Float My Boat

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

P ete and Hannah were already in the truck when Andrew showed up at 6AM on the dot the following morning, and the same relieved disappointment gripped my chest.

‘Hey!’ I said through the open back window. Pete’s enormous, dark-haired form dwarfed Hannah, her tiny frame childlike next to his hulking shoulders. They owned a gym in town, so both of them worked out all day long, him as a boxer and weight trainer, and her as a yoga instructor. They maintained a perfect Instagram existence, which seemed to be as good in real life as it was online. Fuckers . I wasn’t totally bitter, maybe just like ten percent.

‘Morning,’ they said, him in his South African accent, her in her mid-Atlantic twang, as I passed coffees and breakfast sandwiches through the window.

‘You are a goddess ,’ said Pete, inhaling deeply.

‘Beats the protein bars I packed!’ agreed Hannah, her high blonde ponytail bouncing as she gratefully accepted her breakfast.

Andrew grabbed my bags from where I’d piled them on the pavement, slung them in the back, then turned to face me. ‘You truly are a goddess,’ he said, echoing Pete’s words with eyes so intense they held me hostage. And then he plucked his coffee from my hand, slammed the truck bed’s cover shut, and headed for the driver’s seat.

I stood completely still for a moment, entirely off kilter.

‘Hurry up, Buttercup,’ Andrew called with a mischievous smile, no hint of the sleepiness on his features that I knew dominated mine.

‘No pet names,’ I hissed as I yanked the passenger door open and scaled the great height to my seat. ‘Remind me why you need this ridiculous gas-guzzler?’ I wasn’t as much of an eco-warrior as other members of my crew, but I did what I could, and Andrew was one of the more environmentally conscious members of the club, so the truck was jarring.

Andrew turned sheepish. ‘Because I’ve always wanted one? I should probably trade it in for something electric, but—’

Hannah’s head and shoulders appeared between us. ‘How long have you two been dating?’

‘Um …’ The abrupt question took me off guard, especially in my sleep-deprived state. I cast a sideways glance at Andrew as he gunned the engine, trying to read his reaction. ‘A few days, I guess?’

‘And she’s already trying to change you,’ Pete joked.

Hannah sat back and swiped her husband. ‘She is not! She’s trying to bring out the best in him, that’s all.’

‘Is that what you do to me, baby?’

Hannah took his enormous hand in hers. ‘Exactly,’ she said sweetly. ‘Only some people need more help than others.’

Pete grabbed Hannah and locked his lips to hers, while Andrew caught my eye and smiled indulgently. I took a sip of my vanilla latte and turned my nervous gaze to look through the window. What if everyone saw right through us? What if our lie was exposed? Because let’s face it, I was a terrible liar, and we weren’t about to show even a fraction of the loved-up-ness Pete and Hannah were demonstrating in the back seat.

‘And I agree,’ said Hannah, when Pete finally put her down, ‘pet names are gross.’

‘You know baby ’s a pet name, right?’ Pete fired back.

‘It is not! That’s different. It’s different! Isn’t it, Miri?’

They bickered for a while, Andrew and I staying out of it, and as we left the city and headed into the lush green countryside on that perfect spring morning, we ate our breakfasts, drank our coffees, then lapsed into relative silence, only the odd question or comment punctuating the country music floating from the speakers for almost two hours.

I slid my sunglasses over my eyes and let my mind wander, trying to imagine what I would do if I really was Andrew’s girlfriend. Would I reach across and take his hand? At what point would I start thinking of this as our truck? At what stage would I start leaving chap sticks and reusable shopping bags about the place?

Alas, I would never know … It was a painful thought and I quickly suppressed it.

I was in a happy middle ground between wakefulness and sleep, thinking about how pissed Theo had looked when he'd seen me on Andrew’s lap, not that I cared about Theo any longer, but I was only human, so it was gratifying that he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine. And then my thoughts turned to how it had felt to be pressed against Andrew, the hard ridges of muscle, the way he’d stroked my skin, the—

‘So,’ Hannah said excitedly, slapping the back of my seat, invading my delicious daydream, ‘how did you two finally get together?’

How was she this perky? Wait … ‘Finally?’ I said, snapping my head round in surprise.

‘Oh, pleeeeease. You two have been pining after each other for years. Coxes see things. Like longing looks across the water, or when an especially stern member of the men’s crew repeatedly runs off to a certain member of the women’s crew to be overly helpful.’ She gave a delighted little laugh, vibrating with glee.

A slight flush colored Andrew’s cheeks as I turned my head to look at him, but he kept his eyes on the road.

‘Honey, don’t embarrass them,’ said Pete, although he seemed to be enjoying the inquisition just as much as his wife.

‘Andrew helps everyone,’ I said, trying not to sound hopeful or defensive.

‘Uh-huh,’ she said skeptically, turning her pointed gaze on Andrew.

We passed a sign for a service area, and Andrew grabbed the gift the universe had offered and deflected like a champ. ‘Anyone want to stop?’

‘Yes, please!’ sang Hannah, clutching the back of Andrew’s seat. ‘I really need to pee.’

‘Baby,’ said Pete, squeezing her hand, ‘you're so adorable.’

Hannah ignored him, her attention back on Andrew. ‘What is it you do for work again, Andrew?’ It was one of those questions people periodically asked him as no one ever really understood the answers he gave.

‘I’m a data scientist,’ he said quietly.

‘But what’s your job title?’ she pressed.

‘Hannah!’ Pete interjected.

‘What? It’s a perfectly normal question! And when I looked him up on LinkedIn, I didn’t get very far.’

‘Oh my God,’ Pete muttered, ‘I’m sorry man.’ And then he sat back and gave up trying to stop her. Personally, I was willing her to continue because I wanted answers too.

Silence descended as Hannah waited patiently for Andrew’s response, and if she felt awkward like I did, she showed no sign.

‘I’m Chief Data Scientist at DrewDox,’ Andrew said eventually.

‘Right,’ said Hannah, ‘the company that sponsored our boats. That was so nice of them! I guess that’s why one of them is called Dr. Dox ?’

Andrew shrugged noncommittally.

‘No Drew, though,’ said Pete.

Hannah tapped her pouting lips. ‘Hmmm, no. Definitely no Drew in Busy Livy or Em .’

Andrew took the exit, and as the road curved, a stunned, ‘Wow,’ popped out of my mouth, an enormous lake opening up before us, encircled by indigenous trees and with swans paddling quietly across the millpond surface. It was the most picturesque service area I’d ever seen, and Hannah leapt out of the truck as soon as we were stationary, squealing with delight and snapping a few pictures for Instagram.

‘It is such a drag having to do this stuff,’ she whined, uploading them, then dropping her phone back into her pocket.

‘Amen, sister,’ I agreed, glad I had willing staff members to handle most of my social media now. It was relentless, and my mind wasn’t well suited to the never-ending, repetitive task.

Hannah and Pete strode ahead, Pete slinging an arm around his wife as she chattered about engagement stats and follower counts.

‘Do you think she ever stops talking?’ asked Andrew, suddenly close. ‘She’s not like this in the boat.’

I threw him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Doubtful. But she’s nice. I like her.’ I turned my head forward and found Hannah’s phone pointed in our direction.

‘Perfect!’ she trilled. ‘The look of love!’

‘Do you think she’s going to upload that to Instagram?’ I asked, horrified.

Andrew chuckled. ‘Undoubtedly.’

I groaned. ‘Sorry. I can—’

‘You know, I don’t think there’s a single photo of just the two of us together despite us having been friends for over a decade.’

Friends. Exactly. But … ‘You want a picture of us?’ I asked, the words betraying my confusion.

He stopped abruptly, so I did too, a tortured look on his face. ‘Miri … Hey … About yesterday …’

Oh God, no. Not here. Not with Hannah and Pete watching our every move . ‘It’s fine, Andrew, you don’t have to explain anything. We’re friends. This is fake. We have rules!’ My voice came out high-pitched and frenetic, betraying my alarm, and I turned away, planning to flee to the relative safety of the others.

But before I’d taken even one step, he wrapped his hand around mine and tugged me back to him, my panicked eyes not missing the apprehension marring his beautiful features. ‘Miri …’ He seemed unsure, like he was searching for words that were difficult to find—words designed to let me down gently, no doubt.

‘Hurry up, lovebirds!’ Hannah called, and the interruption had Andrew shaking his head, snapping him out of it.

‘Come on!’ I said, exhaling the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, sagging a little in relief as we left the awkward moment by the truck. But as we strode towards the others across the sun-drenched parking lot, he didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he laced his fingers through mine and slowly traced his thumb across my palm.

Confusion did not even begin to describe how I felt as we put up the tents in the field beside the river, the distant, clipped voice from the regatta’s loudspeaker our soundtrack. Andrew kept touching me and smiling at me and once even dropped a kiss on my temple, but it was always when other people were watching, so he was obviously just committing to the role, making sure we were convincing.

That was the only logical explanation because he’d been the one to suggest fake dating, he’d been the one to pull away from our kiss, and he’d tried to reenforce the boundaries earlier. He was trying to help me bag Theo like the good friend he was, but I didn’t want to bag Theo! Never had, really. But Theo was the reason Andrew was doing this, and if I told him I was over Theo, he’d fake dump me in a flash, and I wasn’t sure I could take that.

Oh, bloody hell, that’s what I should do. I should tell him and put an end to this madness. It was the only rational course of action.

We’d friend-zoned each other a long time ago, but for me it had been an accidental friend-zoning. Andrew’s friend-zoning had seemed more intentional, given he’d started dating someone else the next freaking day. It had felt like a rejection, even though that was ridiculous. I’d literally announced to all who cared to listen that I had no intention of dating anyone at the club. But why had Andrew had to hear it? Stupid fucking mouth. Why, universe, why?

‘Hey,’ said Andrew, sliding a hand across my shoulders and sending gooseflesh out across my skin. ‘Everything okay?’

Turns out I’d frozen mid-way through putting out the camping chairs. ‘Uh, yeah, sorry. Think the early start is catching up with me.’ Such a lie—I got up early every day .

‘Do you want to lie down for a bit?’ he said, nodding towards the wing of his enormous tent filled with a king-sized camping mattress, pillows, and a duvet. It even had blackout material, so it was dark and cozy and so very appealing. But if I went in there, I would never come out again, let alone race later.

My eyes snagged on my sleeping bag, still stuffed in its sack at the base of the mattress. It made me wonder how things would work later because it looked very much like he planned for us to be tucked up in bed together.

‘No,’ I said breathily, then inhaled sharply, snapping myself out of it, ‘there’s loads still to do.’

Andrew squeezed my neck, making the muscles in my lower belly contract, then headed back to the truck, hauling out yet more kit, seeming oblivious to the effect he’d had on me.

‘ That is the camping equivalent of the Ritz,’ Livia joked, nodding to Andrew’s tent before heading to her car for the rest of her stuff.

Andrew was a camping pro, and every time we travelled, the whole club mooned over his setup. Today at least I could bask in the reflected glory. Silver linings …

I looked over to Livia’s no-frills three-man and chuckled, allowing myself to revel just a little in her good-natured envy.

‘Enjoy it, won’t you,’ Livia said dryly on her way back, carrying her pillow and sleeping bag.

‘Oh, I will,’ I replied with far more confidence than I felt.

‘Our camping experience will be wonderfully rustic ,’ countered Ottie, poking her head out of the next tent along, an exact replica of Livia’s. ‘ Authentic ,’ she added pointedly, crawling out and turning back to arrange her sleeping bag on her knees.

Belle looked longingly at Andrew’s tent as she handed her own pillow and sleeping bag to Livia because there was only room for one arranger inside their tent. ‘At least we get to dine at the Ritz.’

‘Hopefully not dinner and drinks though,’ said Hazel, striding past on her way to retrieve more stuff from the car.

‘No,’ I agreed because if we were drinking alcohol tonight, it meant our race had not gone well.

We finished putting up our tent village, Andrew’s the social hub in the middle with its large, covered central area and separate shelter next door. He had a whole spare pod for storing food and chairs and coolers, and I was confident this would be my most comfortable camping trip to date.

Once everything was finally sorted, we tramped together across the field towards the river, the loudspeaker blaring louder with each passing step. It projected the voice of a man who was enthusiastically commentating on the current race, a race which was hotting up, if his mounting excitement was anything to go by.

Cheers went up as we used the rickety stile to climb over the fenced break in the hedge, popping out halfway between the start and finish lines. The course was relatively short, at only twelve hundred meters, and for each race, there was space for only two crews to battle side by side. It made the competition intimate and the supporters fierce, and adrenaline shot through my veins as I took it all in.

We headed right, towards the finish, to where the main hub of the regatta was situated. Bunting had been strung up on poles along the side of the river, the narrow dirt footpath busy with rowers in their colorful team kits and supporters strolling, jogging, or racing to keep up with the boats.

We passed screaming relatives, scowling coaches, excited juniors, and lightweights dressed up in many layers embarking on sweat jogs ahead of their weigh-ins. I thanked all my lucky stars that I would never have to worry about making weight before a race. It was stressful enough without having to manage that, too.

Eventually, we made it to the finish line and the horseshoe of tents that housed the regatta’s organizers, along with food vendors, bars, and stalls selling all manner of clothes, jewelry, and even ceramics. The space there was deeper than along the rest of the path, and picnic tables were dotted around, already packed with bodies, most of the blue and white striped deck chairs lining the water’s edge occupied, too.

Cassandra spotted us and waved us over in her usual no-nonsense way, then ushered us into the organizer’s tent, handing out our racing licenses as we went. Like some overbearing kindergarten teacher, she refused to trust us to bring them ourselves. Although, to be fair, it was probably safer that way. All it took was one person to forget for the whole crew to be kept off the water.

We registered, pinned our race numbers onto our pink and green race suits, then headed for the boat trailer, which was parked with all the other trailers in a field behind the organizer’s tent.

It was unseasonably hot considering it was only late spring, white heads of cow parsley bobbing at the edges of the field, the hedges still proudly displaying sprays of hawthorn blossom. Most wore only their strappy racing all in ones, caps, and sunglasses, while the spectators were clad in light, floaty summer outfits.

The rays of vitamin D merged with the regatta buzz, soaking into my soul, buoying me. I’d missed this over the winter. The exhilaration. The sense of purpose. The community. There were head races during the colder months, which took place over longer courses, where the participants set off one after another, but the weather was often atrocious, and the atmosphere was never the same as at a fully-fledged regatta.

We waved to members of other clubs we knew, identifiable at a distance by their club colors, occasionally stopping for a brief chat, although most were consumed by boat-building, registration, warmups, visualization, or pep talks. The bustle was ceaseless, as was the focus and commitment and general itch to get out on the water, at least for those of us whose races were later in the day. The bar was already filling with crews who’d been knocked out, whose only jobs now were to have a good time and cheer on the rest of us.

We made quick work of rigging our boats and then sank into our own pre-race routines, the first part of which was a briefing from our coach.

‘Ladies,’ said Cassandra, ‘your race is at two, so if you want to eat, I’d do it now. The men’s race isn’t until an hour after that. We’ll meet back here at one to recap the race plan and you can get straight on the water after that.’

We lounged in the shade by the trailer, pulling out our pre-race snacks and nibbling nervously while the men went off in search of a table by the finish line.

‘Have we raced this Bridgeson crew before?’ asked Ottie, between bites of her malt loaf.

I shook my head. ‘They didn’t have a crew in the open category last year.’

Belle hummed. ‘I think one of the Telt crew moved to them, though?’

‘Interesting,’ I said, because Telt were reigning National Champions.

Hazel played with the tinfoil wrapping her flapjack. ‘Then it won’t be an easy race.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ I said confidently, and I felt it because we’d always been fine before. We were an experienced crew, we knew the course, and we were fit, even if we hadn’t had as much time on the water together in the last few weeks as we would have liked. But this would go our way. I’d never, in all my many years of rowing at this regatta, not got through to the second day.

Hazel gave me a tight nod. ‘If you say so.’

At one o’clock, Cassandra had Ottie walk us through the race plan. Ottie sat in the bow seat at the front of the boat, so she would be the one making calls and adjusting our course using a sliding footplate attached to the rudder. Hazel was at two, Livia behind me at three, and I was in the stroke seat in the stern. We rowed a coxless quad, meaning we each had two blades and no cox, so there was no one to steer for us. Quads had become my favorite type of boat over the years, light, maneuverable, quick, and no nonsense.

We hadn’t been rowing in this configuration for long, only since Belle had become too busy to commit to the crew full time. We’d had to rejig things when Ottie had become a permanent member, putting her in the bow and moving Hazel back a seat. It was working well as Ottie was great at multitasking and staying on top of the race, and Hazel had never liked it much in the bow anyway.

Once we’d visualized and warmed-up, we took our blades to the pontoon, then went back for our boat. The men’s crew wished us luck as we pushed off, and I smiled at Andrew, my heart giving a little flip when I found his eyes glued to me … which I told myself to ignore; I had more important things to worry about. I cast a quick glance Theo’s way, and found him watching me, too, but aside from a small internal eye roll, his scrutiny didn’t invoke anything in me at all.

I left my boy-drama on dry land and descended fully into our deeply familiar pre-race routine, everything else falling away.

We rowed down to the start line, and then past it, completing our usual warm-up, no chatter passing between us as we focused on the task in hand, Ottie making short, efficient calls to direct our movements.

We turned, chopping all eight of our blades up and down in perfect unison, the four stroke side blades pulling forward while the four bow side blades pushed back, and then we headed for the pre-race corral, where we sat alongside our competition. No one spoke, each crew in their own zone, waiting with a knot of nerves pulling tight in our stomachs. Or at least, I assumed that was how it was for everyone, it was certainly how it was for me. This part was the worst.

After what felt like an age, our race was finally called, and we paddled lightly to the start, adrenaline shooting into my blood as we lined up next to our competition, then backed up onto the temporary pontoon where a teenager leaned over the edge, ready to catch us. Our stern floated under, and he gently took hold, then looked to the umpire to make sure she was happy with our position.

I felt the familiar flutter of panic that I wouldn’t be ready in time as I pulled off my long-sleeved top and dumped in in the footwell beyond my feet. I checked the screws on my footplate, then the ones keeping my blades in place at the top of the riggers, pulled my ponytail tight, and took a final sip of water.

Everything inside me went calm as I replayed our start plan one last time. I didn’t look at the guy holding our stern or the other crew, paying attention only to the umpire’s calls. We were here to race our own race, so my eyes rarely travelled beyond the edge of my own blades, which dipped into and out of the water in tiny movements, following Ottie’s instructions until we were pointing straight down the course.

When both crews were more or less in position, we moved forward, sliding our seats halfway up the runners, our legs bent, arms straight, blades square and in the water, ready to lever backwards, pushing with our feet the moment the starter set us off.

My heart thundered, anticipation and trepidation swirling in my guts as we waited for the other crew to get straight. They seemed to take forever, and then Ottie had to make a correction to our own line, the light breeze pushing us slightly off course.

The other crew was finally happy, and the starter wasted no time. ‘Attention! Go!’ she bellowed, and my heart lurched as my legs pushed the boat away. We did two short half-strokes to get moving, followed by a three-quarter stroke, then full strokes after that. We went flat out for ten, ahead of our competition by a nose as we lengthened and settled into our race pace, still fast, but not so frantic as before.

We flew across the water, neck and neck with the Bridgeson crew, our blades so close that they clashed, the impact jarring, although all of us were experienced enough not to let it put us off, fighting hard to keep our own rhythm, refusing to give an inch to the other side. The umpire followed us in an antique wooden motorboat with a flag streaming out behind, and she shouted to the Bridgeson crew, telling them to move over. Ottie called for a push for twenty as they did, which meant we were somehow already halfway through the short race, and now was our moment to stamp our control.

We suspended off our blades for all we were worth, legs and lungs burning, and it worked, the boat leaping forward in the water, putting me level with the woman in their three seat. My heart leapt with glee. It was always easier to stay ahead than fight back from behind, mainly because when you were in front, you could see your competition behind you, and with every stroke it felt like you were pushing them away. It put you in control of the race.

Conversely, when a crew fights back from behind, it can destroy the leading crew mentally. People panic, feeling like there’s nothing they can do to see off the threat, and then they get disjointed, not connecting together. Which is exactly what happened to us as we entered the last three hundred meters of the race. We put in another push, but it didn’t gain us any ground, and then Bridgeson responded with a big push of their own, and all of a sudden they were coming back at us, moving steadily up our boat. And then we were level, and they were showing no signs of slowing down.

They kept moving up, inching ahead, and with only two hundred meters to go, we had to respond. Ottie called the wind-up a stroke later, and we started our final push for the line, but now Bridgeson had the mental advantage, and for every push we made, they pushed back, sitting on our shoulders, holding us off.

As we passed the hundred-meter marker, I knew we’d lost. I could feel Bridgeson’s triumphant energy just as easily as I could feel our scrappy anguish, our frantic attempts to reel them in. But there was no way we could make up the distance in ten measly strokes. Unless they made the kind of mistake that senior crews very rarely did, we were done. Out. Our regatta was over.

We crossed the line, and the commentator announced we’d lost by half a length; it wasn’t even close. We slumped forward over our blades, desperately sucking air into our lungs, made harder by the loss that squatted like a toad on our chests. Bridgeson barely seemed out of breath in comparison, smacking each other on the back and grinning victoriously, then heading for the pontoon.

I shut myself down, forcing all emotion from my body, numbly calling my congratulations to the other crew as they passed. Later, I would be disappointed and possibly even angry at myself, but in that moment, I had space for nothing but a stubborn, nagging feeling of disbelief. How had this happened?

We paddled slowly back to dry land, no one saying a word, and Noah and Theo pulled us in, helping to remove our blades and holding our riggers as we climbed out.

Everyone knew it was shit, that there was nothing they could say, so the men stayed silent, too, not even offering words of condolence.

We would dissect it in great detail later, but not then. Then we just wanted to get off the water, out of the limelight, and away to somewhere we could lick our wounds.

Noah and Theo grabbed our blades while we lifted our boat up over our heads, then lowered it onto our shoulders. Andrew and Pete appeared with the blades for their own race, then followed us back to the trailer, where we rolled Em down onto a pair of waiting slings.

‘It was a good race,’ said Noah, sliding our seats off their runners because we wouldn’t be needing them again.

‘Really close,’ Theo agreed.

‘I don’t think we could have done any more,’ said Hazel. ‘We were ahead at the start, but when they came back at us, there was nothing we could do.’

Bridgeson had been better, that was really all there was to it, aside from the fact we’d panicked. I’d felt it, a slight misalignment, someone throwing their hands away and rushing up the slide too fast, causing a check at the catch as they’d been forced to wait a fraction of a second for the rest of us. So there was something we could have done, but nobody needed to hear it at that moment. I probably shouldn’t have even been thinking it …

We finished de-rigging our boat as Cassandra rounded up the men’s crew and gave them their pep-talk, then we lashed Em to the trailer, and called, ‘Good luck!’ as Hannah gave the order for the men to lift their boat, Dr. Dox, over their heads. They always made it look so easy, like Dox weighed nothing more than a cardboard box. But then, with muscles like theirs, it wasn’t so surprising.

And you’ll be sleeping next to one of those sets of muscles tonight. The thought took me by surprise, and I batted it away as Cassandra called us together.

‘I have a few thoughts,’ she said in her usual frank tone, ‘but there are plenty of positives to take away. The start went well, and your first push put you up, and it was a close race. How did it feel?’

We went round in a circle, each giving our perspective, and the others agreed that we’d panicked towards the end. ‘But ultimately, they were just better,’ said Ottie, and it was hard to disagree.

We would have to train harder, and a veil of guilt encased my brain because I’d had to miss more sessions than anyone, and with Belle out, there had been no one to replace me. Our squad was small, and there weren’t any obvious novices to bring on, but I’d thought it would be fine, that we’d be okay when it came to it. Clearly I’d been wrong.

We wrapped up, then grabbed a row of deckchairs next to the finish line and waited for the men’s race. Livia detoured via the bar and handed us each a Pimms and lemonade complete with sprigs of mint and chunks of fruit and cucumber. The smell was summer in a plastic pint glass, and between that, the sun, the festival atmosphere, and the company of my crew, the sting of our loss was already starting to fade.

‘Wait,’ said Hazel, silencing us and concentrating on the commentator. ‘It’s the boys! This is their race!’

We jumped to our feet as they passed the halfway mark, leaning forward and looking down the course, finding them neck and neck with the other crew. ‘Oh my God,’ I said to no one in particular.

‘Come on, boys!’ Ottie breathed, gripping my arm. Then she shouted at the top of her lungs, ‘Come on Dex!’

And then we were all shouting because they’d edged ahead with only a hundred meters to go.

‘Come on Dex!’ I screamed, jumping up and down, my heart in my mouth.

The whole place erupted into a roaring, stamping, clapping mass of humanity, even those with no allegiance joining in because it was just so tantalizingly close.

The other crew was coming back, the lead changing from stroke to stroke, and there was just no telling which crew would take it.

We all screamed our encouragement, frantic and delighted and full of belief. And then they crossed the line, and the crowd held its breath because no one knew who’d won.

‘Well, wasn’t that the race?’ said the commentator. ‘Closest we’ve seen this regatta …’

He went silent, and we all stared expectantly at the nearest loudspeaker. And stared. And stared. And stared. The crowd grew impatient, people starting to mutter about the delay, and I looked at the two spent crews as they panted over their blades, the wait agonizing for us but abysmal for them.

‘And you’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid, as I get final confirmation from … yes … thank you … yes … just as I thought! Dex just pipped Calmarite to the post, taking it by a nose!’

We erupted into excited shrieks, then raced to the pontoon to congratulate them, our own defeat all but forgotten in the face of their nail-biting win.