Harry Parker sat on the roof of the boathouse at Lake Quinsigamond, his arms across his knees, looking down the 2000-meter course for the first glimpse of his heavily favored crew.

Next to him frosh coach Ted Washburn hustled around, working his camera equipment and trying not to think about his crew's loss to Cornell.

Parker's face was expressionless as announcements of Harvard's progress came over the loudspeaker, expressionless even as he caught sight of his crew at the 1000-meter mark, and nearly expressionless as he watched Harvard cross the line first, open water ahead of Wisconsin.

He had to grin then and he slowly began to remove his watch, take the change out of his pockets, and put away anything he didn't want wet as a prelude to being thrown into the lake.

It was a welcome dunking, the first in four years, the eighth in Parker's 11-year career. It signaled Harvard's return to top spot in the collegiate rowing world.

Good Start

The race never seemed to be in doubt. The Crimson got off to a good start, the best of its season, and was a half length up right away.

At the 1000 Harvard had lengthened that lead to a full length. Wisconsin was in second, followed closely by MIT and Northeastern. Shades of the last two years, the Huskies began to move at that point, driving by MIT and moving on the Badger crew.

Harvard refused to grow shaky and blow the race, however, rowing steadily through the third 500 meters and pulling even farther ahead. Wisconsin pulled up ever so slightly at the 1600-meter mark and then the Crimson went into its sprint, rowing easily and beautifully into the slight headwind to finish the course in 6:02.8, five seconds ahead of Wisconsin and eight in front of Northeastern.

Top Spot

The race ended any doubt anyone might have had about Harvard's talents; the Crimson made winning the race look positively easy--not quite as easy as some of their wins this season but easy nonetheless.

Across the finish line the Crimson crew looked strangely isolated on the water, away from its admirers, waving in the general direction of the shore, the oarsmen in those strangely varied postures of the post-race moment, some leaning over their oars in exhaustion, some nearly lying down in the boat.

On the dock they all succumbed to that inarticulate feeling of quiet delerium which attacks champions, so all they could do was babble happily and grin like idiots in rapture.

Their finest moment had come on the water, in the last moments of the race, swinging together precisely, a collective manifestation of skill, eight instruments of controlled violence.