Middle of the 6th division, a bright summer's day but a bit blustery with increasingly threatening clouds blowing across the sky. I'm umpiring (despite being really quite ill), but the crews I'm involved with have bumped out and I find myself joining the 10th VIII's bank party coming out of Ditton. Behind them LMBC VII are steadily closing, going for their blades. On paper it's a formality - 7th VIII v 10th VIII
Half way up the reach - a long way for a Gent's VIII - and they're struggling, fading fast in fact; LMBC are scenting victory. It's down to less than 2 feet when Chris takes a look over his shoulder and the LMBC bows, and turns back to his crew.
"Ask yourself this question," he says, calmly and clearly, "do you want to get bumped by the scum? Do you. Want to get bumped. By the scum? Next stroke, go."
In the space of three strokes one foot became a quarter of a length and LMBC were broken.
It really doesn't get any better than that.