One of the most rewarding features of that traditionally ill-paid calling sports writing is the fine location from which its practicioners are permitted to observe any event from football to billiards. And of all sports where this custom comes in handy, crew is foremost.

For the riverside spectator, watching a crew race means listening to a loudspeaker for eight minutes and then watching the last two hundred yards of a race; for the coach, it means following directly behind one's pupils, anxiously peering at a stopwatch and observing with horror that Number Three is a little late on his catch.

The crew reporter, on the other hand, finds himself in a spacious launch which runs up the river parallel to the race. Thus he may not only see all the race, but see it from an optimum angle. There are many items of interest which the aforementioned spectator never discovers for the simple reason that they all crop up out of sight. Chief among these is that the published accounts of a race have little, if anything, to do with its actual conduct. Last Saturday the scribes huddled on the way down to the starting line and selected a cleancut Annapolis second classman as official Recorder of The Stroke. This gentleman stepped to the poop deck of the lobster boat that the HAA had thoughtfully hired, cleared his throat, and made the following announcement:

"I'll keep the leader's stroke. Intended to follow Navy anyhow. Can you hear me from up here?" (This last in a frightening bellow.)

Unheard But Unbowed

When the first race began, this youth swung into action. His eyes roved over the waters, his hand jerked spasmodically, and he shouted hoarsely throughout the race. Unfortunately, his remarks were addressed directly into the wind, and no one heard him.

The problem then was still present. Shortly after Henry Johnston, chief greeter for the Athletic Association had shouted "We're off!" and had narrowly missed immersion leaving the dock, another conference was held on the launch. Mr. Alison Danzig, visiting steward from the New York Times Boating Club, spoke first:

"Who can keep times?"

Into the breach stepped Douglas Kennedy, who sports the colors of the New York Herald Tribune flotilla.

"I'll do it. Used to row We'll make out."

Kennedy, refusing offers of watches, hourglasses, and other servile instruments, barked out crisp times throughout the Varsity race. It appeared from his information that Harvard started fast, dropped to a 34 for the body of the race, and rose to a 36 or 37 at the finish. He dismissed briefly suggestions from others that they might be rowing at a more leisurely rate, urging the information that in a race a crew has to maintain a beat of at least 32 to stay in contention.

The End of An Era

When the shouting had died and the contestants were homeward bound, the correspondents gathered about Tom Bolles, a sort of local oracle on these matters. His first remarks were in part:

"They rowed very well. Curwen started well, rowed a 31 almost all the way, and finished at 35."

It was too late, however. Commodore Kennedy had departed for the telegrapher's desk to submit his report to the home moorings on 44th St.

Friends, the press launch offers everything. Fine seats, free Hershey bars from Bill Bingham, and a chance to rub elbows with the great infallibles of the sporting pages.