Pangolin Crew

By Alex Cruickshanks

Strap your feet in and hang on to your oar handle!

Rowing on the southern tip of Africa is not rowing as you might know it. Fall into the rhythm of PANGOLIN CREW and burn down the Kowie River. Inspired by the real South African Rowing scene, Alex Cruickshanks' unique writing style captures the bond and banter of a varsity rowing crew; read the mind of Tommy and live the dynamic of a close-knit rowing team, candidly revealed like never before.

The Pangolin Crew need to plot a new course in the ever-changing tidal river and come together in their pursuit of a golden synergy. Their struggle with the huge training load, the endless pursuit of perfect strokes, academic commitments and squeezing in a splash of the magic of the ultimate team sport along with a hope of romance is the classic rower's balancing act. Tommy must overcome a loss far worse than his third Boat Race silver medal in a row and strap into the shoes of legends for one final effort to break the run of the unbeatable Highveld crew.

20% of author profits are donated to NEMATO Change-a-Life - an amazing youth empowerment program in Port Alfred, South Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Cruickshanks Creative Works
• Release date: Aug 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777838218

Book preview

PREFACE

A fictional story taking place in and around the South African University Rowing scene. A microcosm not only of Rowing in South Africa but all South African sports: achievement despite both fewer resources and great adversity. Best epitomised by South Africa’s lightweight four who won gold at the 2012 London Olympics, stroked by Sizwe Ndlovu.

If you are unfamiliar with the sport, I have done my best to cover the technical jargon with definitions in an effort not to bore rowers with overly descriptive scenes.

This is not an ‘Ivy League’ story, nor is it about Olympic glory. It is about rowers enlisted at a small-town university in South Africa and their efforts to win the coveted Boat Race title, something that’s evaded their club for several years. Narrated by Tommy who is haunted by stalwarts of previous years including his father - Tommy and his crew need to plot a new course in the ever-changing tidal river.

Creating this book has mirrored my love/hate relationship with rowing: bliss when you’re up and winning, agony when it will not go your way.

I think that covers it; crack on.

A TWO BOAT RACE

This isn’t the pain that I love. My legs don’t burn, they ache. My back doesn’t ache, it burns. Through a haze of fatigue and sweat that stings my eyes, I try to focus on bending my oar with the little I have left to give. Another wave breaks on Starbuck’s rigger, splashing up and over his back. His broad shoulders tense and his neck disappears. Etiquette is the only inspiration driving our crew on. We must finish the race and in so doing, finish ourselves. In my periphery, seven other oars move more-or-less with mine and chop at the rough water. Another futile stroke. The boat will not glide and we will not have our gold.

There’s far too much left of this race.

Dad rowed for the University of Eastern Cape (UEC) and now I follow in his wake. He rowed in the legend era; the middle of an unbeaten run. Things change, clubs rise and fall. We are supposed to be rising. This was our year. The year UEC finally rises to the top again.

I turned down a bursary to Highveld University; I could be rowing with those arseholes that are enjoying watching us flail behind them, beating us once again. I convinced Mom and Dad to invest in my dream, I’ve put my body through hell and ignored the advice of a physiotherapist, just to be here in this misery.

Water sloshes at my feet, a harsh reminder that the already agonising task of heaving our boat through the water is even harder with the extra weight in the bottom of the hull. The ‘swing and sing’ on which we’d placed so much emphasis - so much work - has deteriorated into a ‘hack and heave’. There is nothing romantic or fluid about the way in which we’re moving, but to be fair, we are still moving.

Why aren’t we better? Why am I not better?

I’ve trained ludicrously hard for this race, but it’s not enough. Rocco’s words of wisdom come to me suddenly, ‘when that moment of doubt comes, and it will come, think of someone in the boat - someone you know would never give an inch. Row with them.’ Rocco; five seats in front of me in the all-important #6 seat. His final Boat Race. He must know that it will be another silver. I steal a glance at his oar, moving with its usual effortless efficiency. One day I hope to emulate his fine technique. It’s hard to row with him. We’re disconnected. I feel alone here. I cut my blade¹ through another wave, drive my legs down and swing again. My legs feel like cold, mushed up jelly, but they manage to execute my bidding somehow.

Why can’t Highveld just crash into the bridge? If they didn’t exist we’d be winning this race.

Big Bear, our #3 seat, grunts at the finish² of another heavy stroke. He’s an enormous oarsman with immense power. Even he can’t make our boat move. I cut my blade in again and my wobbly legs execute another agonising stroke. With pins and needles prickling up my back and my neck, our eight drives onward.

The rudder comes on for the final turn towards the finish. Into the last quarter of an incoming tide and a headwind no less. Still more of this gut-busting humiliation left to go. A broken command from our cox,³ Jesse, through the speaker in Starbuck’s footwell, crackles out, breaking the silence to which I have grown accustomed.

Why the hell have we been rowing in silence?

Jesse only has a couple of lax jobs while the rest of us row his scrawny arse down the course: steer and make the calls. He’s not much of a motivator, but we should at least hear his technical calls; try to hold this crew together.

JESSE

Squeeze the khrrr khrrr together khrrrrr Tommy take the khrrrrrrrrrrr.

My name in amongst the noise. An instruction of some kind. The speaker cuts out entirely, but I’m sure I know what he wants. We’re going slightly wide on the corner. He needs me to take the pressure off the catch and let stroke side work the boat around so we don’t run wide.

Let Starbuck know.

TOMMY

Squeeze the catch… bring it round.

I’m out of breath. It’s the limit of what I can manage to get out. He braces to squeeze and I take the pressure off. A tight corner won’t win us this race, but it might end the agony a little sooner. I just want it to be over. Better yet, somewhere else: surfing at the point, where this river meets the seal; drinking beer on the banks with our fellow students who choose to actually enjoy their heydays. Or, at least we could be through the finish line and resting.

Grind out another stroke.

Why did I choose this fight?

I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Today I spare a weak thought for the path of the Highveld oarsman. The champagne and ceremony at the end of this race. A justification for all the self-inflicted pain. The recognition for all the hours of pushing and sweating and pushing and suffering.

Where’s the gold for the passion?

It was silver last year too. We said it would be different this time. We worked harder, rowed further, sacrificed more holiday for gruelling camps. We’re faster than last year. Yet we languish again.

The stink of the fisherman’s wharf permeates the air. We’re approaching the Main Street bridge and then the final straight. Usually, I love this part of the river - the water here is usually calmer. Nearly home, you might just make it.

A call from the bridge nearly above us now: Let’s go U-E-C! It does nothing to lift us out of our stagnant slump. A hint of sympathy in their tone. They see that this race is decided. All that resonates is shame.

We’re letting them down. Why won’t our boat glide?

We’d had flashes of the right stuff in the lead up. Some successful mock races, some good-looking times. We’re fit and strong. But today, the rhythm - the ‘swing and sing’ - has evaded us. There’s a weight in the middle of the stroke I cannot move. A deadness that’s draining me. My oar handle refuses to accelerate through to the finish no matter how hard I push, swing, and pull.

Our oars echo their clunky finish under the Main Street bridge. Even this special sound is off. We haven’t shot the gap between the bridge’s pile and the bank - the tide is too low. The water is calmer in the final straight and I scan the surface for puddles⁴ left behind. No trace of Highveld up ahead of us.

Must be more than a couple of boat lengths.

The final straight, it’s nearly time for the last push for home, the burn. Just a few more strokes to the power lines that cross the Kowie River overhead. The Kowie River, our home water.

ROCCO

We go NOW!

It’s early, but I’m up for a brave last effort. I see our stern pair⁵ tuck in their blades - an effort to raise the rate.⁶ I anticipate the move and tuck in too. I give it everything I have. More power goes in, but our hull drags under us, indifferent to our will. Determined to accelerate with my crew, I tuck in again. In my gaze down the bow side⁷ oars, I see that Slater is lagging.

Is he spent or has he given up?

I’m disgusted at the thought. An interruption by shouts of elation carrying down from the finish line. We’ve just begun our final sprint and the two-boat race is now officially over. We’re clear losers. Someone on stroke side’s⁸ oar sticks at the finish of the stroke, halting our momentum. Our final strokes are a lumber.

Rocco’s final strokes in the purple are a lumber.

I slump over my oar handle, my arms too heavy to wipe the sweat and saltwater from stinging my eyes. I shut them instead. I’m heaving. My muscles ache more than they burn. It’s over. The agony has been endured and I can rest at last.

The mandatory, half-hearted cheer from the Highveld crew:

HIGHVELD COX

Three cheers for UEC… Hipip…

HIGHVELD

HOORAY

Hooray?

HIGHVELD COX

Hipip…

HIGHVELD

HOORAY

Why?

HIGHVELD COX

Hipip…

HIGHVELD

HOORAY

Now we have to muster up the same?

I dread the tradition of having to wish Highveld congratulations and merriment for yet another victory after yet another disappointment, but I’m trying to muster the chivalry. I’m also trying to catch my breath. My body is a shattering mix of ache and burn. Silence surrounds my panting.

I look up and notice Jesse’s hand is raised for an appeal to the umpire - his intention not on leading a cheer for the victors. I cast my mind back over the race and I hope there might be some chance that Highveld have cheated us, but I don’t see it. Besides, the best we can hope for is a re-race and I fear that would have the same outcome. I certainly don’t feel like rowing another stroke, never mind another 5.5 kilometres. It just isn’t our day, isn’t our year. Again.

The umpire and Jesse exchange a few words. I lean out, but I can’t see Jesse for the broad-shouldered oarsmen seated in front of me. What I can see from the umpire’s demeanour is that she is not interested in his appeal. A tiny part of me is disappointed that it somehow wasn’t our fault. We could at least blame someone or something else. An unfair decision by the Race Umpire, perhaps. How could we not have done enough? Jesse was conservative - his line was the race line - but he didn’t fight for our water when Highveld encroached. You have to fight in this race.

Over my shoulder, the sound of Highveld’s brash celebrations is starting to get under my skin. Torturing myself further, I turn to look at them. Their stroke, de Jager, is particularly vocal.

DE JAGER

Every time! They keep trying, but we’re just too good.

He must know we can hear. I realise my mistake letting them in. Rage is welling. A retort; some admonishment for their lack of decorum. I despise their swagger.

BIG BEAR

Ignore them, Tommy.

He’s seen me. I turn back to face my crew. The umpire has moved off and we’re still sitting. A murmur in the stern, exchanges which I can’t and don’t much care to hear. I just want to be out of the boat and on the bank. I don’t want to see anyone, I just want to get away. The murmur escalates to an argument and I can now hear loud and clear.

SLATER

You didn’t push back, you let them take our line!

JESSE

They didn’t take our line. Anyway, we weren’t in a rhythm yet. We agreed to find a rhythm and avoid clashing.

SLATER

All the more reason to push for a clash!

How the hell does Slater have the energy?

He has a point, but this isn’t the time or place. I just want to go home.

SLATER

A whole year of training for this race and you just let them take it!

That’s out of line.

You don’t blame anyone for the loss and you certainly don’t do it out on the water. We are better than that. At least we’re supposed to be better than them.

Rocco needs to settle this.

SLATER

They were clearly in our water, the umpire even warned them, but you let them take it! YOU FUCKING LET THEM TAKE IT!

I don’t want to be here, out on the water, our crew arguing like this.

What happened to being a single machine?

Someone else is saying something, but I can’t make it out either. More grumbling. Starbuck is motionless, head hung since that last stroke. He hasn’t moved, draped over his oar handle since it was done. I slide forward on my seat and pat him on the side. He turns to me and I’m surprised to see tears welling. I know my friend. We’ve rowed many kilometres together, and I can see his grief. It’s a reflection of mine.

STARBUCK

Tommy… I…

His voice cracks both times and I know. But I’m not sure how to get the words out. The grumbling up ahead continues.

BIG BEAR

Hey Jesse, we need to go in. Call it!

Jess will get the message. Sure enough, on his command, every oarsman, including a reluctant and deliberately slow Slater, resets and rows the boat in. Soon we’ll be off the water.

As we approach the dock I brace myself for people: friends and foes. Thankfully only coaches and rowers are allowed on the dock. The UEC B Crew guys are there to welcome us, but they’re uncertain and clumsy with their words. Most have had a few celebratory drinks having won their final just a few hours earlier. Senzo sidles over to my seat and says nothing, but gestures to take my oar. I am grateful for his understanding. He has a calmness to him. As I release my oar from my gate I’m struck by jealousy. The B Crew trains almost us much as we do, but they seem to enjoy it so much more. Senzo envelopes my shoulder with a warm hand as he takes my oar in his other.

We haul the boat out of the water and up over our heads, soaking ourselves with the litres of river water she took on. Weaving through a blur of noise: ‘hard luck’s and ‘you’ll get them next year’s.’

Next year.

We manage to get clear of it and back to the boat racks. We rack ARES and tie her down. Our beloved Greek Goddess of War. UEC traditionally name their fleet after Greek Gods and ARES was perfect, only we lost the battle and the war. We let her down. We let everyone down. This was supposed to be the year.

We gather in a huddle beside the boat and I exchange a few glances. Grief is written all over the faces of Rocco, Starbuck and Loverboy. Jesse has tears in his eyes. The others’ heads are hung. Slater looks out and over the huddle into the distance.

ROCCO

I’m sorry boys, it just didn’t go our way. It was a big ask to come out and race them after they beat us in the heat by 8 seconds. We never found that rhythm. I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault, they were just… better than us today.

I want to know why. Why it wasn’t enough.

How can they deserve it more than us?

ROCCO

You boys are machines and it’s been an honour to be your captain. We didn’t come here for the silver, but it’s done.

JESSE

I’m sorry guys, I thought I was doing the right thing…

BIG BEAR

No Jesse, equal share in the loss.

I nod.

ROCCO

We’re still second in the country of 10 universities. We can hold our heads up high, we left it all out there.

Did we?

ROCCO

The good news is the season is over and we can get naked and jol⁹ now.

Good grief.

UNHINGED FREEDOM

Post-Boat Race is a wild time for any oarsman, particularly for UEC - a university renowned for its mad party culture. A few sweet weeks of partying before the impending end-of-year exams take their grip. Young oarsmen and women in their late teens and early twenties, physically fit and ripe for all sorts of mischief, let out all their pent-up social desires.

After months of early nights, skipping the ‘big nights out’ and early morning training before lectures, the 36 rowers of the men’s and women’s A and B crews paint the town purple. It’s unclear why UEC’s colour is purple and, although I was hesitant about whether I’d ever enjoy ‘suiting up’ for battle in purple lycra, it wasn’t long before I liked it and shortly thereafter loved its distinction. Purple for passion. Purple: the colour of wisdom and royalty.

Donning purple overalls for the duration of the raucous shindig, UEC rowers make up for lost time by partying for five days straight. It’s a wild few days and nights.

SATURDAY: THE AFTER-PARTY

All university crews stay in the small town of Port Alfred, the Kowie River running through the middle of it. All participating universities have their traditions, typically taking part in some sort of fines evening before descending on the only bar in town equipped to handle the ‘celebration’. There are parties and student parties - and then there are rowing parties. Rowing parties tend to get completely out of hand. Rowers actively go out of their way to drink too much, perform ridiculous shenanigans and generally indulge their wildest desires. It’s something to behold; a truly debaucherous affair.

The night is a haunting blur. The sight of the celebrating Highveld guys gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. They seem to be everywhere. I make my way outside for some fresh air. I know some of the UZK rowers and a lovely looking girl named Nicky introduces herself. I’ve barely squeezed out my name before she kisses me unexpectedly. We chat for a while before she heads inside. When she doesn’t return, I venture back in to discover she is making out with one of the Highveld crew. I make for the exit.

Rocco, stark naked, is forcefully escorted out of the bar by two massive bouncers. With a strong hand around his neck, he is still negotiating going back for his pants on his way out. He is seen 10 minutes later, having jumped the fence around the back, and is at the bar ordering a drink. He is still completely naked.

Loverboy, seldom one to pursue his love interests as they are wont to align themselves with his path and blurry vision, tests his limits. However, on this fine night, his overconfidence gets the better of him as he receives a kick in the plums for suggesting a girl bring her friend back to his room.

SUNDAY: CENTENARY PARK

A public wild and woolly park on the first corner of the Boat Race course. It’s tradition that UEC and UZK rowers wake up in whatever state in which they might find themselves and meet up at the park to continue the end of season celebrations. Why the two clubs have this affinity nobody can remember, but tradition says it is so and so it is. A slower approach to the party is taken, rowers arriving in dribs and drabs in various states of wellness. But the first drinks are cracked open early in the day, wrestled down gullets with nails and before long the party is well underway once again. The day is spent swimming in the river, engaging in ensuing mud fights on the shore, and general horsing about until sunset and the drive back to Imbiza, home of UEC.

Loverboy is adamant we need to form another ‘rowers digs’ next year. We’re getting booted out of our place after Rocco nearly burned it to the ground. Senzo, Starbuck, and I are standing around a case of beers reminiscing about some of our better races when Loverboy enters the conversation, salient points at the ready. Surprisingly, the others are keen and Starbuck’s digs has three open spots as fate would have it. I’m lured in by its proximity to campus, but hesitant of overkill time with my rowing mates. It’s the furthest thing from getting away.

I chat to Mila from the Ladies B Crew for some time - she’s almost entirely covered in mud, yet unperturbed. She’s just completed her first Boat Race having only been rowing for a couple of months. I’m loving her company until Nicky from last night interrupts and Mila instantly heads for the hills.

The UZK oarsmen perform a bum funnel: two rowers push their naked buttocks together while another is made to lie on the floor with his mouth open directly below. Beer is poured in the crack between their four collective cheeks. What ghastly misdemeanour earned this man that sort of fine is not clear.

Starbuck encounters a thief emerging from the bushes as he rides his bike alone to join the festivities. He is uninterested in the thief’s intimidation tactics with his small knife and attempts to ride around him while pushing the assailant away. Unfortunately, he is wounded in his arm by said knife. Upon arrival at the gathering he’s bleeding and panting, but unconcerned by the assault; only interested in where Loverboy might be up to with a cold beer.

MONDAY: SPANDEX PARTY

All UEC rowers don their best and brightest lycra and meet up at the clubhouse for pre-drinks. Inevitable 100 metre races ensue on the ergos.¹⁰ The merrier end up swimming in the outdoor rowing tank¹¹ and the rowing club hits the town for a pub crawl for the first time in months (which is years in student time). After sipping many unsatisfying Coke Zeros or waters and listening to drunken ramblings of non-rowing friends and avoiding late nights out, rowers are finally allowed to participate. At the centre of all the commotion is the Snake & Badger - Imbiza’s oldest and most popular pub.

Loverboy props himself up against a fence outside and decides to ‘rest his eyes’ after ingesting his eleventh beer. As usual he’s made known the number of beers he’s ingested to all who will listen. The Claw, known affectionately for her method of hugging (clamping) men (tightly) around their neck before kissing them when they are least expecting it, has noticed Loverboy’s vulnerable state. Just as she sits down next to him to engage, Big Bear walks by. He assesses the scene and, mid-stride, grabs Loverboy by the ankle and nonchalantly drags him into the clubhouse away from the danger. Saved by the Bear.

At the Snake & Badger bar, to his left, Rocco makes out with a lovely lass from his Economics class. She agrees to buy him a drink and attempts bar service. To his right, Rocco turns to her lovely digs-mate and explains his choice of underwear over his spandex. He proceeds to kiss the digs-mate. Upon receiving a tap on the shoulder, he turns to see the horror written all over the face of the lady to his left. A brief look of confusion washes over his face before calm presides. He grabs his fresh beer, nods appreciatively to the lady on the left, and makes his exit. Extraordinary.

Starbuck is caught red-handed in the backseat of his car outside Winx’s digs. It’s awkward: for some reason, the police officer insists on shining a light on Starbuck’s privates the entire time he scrambles for his pants. His pants are lycra and keep catching on his toes as he tries to pull them on. Winx on the other hand sits indignantly on the back seat in scant underwear with arms folded over her bare chest. Charming and convincing as ever, Starbuck persuades the officer he too was young once and is off. The spotlight remains focused on Starbuck’s backside as they dash indoors.

TUESDAY: PINEAPPLE VALLEY

A few kilometres out from Imbiza on the road to Port Alfred is a turn off to Pineapple Valley. The area is renowned as prime pineapple growing land and there are fields of pineapples rolling to the horizon. There is a particular spot next to a small bridge over a stream that only the senior members of the rowing club can remember and return to each year.

Loverboy has decided the ‘rowers digs’ will be named The Castle and is sure to remind the three of us that we’re committed.

The Doctor, undertaking his Master’s in Mathematics, has somehow managed to find it in himself to skip thesis writing for the day. Mention is made of how the roof racks on Rocco’s car, which are fitted with a single scull rack, oddly resemble the frame of a bobsled. In true all or nothing Doc form, he climbs onto the rack, lies down in the ‘sled’ and begins tilting his head from side to side and commentating his superior sled driving abilities. He is, for some reason, stark naked.

Upon seeing Doc’s antics, Rocco runs up, hops in his car and races off down the dirt road, swerving from side to side. The Doctor refuses to break character and continues his commentary until out of earshot. Rocco’s vehicle is seen once again racing over the ridge, a puff of dust trailing behind; it’s quite a sight. Several ‘fly-bys’ are performed for the enthusiastic crowd.

WEDNESDAY: RUGBY NIGHT

It’s generally accepted that Wednesday night rugby is the last big night of celebrations, before resting up for the usual weekend lineup of catching up with friends long neglected for rowing commitments. UEC Rugby is playing a local club made up of farmers and are receiving a hiding. But the crowd supports nonetheless; most are more interested in the Rugby Club’s reasonably priced bar.

The club’s farmer’s daughters, Tulip and Squirrel, sisters separated by two years, are seated on either end of the stands with different groups of friends. Each sister indulges in the tastes of Loverboy without the other knowing. Loverboy ‘to his credit’ forgets he’s kissed Tulip by the time he stumbles upon Squirrel.

Senzo is unhappy about an altercation in the Men’s Room. One can presume he has been antagonised beyond reason. Stocky, and with mittens for hands, he waits patiently outside for the assailants to exit, facing the door directly. The first receives a clean punch to the jaw and reels off to the side. The second receives a square punch directly to the nose dropping him to his knees. Senzo’s hook grazes the third, before an uppercut connects sweetly and sends the third reeling. His knuckles ache as the fourth emerges and receives a thrust to the stomach, bending him forward before Senzo pushes him falling back through the door whence he came.

Our very own Winx from the Ladies A Crew streaks in nothing but her panties at halftime. It’s always been lads that have a go, and witnessing field security get close, but then not knowing how to handle her is a delight for the crowd. Her large breasts seemingly with a mind of their own,