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pies, Poppa. We don’t need an anchor in the boat, now do we?’
    It took all my self-control not to pick up that iPad and clap him over the head with it.
    With the horror of weigh-ins over, I carried my scull over my head down to the staging, flicked the light on the end of my bow and grabbed some oars from a stack on the bank. You’d think it would be quiet this early in the morning, but it was already a circus. Bikes, coaches shouting, street-cleaners beeping, trucks roaring towards the highway, cicadas chirping.
    The sky was muddy, but I could see Penny screwing her oar into its gate with the rest of the girls’ first eight. She glanced at me, then looked away, pulling her cap down over her eyes. But as she rowed past she smiled at me shyly.
    I shivered – not because of the cold wind – but because Penny gives me full-on body tingles. Even from a distance. She’s beautiful, graceful and has this way of twirling her hair around one finger and sort of spacing out when we have rowing meetings. What is she thinking about? About me? I doubted it. Leni said she ‘maybe’ liked me. Was maybe enough to ask her out?
    I tried to find my balance, wiggling around on my bum cheeks and taking a few strokes. It felt tippy.
    Sam rowed around me. ‘We’re first, Poppa!’ he shouted. ‘You, me, Julian and Mal. You ready, fat boy?’
    â€˜I was born ready, douche bag,’ I said back, full of false confidence. Sam was one of the guys that liked to hang it on me for my weight. Another reason I didn’t like him.
    We rowed down to the start. The city buildings were dipped in fog and a flock of black birds swooped on my boat. Looking back, it was a bad sign.
    Westie lined us up four in a row and shouted across the water. ‘Attention! Row!’
    Sam got an early lead with a high stroke count. I tried to stay calm and stick to my race plan – long, strong and steady. Loose and confident. Push, drive.
    Mal slipped back after the first 250. Julian hung in for a bit longer, but his technique fell apart and it became a two-man race. Me versus freaky Sam. It’s what the coaches wanted to see, but I don’t think anyone expected me to be sitting on Sam’s wash.
    At the 500 I took my first proper look over my shoulder to see where I was placed. I wasn’t making up ground on Sam – I’d let him pull out to two lengths lead.
    Of course that’s when Dad started yelling at me.
    â€˜Cristian, relax! Don’t rush! Listen to the boat!’
    I listened to the boat. It was making a clunking sound. I was rushing into the front and my blades dragged along the water. I kept looking over my shoulder and saw Sam was taking more water from me – three, maybe four lengths.
    â€˜Time to go, Cristian!’ Dad shouted as we passed the 1000-metre marker. ‘Time to go now, son!’
    I was going already. If I was driving a car my foot would have been on the floor in heavy boots.
    I tried to spring from my toes, but I had nothing left. My catches were heavy. Instead of accepting defeat I went for one last effort in the final 500, taking my rating up a few clicks. That’s when it happened.
    The boat tipped to one side, so fast I couldn’t correct it. One second I was dry and the next I was swimming up to my neck in freezing, murky Yarra water. It was so cold my balls shrunk to the size of grapes and I screamed like a girl when I felt something slimy brush past my leg. I tried to get back in the boat but the frame was so small and slippery it kept tipping me back out.
    â€˜Come on!’ I swore at the boat.
    The other guys were racing down the course towards me. I didn’t want to become that kid who was cut in half during a training session.
    â€˜Cristian! Come to the bank!’ Dad yelled. ‘Swim your boat across!’
    Sam had spotted that I was in trouble and was tapping his boat over to play hero.
    â€˜Are you okay, Cris?’ he