Jolly Boating Weather!

As anybody who knows me will confirm, water and I don’t easily mix. While you’d never catch me swimming, feathering an oar’s blade or trimming a mainsail, I certainly have been found cheering other people in a boat from a settee or riverbank.

It probably started in the Sixties with the University Boat Race, a staple BBC outside broadcast from the Thames each March or April. I’m not sure whether I just preferred the name, or light blue to dark, but I supported Cambridge as a child and have continued ever since. Back then, the Light Blues had established a substantial lead in victories, although the margin has been all but wiped out in the twenty-first century. I rarely watch it now, but I used to love the build-up, the potential of a controversial clash of oars approaching the first bend and the climactic dunking of the victorious cox but, lets face it, if one crew was well ahead on the Surrey side, the race was almost always dead and buried as a spectator sport.

In the Nineties I made the trip up to London a couple of times on Race Day, once to Putney with friends and then a few years later to the Mortlake finish. On each occasion, the atmosphere was more memorable than the actual rowing, although the former stands out because a thundery deluge delayed the start as both crews took temporary refuge beneath Putney Bridge. We, on the other hand, got soaked. The experience did demonstrate one fact that TV cameras never showed, that the boats sit incredibly low in the water. From the towpath, they are almost invisible.

The sight of my Cambridge Eight floundering helplessly in the waves in 1978 left an indelible memory and I admit I quite fancied the Oxford cox of ’83. Well, Sue Brown was the first woman ever to compete. That innovation was extremely welcome but the rapid shift towards super-heavy oarsmen, specifically American and German internationals qualifying as postgrads, left a sour taste. It all reached a nadir in 2019. Much as I welcomed Cambridge’s victory, I did feel sorry for genuine undergraduate student rowers kicked out to make room for the 48 year-old ex-Olympic champion James Cracknell. Credit to him for putting in the massive effort needed to be in peak racing condition at that age, but to me it made a mockery of the amateur Boat Race tradition.

Nineteen years earlier, Cracknell had featured in probably the most hotly anticipated rowing competition ever, at least where we Brits are concerned. That was the Coxless Fours at the Sydney Olympics. These days, rowing has become an endless seam of gold to be mined by Team GB - men and women - but I think the first medallists I was aware of were Chris Baillieu and Mike Hart, who won silver in the double sculls at Montreal in ’76. In the Eighties, we had a new double act to celebrate: Holmes and Redgrave. At the 1984 Games, they also sat in the engine room of our Coxed Fours who so stunningly overhauled the USA to win gold in LA. It was a victory which laid the foundation for so much regatta success for British crews ever since.

By the Nineties Andy Holmes had bowed out and Steve Redgrave had a new partner in the Pairs. Could the Old Etonian Matthew Pinsent keep the successes flowing? You bet! By 2000 we were all willing Redgrave to achieve his fifth gold in consecutive Olympics, this time assisted by Redgrave, Cracknell and Tim Foster. I vividly recall being glued to the screen up to almost midnight cheering on the British crews. No disrespect to the Eights, but it was the Coxless Fours’ triumph which most gladdened the heart, leaving me almost as breathless as the exhausted oarsmen. The man from Henley had retired – permanently this time – yet amazingly, at 2019 we have won the same event at every subsequent Olympics.

For all Sir Steve’s medal collection, perhaps the most iconic image of British Olympic rowing came on the podium at Lake Banyoles in 1992. I’d urged on Greg and Jonny Searle during the coxed pairs final (“They’ve beaten the Abbagnales!”) but it was the sight of little cox Garry Herbert bawling his eyes out alongside the tall brothers which proved even more emotional. That ecstatic tearful cox has now become the ecstatic, tearful voice of rowing, commentating on all those victories to Rio and hopefully beyond.

I’ve actually been on a boat ride on the same lake, and also the famous regatta venue of the lovely Lake Lucerne. However the only leading location on the sport’s circuit where I have actually rowed is at Lake Bled, Slovenia. No medals for the leisurely hour of gentle paddling with Mum and Dad astern, but I could but dream. Of course I’ve taken my turn at the oars at all sorts of places over the years, from Billericay’s Lake Meadows and the River Stour at Flatford Mill to Seefeld, Austria. Provided it’s not too hot or choppy, there are no more agreeable activities on water

There’s no way on Earth I can be enticed into a canoe but the slalom events make exciting viewing, especially when a Brit leads the way, as in Rio. As for yachting, I feel seasick just looking at Ben Ainslie. At least being an island nation has ensured Britain has been in the medal mix for as long as I can remember. No other country has scooped more Olympic golds. However, why does the IOC insist on having such dull disciplines?. Why not ditch the sails and introduce powerboat racing? Then we could at least work out who’s winning. And where are the pedalos? That would make the Olympic watersports less expensive, more inclusive and closer to the viewing public!

I guess part of the traditional appeal of sailing is that people around the world have been pottering about on boats for centuries. The classes have been changed to reflect developments in taste and technology, as well as thwarting Britain’s chances of success in favour of the Americans, not that I’m bitter or anything. While I don’t rate yachting as a spectator sport, I can at least appreciate the courage needed to battle the elements and spit in the eye of danger. Like swimming and water polo, I limit my exposure to that glorious festival of sport, the Olympic Games.