#rower

On 26th January 1981 the empty shell of the ‘Bass Conqueror’ off the shore of Ireland.

“Some people might think I am a crackpot, but I am sure I will survive to answer them when I return"

The words of 27-year-old Kenneth Kerr, a former petty officer on the British nuclear submarine HMS Conqueror, who on May 21st, 1980, left Newfoundland in Canada on his second attempt to row 2100 miles across the Atlantic in the 13ft glass-fibre dinghy Bass Conqueror.

Having held a life-long ambition to set the record for the smallest boat ever to have been rowed across the Atlantic single-handedly, Kenneth’ tragically didn’t make it home.. Bass Conqueror, an Orkney Spinner flat-bottomed rowing boat, was specially fitted out for his first attempt in 1979 by a boat builder at Kenneth’s home town of Port Seaton in East Lothian, and named after a product brewed by Tennent Caledonian Breweries - joint sponsors of the venture .But Kenneth’s initial attempt was to end disastrously. Capsized twice by giant waves after 58 days at sea, he desperately fought to upright the vessel both times and was incredibly fortunate to find both his tiny inflatable life-raft and transmitter floating close by. But in stormy seas 700-miles off the Canadian coast, the boat soon began to fill with water, and after climbing into the 4ft diameter raft, Kenneth watched as Bass Conqueror was swallowed up by yet another enormous wave.

With no food or water, struggling with the bitter cold and at the mercy of the high seas, he fumbled with the transmitter to send out a distress signal, which was picked up by a British Airways Concorde en route to New York. Canadian coastguards were alerted, spotter planes were dispatched and an Argus aircraft was soon able to pass on his position to a German container ship - Stuttgart Express - which detoured 45 miles to come to his rescue.

His barnacle-covered vessel was found washed-up on the Irish coast five months later. However, inspired by John Ridgway and Chay Blyth, who had successfully crossed the Atlantic in 1966, Kenneth was not ready to give up on his dream.

Following repairs at the Orkney Co. Boat Yard at Arundel, Sussex, Bass Conqueror was ready for another attempt, and on May 21st, 1980, he set off yet again from Newfoundland. On August 13th, 500 miles off the coast of Ireland, Kenneth was spotted by the crew of a passing cargo ship, who gave him fresh food and water, and in the weeks ahead made several radio transmissions, the last of which came after 156 days at sea on October 25th when a faint message of ‘bearing 123 degrees’ was picked up by expedition ship Eye of the Wind.

Sadly, Kenneth was never to be seen or heard from again. Bass Conqueror was recovered by a Norwegian rescue team near Stavanger on this day in 1981.

It all began when I stumbled upon a beginner's rowing course at my university. Initially, I thought it would be a casual form of exercise, a delightful change from the mundane routine of studying and lectures. Once a week, I'd take to the water, finding myself captivated by the rhythm of the oars and the gentle lull of the waves. On this particular day, however, my routine was about to take an unexpected turn. I found myself in the changing room of the rowing club, amidst the hustle and bustle of the competitive sports team getting ready for their training session. As I fumbled with my rowing gear, they approached me, a sense of urgency in their voices.

"Hey, are you a rower too?" one of them asked, eyeing me curiously. "Well, I've been taking a beginner's course. I'm not really at your level," I admitted, feeling a bit out of place among these seasoned athletes. "We're short one rower for the eights. Would you like to join us? You seem pretty fit," another athlete offered, waving me over to their group. I hesitated for a moment, feeling uncertain about joining them. "I'm not sure if I can keep up with you guys," I confessed, feeling a bit intimidated. "Don't worry, all you need to do is swing a bit. You'll manage just fine," they reassured me, their friendly smiles putting me at ease. Encouraged by their confidence in me, I finally agreed and followed them to the boat. As we rowed, I found my rhythm and felt a surge of exhilaration coursing through my veins. This was a whole new level of rowing, and I was loving every moment of it.

However, as the training session went on, I started feeling the strain on my muscles. I wasn't used to this level of exertion. "Come on, Leon, you've got this!" the coach hollered, pushing us to give it our all. "Exhaustion is all in the mind. Straighten your upper body immediately after each stroke. Envision yourselves as magnificent, erect cockes, proud and strong!" I couldn't help but find the coach's choice of words quite peculiar and frankly suggestive, but I tried to focus on the rowing, putting the strange words out of my mind. The training proved to be incredibly challenging, leaving me barely able to form coherent thoughts. The coach kept repeating the same mantra, urging us to think of ourselves as proud, erect cockes. It was becoming increasingly bizarre, but I pushed through the exhaustion, determined to prove myself. Finally, the grueling training concluded, and the athletes thanked me, commending my performance and expressing gratitude for stepping in as the missing rower was ill. It was then that they asked me if I could fill in for the upcoming weeks, not wanting to let the university team down. Without giving it much thought, I agreed. Now training nine times a week, any worries I had vanished the moment I set foot in the boat. My only thought was that of being a proud, erect cock, just as the coach had drilled into us.

However, things took an unexpected turn when the coach decided that I should row a double scull with Trevor, a handsome and accomplished rower who exuded an air of arrogance and smugness that I couldn't stand. "Great, now I have to deal with Trevor," I grumbled inwardly as we prepared for our first session together. True to my expectations, Trevor lived up to his reputation, making snide remarks and acting as if he was doing me a favor by rowing with me. "Alright, Leon, just focus on mimicking my movements. I'll do the thinking for both of us," Trevor declared, his overbearing demeanor grating on my nerves.

Despite our best efforts, our rowing didn't quite mesh. The trainer took it upon himself to explain gently: “Leon, imitate Trevor’s movements. He is the stroke and he decides what happens in the boat. Remember: you're just a cock made of muscles and sperm cords that can't think." I was taken aback by the coach's comparison, but I bit my tongue and tried to focus on improving our synchronization.

Over time, things improved between Trevor and me, and I found myself becoming incredibly athletic from the frequent training. As much as I disliked Trevor, I couldn't deny the positive impact the rigorous sessions had on my physique and stamina. After a particularly grueling practice, as we docked the boat, the coach posed a question to me: "Leon, what are you?" Without hesitation, I responded, "I am a cock composed of muscles and seminal cords," parroting the coach's words without a second thought. Later, as we grabbed ice cream, the vendor asked me what flavors I wanted, and suddenly, I found myself at a loss, glancing at Trevor for guidance. "He'll have strawberry and vanilla," Trevor decided, taking charge of the situation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As we continued our intense training regimen, Trevor suggested that I would show off my muscles better if I shaved off my body hair, stating that cockes didn't have hair. I saw the logic in his words and proceeded to rid myself of any visible body hair. Before I knew it, Trevor's influence extended beyond rowing sessions. He began making decisions for me, from my workout routines to my diet and even my wardrobe. I was slowly but surely being molded into his image.

"Leon, what's our training goal?" the coach asked one day, directing the question to me. My mind immediately turned to Trevor, waiting for his prompt before responding, "Trevor should answer that." "Our aim is the Olympics," Trevor stated confidently, leaving no room for argument. The coach smiled contentedly, remarking that his methods had evidently been successful, and this time, Trevor's training partner wouldn't be bailing on them. Unbeknownst to me, I had become Trevor's perfect and obedient training partner, my thoughts consumed by the singular focus of growing muscles, obeying Trevor, fulfilling our shared ambition and to fuck.

As the days passed, I found myself drifting further under Trevor's influence, and my own desires and motivations became secondary to his commands. It was after a training session under the showers that Trevor made it abundantly clear just how deeply entrenched his hold over me had become. "You are mine, Leon. Mine to shape and mold as I see fit," he whispered, his words sending shivers down my spine. I couldn't deny the thrum of excitement that coursed through me, knowing that I was completely under his control, giving myself over to his every whim and fancy. With each passing day, I became more like an extension of Trevor, my every action and thought aligned with his desires. Finally, at the peak of our training, as we stood on the brink of our Olympic aspirations, Trevor's words echoed in my mind: "You are mine, Leon. Mine to shape and mold as I see fit." And as the final race approached, my only thought was to grow muscles, to obey Trevor, and to soar to glory together as a proud, erect cock devoted to my master.

Na Placu Nowy Targ nie ma już karmników dla ptaków.

Czy ten rower służy do przewożenia ludzi? 😉