Dad Vails

This will be the first time in seven years that I won't be spending the second weekend of May in Philadelphia as a rower, speaker, or coach at the Dad Vail National Championship Regatta. Vails has been one of my favorite events since I was a freshman at Purdue, and I cherish a million memories from the infamous race on the Schuylkill River. Along Boathouse Row, home to the Schuyhkill Navy, you can feel the presence of the thousands of rowers that have graced their hallowed walls and docks over the last 150 years. As you walk past, you can't help but feel overwhelmed with an incredible sense of pride and tradition that accompanies the sport. The Dad Vail represents the culmination of an entire year of blood, sweat, and tears: from long - if not idyllic - fall days building our endurance base, to cold winter mornings trudging through the snow to the musty basement of Lambert Fieldhouse to pound out hours on the ergs, to the toughest week of the season spent on Lake Hartwell in Clemson hammering out piece after piece in preparation for the races ahead of us, to the entire joy that is the spring season with its share of tough battles, poignant victories, lessons learned, and bonds forged with the strength and commitment that it takes to propel an 8 oared shell across the water. As you unload, rig, and walk the boats down to the docks that line the Schuyhkill, you realize that you are representing not only your crew and university, but also the very spirit of the sport, as every action you take is one that countless oarsmen have taken many times before between the river's shores. Warming up on the far side of Peter's Island, basking in the sweet smell of the locust blooms during the last few minutes before the race, lining up alongside some of the best club teams in the nation, putting all of your focus on the rower in front of you as the official raises his flag, channeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins into those first few strokes, rowing into oblivion as your legs and lungs cry out for oxygen, and finally slumping over your oar after seven minutes and 280 strokes of anaerobic hell. Lather, rinse, and repeat a few more times until finals on Saturday, and you have the Dad Vail Regatta. For those of us who have had the honor to row in the regatta, these battles are a microcosm of our lives, and they mean the world to us. From my innocent days as a novice, smiling on the winner's dock with my coach and eight teammates after an unbelievable, undefeated season. To my first year on varsity, Kohl and I posing with our silver medals from two different boats for a grainy picture that would later end up on the front of The Exponent for our first American Fire article. To a disappointing loss during the semifinals of my junior year that resulted in the most disheartening 2nd place finish in the petite finals. To a tumultuous senior year with a new coach and my teammates of four years being split between two different boats for the last race of our collegiate careers - ending it as we began, together with gold medals on the winner's dock, surrounded by the best friends a Boiler could ask for. When the 14 of us seniors locked hands and jumped off the launching dock into the muddy waters for the last time as members of Purdue Crew, we were all taking a bit of each other with us to the next stages in our lives. For me, that next stage of my life nearly ended it, and by the time I arrived on the banks of the Schuyhkill a year later, I was a much more mature person, delivering not a portside Power 10 through the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, but an inspiring speech to the graduating class, as Olympic team coach Mike Teti had done for me and my own class the year before. For the first time, I sat in the alumni tent with my former teammates and finally got to enjoy a beer while watching the races. Though we had looked forward to that day since our freshmen years, we felt out of place, and would have gladly traded traded places with those in unis for one more shot at the glory of collegiate rowing.

The circle was finally completed last year, with me in khakis and an embroidered polo, pushing my novice kids off of the dock after months of learning and growing on all levels. In them, I could see pieces of myself five years prior - young and wide eyed, scared but proud and prepared to leave everything on the water, knowing that their teammates were doing the same. Although the closest they came to the winner's dock was rowing back up towards St. Joe's boathouse, I still couldn't have been more proud of them. Together, as a team, we had overcome hundreds of obstacles to get there, and our little crew from the desert proved what it took to be a Dad Vail rower: hard work, faith, teamwork, dedication, and perseverance. The next day, we sat in the bleachers and watched as Purdue set a precedent by winning both the men's and women's varsity 8's races - a first in the history of the Dad Vail. As they hoisted the team points trophy over their heads as my own teammates and I had done in years past, I was overwhelmed with an amazing sense of admiration for my Purdue team, my ASU team, the sport of rowing, and the spirit that encompasses the whole of the Dad Vail Regatta.

Dad Vails is an incredible place, full of pride, pain, guts, and glory. Although I will personally miss the regatta this year, I wish the best to every coach and athlete that will be participating, and especially... Boiler Up!