pillar might have taken only a few seconds, then all of the sudden we were set free of its embrace. If I had to plan it, I would probably not been able to anticipate the moves needed to keep us afloat. The experience of less dramatic yet various challenges during the past years somehow combined into an instinctive knowledge of how to maintain the balance. Probably even more importantly, I distinctly remember becoming more calm and deliberate as the outside world started to spin around me. I also remember wondering, almost as if I was looking at myself: “how comes I am still riding above the water?” It was a strange feeling of completely being into the moment, yet rationally thinking about it as if observing if from the outside.
The last couple of bridges I navigated as in trance, then I hit again open water, seemingly reaching the proposed goal for the day and such decided it was time to turn back. The first signs of light helped avoid getting close to the pillars again. Working now against the current, I was making slow progress. Then, the wind really picked up.

My boat, being close to the shore hit by the wind, began to briskly jump up and down on the valleys and hills created by the combined direct and reflected waves. My back was now swept by cold waves, that swept of the boat, soon the hull was completely filled with water, and my legs and feet became submerged. I was pulling my oars very hard threading through the water but it felt as if I was exercising on a stationary rowing machine. I could now see the shadows of some lone runners making good progress on the shore while I was apparently not moving at all; the Potomac was pulling every trick to just not let me go back. I remember feeling my legs were frozen, I began worrying that my back will lock, and although the adrenaline was still giving me strength to continue, I began to feel some despair.

Then… a fire lit the sky and the water, and I found myself under an enormous pink dome. Flocks of black birds began swarming the sky, and I could now make out the white lace of the blooming cherry trees on the shore. I fixated on their joyous image then realized that I was very slowly, but surely, progressing against their position. That made me happy and reassured that if I just continued I would eventually get back to the dock. I then also began to look beyond my immediate surroundings. The DC monuments looked truly majestic from the water, their light stone glowing against the fiery sky background. I thought: 'had I given in to the treacherous vortex earlier, I would have missed all of this. I’m so lucky to be alive, here, at this very moment to see this view from such a great vantage point. This was indeed a “view to live for!”’ and felt elated. I swear the obelisk even winked his red eye reassuringly at me and I smiled back at it. I knew that I will be OK, despite both the current and wind fighting against me, and the extra-liquid weight I had to carry all the way back in my boat. I grew accustomed to the rhythmic sweep of the waves getting all the way up around my waist, then over the boat’s hull, then dissipating back into the rest. I could not go any deeper than that, right? I had been literally integrated by the Potomac. Now, I knew it was just a matter of keeping going and the view was so beautiful that I did not mind moving so slowly.

When I finally reached back to the dock, the boat captain was standing waiting for me, visibly worried. As soon as he had helped me flip the boat to empty all the water, he launched into a quick series of questions: why did I go beyond the bridges? Didn’t I know that even a big 8+ boat got snapped in two by the pillars in such high current and they had to fish the rowers out the water? Did I realize I was the only single boat out there this morning? Didn’t I know it was acceptable in such a life threatening situation to break the traffic rules, why didn’t I row on the “wrong” side to minimize the effects of the wind? I looked at him, lots of answers and more questions running through my mind (why did he immediately tell me how many miles past the last bridge which I interpreted as a suggested trip, why didn’t he caution me about the pillars’ vortex, how could I already know I was allowed to break the traffic rules and not be expelled from the club?) But, then I took another look at the fiery Potomac and decided to stick with the essential. I replied:

“Sorry, just got carried away”…

Never too late...

I was recently prompted to consider what might have been one of my own most valuable lesson about learning at any age after watching a TED talk given by Tim Ferris recommended by my friend Vic. I agree: the talk is inspiring. Tim Ferris delivers with flair a message that rings true beyond whatever his own facts might be (I understand some people had questioned them). In addition, an interesting coincidence brought back memories of my own trials and tribulations, small victories and lessons about learning. In the video Ferris credits his swimming achievements to a new method called "Total Immersion" pioneered by Terry Laughlin. I had personally met Terry several years ago during one of my own most significant learning journeys while we both had attended the same… rowing camp. The participants, a group of like-minded adults of different ages and skill levels, came from all over US to improve upon their rowing. I was a true beginner and had signed up for the chance to dedicate one week to “crash learn” how to row a skinny scull (competition-style boat). I had previously rowed a few months in a recreational boat (those of you who row, please be tolerant, I was so “green” I didn’t even know what I didn’t know…). The rowing camp turned out to be one of my most telling experiences about learning as an adult.

I had arrived at the camp with so much enthusiasm that the first day I took advantage of all three extended rowing sessions (one was optional). This was way more than three times I had ever rowed in any single day…. yet, I felt no fatigue. However, within minutes I was made painfully aware of how much I needed to improve upon. Each of the many trainers stationed every 200 yds. on the lake pointed out yet another major issue with my technique. I would barely start working on something only to hear the next coach yelling about another huge mistake or simply making fun of my “style”. They made sure to leave me with no doubts: I was at the very bottom of the skill ladder. I was once again re-experiencing all of the frustrations and humility that come from being a complete novice critically assessed by experts, not an easy feeling for someone who had become accustomed to operate with great ease in her professional and everyday life.

They finally broke me down by the middle of the second day: "how could I ever possibly fix so many major things terribly wrong with my rowing technique???" So instead of the additional rowing session that day, I opted for the trip to the nearby ice cream factory. As I was drowning my sorrow in the biggest possible cone I was able to get, I was struck by a thought: “So what if my rowing ‘looked funny’ or I was possibly doing everything totally wrong?” Being out in the boat, pulling the oars through the crystal clear water in the middle of the woods gave me tremendous energy and joy! Who was going to watch me once I finished camp? And, if they did, should I worry about what they thought of my style? In that second I decided that I will not let the way my rowing looked prevent me from experiencing the happiness it was giving me. Thus I would go back on the water the next day and try my best to correct whatever possible (maybe not at the pace they wanted me to!) but I would not give up on rowing. The rest of the camp days continued pretty much the same: I rowed every single session, worked hard to correct various things, put up with a lot of criticism, including a lot of ridicule, and asked a lot of clarifying questions undaunted by the fun they seemed to engender. The coaches got to expect me to raise my hand at every Q&A session.

The camp’s final row was a “head race” in which all students, starting one by one like beads on a string, had to row the full length of the lake against the clock. The rowers were started in the reverse rank of their skill to give enough head start to the slow ones. I was called to start second, being assessed by coaches to only be possibly better than one other student from the group of 20+ with various skill levels. By this time it did not bother me (I knew how much I had to work on), I was just so happy I was still rowing in my white skinny scull! We then all gathered in the camp cafeteria where the head coach read in decreasing order our times, slowest first, regardless of student’s gender, age, or skill level, a nerve wrecking exercise… My heart jumped with anticipation every time they were about to call another name, but once they called out most students, my heart really started racing again! Soon I noticed that the only few not called yet were all guys, and the best rowers. I started to wonder if the coaches would play some last prank on me, they seemed to have particularly enjoyed making fun of my technique and even more so of my eagerness. With somewhat of a sheepish laugh the head coach called: “…and finally, the 'Fastest Woman on the Lake'...” It turned out to be… me!?! I was totally stunned (apparently they were too) and really happy - then, as I am now! -that I did not give up that second day. More, that small victory against great odds taught me that my enthusiasm could overcome my inexperience, and how “funny” I looked while I was learning it. I got a distinct feeling that the coaches also experienced some eye-opener that day…

I am now convinced that the ability to learn anything at any age depends in no small measure on our capacity to conquer our own fear of ridicule. Since my rowing camp days whenever I am confronted with the challenge of learning or trying something new, I have started asking myself the question: so what's the worst that could happen if I ’looked stupid?’ If the only danger is that others might think I looked goofy– then I’ll go ahead, it is well worth it! And I can have a good laugh about it too. As young children we learn new things while we are still not self-conscientious. Later, as the fear of peer judgment intensifies, we avoid trying things that might make us look ridiculous. Then, with age comes the wisdom that the “sacrifice” of looking funny is well worth the learning and we can return to being the child freely and fully embracing the fun of learning and experiencing new things that truly matter to us. At that point we become free to make choices based on gaining value, rather than on losing appearances. As a teacher of adults I try to encourage my students to fearlessly pursue their passions, even when they lay well beyond their previous/formal training. There is no substitute for really wanting to learn or do something. I don't care how "off" you might start at it! And, I make sure to reassure the first time I meet my students, and then remind them frequently, that "stupid question" is a misnomer. If someone can formulate a question about anything, than obviously there is something that needs clarification - which is the purpose of a question - thus asking any question simply can not be stupid. I learned from asking lots of "stupid" questions: if one is ever told or made feel that had just asked a "stupid question" is because the receiver had a hard time answering it and was ashamed to acknowledge it. Voila, the secret is out!

Kids, do try this at home: if you see older people, friends, parents or grandparents learning something new, do not laugh, but rather plan to continue to have the same curious and adventurous attitude… Truly, it’s never too late to learn new things!

p.s. My rowing technique has gotten better after all these years of learning, but I am still working on improving many things. Also, I still have to follow-up on my plan to someday (soon!) learn Terry’s "Total Immersion" fast, ultra-efficient swimming style. As for that rowing race, well, yes, my time was faster than Terry’s ;-)

Earning the right to be considered a Master

I was talking to a friend who does not row… yet! (yes, I still have some of those…. more recruiting work needed). I had just mentioned that I was training for a “Masters” rowing competition. Her eyes opened big; “Oh, I did not realize that you were THAT good!” I smiled (yes, I could remember making the same assumption before I knew better), and after taking a brief moment to bask in the glory of that comment, I clarified to insure I was given the proper credit: “you know, being called a Master it’s actually a matter of age, anybody who rows past the age of 26 is called a Master Rower”. I just learned from other competitive athletes that different sports bestow the Masters “title” based on other specific age limits. So, this made me think, is being a Master really just a matter of age? Upon further reflection, I think that I might have needed to add something else to my previous statement.

Among many things I learned during my rowing years is the appreciation for “aging gracefully”, which for me is not so much about acceptance of aging, but about living at its fullest no matter what your age is. When registering for a competition we all have to disclose our age, which may feel uncomfortable in the beginning. Then, if you look around, you will most likely think: “wow, are these people really the age they said they were?!?” They all look so much younger and fitter than what you would normally expect for someone at that age. You may think: why would anybody in their right mind say they were older?!? Well, when competing, being older has its benefits. There are different age categories or, if needing to compete directly against younger people, one’s age is recognized by awarding them a time handicap.

I still remember one particular 5 km head race. In such races, rowers are released through the start ("chute") one by one, like beads on a string. Each one seems to compete only against themselves, although if people who started after you are catching up and passing you, you can pretty much expect that their time will better than yours. So, in this race, I passed several people and by the time I finished I could still not see on the horizon any of the rowers who started after me. I pretty much expected to win the race. Yet, when the results were posted, I saw that my time (of twenty something minutes) was bettered by a tenth of a second (!!!) by a woman significantly older than me. And I never saw her or this coming: her handicap was of almost two minutes… My initial shock turned into awe. I actually felt very inspired by it: wow, she really deserved to win! I could only hope that I would pull a race like this in twenty years! She actually looked for me to congratulate me, then she said smiling: “well, a tenth of a second it’s less than a breath. Next time, don’t you waste even a second thinking before you pull your oars because…. I’ll be right behind you!” We became instant friends.

So, yes, you may need to be of a “certain age” or experience to qualify for being called a Master, but in sports as in life, you have to stay on top of your game to earn the right of actually being considered one.