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Sacrifice

Dick Yaeger

    “Wiggle your toes,” Judy said.
    Her voice was calm and soft, but I knew in about five seconds it would go up ten decibels in volume and down an octave in tone. Her sweet, freckled, upturned-nose face would morph into a teeth-gnashing, jaw-tightened scowl of determination. Judy was the beloved one-hundred-twelve pound coxswain of our eight-man varsity boat crew. The toe-wiggle comment into the boat’s intercom was her signature pre-start comment intended to mitigate our jitters. There was also her traditional wink to me that no one else could see. I sat in the number eight seat facing her in the stern of the boat. I was the “stroke,” the leader. After the race started, I watched Judy’s face in front of me—the other seven guys watched the shoulders of the guy in front of them.
    I wiggled my toes, took a deep breath and focused on the starter standing on a high platform with the flag raised above his head. I didn’t want to blink and miss the nanosecond it started to drop. It wasn’t the starting gun that began the two thousand meter race, it was the flag.
    The Southwest Regional Regatta in San Diego Bay was the first step in our hopeful journey to the national finals six weeks later in Chattanooga. Beyond that we talked of training for the Olympics in two years.
    We were the favored boat, but San Diego was the crew to beat. We had rowed against them twice that year, each winning once. We had won our first two heats for this regatta, so were in the middle pair of a group of six boats for the final race—the medal race. San Diego was on our port side, having also won their heats.
    The flag dropped.
    “Four...,” Judy shouted into the intercom for quarter strokes, forty per minute, “three...two...one.”
    The boat lifted and fell with each short stroke, gaining speed.
     “Five...four...three...two...one.” Half strokes, faster.
     “Four...three...two...one.” Full strokes, full speed.
    “Settle.” Her voice was less dramatic as we settled to thirty-five strokes per minute.
    A good start.
    In my peripheral vision, I could see the stroke seat in San Diego’s boat two oar-lengths off our port side. We were even. The other four boats were already fading. It was just the two of us.
    We were in a groove. It felt good. All those freezing early-morning practices were forgotten.
    “Fifteen hundred meters,” she said.
    “One thousand,” a hundred seconds later.
    Half done—the easy half—the strength half. The next half was the mental half. I pushed my burning legs beyond their limit and ignored my parched throat that passed more and more air to my demanding lungs. I stared at Judy’s forehead and put San Diego out of my mind, concentrating to make each stroke perfect.
    “Give me ten!”
    She wanted ten strokes at higher pressure. I sensed added tension in her command. I glanced right. San Diego wasn’t there. We were behind. What happened?
    After the ten strokes, I saw the tip of San Diego’s stern. We had closed but were still behind by three seats.
    I heard the coxswain in San Diego’s boat call for a power ten. They vanished from my peripheral vision.
    “Four hundred,” Judy yelled. “Down four seats. You guys are losing it! There is no tomorrow. It’s time for some sacrifice.”
    I watched Judy. I dug deeper. Where could I get more?
    “It’s my turn,” she announced matter-of-factly. “It’s time for me to sacrifice. If you pull this off, I’ll show you my tits!” There was a grin on her face. She winked.
    The next two strokes were normal, but the third one lifted the boat a little higher out of the water. And it continued.
    “Three hundred meters—three seats. If you guys lose, you’ll miss the opportunity of a lifetime.”
    The coxswain on the San Diego boat looked over at her. The amplified coxswain voices could be heard between boats and San Diego had just lost twenty-five percent of their lead. At two hundred meters, San Diego lost two more seats and their coxswain was calling for an all-in effort to finish the race. He glanced at Judy again.
    Judy retaliated. “Two hundred meters,” she screamed into her headset. “A half seat. These are the most gorgeous tits in California!”
    Fifteen seconds later. “One hundred meters. San Diego belongs to us if you want them bad enough,” she pleads. “These tits aren’t big, but they’re perfect.”
    
    We won just short of a full meter. We coasted, oars hanging loose, bent over gasping for air. Oscar in seat four vomited over the side.
     Judy took off her headset and laid it in the bottom of the boat. She lifted the front of her shirt, pulled it over her head and waved it at arm’s length. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Warren in the bow seat stood up—a dangerous move—his arms high above his head. Rory in the second seat stood up halfway to see over everyone’s head. The other five guys leaned over the railings to see. It’s a wonder we didn’t capsize. I, of course, had the unobstructed view right in front of me. Indeed, they were perfect.
    The boat drifted. We breathed easier, gathered our senses, and began rowing back to the dock at a leisurely pace. Judy put her shirt on.
    Rory started the chant on the way, “Judy...Judy...Judy,” but soon we all chimed in.
    Judy had an immense grin. She replaced her headset. “You guys are great. You’re unbeatable. But don’t think this is going to happen again.”
    We lifted the boat from the water and put it in its slings. We surrounded Judy, raised her above our heads, marched down to the dock, and threw her in the water. Those perfect tits gazed back at us through her wet shirt.
    
    Someone had been in the right place for a photo. It showed Judy waving her shirt, her bare back to the camera. Warren stood in the bow, arms raised. A twelve-by-eighteen framed copy of the picture magically appeared on the boathouse wall the next morning. It was on San Diego’s TV news the following night. Rowing magazine had a half page picture a few months later. Judy was a hero and the envy of every coxswain who knew or heard of her.

###

    That was thirty-eight years ago. We collected bronze at the nationals. None of our crew qualified for the Olympic team. These days, I still row a little. Mostly, I coach. Judy has since passed.
    This morning, I’ve pulled the collar of my coat around my neck to ward off the chill. The sun is just rising over the eastern side of the river, poking through tall conifers, casting long shadows across the water’s glassy surface. I’m standing in the open boathouse cargo doors watching my freshman men’s crew carry their boat down to the dock on their shoulders, four on each side. As their coxswain leads them past the faded picture of Judy, still on the wall, she pats it. The four crew members nearest the wall also reach out and give it a pat as they pass by. When they bring the boat back after practice, the other four repeat the ritual. There’s a sign above the picture that says “SACRIFICE.” Sometimes when I pass the picture, I think she turns and winks at me.

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