A long time ago, on the banks of a very foggy river, a small group of rowers, clad in ritual spandex, old socks and their most sacred flip flops, met before dawn. The women were tired and frustrated. That year’s rowing season had been long and hard, as an evil enchantress had cast spells among the devoted, causing riggers to loosen, boats to grow heavy and the arches of bridges to narrow. Then the evil enchantress sent down upon them the most cursed plague of all – club politics.

Still the women persevered, struggling to row through the who-said-what-to-whom winds. Alas, many who had been called to the river fell away, leaving our small group of unwavering heroines. On this particular morning, the women had met at their customary pre-dawn hour and, in ritual fashion, trudged single file down to the river. There, to their horror, they discovered that another group had taken the women’s equipment to a regatta, leaving our rowers an ancient hulk of a wooden boat that, in truth, should long ago have been slung over a salad bar.

The women threw their blistered and calloused hands into the air and wailed. Their cries pierced the night, and the water stirred. There, in the ribbon of moonlight that shone on the river, they saw a maiden arise. She emerged from the water clad in a blue JL unisuit carrying a set of oars. She was stooped slightly starboard and her calves showed the telltale bite marks of an unrelenting slide. The wailing women fell silent as she began to speak. “You are not alone. There are others, follow me and I will bring you together – but bring a wrench, the boat needs to be rigged.”

With that, the mists parted, and Avalon was born.