crews are crowned with thick poplar leaves, and their bare
shoulders shine with the oil that has rubbed them. They
seat them on the benches, every arm is strained on the
oar—straining they expect the signal, and their beating 15
hearts are drained at each stroke by panting fear and high-strung
ambition. Then, when the shrill trumpet has uttered
its voice, all in a moment dart forward from their
bounds, the seaman’s shout pierces the sky; the upturned
seas foam as the arm is drawn back to the chest. With 20
measured strokes they plough their furrows; the water