OREM — Eight bone-weary men stood unsteadily on a dock in a Helsinki inlet, drenched in their own sweat and heaving for air in the summer heat of 1952.
It was the moment chosen for the medal ceremony, a minute or two after the young men who made up the U.S. Naval Academy's eight-man rowing crew had become their sport's Secretariat, winning the Olympic final by the largest margin in history, the way the great racehorse set records on his way to the Triple Crown. At the same time, they were also rowing's Seabiscuit, underdogs who some had felt didn't even belong on the Navy varsity squad.
They would stay together long enough to win three national championships and 29 consecutive races, another record that still stands. No wonder a movie script is in the works.
As the end of their academic careers finally broke up the greatest three-year run in the history of eight-man rowing, Navy coach Rusty Callow said there should be a law against graduation. It is far worse, the remaining crew members were reminded last weekend in Orem, that nobody has found a way to legislate against death.
Five of the men, undefeated as teammates and arguably undefeated in life although now all are in their 70s, caught flights to Utah from New York, Virginia, Maryland, Kentucky and Washington state. They came to Utah to attend the funeral for Bob Detweiler, a former teammate, Navy pilot, nuclear physicist and chairman of the Utah County Arts Council.
They came to say goodbye to Detweiler, as they had to Willie Fields before him and to Dave Manring, who during the Olympic year was their coxswain, the man who sits without an oar at one end of the scull and barks out the tempo of his mates' strokes.
They came like they have every five years to reunions that began 25 years after the Helsinki Games — once there was finally room for such things in their lives after becoming submariners and fighter pilots and nuclear experts.
"I think it would be amazing if we didn't come," Dick Murphy said.
"For me it's the ultimate tribute to Bob that they came," said Detweiler's wife of 25 years, Donnell. "I was speechless when they walked in to the viewing together Friday night in those blue Olympic blazers. I knew they were coming, but to see them all together was overwhelming.
"It seemed the older they got, the more love they had for each other. They cherish each other."
Only Henry Proctor — who had surgery last week and couldn't travel — was absent.
That closeness was born out of one of the great disasters in Navy history, called "Little Pearl Harbor" by Callow. It happened in 1951, when six of the eight men, who would be dubbed "A Great Eight" by Life Magazine after the '52 Olympics, were just freshmen. Their shell, and those of the varsity and junior varsity teams, sank during the national championships in a debris-filled Ohio River.
More than a dozen boats sank during the competition, held shortly after the river had flooded. They were "hit by telephone poles, dead pigs, outhouses and each other," Murphy said.
The Navy was ridiculed by newsreels and newspapers.
"If those are the future admirals of the U.S. Navy," a Chicago sportswriter wrote, "they might as well mothball the entire fleet."
Tired of losing and impressed by his youngest rowers, Callow invited fresh scorn the following year when he decided to dismiss the varsity team and turn over the Navy rowing program to six sophomores and two juniors.
The move was an immediate success. The crew shocked Yale in the first race of 1952 and never lost again, not in '52, not in '53 and not in '54.
"The spirit of the Great Eight began as a Phoenix rising out of the ashes of that disaster" on the Ohio River, said Wayne Frye, who rowed in the seven seat. "For what were two sophomores and six freshmen when that happened to turn that debacle into a world championship and Olympic gold medal in one year had to bring us together."
In the Life magazine spread, each of the Great Eight was pictured in separate action shots; Detweiler's tongue is out, a la Michael Jordan. It isn't hard to imagine him doing the same as a fighter jock while he piled up his five Distinguished Flying Crosses for valor in Vietnam.
Detweiler, named "The Most Outstanding Military Scientist" in 1965, retired from the Air Force and joined the LDS Church in 1976, then married Donnell in 1978. They moved to Utah, and he worked as director of research for energy and communications at the Eyring Science Institute in Provo and later taught at the Alpine Life and Learning Center in Orem.
Frank Shakespeare, who sat in the first seat, or bow, for the Great Eight, praised Detweiler's leadership and hard work as the team captain in 1952 and 1953.
"Have you ever met someone and you see their work ethic and character and immediately say, 'Wow, it's neat to be associated with that person?' " he said. "That's the situation with Bob and with all of us. It's, 'Boy, thank God this person touched my life.' "
Detweiler had been sick for six weeks and died a week ago of complications from surgery. His crewmates recognize the meaning of his passing.
"It makes you realize your own mortality," Frye said. "I'm sure we've all felt some level of invincibility in rowing and in our careers but no longer."
"At the last reunion, Bob was really concerned," Shakespeare said. "He was deep in thought and he said, 'We're at a time when I know somebody is going soon. It bothers me to know somebody will go next, that somebody will be gone. I don't know what I'll do.' "
Still, the group remained upbeat and enjoyed the impromptu reunion, despite the somber backdrop.
"It's a natural question, but you can't live life like that," said Murphy, the only crew member who hasn't retired. "Life is like flying an airplane. If you don't keep your nose up, you will fly into the ground."
Or maybe it's like a boat that might sink in the Ohio River or sail in the Olympics.
Whatever it is, for the Great Eight, undying friendship and an unflagging work ethic captured a magic that has soared over American and Finnish waters and across half a century.
E-mail: twalch@desnews.com