Out of My Scull: Mayhem & Misadventures on Delaware's Christina River

out of my scull

the wacky world of recreational rowing

© 2024, Danielle J Battaglia.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Copyright registration number TXu 2-420-757.

Effective date of registration: March 13, 2024.

Registration decision date: March 28, 2024

Print ISBN: 979-8-35095-171-4

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35096-768-5

For Ann, Linda and Lou

Contents

Preface

1. Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

2. Damsels in Distress

3. Things That Go Swish in the River

4. Monsters of the Deep

5. Living the Tall Tale

6. In the Beginning

7. Sweep Rowing. Where’s the Broom?

8. Not My Bad

9. Pink Panthers on the Water

10. My Story

11. Kiss the Wall and Die

12. Rockin’ the Rockies

13. Horses Having Their Way with Me

14. The First Step Will Kill You

15. Rollin’ on the River

16. Adult Rowing Camp

17. Camp Follies

18. Parts, Pieces, and Purposes

19. Single Sculling

20. The Good, the Bad, and the Downright Ugly

21. In Search of Boat Boys

22. The Morning Quad

23. It’s All About Me

24. Bladders on the Water

25. We Come in Many Flavors

26. No Bunions Allowed

27. Octopussy on the Lake

28. Ringing the Buoy

29. Stuck in the Mud

30. Are We Talking About Rowing or Sex?

31. When There Is Ice on the River

32. Teacups and Ferris Wheel

33. Panthers Decide to Race

34. Panthers Practice

35. The Big Kahuna

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Preface

Most of you are familiar with competitive rowing. Dan Brown brought to the world’s attention the stunning tale of a University of Washington sweep crew and their unlikely path to rowing victory in the 1936 Olympics. This is a fantastic tale of perseverance, strength, diligence, dedication, and longing for success. Stories like this one warm our souls, inspire our imaginations, and spark our own longings to be the best,

But rowing has a sleepy side called recreational. Adult crews row for fun and enjoy the same benefits of camaraderie, teamwork, and friendship without the pressure of serious competition. After a row at the local bar or coffee shop, we can be found performing the familiar atta girls for our crew while unapologetically criticizing another crew’s pitiful performance. Crews didn’t invent this behavior. It has been practiced by non-pro teams of basketball, football, and baseball since the Mayans.

Rec crews must recognize the value of good technique and continual improvement. These are at the top of all rowers’ agendas because rows are difficult and frustrating without decent technique. Enthusiasts who insist on marching to their own tune in a boat that requires balance and synchronization soon become pariahs—the pitiful ones left shuffeling their feet after all crews choose their team members. It only takes one of these folks to cock up a row for everyone. Rec rowers choose not to compete regularly. They form primarily by luck, sometimes just by who stands next to whom at the boathouse. They survive together by conforming to each other’s style.

Out of My Scull is the story of my tap dance through myriad (mis)adventures, mishaps, and mayhem, some of which have taken my breath away. There are a few peculiar if not downright outrageous characters (a couple of them husbands) who bring their tango to the party, and a smattering of uncanny nonhuman species adding some spicy salsa. Ultimately, this dance dumps me onto the sliding seat of a scull. From this exalted position, I marvel at the absurdity of rowing, showing you the sport’s fun and funny side and the amazing opportunity to develop friendships.

Picture driving backward on anything—a bike, a car, a little red wagon—using some dime-store spy glasses or a dental mirror dangling from your visor to enlighten you about where you are headed, or trusting your life to an elf-sized coxswain who is the only one who is facing where you are going and not contributing a lick of power to the effort.

And for this dicey experience, your crew must lift and carry a two-hundred-pound boat to the water from its storage perch. Inevitably, someone on your crew pretends to carry their share of the weight, substantially increasing your burden. Once on the water, your crew must balance in a boat with a rounded bottom and no keel, and without rapt attention, they will roll over and dump everyone into the river. All of this amidst specially coined words and phrases like waynuf, catch a crab, skying, hold water, and the most common, oh shit."

The same enthusiasm, joy, and warm fuzzies experienced at an arena full of fans enjoying a concert, football game, or anything is also part of the rowing experience. These feelings occur because a gathering of humanoids doing the same thing at the same time releases endorphins and fosters goodwill and trust among them. Add to that the spell of the natural world in which we row—on the river, watching each season glow and fade, sharing space with other living critters going about their daily tasks—and you have nirvana.

Those who row recreationally get all these benefits without losing their summer weekends to regattas and living with continual anxiety of winning the next big race. You take your life into your hands, sign a waiver promising you will not hold your boat club responsible for any loss of limbs, brain damage, or otherwise dire bodily damage, and jump in. What’s not to love? Well, if you continue to read, all will be revealed.

This nonfiction story is based on reality, but I have used some creative license. Not all tales are described exactly as they happened or involve the people I’ve placed in the scenes. The characters are drawn as I see them, not necessarily as they are. I apologize to those rowers who think they find themselves among these pages if my characterization offends you. It’s all meant to be in good fun.

Chapter 1

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

Freed at last from the world’s chaotic madness and the minutia muddying up our own little lives, we were lulled by the rhythm, soothed by the calm water, and hushed by the sun’s warmth on our skin. The air was cool, the birds were singing, the fish were jumping, and the geese were paddling. There was nothing but peace in our corner of the universe until the wicked river gremlins showed up and created an event having the same effect on us as if we had mainlined three espressos.

Port oars out, one foot in, and down,

Count down when ready. Bow.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Hands on the dock and big shove.

We hang onto our oars and push the scull away from the dock. We commence our warm-up. Sit at the finish and row.

Our eighteen-inch wide, forty-five-foot long scull skims quietly through the still waters, barely creating a ripple. We are enthralled by the trees in spring’s early bud lining the river, supporting the cloudless powder-blue sky, reflected on the water’s smooth surface and creating a second wavy version of this lovely morning.

Sitting in a single file, we move as vertebrae, separate but tethered. At the beginning of our stroke, we bend our knees to our chests and stretch our arms forward and outward to the limit our bodies will allow. At that peak, we simultaneously drop oars into the water, thrust hard with our legs, pivot at our hips, and change body direction quickly as a swimmer at the turn of a lap. We gracefully glide forward to find that perfect stroke position again while watching our blades pepper the smooth surface with tiny droplets, creating mini-eddies.

A riffle of water rushes along the stern as the bow diverts the river, slicing through its mirrored surface. The loudest sound is a steady, rhythmic clunk of oars in the oarlocks as blades feather, enter, and exit the river in unison. Our scull is a tropical fish glittering on the water, offering its pointed, sleek fore and aft decks to the shimmering morning ballet.

We turn upriver today, away from the city’s noise, steel, and concrete. Away from the kids on the shore singing row, row, row your boat. Away from the fishermen who don’t even look up, so intent are they on their lines; away from couples who don’t notice us as they walk the boardwalk hand in hand. And away from others who stop, rest their arms over the railing at the water’s edge, and quietly watch our passing while their dogs sit patiently by their side, waiting for the morning walk to resume.

Upriver is a quieter scene, without humans singing, waving, or ignoring us, especially in the early morning. Seagulls and cormorants line the piers, looking to snag their day’s first meal. Turtles, large and small, are crawling out of the water onto logs at sloth pace, craning their heads side to side in search of a sun puddle to warm their reptilian bodies from the night’s coolness.

River snakes slither gracefully through the water, only their heads venturing above the smooth surface, anxious to hide in the tall reeds at the bank as daylight continues to reveal itself. Muskrats and gophers are thrashing their way out of the safety of the rushes to find the river’s edge and a cool morning drink.

Geese honk overhead, and we are blessed with a white egret resplendent on her elegant long legs, drying her magnificent, vast wingspan amid the reeds. Momma ducks are leading the newborn ducklings on their exciting first water outings. Osprey’s mom and dad are tirelessly feeding their hatchling’s demanding cries. An eagle interrupts her search for breakfast to watch us move through her territory. A doe wanders to the water to quench her thirst. Morning is a busy time for wildlife. But their busyness unfolds quietly. And our row is peaceful.

Here, our passing goes unacknowledged, although not unnoticed. Here, we get to be part of the morning’s incredible unfolding, sensual, delicious magic. Here, we . . .

CRACK. Uh oh.

Chapter 2

Damsels in Distress

The Christina River in Wilmington, Delaware, can beckon to you on a bright sunny day, but no one swims in it, even on the hottest summer day. It’s a contaminated river, frequently the subject of potential reclamation projects upon which city officials run political campaigns but never quite put into place after the election.

It connects to a smaller river running through town into which the city sewage system flows when storm drains overflow. In the spring, with heavy rains, it is tough to avoid conjecturing what the baby-shit-brown–colored sludge floating on the surface might be. I’m told that chemicals were freely dumped into that river by local companies back then, so years of effluence have been added to the sewer soup.

Many years ago, a friend told me of an incident when she presented to her physician with a nasty wart on her finger. He said to her that she had three options: he could burn it off, cut it out, or she could dip it into the Christina River and wait a week for it to fall off. She chose the latter course and was delighted not to pay a doctor’s bill.

And here we four are, in shock to find ourselves suddenly bobbing and blubbering in its nasty water on what began as a fine spring morning row.

Is everyone okay? Lou sputters.

Yeah, I guess, Linda says from the other side of the overturned boat.

Yeah, I’m okay, says Ann. What happened?

Hit something, or something hit us. Anyone see anything? I ask.

We four are the Panthers, a woman’s recreational quad crew of good rowers who have been rowing together for years. We are an unlikely crew because of physical size differences, but we row well together and don’t usually face anything similar to the current devastating predicament. We know that the river offers up debris with the changing tides, which can be substantial. That’s why we are careful to watch where we are rowing.

Can’t see anything, but my feet are sinking into the damn mud on the bottom of this disgusting river, says Linda.

Linda is every inch Italian; her homemade limoncello is a favorite around the boathouse on barbeque nights. She’s built for power, all muscle. Like most Italian mammas, she’d give anyone the shirt off her back. She’s a natural take-charge person, always volunteering to deliver a homemade dinner to anyone temporarily incapacitated. She knows everyone, knows all the latest gossip, and can find humor in the smallest of life’s happenings. She’s protective of her brood, which includes her two daughters and rowing buddies.

From Lou, a nervous laugh, I can’t touch the bottom.

Lou is a tiny five feet and one hundred pounds, married with a daughter. She always has a smile on her face and kind words for everyone. Just below the smile, Lou has a perpetual laugh. Everything in her world is funny, making her great fun. She and Linda can get our quad laughing at pretty much nothing. And somehow, all that nothing is always hysterical.

Maybe we can get the boat turned over and back in.

Uh, not without riggers. At this point, we all notice that they have been sheared clean off.

Oh my god!

There is no way to row a boat with oars on just one side. We are doomed and dreading the need to be rescued, which is every rower’s nightmare.

Anyone got their cell phone?

Linda pipes in, I have mine. I’ll call the boathouse.

The boat is now upside down with four of our eight oars still attached in oarlocks and riggers. But four other oars, attached to their oarlocks and riggers, are floating merrily about us.

Can someone please grab the riggers and oars floating on that side, Lou, ever polite, asks.

I’ve got these two, I say.

I’m Danielle, the boat’s stroke seat. I’m fifty-eight, five feet four inches tall, and 130 pounds. I’m strong, but years of smoking destroyed my lungs, so I have significantly diminished my aerobic ability. I’m married, have no kids, and foolishly confident enough to try anything once.

I’ve got the other two, grunts Ann as she reaches for the last oar and rigger. Ann is our other powerhouse. The tallest of the group at around five feet nine inches, she has a son and daughter just out of the house and is no longer married. She is the most experienced rower among the four of us, having taken rowing vacations with her kids when they were in high school.

While Linda calls the boathouse to rescue us, the rest of us stand sinking into the mud or, in Lou’s case, treading water, trying to keep the boat and its broken pieces from drifting downriver with the tide. Oh, did I not mention that our river is tidal? One of its many challenges is a rather hefty tide that will carry sculls toward the myriad debris floating or stuck firmly in the mud, creating collision hazards for unsuspecting rowers. This morning, it is trying to drag the boat and us upriver away from our boathouse and into the considerably more significant, container-boat-trafficked Delaware River port.

Yeah, the boat is upside down, we are in the water, and the starboard riggers are sheared off. We can’t row it even if we could get in it. Can someone come and get us? We want to get out of this awful river before we are knee-deep in sludge. Thank you, says Linda.

Who was there? asks Lou, still wearing her black Roy Orbison–style spy sunglasses. The sunglasses are mirrored at the edges so bows can see behind them without turning around.

Peter Myers. At least he knows how to drive a launch, says Linda.

Oh, that’s good, says Ann. We have an experienced knight coming to our rescue. Still a little shell-shocked, we don’t find this at all funny.

I don’t like being out here, says Lou, tired from treading water because she can’t touch the bottom.

That’s an understatement.

Lou, hang onto the boat, I say. We should all hang onto the boat. There is no need to touch the bottom and lose a sock. All rowers wear socks inside the boat shoes out of fear of catching athlete’s foot, warts, or some other contagious, unheard-of, and incurable foot disease from others who row in the same shoes.

Already lost mine, laughs Linda.

I’m coming around to that side of the boat. I don’t like being on this side alone, says Ann. I’m alone enough as it is.

Do you think we are drifting downstream? asks Lou in a tiny voice.

Ah, yeah, we probably are. The tide was going out, I say.

"Here, Ann, I can hold onto one of those oars while you come around. Just don’t let go of