Head Of The Charles Regatta 2018 HOCR Program | Page 37

all hungry to copy others who inspire
us. On a long-term basis, however,
unbridled emulation is seldom a good
idea. Not only does it prove an impos-
sible task in the short run, but it also
begins to compromise your own style.
In this way it eventually becomes a
double-edged sword. In my six-year
tenure at Harvard, I’d seen many of
Parker’s assistant coaches get sucked
into the gravitational pull of his strong
personality, only to be spit out the
other side, dazed and confused; for
the myth and the man were two sepa-
rate things.
Coach Parker certainly produced
superlative, winning crews. But off
the water Harry could be as elusive
and testy as a tiger. As such I’d always
found it best to keep my distance,
even when I worked part-time for his
boatman. But now I was sitting right
behind him.
“Let’s do some 20’s,” he suggest-
ed, after we’d done a few minutes of
firm paddling. Strangely enough, I was
already winded.
“Sure thing,” I said.
We rowed over the Head Of The
Charles course, stopping occasionally
while my senior rowing partner pointed
out some of the important landmarks
for me to use while I was steering.
Our ideal course was more toward the
middle of the river than I had imagined,
and we forsook the inside corner at a
few key turns. After we’d made it to
Northeastern we turned around and
paddled home, and by the end of the
row I’d more or less gotten the hang of
his abbreviated stroke.
“That was just fine,” he said. “But
the boat is a little hard on the turns.”
After we put the double scull
away, he instructed his boatman at the
time, Everett Abbott, to saw off some
of the fin so that it would steer around
the turns better. Other than that, we
were good to go. We had one more
practice row together, and that was it.
I don’t think Harry actually liked being
in a boat with anyone. You can tell by
the way someone rows if they care
how easy it is to follow them, and he
really didn’t give a damn.
WHEN THE DAY OF THE RACE finally
rolled around, there was a typical head
wind coming down most the course,
which meant that the finish times
would be markedly slower. Parker and
I strode out of the Newell bays, carry-
ing our double past a gauntlet of ex-
Harvard alumni oarsmen who looked
at me with a wry curiosity that felt like
combination of envy and pity.
“Good luck,” one alumnus named
Greg Stone said, grinning.
Suddenly I wasn’t sure if I should
feel honored or more like a sacrificial
lamb.
I’d heard about Parker’s super-
competitive, cutthroat nature, but I’d
never really experienced it first hand.
I’d seen things around the boathouse,
of course, like the time he’d reduced
one of his insubordinate varsity oars-
man to a quivering mass of jelly, his
angry voice booming through the
bays like bursts of thunder. But I’d
never personally been the recipient of
his wrath.
I’d heard about Parker’s
super-competitive, cutthroat
nature, but I’d never really
experienced it first hand.
We shoved off from the dock
without ceremony, and quickly
merged into the parade of boats
heading downstream. As we paddled
along, several other doubles were on
their way to the starting line, and they
hailed us warmly. Most everyone, it
seemed, treated Parker with the rever-
ence given to a rowing deity, and for
the day I basked in the afterglow. At
the Riverside boathouse, a couple of
senior masters scullers from that club
actually stopped rowing to let us pass.
“Hello, Harry!” one of them
shouted.
Harry nodded, as if to give them
his blessing.
Once we’d rowed out of earshot,
however, Harry turned around and
said:
“See those guys? We’ll pass them
before the first mile marker.”
I had to stifle my laughter when
I suddenly realized that Parker wasn’t
joking around.
MASSACHUSETTS DEPARTMENT OF CONSERVATION AND RECREATION
FIFTY-FOURTH HEAD OF THE CHARLES REGATTA
37