On a Sunday in June, I helped row a beautiful wooden racing skiff on the Erie Canal—and lived to tell the tale, despite the abuse my back, arms, and dignity took in the process.

We were aboard a St. Ayles Skiff, a twenty-two-foot-long, 500-pound wooden goddess of a boat that looked like it rowed right out of a maritime museum. That’s fitting, because it did—courtesy of the Saunders Finger Lakes Museum in Branchport, New York. The boat is part of their Community Rowing program, which gives landlubbers like me a chance to travel back in time, burn some calories, and pretend we know what we’re doing on the water.

Joining me were three life-jacketed shipmates: Hilary Strong, Bob Jamieson, and Ken Osika. We each paid thirty bucks for a ninety-minute nautical workout disguised as historical tourism. Bargain of the century if you enjoy light suffering, pretending to be a pirate, and singing whaling tunes.

These skiffs were originally Scottish fishing boats, built to withstand the harsh conditions of the North Sea, which is essentially nature’s blender, akin to Deadliest Catch. They’re named after the medieval St. Ayles’ Chapel in Anstruther, which I’m pretty sure translates from ancient Gaelic as “Ye Olde Shoulders Shall Ache.” To learn more, visit the Scottish Coastal Rowing Association at scottishcoastalrowing.org.

Our boat was a handcrafted stunner—clean lines, elegant curves, and a navy blue hull so classy it could’ve worn a tux. Dr. Craig Hohm built it ten years ago from a marine plywood kit. It took six months as part of a boat-building class. Our fearless coxswain and guide was D.J. Kitzel—teacher, stonemason, furniture maker, wilderness skills instructor, and the kind of fun fellow you would like to hang with. D.J. (you can read about him in the September 2024 issue) sat high and mighty at the stern, steering with a wooden rudder and shouting rowing commands like a very polite Viking.

I ended up in the number one seat—closest to D.J.—because I sat down first and no one stopped me. That meant the others had to watch my technique (or lack thereof) and try to match my timing. I asked them to call me Captain Ahab. They voted instead for Shut Up and Row.

Rowing a skiff is a full-body workout, with four twelve-foot-long heavy wooden oars made of spruce, which is Norwegian for “My God, that’s heavy.” Your legs push, your arms pull, your back begs for mercy, and your shoulders try to unionize. And through it all, D.J. chanted, “Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.” Under my breath, I was chanting, “Ibuprofen. Ibuprofen. Ibuprofen.” We rowed with our backs to the bow, which meant we couldn’t see where we were going, just where we’d been. It’s like life, only with splinters.

Despite our ragtag coordination, the boat moved. Sort of. The canal kindly gave us a tailwind, and we powered along the historic waterway lined with trees, stone walls, and amused pedestrians wondering if we were a historical reenactment or just lost. We passed under old iron bridges and waved at cyclists, joggers, and one guy eating an ice cream cone who looked confused and slightly alarmed. We shared the canal with sleek rowing shells, a tour boat, and a majestic wooden canoe, paddled by two men who looked like they practiced synchronized canoe ballet. Show-offs. Wildlife sightings included a great blue heron, a white-tailed deer, and a woodchuck lounging on a floating dock with a quizzical expression that said, “You folks rowing for fun, punishment, or because you lost a bet?”

The highlight? D.J. singing old sea shanties. Imagine a man serenading you with tales of rum, sea monsters, and drunken peg-legged sailors while you row like you’re in a salty sea period reenactment, but sweatier. We even joined in on a breathless, off-key chorus or two, though we were out of sync and pitch enough to cause fish to leap from the water.

But now and then, magic happened. All four oars hit the water in perfect harmony. The skiff glided silently, and the boat creaked its approval like an old porch swing. For a few seconds, we were a team. We were powerful. We were...sore.

Back at the dock, we hauled the boat out like victorious warriors—if warriors wore sunglasses and complained about lower back pain. We were tired, but high on endorphins and a sense of historical fantasy.

Want to try it? Good news—there are two more excursions planned this summer, with departures at 1 p.m., 2:30 p.m., and 4 p.m.

They are Sunday, August 3, at Canadice (northeast boat launch), and Sunday, September 7, at Hammondsport (Depot Park). Up to five people can go: four rowers and one lucky freeloader who sits in the bow and switches out when someone fakes a cramp. To book a skiff session or learn more, visit fingerlakesmuseum.org/programs-events or call (315) 595-2200. So, grab a few friends (preferably with strong backs and a sense of humor), and discover how fun it can be to row the hard way. No experience necessary—just enthusiasm, a willingness to splash a little, and the ability to chant “heave-ho” without irony.