I try to row with my right oar, but the river is shallow. If I push the oar, the paddles will hit the ground, and it might break. I try to row with my left oar. Once. Twice. The boat just gets closer and closer to the shore. I’m stuck.

It all starts with my friend, Maria.
“Do you know rowing? It’s kind of like kayaking. Schools in America do that,” Maria asks while typing “Harvard boathouse” on Google Image, and I go to Harvard boathouse the next day.

“So, you put your hands just in front of your chest, and make a circle like this.” Coach Jack slips his butt from the front to the back with his arms pulling inward in the practice tank.

I slip my butt from the front to the back, and pull my arms inward, too. 

“John, stay here and practice.” Coach Jack stands up, leaves me alone on the practice tank, and walks way.

I put my left fist in front of my right fist, and try to draw an arch in front of my chest with my mouth speaking: Push. Drop. Pull. Push. Drop. Pull.

“Do you think you’re ready to go?” a lady on the shore asks. She looks friendly with a smile on her face.

“N…..Yes.”  If I don’t take the boat now, I might not have time today to finish my adventure.

Push. Drop. D**n it. I don’t row the oars deep enough, so when I pull my arms inward, the handles suddenly become very light and moves fast towards me. I am shaking.

No problem. Don’t panic. I’ll just put my hands in the center to balance the boat.

“You need to go to the left side! Move!” The lady yells on the shore with her bullhorn.

I row my left oar, pulling inward, but it just comes up of the surface. There’s no movement. I do it again with more power, but this time my left thumb hits my right oar’s handle. It hurts so much that I loosen both oars. Right after that, the boat tips from left to the right, and right to the left. I quickly grab my oars and centered it to reach the balance.

I put up my head, and realize that all the buildings in front of me are moving to my left side.

Bang!

This time I crush the shore. I try to stick my right oar into the river, but I’m too close to the shore. I row my left oar, but it just keeps pushing myself to the shore.

“Are you ok?” the lady use the bullhorn shouts. I cross my arms to show an X.

“Use your left hand to row. Only left hand,” she yells louder. “Now use both hands. You need to listen carefully. Use both hands!”

I try my best to follow the instruction, but the wind keeps blowing me away from the right track.

I continue to use left hand, both hands, left hand, and both hands. Two lifeguards come and try to catch my boat while I am 50 centimeters away from the shore.

At the end, it is not the tiredness or soreness of my body, but shame and failure that surround me. I get out of the boat; the lady gives me a hard look.

At night, I sit in front of my laptop. “R-O-W-I-N-G,” I type on Youtube search bar.

“Rowing is a sport for dreamers. As long as you put in the work, you can own the dream. When the work stops, the dream disappears.”

I come back to the boathouse the next morning. I just want to try again.

I pay much of my attention to the arch I’m making in front of my chest this time because that’s the only way to conquer this sport.

Maybe it’s because of the wind isn’t as strong as the day before, I row for a lap, two laps, three laps, and finish it without any help from the coaches and lifeguards. Finally, confidence and accomplishment replace the shame and failure. It’s worth a try.