Women's crew falls short at the Dad Vails in Philadelphia

By Erin Hussey

An eerie haze clung to the world around the Schuylkill River. It was humid; the dry heat was suffocating and sticky. The sky was dark, charcoal grey. The air felt like it was saturated with rain, but no drops could be felt. The weather seemed fitting for a colonial war, but the battle was not redcoats versus independents, but rather crews versus crews and crews versus nature.

It was the second time the Santa Clara women's varsity crew had traveled to Philadelphia to compete in the largest collegiate regatta in the United States: the Dad Vails. After 2003's 11th-place finish, the Broncos were enthusiastic about 2004 and were hopeful about advancing to the grand finals. But sadly, circumstances proved otherwise.

"Hands on the Clark!" the 110-pound coxswain called out with authority. Her crisp voice pushed through the humidity and the eight Santa Clara rowers responded robotically in silence. As they approached the launching area, the officials in honey-mustard sports jackets continuously paced. They checked the sky every minute. A nervous tension filled the air, making everyone's movements hesitant, as if stuck in thick molasses. Muffled static sounded through the dock master's walkie-talkie, "Keep releasing the crews."

"Oars across. One foot in and down," the coxswain ordered. The Broncos strapped in, pushed off the dock and headed into the turbulent deep, dirty-green waters.

When the oarlocks clicked together under the Columbia Bridge, they sounded like muskets. The echo bounced off the cobblestone arches with such resonance that one could almost picture a battlefield. The red coats, the white wigs, the rhythmic snare drum, the cannon smoke.

At the starting line, small specs of rain began to fall. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, praying. But within seconds, specs became drops and drops grew to sheets. The wind shoved the rain into the rowers' backs with an avenging force. On the port side, a snap of lightning fired above the trees. Goosebumps sprang out on the Broncos' arms and a few began to shiver.

"Five, four, three, two, one, set-go," the official's voice barely broke through the strength of the storm. But coxswains began to scream and oars began to move. The battle had started. As the boats gained speed, the rain felt like hail; ping pong balls of pain stabbing the rowers' backs.

As the boats came through the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, the University of Connecticut was in the lead, followed by Santa Clara. At about the 1200-meter mark, the Broncos were seconds away from making their big push, 20 inches away from taking the lead, strokes away from a repeat first-place finish, when all of a sudden the Clark came to an abrupt stop.

Four seat had caught a crab. Her oar had been grabbed by one of the monstrous waves and it was stuck under the water, practically parallel to the boat. Fifteen seconds later when she was able to twist her oar out, Santa Clara had dropped to sixth place.

But the Broncos were unwilling to raise the white flag and surrender. The Clark ploughed through the water with vengeance and Santa Clara moved into fourth. Reaching the 500-meter mark, the coxswain called an early sprint, "Go! Now! Go! Now!"

The Clark bow ball inched forward. Just a few more..."Beep." The finish line buzzer rang and the Broncos were stopped short. Santa Clara came in fourth, only five seconds from first place and one second from third. The Broncos would not advance.

In the van ride back to the hotel, the loudest sound was the hum of the heater.

Everyone sat silently in their soaked uni-suits, cold and disappointed.

"I'm guessing you're not pleased with your performance," Head Coach Stephanie Shepherd said in the hotel lobby.

The only response was from four seat.

"I lost the entire race for everyone," she blurted out, unable to control the tears running down her flushed face. The coaching staff had not seen the crab.

"That's rowing," Shepherd responded. "You win some, you lose some. You were in the middle of a storm. Do I wish that your race had been called? Yes, but there is nothing we can do about it."

Her voice was flat and monotone. The chorus of sniffs and sighs continued.

"You still have next weekend," Carlo Facchino, the assistant coach said. "Either you can continue to mope or you can take all this and use it to help fuel your fire."

A few Broncos glanced up. Their eyes were red and swollen.

"Good crews bounce back," Facchino concluded.

û Contact Erin Hussey at (408) 554-4852 or ehussey@scu.edu.