Chapter 6: Single Scull

Lydia arrived at the boathouse on Saturday in a rowing unisuit she had bought the day before, with the price tag still on the hip.

"I watched forty-two videos," Lydia said.

"On what?" I asked.

"On how to row," Lydia said. "I'm a natural."

"You can't be a natural from videos," I said.

"It's Gesture 18," Lydia said. "Be effortlessly good at the thing she loves. It's very romantic."

I had asked her to come because Duncan's newsletter now claimed we never did anything together except argue about breakfast.

I lowered a double scull off the rack and set it in the water.

The dock was slick, and the river was gray and flat and smelled like cold pennies.

"Hold the oars out wide," I said. "Put your left foot in the middle of the boat, not on the edge."

"I know," Lydia said. "I read it."

She put her left foot on the edge.

The boat slid away from the dock, slowly, with her right foot still on the planks.

Lydia stood across the gap in the pose of a woman doing the splits on purpose.

"This is Position Two," Lydia said.

"Step in," I said.

"Give me a moment," Lydia said. "It's a stretch."

"The boat is leaving, Lydia," I said.

"I'm aware," Lydia said.

I grabbed the stern and pulled it back, and she dropped into the seat with a bump and gripped both oars.

"Catch," Lydia said, in a lecture voice. "Drive. Finish. Recovery."

"Don't narrate," I said.

"It's helping," Lydia said.

"It isn't helping me," I said.

On the first stroke her oar dug in, the handle caught her in the ribs, and she said "Oh" in a very small voice.

"That's a crab," I said. "Lift the blade."

"I did lift it," Lydia said.

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