11th Grade in the Books

First sight of the Bay below him as he woke. 

Got the kid; he is beside me sleeping now. He has slept across Massachusetts and Pennsylvania and New York and Ohio. We tried to wake him for food, but he couldn't lift his head, so he slept over the Dakotas and Wyoming too. He wants to watch the Warriors when we land.

11th grade is notoriously difficult at any school, and indeed this year he has climbed quite a hill: eight standardized tests (with two more APs to go); the dreaded history 333 and a chemistry class popularly known as death chem. But he has also had sublime moments of learning like when his teacher had office hours in the observatory, and told F to look at Jupiter. He was giddy when he called us afterwards: "I saw three of her moons!"

Traditionally, on the night before the last day of school, the kids stay up all night bidding goodbye to the seniors. Each one hears reminiscences about himself, and they tell each other things that have perhaps not been said. He said many kids break down: big hockey players and skinny kids from Hong Kong weeping and telling each other thank you and goodbye. Frederick said prep year it was more like watching movie stars, people who were so removed from you, that you couldn't really feel sad. But as he gets older, it gets sadder- he is friends with the seniors now. I can only imagine what next year will be like for him, my sentimental Teuton with Wentworth in his blood.

I am listening to the prettiest Bob Dylan version of a song that I had never heard before: Canadee-I-O. It's about a girl who stows away to see distant lands and have an adventure, but when the sailors find her they want to kill her. She is  eventually saved by the captain and by all accounts they go on to live happily ever after. It seems somehow appropriate now: an ode to people who want to see the broader world (both the physical and the universe of the mind) and are willing to risk discomfort to do it.

Speaking of discomfort- Margaret and I witnessed something amazing at crew practice. Charlie asked us if we would come watch him row his 2k test. We entered the beautiful old boathouse, where a single rowing machine was set up in the semi darkness. (It had the gloomy drama of an electric chair.) Charlie was nervous- pacing around with his head down, but insisting we stay despite our reluctance. His teammates were speaking softly to each other and to him, and one quietly put a garbage can behind the machine. This we later learned, was for the vomit. It seems that in the world of crew, the only thing that matters- (indeed two colleges already called him over this one tiny number) is the amount of time it takes him to row 2 kilometers on an erg machine. It's crazy in its simplicity and brutality. So he gets on and is rowing what looks like a slow pace. All around him are people cheering quietly while the coxswain is pacing him "Good Charlie, long strong strokes. Good Charlie 1:27 keep this exact pace. Good Charlie, you have got this." It moves me how he keeps using his name.
Good Charlie. I'm here.

And then comes the hardest part- the last two minutes when the lactic acid is putting him in agony. More kids come around; they are excited at the pace he is setting and they start to really cheer. They are clapping and yelling and the coxswain's voice is above all of them keeping him on pace. I noted to Margaret that Charlie's pace is a direct threat to their position on the team and perhaps with the colleges; but you wouldn't know it, the way they are ecstatically cheering him on-urging him to not stop, telling him they are with him. And then amid all the screaming and cheering Charlie finishes and falls off the machine. I'm telling you, I had tears in my eyes.

Youth is wasted on the young isn't it? ....they don't realize that there aren't many times in life when one is doused in friendship like that; with love flowing down over your head; and a vomit bucket conveniently behind your back.