The Boathouse – Part 1: Double Scull

"Stop pulling so hard," said Aaron.

"I'm rowing."

"You're fighting." Aaron leaned forward from the seat behind. "Let the boat run. Hear that? That hiss? That's the water saying thank you."

Sam breathed out and eased his stroke. The double scull slid forward across the glassy surface of the Thames, a long narrow arrow of white carbon sliding between banks of mist and willow. It was six in the morning in Henley, and the river was perfectly still. A swan drifted by, unbothered.

Sam, thirty-one, an accountant from Reading, had joined the rowing club to get fit and meet people. He had not expected to be sitting in front of a man who rowed like he was breathing. Aaron, thirty-four, the club's quiet veteran, was broad-shouldered and sandy-haired, with a calm voice and forearms scarred from a hundred races.

"Better," said Aaron. "Now watch the blades. Together."

They rowed upriver in perfect time, blades dipping and lifting like a single pair of wings. The mist burned off in the rising sun. Across the water, the boathouses glowed gold. By the time they reached the turn, Sam's face hurt from smiling.

"That," said Aaron, softly, "was beautiful."

"It was."

"I don't usually say that."

"Why not?"

"There's rarely a reason." Aaron paused, shipping his oars. "Sam. I would like to ask something, outside the boat. Would you have breakfast with me? Not at the club."

"I'd love to," said Sam.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Long Breakfast.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Long Breakfast.