Today I tried to practice my literary journalism skills by writing about a period of my day: rowing training at North Wollongong beach. In the following sample I have aimed to focus on the thoughts running through my head, the sights, smells and sounds around me and the feeling of rowing through the waves.
There we stood in the harbour: four young women shivering in the afternoon wind, swimmer pants ‘wedged up’, lily-white derrieres exposed for all to see. “ Guns up”, we wait for the call, “ boat”. Time to row.
I count the strokes in my mind as we push our boat through the break. The vessel resembles a flapping pelican as oars slap the water, narrowly missing dense clumps of seaweed. I can ear the blades turning in the rollicks. “ Clack clack, clack clack”. Perfect timing.
As the boat thuds off the peak of a surging green wave my mind begins to wander. ‘Did I ring my boss back to tell her I couldn't do the Thursday Shift? How will I be able to write three essays, two blogs and a major project over the next two weeks? Would the guy from the gym call me again?’ the questions are never ending.
Just as I feel my heart beat rising, increasing in intensity with the height of the waves, I’m jolted back to reality. “Jenna, lean back. Focus on the blade,” our sweep, a short, stocky man with a penchant for stubbies and singlets screams. ‘ That’s right,’ I remind myself as the worry subsides ‘focus’.
‘Twenty five, twenty six’ I count once more, my arms pulsating, legs burning. We glide around the buoy and head back for the beach. ‘twenty seven, twenty eight’. As the water glistens beneath my blade and the sun warms my back a thought hits me. ‘This is kind of like flying’. And it is.
The pelican’s wings clack in a frenzy as we stroke for an up-coming wave. ‘Twenty nine, thirty’. The boat is swept up in the emerald barrel and rushed to shore. Surprisingly, I think of nothing as we soar past the surfers and jetskis to the shore. Peace. Serenity. A drug dispensed only by the fresh North Wollongong waters.
