Every day at 5 a.m., the St. Olaf rowing team schleps out to Union Lake, a miniscule, radioactively green bowl of algae soup tucked amongst the rolling cornfields of Rice County, to practice. Under the moonlight, they uncover the boats, resembling telephone pole sized carbon fiber toothpicks, and set off into the black water. For two hours, they brave the biohazardous pond, conducting drills and sprints as they zig zag across the lake, returning to campus just in time for 8 a.m classes. The team is reunited for their second batch of practices after dinner in Skog, where they deploy a fleet of rowing machines “ergs” onto their sliver of Tostrud real estate, working strength and technique practice together in a larger, more laid-back setting.
Coming from a high school career in cross-country and track, sports notorious for leaving participants feeling like their lungs have been placed in a cement mixer, I figured rowing would be light work, but this was not the case. In rowing, form is everything. My first few weeks on the ergs, I looked more like a dad trying to start a stubborn lawn mower than someone who belonged on any sort of watercraft, yanking the handle with an uncoordinated fervor only appreciated by aspiring chiropractors and spine surgeons.
Eventually, I began to learn the ins and outs of technique, moving different limbs at the correct times, becoming a part of the machine; but as I got better, it became more and more exhausting. On the water, things get even more dicey. Everyone must row in unison to keep up pace and prevent unwanted oar-vertebra contact that can-and has-launched rowers out of the boat, where they quickly dissolve into a pile of bones in the nasty lake. It’s tricky at first, but quickly becomes quite satisfying; there’s almost a musicality to it, coordinating the rhythm of everyone’s momentum and movements for maximum efficiency. Rulewise, rowing is pretty no-nonsense. Boats are inspected like F1 cars, making sure they fit the specifications of the event at hand. There are a myriad of laws surrounding movement in regattas — where to go and when to go there, who starts when, where to load and unload boats, and so on.
When I was bombarded with all of this information in my first few weeks on the crew, I was hesitant about my future in the sport, but the team itself has managed to convert this seemingly herculean sport into a beginner-friendly great time — it’s the team spirit department where this club scores major points: At the helm of the rowing crew are president Nathan Sandoval ’25 and coach Odin Milbury ’27, who were turbo-patient and helpful as I built up my skills and run a fantastic executive team — they are planning machines, churning out a smorgasbord of events, including fundraisers, movie nights, fake weddings, and more. Despite the sport’s difficulty, it’s hard to have a bad time.
When the team shows up to regattas or rowing races, they turn up in Bad News Bears fashion, occupying a modest tarp amongst the sea of team logos, tents, and coordinated outfits, yet they always punch far above their weight in performance, beating a number of varsity teams this fall. A running joke on the team is their infallible 100% victory rate against Carleton — Carleton does not have a rowing team.
The rowing team is always open to new members of all levels of experience and commitment (5 a.m. practices are not required!) It’s one of the most rewarding, gnarly activities I’ve ever subjected myself to, but having a super team to accompany you through those brutal 2000 meter sprints is what makes rowing at St. Olaf truly a fantastic experience.
