Disco Swans

It’s well past diner time and daylight savings has not arrived so we still row in the dark. Paddles dip and glide quietly, but the six sets are well out of synch, driving our Romanian coach insane. I can hear her tossing out the commands through the speaker which is a few seats ahead of me, in the seats that are empty. It’s an odd thing to have a boat for 8 and to row with only 6. I watch the empty seats bang back and forth with the vacant shoes as we stroke down the canal, like a funeral procession honoring our fallen heroes. Only there is nothing heroic about these people, they were either too afraid of the early wet spring weather or couldn’t escape a snarled traffic jam.

I like this time of evening, the darkness of it allows me to hide from our coach. She can only see the first few rowers and so the whole evening is focused on them, while I enjoy the second to the furthest seat from her. I act like a child who has stolen extra cookies from the cookie jar. I slouch my back, hold the handles wrong, and even talk to the guy behind me.

I enjoy peering into the houses as we go by, expensive Westport houses with businessmen who are fresh in from a train ride from the city, kids who have returned from lavish days in private schools, and exhausted mothers who have just finished an amazing list of chores including an hour at the spa. We pass by offices with a few unlucky people who are still hard at work and fancy restaurants with people sipping Chilean wine and eating seafood flown in only yesterday.
We also see all sorts of birds. They scream at us as we pass, annoyed because they are trying to settle in for the night. Fat Canada geese fly down the canal, sounding like small airplanes on the verge of disaster. Ducks scurry along, always trying to stay out of the way. And occasional we see swans.

Normally I am not much of a swan person. They really are vicious creatures who bully other birds, hiss and spit at large dogs, and terrorize small kids who are foolish enough to hold the bread bag and stand a bit too close to the edge of the water.

But the swans out on the river at night are somehow magical. They are no longer white, but rather, reflecting distant light, they are an iridescent purple color. The blackness of the water makes them seem like they are suspended in air like a tacky centerpiece at a cheap Latin disco that glows from the black lights. They float and bob to the imaginary music. I search in the darkness for the beat of the music. Something fast, something … .

The speaker on the boat cackles and I hear the Romanian coach say, “One and two, full stroke, One and two full stroke. Ready? And stroke.” I lean back and put my paddles in position. Soon I am stroking, quickly through the water with a long pause for the return. I giggle watching each of the six paddles dip into the water at different times. I feel the boat wabble along in an awkward backward motion. The empty seats bang, but there is no rhythm. And my paddles skim along the water, “ttttthhhhhddddddd”.

Soon, I can longer see the swans. The music has ended and it is time for us to go home. I think about day light savings and how I will see the swans next week, in a full light. They will be large white birds, angrily hissing and spitting as they rule the water. They will no longer carry the beat of a cheap Latin disco. And I will no longer be able to hide in the darkness; the Romanian coach will yell my number and tell me to stop slouching, change the handles on my oars, and to stop talking to the guy behind me.





By Linda English