"Because she happens to sit nearest the stern where all the other oarsmen—meaning you—can see her. The stroke oar sets the stroke for the other rowers."
"When I go fast you must go fast, Ethel Blue."
"You can't go too fast for me," returned Ethel Blue smartly. "Have I got a name?"
"You're the bow oar. Now, then, ladies, pay attention to me. Do you see that piece of wood fitting in notches nailed across the floor of the boat? That is called a stretcher and you brace your feet against it."
"Perhaps you can, but I can hardly reach it with my toes."
"Move it up to the closest notch, then. That's the idea. Now put one hand on the handle of your oar and the other hand a few inches away from it on the thick part."
"So?"
"So. You're ready now to begin to row. Push your arms forward as far as they will go and let your body go forward, too. That gives you a longer reach and a purchase on the pull back, you see. Bear down a little on the oar, enough to raise it just above the water. When you get the hang of this you can learn how to turn the blade flat so as not to catch the wind or choppy waves. That's called 'feathering'; but we won't try that now."
"When I push the handle of my oar forward the blade goes backward," said Ethel Blue.
"Correct! Observant young woman! When you've pushed it as far as you can, let it go into the water just enough to cover it—no, don't plunge it way in, Ethel Blue! Don't you see you can't pull it if you have such a mass of water resisting you? Get your oar under water, Ethel Brown. If you don't catch the water at all you 'catch a crab'—just so," he chuckled as Ethel Brown gave her oar a vigorous pull through empty air and fell backward off the seat. "Hurt yourself, old girl? Here, grab root," and he extended a helping hand.