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Tony Scott-Gall: 1966 and 1967, rowing at Oxford University

The River Cherwell flows through the city and has given countless pleasure to thousands of students and the public for many, many years.

I write this as a dry bob, but for two glorious summers, in 1966 and 1967, I was a wet bob of limited ability, but irrepressible enthusiasm in rowing for The New College Rugger Eight in the Eights Week Head of the River competition.

New College Ruggers rowers on the water

The winter inter-college rowing competition called Torpids took place in the Lent term and was a very different competition. Clinker boats were used and the rowing technique was different to the shell boats used in Eights week. It was very cold, and progress was made by bumping the boat ahead. I never took part as it was a serious competition to become Head of the River. Nevertheless Torpids was a fine curtain raiser for eights week in the summer term, which was a very different competition to determine which college became Head of the River. The event took place in the summer term in the week of the Whitsun bank holiday culminating on the Saturday when the winning college eight became Head of the River. Part of the fun and the tradition of eights week involved crews of mixed skill, competence and experience.

The Oxford University Boat Club would draw up and publish the programme for the elimination races to take place on the Wednesday to Friday when the finalists for the races on the Saturday would be determined. The inter-college elimination races were held under race conditions in the three days before the finals on the Saturday. It was very disappointing to be eliminated and therefore not make the cut for your race on the Saturday. The University Boat Club published a full programme of the race times and the competing boats. The programme had the names of those rowing in each eight submitted by the College boat club secretary. This often led to wild and fictitious nomenclature of those taking part who deliberately invented “humorous names”.

Each college would have submitted their selected crews to participate in particular races according to their proven and verified ability. Large crowds attended, the towpath was packed and all the college boathouses were full with rowers, friends, family, boyfriends, girlfriends and puzzled members of the public. If the sun shone, and it certainly did in 1966 and 1967, there was a carnival atmosphere all the way along the tow path from Folly Bridge to the end of the course.

In 1966 and 1967, Oriel College was Head of the River. Hoping to replace them were Keble, Teddy Hall and New College in that order. Sadly it never happened in my time.

The rowing traditions were many and various but if the college first eight achieved three bumps and/or became Head of the River, an elderly and obsolete boat would be carried up from the river through the town to that college’s Quad and a huge bonfire would be lit and the aged boat would be given a Viking funeral followed by uncontrolled merriment for the rest of the evening.

Each college had their own boathouse, some grander than others. For the rowers their boathouse commanded the same affection and loyalty as the college cricket club felt about their pavilion. The New College groundsman, Jock, guarded his pavilion as if it were Lords, and the New College boathouse was presided over and guarded by an equally taciturn waterman, as long suffering and patient as his cricket counterpart. It was his task to coach the New College rugger eight, and to oversee them take their tentative first paddles on the river before being let loose on a full-size boat.

April 1966

I can’t remember who suggested we should put together an eight made up of members of the college rugby club. The college rowing tsar was a humourless individual and more than wary of the habits of our college RFC. We persevered and finally got our way as the college fourth eight. Our first problem was that none of us had rowed in a clinker boat let alone in an eight. We struggled to find seven oarsmen who could row. We recruited Mick, a goalkeeper for the college XI, to be our cox. We discovered much later he was without doubt the heaviest cox on the river. More of Mick later.

Our first move was to sidestep the captain of rowing. Our next move was to confirm we had eight good men and true to give it a go. We prevailed on two non-rugby players to join the five of us who were. Fortunately none of us had exams that term so we had plenty of practice time.

Our next move was to persuade the head boatman we were for real. This proved difficult at first but after much scratching and understandable “well I don’t knows” we prevailed and practice began in two little two-seat square unsinkable boats that did not go very far. But we were each using two hands to pull on a full-length oar. Magic.

After a few days each pair began to become more adept, or so we thought. After a week of practice our boatman softened and allowed us to take out a four-seat four-oar clinker boat. This was serious progress. We still needed an instructor/coach to tell us what to do when we got in the boat.

At first we continued to practise under the now benign eye of our boatman, going round in small circles.

One of our number had a brainwave. One of our much loved and senior scouts had rowed extensively as a young man on the Cherwell. So we asked Jack would he feel able and brave enough have the time on top of his college duties to act as our coach. We said we were all beginners but very enthusiastic. Jack knew us all and we knew him to be a most considerate man and a kind scout who had seen it all. He agreed and what followed were the happiest sporting days I had ever experienced. In the short time available Jack was down at the river every day, coaching us, instructing us in our fours to change this, change that. After a week or so of daily practice Jack felt we had improved enough to have a trial in full-sized eight. We were now in a shell, strapped in on our slides and pulling as a unit of eight. I was the smallest so I agreed to be bow, we had a rapidly improving stroke, two prop forwards at 4 and 5 and fast learners, two lineout specialists at 6 and 7 and anchoring (literally) the stern was our cox, Mick. Jack watched nervously after he had pushed us off into the river for the first time.

There was a short lull as we overcame the instant feeling of panic before he started calling the shots Jack shouted the unforgettable command “come forward to row”. In surprising unison we slid forward on our sliding seats, with oars raised. Jack shouted "row" and as one we struck the Cherwell with the our blades almost cleanly and simultaneously, We had achieved six clean strikes in near unison, on our first attempt. We repeated he exercise sliding forward and lifting our oars in readiness for the next stroke at Jack’s command. We completed at least eight clean strokes, no one caught a crab or dropped their oar or fell off their seat and we felt pretty good. Jack was delighted as was our relieved cox Mick who had an urgent need for a cigarette to calm his nerves, Mick being powerless in the stern and with no steering experience. Jack said we should carry on and he kept pace cycling alongside us on the tow path.

The sun shone, our boat skimmed along with no misadventures and we kept on rowing up to the turning area by the weir at the end of the course. The Trout pub was temptingly near but Jack had other plans and we retraced our unsteady steps. Jack would cycle along the towpath keeping pace and giving instructions, warnings and encouragement. We went down as far as Folly Bridge where members of the public watched us and waved. Mick managed to miss the bridge as he waved back, but however bad we looked on our first outing we felt pretty chuffed having rowed the length of the course. We got safely back to the boathouse, the taciturn boatman was all smiles (of relief no doubt) and Jack said, "Same time tomorrow, well done". More magic.

Much beer was consumed in the New College beer cellar that night as we drank the health of the humorless college rowing tsar.

Magic continued

We rowed every afternoon under Jack’s watchful eye, getting slowly more proficient. It was a wonderful form of exercise in the best of company in a glorious setting. One such day stands out. Jack told us that we should explore more of the river and improve our technique. His plan was that we should row up to the Perch pub, a splendid pub right on the river. This we did on the beautiful winding river Cherwell with Jack pedalling furiously alongside with his travel bag draped over his handlebars. We stopped after an hour or so of thirsty work. Jack then opened his bag and extracted eight bottles of Oxford’s best beer. This was the kindest of gestures from a scout to his charges. Refreshed we continued to the Perch where further refreshments were consumed. Jack was cautious as he had to cycle home back to the boathouse. We arrived unscathed and then went back to college and loudly toasted the humorless college rowing Ttar.

We continued to practise daily under Jack’s avuncular eye and we were slowly improving. We were “puddling” after a few weeks and looking more slick each day, so we thought. Word on the river began to get around. Our next hurdle to greatness was to qualify for the Saturday race programme. Most colleges put out similar eccentric rowing eights all eager to participate on the great day. There was a limit on the number of races that could be accommodated on finals day, with four boats to each race. Therefore there had to be elimination races which were hard-fought affairs with the chance of glory at stake for the winners on finals day. There were races on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday on the full course before the finals on the Saturday for those who prevailed in the elimination races. It meant we were engaged in competitive rowing for four days. It was nerve-wracking, hard work but gloriously exciting.

We were considered good enough to compete in the finals on Saturday but unsurprisingly at the lowest level. It mattered not, we were in the boathouse and rowing for New College, a big change from playing rugby for New College. We thought we should wear distinctive rowing vests if we qualified and we had commissioned Dan Topolski to go to Biba and get us eight trendy sweatshirts. I am ashamed to say I had never heard of Biba but Dan was undaunted and we had the shirts for the Saturday.

Our race took place, fortunately, before the crowds had built up. We rowed down the course under Folly Bridge and turned round to face up the river. There were six boats one behind the other a length apart held in position on the port side. All eights had come forward to row. When the starter pistol was fired all crews pulled away in pursuit of the boat in front. The object was to bump the boat in front with your prow on the other’s stern. The bumped boat would drop out and the successful boat would pursue the next boat ahead and try to bump that boat, a “double bump”. If successful this would be an excuse for wild celebrations when back at the boathouse.

Sadly we did not achieve a bump. We failed to get off to the blistering start we had been practising all week. Our revered cox Mick got his steering lines for the rudder all mixed up so when the starter pistol was fired Mick had the rudder at 90 degrees and not in a straight line in the direction we wanted to go. The drag on the boat was significant and slowed us down for quite a distance until Mick got it sorted. We avoided being bumped but just failed to make a bump. We accepted our lot with stoical dignity and no recriminations. Mick was not thrown into the Cherwell, although he paid for the drinks. The worst thing was that we felt we had let Jack down. "Not a bit of it", he said; he thought we had done far better than he expected. The rest of the day was one long party on the towpath and in and on the boathouse roof.

The New College First eight achieved two bumps, the second eight achieved two bumps, and the third eight was bumped. We were unscathed which was no disgrace. That night was memorable. Oriel remained Head of the River.

Surprisingly the college rowing tsar loosened up and agreed that we should celebrate the mixed success of all our college eights by having a rowing club dinner. We invited two guests of honour. John Snagg and Jack; both attended and we spent another noisy and very boisterous evening.

1967

We decided to continue the tradition of having a rugby club eight and to recruit sufficient volunteers for eights week. The college rowing captain was even less enthusiastic, let alone encouraging than his predecessor had been. Five of the 1966 eight were sitting their finals this year and tempting though it was they felt they could not spare the time from their studies. I was lucky and had no such concerns. The three of us from the 1966 eight recruited five good men, including a lighter Cox. For this year’s rugby club eight we had two American Rhodes Scholars who had never rowed before but both had learnt to played rugby very quickly. They proved to be naturals. The college rowing tsar asked whether we could include a protege of his who had not got a place in the other New College eights. We thought a little quid pro quo would get the tsar off our backs so we agreed and took him on. Unlike the college tsar he proved a delightful addition and slotted in very well. We recruited a genuine cox who, unlike Mick, had coxed before (Mick was taking exam finals that term and was not miffed to be excluded).

The training routine was more proficient as we were more experienced. It lacked the novelty and excitement of the year before but was enormous fun on every outing. We began to gel and it looked very promising for eights week. Even the College Tsar ceased showing his displeasure at our existence. We were feeing optimistic when we came to take part in the elimination races. We did very well in the first two and we were in contention for a place in the final when during the final heat and in front of the competition our number 4 caught a crab. These things happen and we did not have the skill or experience to rectify the situation. We rowed with an oar trapped in the water, dragging down our progress as best we could for half the trial course and as a result our time was too slow. Sadly the New College rugby eight did not feature in the finals on the big day. It was a great disappointment but we enjoyed the Saturday in the time-honoured way.

That marked the end of my time as a wet bob.

Memory added on November 2, 2021

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The New College Ruggers, 1966The New College Ruggers, 1966