I’ll text the dock’s address. Everybody follow me!”
Patrick gives a wave to Eri, Luke, and Daisy to get them in motion. They’re on the other side of the parking lot and seem to have been watching us. They wave back and pile into Eri’s car.
I’m relieved that Patrick didn’t ask me to lead. I’m sure he’s had meets at Boathouse Row before and is comfortable driving there. But I’ve noticed South Jersey people tend to make the Philly people do the piloting. Too many one-way streets and two-way stops. This way I get to blindly follow.
I settle into driving, paying attention to the types of cars on the road, to how many red lights we hit before getting on the highway, to the tractor-trailer driver who slows to let us all merge over to take the Ben Franklin Bridge exit, to the lady in the toll booth whose hair is dyed the color of a maraschino cherry, to the way Eri hugs the wall in the right lane of the bridge. Most people hug the center line, almost crossing it, afraid their car will sideswipe the wall, the only barrier between car and river. Having a wall on one side makes most people feel penned in and vulnerable. But I hug the wall, too. I like having something solid next to me the way I like to lean against the solid steel of an elevator as I move up or down at speeds I don’t care to know. I also like the inside seat at a booth or a captain’s chair over one with no arms. A more controlled environment.
When we park at Boathouse Row, I’m overwhelmed by how lovely it is. The boathouses, with their sharp-peaked roofs and colorful beams over white or tan stucco, are a perfect contrast against the Schuylkill River. Some are Tudors, some grand stone structures with turrets and columns. One house has a red top half that highlights three half-oval windows. The bottom portion of the house is a cream color. The bright-red door with white trim around the window is like sparkling teeth in a smiling ruby-lipped mouth. The effect is something out of a fairy tale. Surely this is the house Hansel and Gretel couldn’t resist entering. The bustle of the city shakes hands with the calm of the water, and I am better. I suddenly feel like I could stay here all day. I don’t want the afternoon to end.
I shake myself from my architectural daze to the issue at hand. This afternoon will end, but not before I become comfortable in this group. I have to meld into them seamlessly, an easy fit. And that is not going to happen if I keep gawking at boathouses instead of getting out of the truck and joining them.
Watching Patrick ready for the race is like watching a marble wind through a perfectly constructed Mouse Trap game. He moves through the steps of getting his equipment set up to entering the water as if it is all one extended action. I don’t know much about boating or crew teams or a bunch of beautifully muscled boys rowing in perfect sync with one another, but I know that Patrick makes it look simple and graceful. I, as well as every female nearby age nine to ninety-nine, have my eyes fixed on him. He gives a final wave to his entourage just before the race begins and he is off. There is no talking, only oohs and ahhs as the teams traverse the water and a pace is set. Once Patrick’s team has a substantial lead and has rounded the bend, the crowds disperse a little and conversations resume.
“What do you think so far?” Daisy asks me.
“It’s incredible. An experience. Just seeing Boathouse Row from this angle is new for me. And you’re right, Patrick is amazing. Thanks for inviting me along today.” I’m sure to look at each of their faces to show that the sentiment is meant for the group and not just for Daisy.
“Happy to have you here,” Luke responds quickly and sounds cordial except for the way he held on to the “here” longer than he should have. It sounded clenched and forced. Am I just reading too much into everything he does now? Or does he really have something against me?
“Thanks,
Patrick gives a wave to Eri, Luke, and Daisy to get them in motion. They’re on the other side of the parking lot and seem to have been watching us. They wave back and pile into Eri’s car.
I’m relieved that Patrick didn’t ask me to lead. I’m sure he’s had meets at Boathouse Row before and is comfortable driving there. But I’ve noticed South Jersey people tend to make the Philly people do the piloting. Too many one-way streets and two-way stops. This way I get to blindly follow.
I settle into driving, paying attention to the types of cars on the road, to how many red lights we hit before getting on the highway, to the tractor-trailer driver who slows to let us all merge over to take the Ben Franklin Bridge exit, to the lady in the toll booth whose hair is dyed the color of a maraschino cherry, to the way Eri hugs the wall in the right lane of the bridge. Most people hug the center line, almost crossing it, afraid their car will sideswipe the wall, the only barrier between car and river. Having a wall on one side makes most people feel penned in and vulnerable. But I hug the wall, too. I like having something solid next to me the way I like to lean against the solid steel of an elevator as I move up or down at speeds I don’t care to know. I also like the inside seat at a booth or a captain’s chair over one with no arms. A more controlled environment.
When we park at Boathouse Row, I’m overwhelmed by how lovely it is. The boathouses, with their sharp-peaked roofs and colorful beams over white or tan stucco, are a perfect contrast against the Schuylkill River. Some are Tudors, some grand stone structures with turrets and columns. One house has a red top half that highlights three half-oval windows. The bottom portion of the house is a cream color. The bright-red door with white trim around the window is like sparkling teeth in a smiling ruby-lipped mouth. The effect is something out of a fairy tale. Surely this is the house Hansel and Gretel couldn’t resist entering. The bustle of the city shakes hands with the calm of the water, and I am better. I suddenly feel like I could stay here all day. I don’t want the afternoon to end.
I shake myself from my architectural daze to the issue at hand. This afternoon will end, but not before I become comfortable in this group. I have to meld into them seamlessly, an easy fit. And that is not going to happen if I keep gawking at boathouses instead of getting out of the truck and joining them.
Watching Patrick ready for the race is like watching a marble wind through a perfectly constructed Mouse Trap game. He moves through the steps of getting his equipment set up to entering the water as if it is all one extended action. I don’t know much about boating or crew teams or a bunch of beautifully muscled boys rowing in perfect sync with one another, but I know that Patrick makes it look simple and graceful. I, as well as every female nearby age nine to ninety-nine, have my eyes fixed on him. He gives a final wave to his entourage just before the race begins and he is off. There is no talking, only oohs and ahhs as the teams traverse the water and a pace is set. Once Patrick’s team has a substantial lead and has rounded the bend, the crowds disperse a little and conversations resume.
“What do you think so far?” Daisy asks me.
“It’s incredible. An experience. Just seeing Boathouse Row from this angle is new for me. And you’re right, Patrick is amazing. Thanks for inviting me along today.” I’m sure to look at each of their faces to show that the sentiment is meant for the group and not just for Daisy.
“Happy to have you here,” Luke responds quickly and sounds cordial except for the way he held on to the “here” longer than he should have. It sounded clenched and forced. Am I just reading too much into everything he does now? Or does he really have something against me?
“Thanks,
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