By Yin Nwe Ko
WESTERN rowing as a sport traces its origins back to ancient Egypt and Rome, where boats were used for warfare, trade, and transportation. However, its evolution into the competitive sport we know today began in England during the 17th and 18th centuries. On the River Thames in London, races between watermen and boatmen emerged, drawing public spectators and sparking betting. The Doggett’s Coat and Badge race, first held in 1715, is recorded as the earliest formal rowing competition in the West, marking the sport’s official beginnings.
By the 19th century, rowing had become more structured and gained widespread popularity. The annual race between Oxford and Cambridge universities, starting in 1829, brought global attention to the sport. These events elevated rowing to a prestigious activity, leading to the formation of clubs and associations, particularly in Europe and America. Rowing was included in the modern Olympics in 1896, further solidifying its global appeal and establishing standardized regulations.
Western-style rowing was introduced to Myanmar during the British colonial period in the 19th century, primarily through the influence of British administrators, merchants, and missionaries. As Burma (as Myanmar was then known) became a key part of the British Empire after the annexation in 1826, Western recreational activities, including rowing, were brought to the colonial elite in cities like Rangoon (then Yangon). The British established social clubs and sporting facilities along the Yangon River and Inya Lake, where rowing boats were used for leisure and informal races, laying the groundwork for the sport’s entry into the country.
The sport initially remained exclusive to the colonial community and a small number of affluent locals who interacted with British circles. Rowing events were often organized as part of regattas hosted by clubs like the Rangoon Rowing Club, founded in the late 19th century, which catered to European expatriates. These gatherings mimicked the rowing culture of England, with races drawing spectators from the colonial elite. However, the sport’s reach was limited, as traditional Burmese boat racing, rooted in cultural festivals and royal traditions, dominated local water-based activities, overshadowing the Western version.
In the early 20th century, rowing began to gain a modest foothold among Myanmar’s emerging educated class, particularly through schools and universities influenced by British systems. Mission schools and institutions like Rangoon University introduced rowing as a competitive sport, though it remained a niche activity compared to soccer or athletics. After independence in 1948, Western rowing struggled to maintain prominence due to a focus on nation-building and limited resources for non-traditional sports. Despite this, small rowing clubs persisted in Yangon, and over time, the sport saw sporadic revival through international exchanges and regional competitions, though it never rivalled the cultural significance of Myanmar’s indigenous boat racing traditions.
In the early 1970s, Western-style rowing was introduced to Pathein College, taking root at the sprawling three-tiered lake, known as Kan Thone Sint, located in front of the college’s main building. This expansive body of water provided an ideal setting for the sport, and experienced faculty members, inspired by urban educational trends and possibly prior exposure to rowing in Yangon, initiated training sessions for students. Under their guidance, the sport began as a structured activity, fostering discipline and teamwork, though it remained a modest endeavour within the college’s extracurricular landscape.
In my second year at Pathein College, I became a member of the rowing team, a vibrant group led by our chairman, U Minn Than Thaung, the head of the Physics Department. In the photograph, he’s the one seated on the pontoon beside the rowers, dressed in civilian clothes and wearing glasses. The team in the boat included U Soe Myint as coxswain, U Tun Hyke at a stroke, followed by U Thein Win, and U Thet Oo behind him. Standing at the back were our female team members, all dedicated tutors, though I only clearly recall Daw Cherry on the far right. Under U Minn Than Thaung’s supervision, they were all training diligently at Kan Thone Sint Lake to guide and instruct student members like me, shaping us into a cohesive and disciplined team.
When I joined the rowing team, I quickly realized that Western-style rowing was far more challenging than I had imagined, a truth that dawned on me only as training progressed. We didn’t start on the boat right away. First came warm-up exercises, followed by practice on a stationary “fixed staff” boat on the shore. Here, we learned proper body posture: gripping the oar, securing our feet firmly in the footrest straps, and sliding smoothly on the movable seat beneath our hips. The technique involved pulling the oar with the forearms initially, drawing it toward the chest, and then locking the arms and oar in place while using leg power to push back. Next, we tilted our torsos slightly backwards, extended the oar forward, and simultaneously used leg strength to slide the seat forward again – all in a controlled, repetitive motion. The training wasn’t open-ended; with other trainees waiting, each of us got only about 15 minutes per session. If time allows, we could wait for another turn. Every minute was logged, and only after accumulating a set number of training hours were we permitted to step onto an actual boat.
Once four trainees completed their required time on the fixed staff, they were allowed to board a real boat, guided by an experienced coxswain, a skilled tutor. The first couple of days on the water were far from smooth, with beginners struggling to row in sync. From boarding to disembarking, the coxswain issued commands solely in English, such as “Stand by crew”, “Hands across”, “One foot in”, and “In together”, creating a disciplined rhythm. Initially, we practised the “touching” technique, where the oar lightly brushed the water’s surface during the recovery phase. As we grew more proficient, we advanced to “row”, a method where the oar cleared the water entirely during recovery, allowing the boat to glide swiftly. The command “Next stroke ... Row” electrified us, igniting excitement among the rowers. Another thrilling order was “Harder,” used during races to push us to overtake rival boats with every ounce of strength, driving us to row with fierce determination.
Rowing on the water looks effortlessly stylish from the shore, with rowers in crisp white shirts, trousers, socks, and canvas shoes, powering a boat that glides rhythmically across the surface — an inspiring sight. Yet, during intense rowing, a single misstep can disrupt everything. If a rower mistimes the oar’s recovery and the blade catches the water awkwardly while the boat is moving, the oar’s handle can jam against them, halting their ability to continue. In a race, this almost guarantees a loss. The rower also risks injury from the sudden resistance. I’ve experienced this myself and seen it happen to others often, especially during the high-energy “Row” command when we’re rowing with full passion. Precision in our movement is critical; one person’s mistake can throw the entire boat into chaos.
Under the dedicated guidance of U Minn Than Thaung and the entire team of tutors and demonstrators, I mastered the art of Western-style rowing, a skill I cherish deeply. Their selfless commitment to teaching left an indelible mark on me, and even now, I remain profoundly grateful for their kindness. For someone like me, a farm-bred from the countryside, the idea of rowing in the Western style was beyond imagination — something I could hardly dream of achieving. Their patience and expertise transformed that distant possibility into reality, and I owe them an immense debt of gratitude for shaping my journey.
Attending Pathein College opened doors I never thought possible, and meeting these remarkable teachers was a turning point. Without spending a single kyat, I gained access to a valuable skill that enriched my life. The opportunity to learn rowing under their mentorship was not just an education but a rare privilege, one that bridged the gap between my humble roots and a world of new experiences. The discipline, teamwork, and confidence I developed through rowing remain with me, a testament to the transformative power of their instruction.
This experience was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, one I consider extraordinarily fortunate to have received. The tutors’ encouragement went beyond technique; they instilled a sense of pride and possibility in all of us. For a rural student like me, mastering such a sophisticated sport was a profound achievement, made possible only through the college’s environment and the generosity of teachers who believed in us. I carry the lessons from Kan Thone Sint Lake with me always, a reminder of how education and opportunity can change the course of a life.
