I just celebrated my 40th high school reunion—wait, what?

It feels surreal just rereading those written words—the number in particular. FORTY YEARS—for some, that’s half a frickin’ lifetime. Yikes, that happened faster than I would’ve ever imagined.

I can so easily travel back to our final year of high school. It was 1983; RUSH’s Signals album still enjoyed lots of radio play. We were 18, indestructible and doing our best to manage our grade 13 course load—some better than others. Fortunate to attend one of Canada’s most prestigious independent schools, Ridley College, many of us had known each other since beginning Ridley in grade 7—some in grade 6.

My dad was a lifer there. He’d begun teaching, coaching and living as a House Master in one of the School's residences in 1961. Having been born on campus three years later, I had for several years enjoyed two of the perks of being a staff brat—an extraordinary education and the opportunity to row.

Despite university plans being on the minds of most of us, there was one thing that my crewmates and I had been excitedly awaiting: the Canadian High School Rowing Championships.

After a lousy grade 12 showing, we were back with a different crew—a better crew. For the four graduating senior athletes, myself included, this was our chance to end our high school rowing careers on a positive note.

Race day arrived, and we couldn’t have asked for a more meaningful experience. Our coach, Neil Campbell, split the crew in half. The senior members raced and won the straight four event, while our crew's junior athletes (grade 11 & 12) raced and won the coxed four event. We regrouped into the eight for the day's last race and won that, too.

Amidst the pouring rain, ten strokes from the finish line.

With rain pouring on and off throughout the day, we stood soaking wet on the grandstand podium and received our medals in front of hundreds of Ridley supporters. It was a special day. One I’ve recalled many times since.

Standing behind the Calder Cleland—Heavy 8+ Champions, 1983.

Months before our reunion, speaking with one of the crew members, we discussed our plans for the row. We were happy to have our senior four go out for a paddle and celebrate the memories of that crew. But then we commented on how awesome it would be to reunite the entire crew—all eight of us.

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get,” we agreed.

I crafted an email and sent it out. One by one came the replies—“I’m in!” It chokes me up just writing this. It had been 40 years since, as teenage boys, we rowed our wooden Karlisch boat, the Neil Campbell, down the Henley course. Now, everyone was committed to doing that one more time.

Along with confirmations came the chirping—the digs and teasing returned, reminiscent of how it had once lived within our 1983 crew. Our teenage personas came alive. Old stories were shared and relived. Without physically being together, the mere suggestion of us reuniting had awoken an old memory. The excitement and laughing began.

Carrying a newer version of the Neil Campbell on our shoulders was just the beginning. I could hear the cheap old plastic-coloured flags rattle in the breeze as they stretched between the boathouse and the dock. The announcer called races and read the results as we walked silently in unison. I thought of Neil and what he would’ve been pondering while accompanying us.

I recalled how comforting it was to know Neil was our coach. There was no other like him. Tenacious, intense, focused, strong… I’d take it!

We shoved off. It felt strangely familiar. 40 years? Couldn’t be. Once we began rowing, I recognized the blade work of the individuals in front of me. Their technique hadn’t changed. Watching the oar of our seven-seat, I was reminded of why Neil had put him there—smooth.

We rowed all eight after strategically and deliberately bringing the entire crew together two seats at a time. Wow—this isn’t bad. I joked to myself, you’d think we’d had a good coach or something! The muscle memory returned, and within a few hundred meters, we were trying power 10s and, eventually, some starts, even.

Approaching the 1000m pylon.

Bliss. It was pure magic to be sitting in that boat with those boys one more time.

Eventually, as we had forty years earlier, we sprinted the last ten strokes of the course, rowed over to the grandstand, got up on the podium, and recreated our medal presentation photo, only this time without the rain and cheering crowd behind us.

Forty years later, standing on the podium at the grandstand. Our five-man, Rob, even brought his gold medal—brilliant!

Before getting back in the boat, I spoke up. I wanted to thank the four younger crew members who had travelled back for this moment. A few words into my impromptu speech, my throat locked. Dave, our crew captain, rescued me. His words were perfect—better than what I could’ve mustered.

Then, unexpectedly, Spencer, one of the grade 11’s from that crew, shared his thoughts on behalf of “the juniors,” as we used to refer to them jokingly. Without going into the specifics, the sentiment was simple: gratitude, respect, admiration, love and brotherhood.

Although we may not have been able to capture and articulate the words as gracefully as we could that day, the same feelings were there 40 years earlier, trusted and unspoken.

Finally, there was an impromptu group hug. It wasn’t corny or awkward; nope, it was genuine and heartfelt. Beautiful—my day was complete. This moment, this gesture had meant more than I would’ve ever guessed. Thank you, Neilbert.

Brotherhood!

We agreed to reconvene in 10 years for our 50th! I’ll keep you posted…