The Rigger

(originally The Boatman by Merrill Blank)

adapted by Joe Frederick, ‘64

Ever since the days of Argus (who was rigger to the crew from Greece, the crew that rowed "The Argos" and with it won the Golden Fleece.)

Every crewman, every sculler, every oarsman in a boat Brings his troubles to the rigger-the person who keeps them all afloat.

"Caught a crab and fouled an oarlock; the stroke went up and 5 was slow.

The crew is waiting and time is wasting. Get on the job, we've got to row!"

Days are long and nights uncertain for those who mend the boats.

Toiling ever – finished never – no one knows the load they tote!

Broken riggers, twisted rudders, stretchers loose and splintered oars –

all these and a hundred others drive them madly to their chores.

“Rowing forty at the quarter we hit The Sisters and wrecked the bow.

The crew is waiting and time is wasting – get it fixed and do it now!”

From the time the crews go on the water until long after they row the courses

harassed rigger pits their magic against the many evil forces

that plague their efforts,vex their labors, try their patience and never stop;

until the riggers, speechless, frenzied, feels that they will blow their top.

“That crew shells cracked and taking water. Mend it now to make it last.

The crew is waiting and time is wasting. Patch it up and make it fast!”

Now in the shining days of Dad Vail the riggers mingle in the crowd

to see the boats go into action; they’re beat to shit – yes – but also proud.

Oarlocks strong, riggers tested, rudders tuned and stretchers tight;

oars all good and freshly painted – from bow to stern the boats are “right."

So with pride they watch the oarsmen row the boats with rhythm swing;

boats that move with smooth precision that proves no flaws in anything.

Suddenly the crowd is roaring – loudly applauding – praises pealing--

a thunderous paean that shatters silence with all the forces of pent-up feeling.

Is this then for the valiant riggers who keep the shells afloat;

they who worked from dawn through darkness striving mightily with each boat?

Smiling grimly – knowing well that this acclaim should be them due--

You’ll hear them mutter: “Forget it brother, those cheers are for a winning crew!”

---In memory of The Goose

Author's note: While searching for something else I stumbled upon these verses. The boathouse we used during the years I went to the Vail belonged to University Barge club but was for smaller shells than eights. Our bows protruded from the riverside door and nothing was secure so (Goose and I and later the frosh rigger and I) slept there on guard. Late one night I found this verse hanging on the wall, deemed it appropriate and copied it. It was titled "The Boatman" by Merrill Blank. It was pretty old judging by English terms such as "boatman, footsteps, deadhead, Henley, dog-tired and doughty" and I took the liberty to edit - you can probably guess where I substituted. Since there are probably lady riggers now, I made it gender neutral. Rather than consigning it back to the box of memories forever, I thought I would pass it on. JAF

____________________________________

Sui Generis Race: The Riggers Cup of 1964

Joe Frederick: This is the first (and only) (in)famous Race for the Riggers Cup. The winning 4 consists of: (left to right) Art Charles at stroke, Tiger at 3, a sadly oveweight coxswain, Jack Hoeschler, who was outfitted in Henley fashion, myself, Joe Frederick, at 2, and Ed Dailey - bow. A photo in my copy of the '64 GU crew book, now fading, is the jubilant crew being awarded the Riggers Cup (a large ashtray stolen from New South lobby) by two buxom young ladies in their bikinis who were sunning at the boathouse and were recruited by Jack Hoeschler. (I'd love to see what they look like now!) By tradition, all pictures of the losing crew - the 3 other coxswains and Don Ellis, frosh manager - were destroyed.

________________________________

The 1962 (and first) Georgetown victory at the Dad Vail Regatta

by Jack Hoeschler '64

(written for the 2012 Dad Vail program)

__________________________________

Dating an Oarsman

by Linda Lovas Hoeschler (Jack Hoeschler '64)

I only had a few crew experiences with Jack during our dating days when he was at Georgetown and I at Trinity. Each was memorable...

A few weeks later I went to a Saturday campus dance and found it boring, so I went to my dorm and gave myself a Toni. In the middle of the perm, probably about 10pm, Jack called and insisted on wanting to see me (which he never did—getting his sleep was more important to him!). I tried to put him off, but finally agreed. I pulled back my now kinky-permed hair (usually long and straight) into a pony tail and tied it with a big chiffon-scarf bow. I must have looked like a street person before her time.

Jack was despondent because the Varsity crew had just lost to St. Joe’s in Philadelphia, a few weeks before the DV that you won. We sat on a bench outside (I may have even sat on his lap for the first time) while he poured out his heart. I knew then that he loved me, although I think it took him another year to admit it. The odor from my incomplete perm warded off any bugs.

________________________________________

My Rowing Season: 1962

by Vince Bova C'64

A Guide to the Personality Traits of the 8+

as told to Vince Bova C'64

Cox: It's pretty obvious what traits a cox must adopt, and tries to learn to do a good job, in this most unique position in the athletic world. I'll pass on the leadership stuff, Napoleonic complex garbage, and point out a secondary characteristic or two that coxes unintentionally inherit after riding in the box for a while.

They can't drive a car anymore. They take 10 miles to change a lane, oversteer, can't find the brakes, and yell to the car a lot. This has nothing to do with the coxes' former driving ability. Stick Richard Petty in a cox seat for awhile, they'll take his driver's license away. Coxes also begin to squint a lot, no loss in vision, they just squint.

Stroke: 'It's a tough job but only I can do it.' The meekest, most frightened non‐rower in the world; when plugged reluctantly in the stroke seat, stays meek up until the first few strokes. The first few paddle strokes, a thought grows in the wimps' sniveling little mind that this job is his/hers for life. Back on the shore, the real personality will percolate back to the surface. 'I hope you guys could follow me ok.' In the boat they're thinking: 'stop rushing, you weenies!' Strokes are born and made to be the most competitive person in the boat by far, and if they stroke long enough, become overly competitive in everything they pursue, or don't pursue. Don't expect to finish a game of Monopoly, Risk, or Golf with a stroke. The only one that can beat him to the chow line is the three man (more later) because the stroke was delayed trying to put more oars away in the rack than anyone else.

Seven: The seat is the Bitch Niche. I don't know if whining, overly bossy, big‐mouthed complainers are born, and I can't believe that the cosmic effect of this seat could possibly be so instantaneous, but you could teach Mother Theresa to row in a tank, stick her in an eight at seven for the first time, and as the stern four is rowing away from the dock, she'll turn around and yell at the bow four to 'set the f*cking boat.' The longer one rows at seven, the more sophisticated and complex the bitching becomes, changing from a crude verbal rowing suggestion to the six man in the early stages to long winded level‐voiced reasoned treatises

after every piece explaining why the crew is slower now than last week. Ever wonder why when a coach drives up shell‐side to ask how a piece went he says: 'So how did that go, fellas? ‐not you seven.' I was a team captain, looked up to leader of my college crew, kept my mouth shut and did my job. I raced one week at seven, my coach told me to 'shut up Sullivan' in a post race meeting. Women who deal with severe PMS mood swings will find those swings totally disappear after some time at seven. Permanent anger.

Six: If you bred Arnold Swartzenegger with a Golden Retriever, you get a six. Six is also Seven's yin. The gentle giant, gorilla in the mist. Six absorbs most of Seven's bitching and keeps it from moving through to the rest of the crew. Six nods and agrees a lot. It is a hard thing for a normal person to row Six. It seems like such a great seat, your're in the stern, the boats more stable here, but you are done with a rowing career at six, you find you’ve been used. Sixes are characterized by great competence in execution of rowing and life, but poor self confidence and a propensity to self‐flagellation. Take your 3 year stroke out of the stroke seat and stick him/her at six for a week. This will be the first time you ever hear him/her say: 'My fault, fellas,' at the end of a poor piece. Sixes meditate. Sixes marry, go to work for, and lend their power tools to sevens. This support system keeps sevens with thriving businesses, mates they can walk all over, and a garage full of power tools at their disposal that they don't have to fix when they break.

Five: God. Yahweh. Allah. Buddha. It's not that the five seat IS those things, its just that's how (s)he gets treated. Five's stool don't stink, the catches don't hang. They're the older brother or sister that gets special treatment, and has no idea. If a photo is taken of the crew, five will look great, everyone else is caught with shirtails out, and snot on the lip. At heart and soul, five forgets to change oil, pay phone bills, and turn in forms to the IRS. Five is an example of what

happens to a bum that is treated like a king, they act like one. Five has the greatest delta between image and reality. The fortunate thing is that the unearned unabashed worship lasts only as long as the time on the water. Five's on his own back at home. Five wears aviator glasses.

Four: The Amnesia‐seat. Take a genius with a photographic memory. Row said genius at four. Listen to him ask for the third time in the same warmup, 'How many of these 500s are we doing?' Four seat is not stupid, just has immediate and catastrophic memory loss. At a start and 20, four settles at 21 because in the time the cox yelled 'settle in two,' he forgot. In a Novice boat where the seats have been removed and cleaned, it'll be four's that went back in backwards. Four will forget to tell the boatman about his(her) stripped rigger nut ‐ usually from the time he is told by the coach, until he arrives at the boatman's bench wondering what he's doing there. On that first day on the water as the ice is breaking up, who is rummaging around the back of the boathouse looking for a sweatshirt? Four is why racing shirts are handed out on race day.

Three: Late in the water. Late to practice. Late to class. Late to work. Late out of the water. Late to his date. Late to the team bus. Late for everything but chow line. There is no competitiveness involved here, just an uncanny knack to have the first three rowers into the dining hall stopped by friends for a brief discussion while three breezes on by to the tray stack. Three generally gets assigned a sitter.

Two: Lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up, sit down, fight‐fight‐fight. Cheerleader. What is amazing, is to sit at four or five after a particular piece ‐ seven is whining about the balance, the spacing, no swing, rushing: two is back there with pom poms saying: ALL RIGHT GUYS! LETS DO THAT AGAIN!... Two calls out names of power 10s. 'Awright guys ‐ OAR CLASH TEN!' If he says something funny, he repeated something the bowman prompted him with.

Bow: Comedian. The bow seat creates a strange fatalism. They know that in a catastrophic collision, they'll be the only one to die or get paralyzed. Consequently there is a constant quiet stream of one‐liners that two or three could probably hear if two were not cheering loudly. If the bow is joined by a cox in a front‐loader, this trait completely disappears, since someone is now likely to hear him joke about three being late, five not pulling hard, or the cox's course looking like a signature. (S)he can be humorless and witless off the water, but on the water when there is breath to spare, you're sure to catch a chuckle if you listen.

Subpages (7): Class of 1961 Reflections and Stories Class of 1962 Reflections and Stories Class of 1963 Reflections and Stories Class of 1964 Reflections and Stories Class of 1965 Reflections and Stories Class of 1966 Reflections and Stories Class of 1967 Reflections and Stories