Rowing at Dawn on the River

I joined a masters rowing club at forty-eight. Masters means "over twenty-seven," which made me laugh, but also means I'm in a boat with seven other people, mostly in their fifties and sixties, at five-thirty in the morning.

The river at that hour is the most beautiful place I know. Mist rises off the water. Herons stand on the banks like old men waiting for a bus. The city is still asleep. The only sounds are the oars hitting the water in unison and the coxswain calling out the rhythm.

When we row well, the boat lifts and glides, and it feels like flying. When we row badly, we splash each other, and everyone laughs.

After practice, we eat bagels on the dock with our feet hanging over the water. I've never been fitter. I've never been happier to wake up early.