“Where are my eyes?” Vince calls out to our quad scull.

It’s 7:00am on a chilly, gray, Sunday morning in early November. The Schuylkill River is calm. I am not. Neither is Vince, the other first-timer in the boat. He twists in his seat as veteran rowers Bill and Gary steer us clear of the docks at Boathouse Row. Like Vince, the awkwardness of blindly moving backwards is hitting me, but I don’t have to ask where to look.