There is something about pushing yourself farther than you can go, until you feel ready to collapse, and then pulling that last five hundred harder than any before. There is something cleansing to the being in all the sweat and tears and blood that pour out over the course of a season. Nowhere else can such a rollercoaster of emotions be felt; adrenaline at the start, exhilaration during the sprint, fear at the necessity of another PR, sadness at the loss of oarsmen, frustration at every obstacle that rears itself. In no other sport is such a chaotic control present. Quick hands, quick body, slow slide; all eight oars in at perfect time