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water with all our might, to get this massive boat moving from a
dead stop. Our teammates do the same, and we are into our race
start. The drummer is hammering our rhythm out to help all keep
time, and I already have to remind myself- breathe. I tilt my face
toward my partner to watch her time, and I breathe deep with each
stroke. The drummer is hollering, "Reach it out!" and I do. I
stretch far forward, leaning from my waist and stretching my arm
out to pull the most water. Hit, swoosh, hit, swoosh, hit, swoosh.
We've found a rhythm. I can tell that the team is in sync; we are
surging, cutting through the water smoothly. Each stroke sprays
water up at me. My left arm is soaked from wrist to shoulder. Out
of the corner of my eye I see the other boat, and their drummer's
shrill cries are distracting me. 'Focus' I tell myself. "We must be
almost done," I think, but I can't look. Must keep paddling. "Up
five in two, one...two!" The coach calls, and my partner and I
would groan if we had enough breath to do so. We increase the
rate, making further demands on our already-taxed muscles. My
breath is ragged, and losing rhythm. I begin to exhale out of my
mouth. "Reach. Don't die!" The call inspires me to push harder.
My right shoulder is burning now; each plunge of the blade is
greeted by a warm jolt through my delts. "Power twenty in two,
one...two!" and I have no time to think about that warm pain,
because we are into more power strokes. I am breathing all mouth
now, and once again rushing the stroke. Falling back into place
with my partner, my breath is not coming easily. I am blowing
each exhalation hard, and making small animal noises with each
hit on the water. Water splashes up from my paddle, from the
boat, from the paddles of our opponents, and we are soaked. The
powers come to and end, and I extend my reach. My back is hurting,
spasming, warm and pulled, beyond taffy. We are in the
final meters of the race, and now it is an all-out effort. Using all
my remaining energy, we go, fast and furious, splashing through
the wake of the boat near us. My partner is grunting now too, and
I hear pants, sighs and grumbles coming from behind me. My
teammates are animals. Hit, swoosh, hit, swoosh, hit, swoosh,
dump it, it's almost done and I find strength and energy I never
knew I had.
"Let it ride!" I rest my paddle on the gunnel, and drop my head
to recover my breath. The boat is silent. No commands. No
'swoosh'. No grunts. No chitchat. Quiet. I hear my breath, raspy
at first, but full and hearty after a few moments. "Ladies," the
coach calls, "That was an excellent race!" While too tired to
smile, I'm beaming inside.
Moments later, my breath has returned to normal. Chatter
resumes on the boat as it is time to start paddling home. The
dock is rapidly approaching, while our beautiful boat glides parallel
to the dock. One by one we file out of the boat, all dripping.
My hair is soaked of sweat, and plastered to my face and
neck in wisps. My clothes are soaked of river water and my rear
hurts, the bone grinding into the seat has bruised my flesh. The
blisters on my palms have bubbled again, and in just weeks I will
have protective calluses. But these are my battle scars, and I
wear them proudly. They mean that I am persistent. They mean
that when I am faced with a challenge, I can dig deep and see
what I'm made of. They mean I am strong and an athlete. I am a
Tsunami Dragon.

I sit on the wooden seat in the front of the boat,
hip to hip with my partner, and watch the horizon
as we dip and bob. It is 6:30pm, and it is still hot
and humid. Sweat beads behind my sunglasses,
and drips onto my lifejacket. My left hand grips
the shaft of the paddle, right above the blade. I
have waxed it so the river water does not cause my
hand to slide off. My right hand holds the top of
the paddle. My partner shifts in her seat, and the
boat tilts slightly. I extend my right foot, and bend
my left knee, bracing my foot under me. I hear the
steersman call, his voice booming, "SIT
READY!" My partner and I lean forward, chest
to knees, extending our paddles flat. The eighteen
women behind us are doing the same thing,
though we can't see. "Attention!" My right hand
swings up, and I jut my left arm further forward.
My paddle is now upright outside of the boat, hovering
an inch above the water. "Easy paddle."
Swoosh, my partner and I plunge our paddles into the river in
sync. Within one stroke, the drummer picks up our pace, and
begins to pound out our rhythm, a foot from our heads. With
each stroke, I dig my blade into the water, pushing down with my
right arm, like spearing fish. I pull the paddle back with my left
arm, then pull it up and out of the water, making a satisfying
splash as the water flings off my blade. I extend my arm again,
leaning forward toward my knees, stretching my back as far as it
will go, then pull back once again, using my legs to push me into
an upright position. When I extend my arm, the paddle of the person
behind me is inches from my elbow. If one of us loses time,
it's gonna hurt. Settling into the pace my partner and I have set,
we feel the rhythm of the boat. The drum reverberates through
the evening air, punctuated by periodic yells to correct our form.