Simon Morrison, our Equipment Manager has obviously spent too much time in airport lounges recently. He has composed the following poem on him Tuesday morning masters crew (with the help of AI).

In the stillness of the morning,
On the Yarra's calm blue water,
The Mercantile Masters take their seats,
And prepare to row with vigor.

For eight long years they've rowed as one,
Through the sunshine and the rain,
Their boat, the Andrew Guerin,
A true vessel of their domain.

It all began with Jim and Chris,
Feeling lonely at the banks,
With a need for speed and friendship,
To fill their hearts and thank.

Each member brings their own rule,
To ensure the crew is strong,
Malcolm limits the hard strokes,
While Richard adds more length to the song.

Discipline on bow side,
Is the decree of Chris,
Geoff remains ever positive,
And Billy steers the ship with bliss.

Morry, an ex-lightweight,
Guaranteed to never be again,
And Richard and Tony still weigh in,
Unaware it's not a required refrain.

Billy, the captain and secretary,
With years of service for the club,
And Henry, the licensee,
Whose lunch we all enjoy as our grub.

James comes once a year,
To escape Clive's aspersions,
And Rohan, a latecomer,
Brings an architects' incursions

Reesey, younger yet rowing strong,
Since Carey's triumph, where he belongs,
In Masters' row, he sings their song,
Proving age in spirit can be lifelong.

Hamish, Western Australia's corporate ace,
Brings his charm to the rowing space,
Balancing words and strokes with grace,
Finds his rhythm in the Masters' race.

Rod, the avid cyclist,
And Sean, from the mother country,
Joined us on this morning's row,
With smiles and enthusiasm plenty.

So they row on Tuesdays,
As the sun begins to rise,
The Mercantile Masters,
Glide on water, with thankful sighs.