With compulsory athletics, you don't end up having too many options until senior year. Until then, it was boys beating on boys in intramural house football - the oldest full-contact football league in the United States, I read - and then lurching into the drudgeries of winter and spring sports at which only the occasional sub-talented, or too lazy to try out for varsity, boy would attempt to lead his team. That was me with volleyball in the first month or so of winter term, and soccer at the start of spring term. Perhaps the best memory I have of how house volleyball played out is not even my own, but rather that of the duty master who coached our volleyball antics towards, and hopefully over, the net. It was some point during one of the games, when a boy on the other team happened to be standing on the court with his hand - and this is a bizarre trend I have not seen, thankfully, since my high school days - crassly down the front of his athletic shorts. He was neither fondling himself, nor was it cold, and the duty master (who we were all convinced had been a spy, and had a Chinese wife who barely spoke English) looked on with disgust, remarking dolefully that it was his personal volleyball that we were playing with. And does that cretin even realize where his hands have been and where they currently are?
It goes without saying that sophomore and junior year were a nightmare of competitive apathy.
So by the time senior year rolled around, the leashes were let out a bit, just taut enough to remind us of who was in charge, but just slack enough to earn our gratitude for the slender mercy afforded us: an extra hour of parietals (though I never really had girls in my room anyhow), an hour chipped away from study hall, and allowing the senior Upper House to become something of a quarantine colony for those with quick onset senioritis. And clearly, there is enough mayhem and debauchery in those extra hours to fill out page upon page, chapter upon chapter of epic stories. But my school, which I will perhaps keep unnamed for a while longer, has more than its fair share of lore in that manner, the kind of unspoken lore that garners a sly hint of a grin from the housemasters' mouths if they deem you worthy of such exclusivity. For the record, I never quite bought into the whole system of house competition (and as seniors, who were we fighting anyway?), and consequently suffered something of a rebuke from the housemasters. You have to figure that anyone living with their family in a house stuffed with over a score of teenage boys has to be looking for something they didn't get enough when they were stuffed into the plaster-walled rooms. They are curators of vicarious past ribaldries. They are the fathers that try to incompetently play Nintendo with you, and then refuse to drive you to your friend's house. Old boys and older rules lorded over the brick buildings of those dorms.
But in any case, with no one else to compete against - the senior boys were all packed into one enormous dorm - the non-varsity or JV sports for us were a hodgepodge of whatever activities the teachers that abhorred athletics wanted to do. Well, of course. You know that not all among those intellectual bunch had forgotten the days when they were humiliated by poor endurance and an anemic sense of coordination. So as it were, one of the physics teachers and another teacher I can't remember taught and sponsored - babysat, really - senior kayaking, the refuge of those of us looking to escape not only gruelling physical exertion, but also the confines of the 800-acre campus designed by the infamous Olmstead. There's never enough space when a wall is around it.
The first task was to teach us not to drown. We were taken to the swimming pool, where we then provided with kayaks, lifejackets and paddles, maybe even helmets. As we were instructed on how the skirt worked, and where the handles were, and how to bail out of the capsized kayak, I came to the realization that I was going to have to get wet, something I had reached a plateau of loathing for after having been forced on the swim team for 7 or 8 years of my early life. And whereas I appreciate the broader shoulders now, which I have received compliments directed specifically at (leaving me speechless, as how do you even respond to such a remark), there has ever since been a sour taste in my mouth for those chlorinated rectangular bodies of water. Eventually, we were all taught how to eskimo roll as well, which I think was taught to us more so to boost our self-confidence than anything else, as I don't think any of us were ever able to successfully execute the maneuvre in open water.
But finally, they thought we were ready to pile into the van and make our way towards the Delaware River, the very same one that George Washington brazenly crossed in a painting somewhere. The noble posture was a little compromised when I realized that the water was no more than chest deep in most parts I paddled about in.
At first, we didn't do anything fancy; we just took a leisurely kayak canoe trip down some side stream, where, to counteract some of the boredom of teenagers being surrounded by nature, my classmates began to compose a theme song for my roommate, who had somehow acquired the moniker of Robot Astronaut. I think that may actually have been my doing. It was partly because at some point in time in the van, we had been discussing a bass guitar, which Will heard as a "space guitar". It was also partly because we all enjoyed harrassing Will over his large head - though it could have just as well been a slender neck.
Eventually, the instructors decided we should tackle one of the waterfalls on the river. I think everyone was a little excited and anxious over the proposal, envisioning grandiose waterfalls from fiction and photos alike. Not to mention that one scene in The Last of the Mohicans starring Daniel Day-Lewis where he makes out with some girl behind an Indian waterfall before diving down the toppling water (I think that that particular film was watched a disproportionate amount in high school, and still sticks to the inside of my head to this day).
Of course, when we arrived at the waterfall, it was a gurgle of rushing water with the ferocity and grandeur of rainwater swirling down a sewer grate. Our physics teacher was clearly more excited than he had been in weeks, and was eager to get us all to 'surf' the little waterfall. We willingfully complied, paddling a few times in the rushing water before turning around and floating downstream a bit until we could make it back to the wooded bank of the river.
And one day, as the fall days got inevitably cooler, and the river correspondingly dropped a few degrees, we found ourselves more than a little disgruntled at the prospect of getting wet on such an overcast day, the kind that has the odor of unprepared for midterms and college essays. It was another day tackling the great waterfall and we could practically see the field lines and vectors of excitement radiating from our physics teacher's face.
We all took our time trudging down to the ater, dragging our kayaks on our shoulders (I swear they got heavier as the season wore on). By this time in the year, we had resorted to wearing the waterproof nylon jackets provided to us, possibly the most uncomfortable thing I had to wear all senior year. The wet nylon was one thing, but the elastic fitted cuffs and waistline made the whole thing near unbearable for me, and I even decided for a day to forego the thing altogether and just deal with the cold.
But if anything was a sign that none of our hearts were really in it that day, we were ignored. The results were almost comical, really: as we each took our turn, one by one, to try to surf the falls, we each, one by one, capsized immediately. Every last eight of us in less than ten minutes, swept downstream by the current, and unable to do an eskimo roll taught to us over a month ago in the placid serenity of the swimming pool. We all abandoned ship, which had been the modus operandi anyhow, as none of us were really capable of anything except saving ourselves. Except this time, I wasn't able to grab my kayak and paddle after I emerged from underneath the water. I began to focus, instead, on my swimming training as a child and started taking some decisive strokes toward the river bank. If anyone was watching, they might even be impressed enough to ask me where I learned how to swim like that. As it were, I took approxiamately three strokes before I realized I could stand up in the water, which came up somewhere along my thighs.
When I made it back to the bank, with all my other wet and shivering friends, I told the teacher that my school-provided kayak and paddle were floating downstream along the Delaware River somewhere. I could see my physics teacher's expression collapsing, like Rome in flames, becoming nothing more than a defeated resignation of an old white-bearded man by the time we all piled back in the van.
But for the moment, as the two teachers chased my kayak and paddle down the water, we were left on the bank of the Delaware River, shaking our wet hair out, with at least two hours before dinner at the dining hall and miles from campus. For the next 15 minutes or so, we were all free, free to be swept away by the fiery leaf-bearing currents of brisk autumn air before we too were hunted down by grizzled old physics teachers.
It goes without saying that sophomore and junior year were a nightmare of competitive apathy.
So by the time senior year rolled around, the leashes were let out a bit, just taut enough to remind us of who was in charge, but just slack enough to earn our gratitude for the slender mercy afforded us: an extra hour of parietals (though I never really had girls in my room anyhow), an hour chipped away from study hall, and allowing the senior Upper House to become something of a quarantine colony for those with quick onset senioritis. And clearly, there is enough mayhem and debauchery in those extra hours to fill out page upon page, chapter upon chapter of epic stories. But my school, which I will perhaps keep unnamed for a while longer, has more than its fair share of lore in that manner, the kind of unspoken lore that garners a sly hint of a grin from the housemasters' mouths if they deem you worthy of such exclusivity. For the record, I never quite bought into the whole system of house competition (and as seniors, who were we fighting anyway?), and consequently suffered something of a rebuke from the housemasters. You have to figure that anyone living with their family in a house stuffed with over a score of teenage boys has to be looking for something they didn't get enough when they were stuffed into the plaster-walled rooms. They are curators of vicarious past ribaldries. They are the fathers that try to incompetently play Nintendo with you, and then refuse to drive you to your friend's house. Old boys and older rules lorded over the brick buildings of those dorms.
But in any case, with no one else to compete against - the senior boys were all packed into one enormous dorm - the non-varsity or JV sports for us were a hodgepodge of whatever activities the teachers that abhorred athletics wanted to do. Well, of course. You know that not all among those intellectual bunch had forgotten the days when they were humiliated by poor endurance and an anemic sense of coordination. So as it were, one of the physics teachers and another teacher I can't remember taught and sponsored - babysat, really - senior kayaking, the refuge of those of us looking to escape not only gruelling physical exertion, but also the confines of the 800-acre campus designed by the infamous Olmstead. There's never enough space when a wall is around it.
The first task was to teach us not to drown. We were taken to the swimming pool, where we then provided with kayaks, lifejackets and paddles, maybe even helmets. As we were instructed on how the skirt worked, and where the handles were, and how to bail out of the capsized kayak, I came to the realization that I was going to have to get wet, something I had reached a plateau of loathing for after having been forced on the swim team for 7 or 8 years of my early life. And whereas I appreciate the broader shoulders now, which I have received compliments directed specifically at (leaving me speechless, as how do you even respond to such a remark), there has ever since been a sour taste in my mouth for those chlorinated rectangular bodies of water. Eventually, we were all taught how to eskimo roll as well, which I think was taught to us more so to boost our self-confidence than anything else, as I don't think any of us were ever able to successfully execute the maneuvre in open water.
But finally, they thought we were ready to pile into the van and make our way towards the Delaware River, the very same one that George Washington brazenly crossed in a painting somewhere. The noble posture was a little compromised when I realized that the water was no more than chest deep in most parts I paddled about in.
At first, we didn't do anything fancy; we just took a leisurely kayak canoe trip down some side stream, where, to counteract some of the boredom of teenagers being surrounded by nature, my classmates began to compose a theme song for my roommate, who had somehow acquired the moniker of Robot Astronaut. I think that may actually have been my doing. It was partly because at some point in time in the van, we had been discussing a bass guitar, which Will heard as a "space guitar". It was also partly because we all enjoyed harrassing Will over his large head - though it could have just as well been a slender neck.
Eventually, the instructors decided we should tackle one of the waterfalls on the river. I think everyone was a little excited and anxious over the proposal, envisioning grandiose waterfalls from fiction and photos alike. Not to mention that one scene in The Last of the Mohicans starring Daniel Day-Lewis where he makes out with some girl behind an Indian waterfall before diving down the toppling water (I think that that particular film was watched a disproportionate amount in high school, and still sticks to the inside of my head to this day).
Of course, when we arrived at the waterfall, it was a gurgle of rushing water with the ferocity and grandeur of rainwater swirling down a sewer grate. Our physics teacher was clearly more excited than he had been in weeks, and was eager to get us all to 'surf' the little waterfall. We willingfully complied, paddling a few times in the rushing water before turning around and floating downstream a bit until we could make it back to the wooded bank of the river.
And one day, as the fall days got inevitably cooler, and the river correspondingly dropped a few degrees, we found ourselves more than a little disgruntled at the prospect of getting wet on such an overcast day, the kind that has the odor of unprepared for midterms and college essays. It was another day tackling the great waterfall and we could practically see the field lines and vectors of excitement radiating from our physics teacher's face.
We all took our time trudging down to the ater, dragging our kayaks on our shoulders (I swear they got heavier as the season wore on). By this time in the year, we had resorted to wearing the waterproof nylon jackets provided to us, possibly the most uncomfortable thing I had to wear all senior year. The wet nylon was one thing, but the elastic fitted cuffs and waistline made the whole thing near unbearable for me, and I even decided for a day to forego the thing altogether and just deal with the cold.
But if anything was a sign that none of our hearts were really in it that day, we were ignored. The results were almost comical, really: as we each took our turn, one by one, to try to surf the falls, we each, one by one, capsized immediately. Every last eight of us in less than ten minutes, swept downstream by the current, and unable to do an eskimo roll taught to us over a month ago in the placid serenity of the swimming pool. We all abandoned ship, which had been the modus operandi anyhow, as none of us were really capable of anything except saving ourselves. Except this time, I wasn't able to grab my kayak and paddle after I emerged from underneath the water. I began to focus, instead, on my swimming training as a child and started taking some decisive strokes toward the river bank. If anyone was watching, they might even be impressed enough to ask me where I learned how to swim like that. As it were, I took approxiamately three strokes before I realized I could stand up in the water, which came up somewhere along my thighs.
When I made it back to the bank, with all my other wet and shivering friends, I told the teacher that my school-provided kayak and paddle were floating downstream along the Delaware River somewhere. I could see my physics teacher's expression collapsing, like Rome in flames, becoming nothing more than a defeated resignation of an old white-bearded man by the time we all piled back in the van.
But for the moment, as the two teachers chased my kayak and paddle down the water, we were left on the bank of the Delaware River, shaking our wet hair out, with at least two hours before dinner at the dining hall and miles from campus. For the next 15 minutes or so, we were all free, free to be swept away by the fiery leaf-bearing currents of brisk autumn air before we too were hunted down by grizzled old physics teachers.
