(Putting yourself out there is hard, but you've gotta do it)

            I'm not a big fan of sticking my neck out. I'm happiest with it safely scrunched in as far it will go, avoiding the inevitable decapitation that comes with being largely responsible for the destinies of eight (or four, or two) other human beings; when the sprint you called at 600 metres to go doesn't pay off, or you insist on the settle when you're a bow-deck ahead at the start, only to lose first place by that same bow-deck at the finish line. But I love the sport and I love to win, so I am forced to accept, for the sake of those two things, that I must stretch myself out as far as I can go, and grin while the guillotine comes down. A work in progress.

            Sometimes, though, the fatal blow doesn't come—the flying start you call in the middle of the race has you walking the first place team; or not calling "paddle" until everyone gets past the line-- even though your stroke is gasping for breath and looks like her head might explode-- nails the win by two-hundredths of a second. Beauty.

            So...big risks for big rewards (rocket science, I know. Sue me). Take comfort in two things: the first is that while the chances you take don't always pay off, you're in pretty good company when it comes to those "live forever" moments (I learned this term from a Charles coxswain; it actually means "please, please, let me die now" moments). All brilliant coxswains have had their share of "live forever" moments. Acer Nethercott made a bold move in the 2004 Boat race that got Oxford in the lead...and then led to a clash that lost them the race. Devin Mahoney (Harvard University Heavies' first female coxswain) coxed a season which at the time was the worst in Harvard Heavies history...try carrying that around. Celebrated national team coxswain Pete Cipollone didn't get to cox the 1996 Olympics at all (bear in mind that a lot goes into the selection of Olympic coxswains, and by the time you get to that level, you are probably pretty good about taking such things professionally. But it still must kind of suck). And then you have the live forever moment to die for: the US elite men's four going into Eliot Bridge at Head of the Charles, right by the Cambridge Boat Club, in full view of fans and TV cameras (for illustration, click here: http://www.deardale.com/hocrchampionship8/ ). Please, please, let me die now.

            Which leads to the second, more important source of comfort-- when the risks do pay off, they are so worth every second of embarrassment/ridicule/‘why-do-I-do-this-stupid-sport-anyway?' sentiment you've ever felt. Oxford's heaviest crew ever, trusted Nethercott at the helm the next year...and he led them to a resounding win. That awful season Mahoney coxed was sandwiched between two crews that went to Henley (Henley!). And watch the video of the 2004 US Olympic eight, as Chip launches himself into the stroke after the first US men's eight gold in 40 years. Moments like that are worth ten thousand bad ones easy.

            Here's the thing: those major screw-ups are nestled amidst some pretty sweet accomplishments-- national, world and Olympic medals; record-breaking times and feats (who doesn't love a hat-trick?), and the huge amounts of satisfaction at the knowledge that you were right to trust your instincts no matter how much it scared you. This is a necessary part of your ability as a coxswain, as necessary as steering and having a wrench to hand at all times. More power to you, every time you take a risk to develop it, whether it's by trying a call that makes you feel kind of stupid, or keeping your crew three beats higher than the agreed race pace because you believe they can hold it; God knows, that's the stuff champions are made of. Good luck. Chils.

coxgurrl