desperate remedies

last night we got together for a bbq at a crewmate's house. she has a lovely, tiered backyard that descends somewhat steeply down a hill that resolves itself in an irregularly shaped pool lit from under the water with small lights. after a decadent dinner and dessert, in the dusky evening, 6 of our 8+ along with our cox and coach, donned our bathing suits and slipped quietly into the water (or cannonballed off the diving board!). as we floated on our backs, gazing at the stars, we talked of everything from the difficulty of replacing the pin in an oarlock to the choice monikers we have for memorable ex-boyfriends. the whole evening was a desperate remedy of sorts because as of late rowing has been taxing -- it's reaching that point in the season where we're all tired.

i think the venture was in part a success. this morning, during one of our practice starts, the boat practically flew through the water. i'd like to think that in those innocently sensual moments when surrounded by the warm water, relaxed by the choice wine and slightly awed by the sight of a starry night sky, we opened ourselves up one another, discussing details of our lives that are never the territory of our boat-talk, we formed bonds that propelled our straining strokes just a little harder and faster at a time when it counts the most.

i've also turned to a desperate remedy of my own. as i struggle to shape into a chapter loose and fragmented ideas about thomas hardy's 1871 novel desperate remedies, i've begun a research journal. it's a longhand endeavour that will be scribbled on the pages of a soft faux-leather bound notebook i picked up one day with intentions of turning it into something else entirely. the remedies of hardy's title, namely the fires, murders and hiding of bodies in corn sacks in old stone ovens are undertaken by the novel's anti-hero, manston, as he struggles with his desire for cytherea graye, the sunny and graceful heroine. in desperate remedies rowing functions in the plot in an essential way. though it's not the struggle of one oxbridge crew against another as they wind their way down the gruelling course of the thames, there's a passage i was just re-reading this morning, a stunning moment when cytherea slips away with her lover edward for a row out on the lake, that reminds me, once again, just how sexy rowing can be:

At length she looked at him to learn the effect of her words of
encouragement. He had let the oars drift alongside, and the boat
had come to a standstill. Everything on earth seemed taking a
contemplative rest, as if waiting to hear the avowal of something
from his lips. At that instant he appeared to break a resolution
hitherto zealously kept. Leaving his seat amidships he came and
gently edged himself down beside her upon the narrow seat at the
stern.

She breathed more quickly and warmly: he took her right hand in his
own right: it was not withdrawn. He put his left hand behind her
neck till it came round upon her left cheek: it was not thrust
away. Lightly pressing her, he brought her face and mouth towards
his own; when, at this the very brink, some unaccountable thought or
spell within him suddenly made him halt--even now, and as it seemed
as much to himself as to her, he timidly whispered 'May I?'

Her endeavour was to say No, so denuded of its flesh and sinews that
its nature would hardly be recognized, or in other words a No from
so near the affirmative frontier as to be affected with the Yes
accent. It was thus a whispered No, drawn out to nearly a quarter
of a minute's length, the O making itself audible as a sound like
the spring coo of a pigeon on unusually friendly terms with its
mate. Though conscious of her success in producing the kind of word
she had wished to produce, she at the same time trembled in suspense
as to how it would be taken. But the time available for doubt was
so short as to admit of scarcely more than half a pulsation:
pressing closer he kissed her. Then he kissed her again with a
longer kiss.