I found myself returning to the Avon for the first time for 17 years with some trepidation. Some members of my crew had got together a year or two ago and decided to organise a reunion to mark the year of our 50th birthdays, and here we all were. The thought of getting onto a boat again had not seemed daunting when the idea was mooted - I had not thought beyond meeting up again. But now we were carrying a boat down to the water I began to wonder whether we would actually be able to row it. Some of us had rowed more than others after leaving Monkton, but probably none of us had been in a boat since 1990. That had been the last time any of us had rowed at Monkton, at JMB's "21 years of coaching the 1st VIII" party. Apart from the worry that we had forgotten how to row, this boat was not wooden like every other boat I had ever sat in - and I had heard that these artificial ones were a lot more difficult to balance.

It did not take long to realise that I should not have worried. The coach sitting in the launch with his megaphone knew exactly how to conduct the outing - as he always had. Bow four took us up through the Aqueduct, then stern four took us to the Brook - and as soon as the coach knew we were confident enough we all started from backstops. Gradually it began to fall into place, and as we relaxed we were able to appreciate the familiar landmarks on the banks going by us. We did a bit of paddling and then a bit of work. Suddenly the exhilaration of feeling the boat shifting through the water hit us. After a couple of practice starts we even managed some quarter miles. It was about as much as we could manage too. We all felt our thigh muscles turning to jelly after what seemed like a lot of strokes - and then just as we wondered how much longer it would last the coach gave a terse keep the work up down the megaphone and we knew that it was not yet time to wind down. Our times (1 minute 28 seconds) were only 18 seconds worse than our best 33 years before. We felt pleased.

I probably never really appreciated how lucky I was to learn to row at Monkton at the time. But I do now. Firstly, my return to the river reminded me that there is nothing better than to be in the open air with the green of the Avon valley all around me. In adolescence I never realised that in adult life, time and being outside would become such precious commodities.

The main benefit of learning to row was the life lessons it taught. Our coach told us one day on an outing 33 years ago that we were going to take one huge stroke. We were to pull the hardest single stroke that we had ever pulled in our life. We did so and let the boat run for a while. He then told us that we were going to do the same thing again, but this time the biggest ever stroke was going to be followed by another one exactly the same. Again the boat ran for a while. Then he told us that we were going to do the same thing again, but that actually we were going to produce ten of the biggest strokes ever in a row. He was a good teacher and we learned to work and not to hold anything back. We learned not to be complacent and that however hard we thought we were working, we had to be sure that there was not a little bit that we were not giving in case we could not go on. We turned out to be a reasonable crew, and we enjoyed our 1st VIII season. But long after we have forgotten most of the details of our Heads and regattas, we remember the lessons we learned about putting effort into life.

He will not like me to mention it, but we have not forgotten the unassuming man who coached us either. He must have been an inspiration - because something had to be the motive force that persuaded eight 50 year-olds to congregate in a place they had not been together for over 30 years and do something none of them had done for nearly 20.