Even though it may have been a small chip in the paint work and the recipient of the memento would not have minded.  The chip still seemed like an unwelcome blemish on an illustrious career, which had spanned over more than a decade as a competing member on the national rowing team.  A career that would see her become the most successful female Australian athlete ever in her chosen sport at the World Titles.  To achieve this she would be placed on the podium five times as the recipient of three gold medals, one silver and one bronze medal.  Her career would also take in four gold medals, two silver and one bronze medal at the World Cup and a win at the Henley Royal Regatta on the River Thames, Oxfordshire, England.

When I first met her I had not even started my rowing career.  Back then my forte was as a paddler ploughing up and down the Yarra River in a sprint kayak and travelling around the country to an array of beaches, competing vigorously as a ski paddler at Surf Life Saving carnivals.  My second love was water polo and after a tiresome training session on the Yarra River I would run across the Princes Bridge and along Batman Avenue to the State Swimming Centre, where I would compete for Footscray Water Polo Club in their men’s state league one water polo team.  All this now seems like another life time ago, as does Jane’s farewell party, where a dozen drunken friends and highly trained athletes clamber in to a hired mobile hot tube to send her off on her first tour overseas with the national rowing team.

As the farewell party proceeded late into the night the hot tube would become shackled up to the back of a very tired and worn HD Holden station wagon with the intention of the well wishes being towed throughout the back streets of the inner Melbourne suburb of Richmond.  Fortunately for the HD wagon the nominated driver was too drunk to get the manual transmission into first gear, saving the old Holden from a back breaking task.  Thus the ruckus stayed safely in the backyard of the old Lord Street Fire Station and righteously so.

All sinners must pay their dues and we were to be spared no exception.  As unbeknownst to us the filter of the hot tube had contained remanence of the water from its previous use and in this water feasted a nasty bacteria that would produce burning red splotches over the body, making the skin painful to touch and clothes unbearable to be worn.  No one that had dipped into the hot tub was to be spared.  Our actions that night may have appeared outrageous and irresponsible to an outsider but in retrospect the manner in which the well wishes conducted themselves was one of inclusion regardless of sporting prowess and the well being of every one involved was looked out for.  It is a shame that over the years the selection process into and involvement in the national team have failed to promote the sane qualities.

Some memories you expect to never resurface again, like the party in the hot tub, forgotten for ever into the archives of time, to only be revealed after layer upon layer of life’s experiences have been peeled away.  Much like the old oar before me.  It had taken a month of weekends, steeling time between training sessions to strip back the varnish and the paint on the old oar.  As one layer of paint was removed from the blade of the oar a new paint scheme was revealed.  Identifying the lavish colours of the previous club that had owned it, until the last layer of paint was removed leaving the off white colouring of its timber exposed.  Lovingly the timber was worked with 60 grit grade sandpaper down through each grade before sanding being finally concluded with 320 grit grade paper.   One hand gently guiding the other over the circular contours of the oar until every blemish and imperfection in the spruce had been removed.

The walkway over looking the atrium level within my town house had become an artist studio, where one coat of timber preservative and three coats of varnish would be painstakingly applied.  Each coat being tentatively sanded back with 320 grit paper and the walkway thoroughly cleaned and vacuumed to reduce the likelihood of any contamination by dust during the next application of varnish.  All this in an attempt to produce a next to flawless finish to the timber.  This attempt to produce a next to flawless finish turned into a compulsive obsession while trying to apply the finial application of varnish that would not take properly to its previous coat, leaving runs in the varnish and patches of uncovered surface area over the oar.  All in all I was to apply the final coat more times than I have digits on my hand.

It almost seemed sacrilege to divide the blade into three diagonal bands and cover the rich honey coloured varnish in paint.  Each band equal in width, with the top band painted in wattle yellow, the bottom band painted in eucalypts green, while the centre band being left clear to allow the deep gloss of the varnish to bring through the warm texture of the spruce.  The yellow and green colours of the Australian National team forming the perfect back drop to the white and gold vinyl cut lettering that had been sign written across the face of the blade.

Intentionally the handle of the oar had been left untouched from restoration, retaining the raw timbers authenticity of use.  Over the years many different hands had held the oar, leaving its handle stained by murky river water, along with body oils excreted by sweaty palms.  The stains seeping so deep into the timber that no amount of sanding would ever remove them, thus remaining as a permanent fixture.

This stained handle also carried with it the desire of every rower who had ever held the oar.  A desire that would see them persevere through pain and frustration to improve the technique and the efficiency of their blade work through the water.  All this in an endeavour to bring the boat home across the finishing line first.

In retrospect the staining of the oar handle and each hand that had held it would come to ideally represent the symbolic journey the sport of rowing that would take Jane on:

A hand on the oar for each training session that Jane had undertaken.

A hand on the oar for each year Jane had been selected on the national team making her one of the one of the eldest and most experience members of the team.  A matriarch full of guidance and inspiration for the younger team members.

A hand on the oar for every time Jane had been told that her body action was not as pretty as the other girls in the crew regardless of the efficiency of her blade work.

A hand on the oar for every time Jane had been dropped from team.

A hand on the oar for every time Jane had proved her resilience by regaining her place back on the national team.

A hand on the oar for every night Jane had shed a silent tear through the riggers of selection trials and the stress of maintain her seat in the crew right up to the heats at the World Titles.

A hand on the oar for every time Jane had to prove her worth by standing on the winner’s deuce at the world titles.

As I dabbed at the chip in the green paint, careful to prevent paint build up around its edges, my memory wandered back to the words a friend had once said. “A campion is not one who wins then disappears into obscurity, but one who has the ability to stay amongst the fray over an extended period of time”.  How true these words were and in no better way could the vinyl lettering express this.

“Jane Robinson

Ten Years on the National Team

and Three Olympics

Congratulations”

Truly an Illustrious career.