Arshay Cooper writes what’s real. And it’s A Most Beautiful Thing.
He writes turmoil and peace and conflict and redemption and death and survival and escape. Funny thing is though, Cooper’s story of Manley High Crew in the 1990s barely touches the uncomfortable stuff. But it’s uncomfortable anyway.
Want some privilege? Or at least, wanna see it? Maybe privilege is just comfort: a shelter from what’s real.
So Doc gets this email from Benson, forwarded by a friend
because Benson lost track of Doc’s address. Doc thinks, of course he lost
track, hell, Benson’s that nutty geology professor, just enough space in his
head for igneous, metamorphic, sedentary… sentimentary...
Then Doc reads the email.
And, well… damn. Doc’s gonna shut up for a minute and just let Benson say it.
Dear Dr. Emfbo,
I know you aren’t that kind of doc, but one of my oncologists swears she knows you from her fellowship at UW School of Medicine. She remembered that you spoke in a focus group about how rowing gave you the drive, grit and persistence to continue through tough times.
That was two years ago. I was in a hospital bed, and rather than watch a red poison go through a port in my chest, I flipped on the TV and blundered right into live broadcasts of the IRAs. UW was dominant of course, however the 500m/1000m/1500m/2000m splits became very real in the moment.
Anyone of us, who’s sat on a sliding seat or froze in the chase boat, knows the depth of pulling when you think you can’t pull any more, living that elegant Pocock quote of digging deep into reserves you didn’t know you had. It doesn’t matter whether you were like Hess, Clapp, Felix, or some lardbutt like me, you know the pain and how to keep going.
Yeah, those were the good old days certainly, but the lessons learned on the water aren’t forgotten. Now it seems like a gray and foggy stretch of smooth water is whispering by under the hull, lined by a rocky shore topped with cedars and hemlocks. The adrenaline crush and agony of 2000m is done, but there is no stop. The sculls somehow keep working, and an invisible opponent seems to be behind, then ahead, then behind again. But this opponent perversely takes chunks of leg. But somehow, those old skills keep you going, no stop. The opponent still dances, unfazed, chased by more chemicals. But again somehow, those old skills keep you going, no stop. The opponent yet still dances, unfazed, attacking lungs. Still again, somehow, those old skills keep you going, no stop. Maybe that wretched opponent will appear briefly before being rowed into oblivion and the sun will sparkle on the water. Then again, a quiet “way ‘nuff” may come out of the fog, a gentle tug on the oar will pull alongside the dock, and Coach Dik, Skip, Blake, and Mary will be standing there.
This isn’t a pity party. All that time on the water does pay off. Thank you Dr. Emfbo. I heard a rumor that you have a new resident, Dr. Mtbgf. I hope you continue to inspire thousands more beyond those of us who are lucky to have known you.
Rob Benson
In a followup, Benson sends a picture. Tabor Academy, Henley 1976. Benson at 7. Future Husky Legend Charlie Clapp in the bow. High school kids. Benson says “…one of those fleeting peak moments. …We were 3 lengths up. We got eliminated the next day by an even bigger crew.”
Tabor, Princess Elizabeth Cup, Henley Royal Regatta, 1976
Photo courtesy of Rob Benson
And Benson, whose life has seen plenty of peak moments but who still looks back to age 18 to find the one that matters, goes on to say “…FUCK CANCER.”
We all suffer, we all die. We get closer every day, regardless of what finally brings us to the end. But it punches you in the gut when you hit around sixty and suddenly you look at your friends and wonder when suffering and dying got normal. It’s a damn equalizer. Cancer doesn’t care who you were, what you won, whether you were “…Hess, Clapp, Felix, or some lardbutt like me….” Cancer disregards your purple jacket, your Olympic medal, your Super Bowl ring.
Benson hopes for sun sparkling on the water. Doc is reminded that Peckerhead Stillings shot a photo at Henley during the Boys of 77 Reunion Tour. It’s calm water just beyond the finish line, no boats, no people, just a glimmer of English sunlight as the afternoon fades. Stillings said, even if you win, the moment still fades into memory. You start, you race, you finish, you think it’ll happen again. You think that glory will be back another day. But to paraphrase Moonlight Graham, that was the only day.
"Back then I thought... there'll be other days..."
Photo: John Stillings
The race itself is the equalizer. We all hit the finish line in the same condition. It hurts like hell to see a brother in pain, but guys like Benson inspire us when they face it, not with a voice of despair, but with words from George Pocock about a vast and mysterious reserve of power, one we never knew we had.
Pocock was talking about Courage. Courage we find somewhere deep within, Courage that appears out of instinct, out of confidence that if we just pull harder, we got this race. Courage with a Capital C. The Big C. Benson’s got Courage, and it’s an inspiration, no matter when that finish line comes for any of us.
Many thanks to Rob Benson, Husky Crew Class of 1980, for the honesty and Courage. You can contact him with words of friendship and support at rgbenson@adams.edu .
UPDATE, Sunday, September 20: Got the following sad news today from Charlie Clapp '81:
"It is with profound sadness that I pass along the news that Rob passed away this morning, peacefully and at home. He had a reasonably good day yesterday, went to sleep last night and never awoke. A lifelong friend and crewmate since high school - we lost a good man. Everyone Be well and Stay well. Charlie/Chas"
