The light is dull, the breeze is faint and all is quiet. All except for the whispered strokes of oars as they nudge the hull with a delicate force. Pools spin about the boat as the blades dip in and out of the inky water.
Rowing is a particularly English sport. And I found myself as a cox in my first few years at a particularly English university, Oxford. In the breaks between curiously-named terms – Michaelmas, Hilary and Trinity – boat crews would descend upon the rowing havens of Wallingford, Henley and Abingdon to train on the river in the early hours. Not much was ever said as people shuffled about the bank outside the boathouse and then gently floated the boat into the water. As cox, it was always up to me to break the eerie silence. After a couple of quick feathers at the bow to line up the boat, I'd call for oars to come square and away we'd go, off into the misty morning.
The warm-up was always my favourite time on the water. No pressure, just a few looseners, and certainly no traffic to make me too conscious of the stream. Now and then, I'd feel a cold splash on the hand, a brief reminder that I was floating on water not gliding on ice. Otherwise, this was a time simply to collect your thoughts.
As we would reach the final bend in the river before the first of several locks, we'd glide to a halt, blades tapping along the water's surface. A gentle turn as one side applied pressure over the other, and the boat would gracefully come to a rest in the shallows near the opposite bank. At which point we all knew that the next hour or so wasn't going to be quite so easy.
Up and down, we would row relentlessly at a range of speeds and tempos and styles. Quick hands, fast at the catch, driving through the water, clean finish. All the while, I would be calling the strokes, watching for technique, and steering a smooth course as the blades swum through the water.
One morning, I remember we were practising in short bursts. We had been rowing a little unevenly, and I found myself calling "Come on!" on more than one occasion. Nothing I said seemed to make much difference, and eventually we finished the session and headed back to the boathouse.
Once on the bank, one of the more experienced crew members let me have right between the eyes – and with both barrels. You can imagine the scene in your own mind: a bulky, 6"5' rower in the peak of fitness laying down the law to a slightly scrawny, 5"6" cox. The point he was trying to make – in between various expletives and vigorous gestures – was that calling "Come on!" in a boat ever again was (1) very likely to land me in the water, and (2) a complete waste of breath as it didn't mean anything or bear any relation to what was happening in the boat at the time.
Which brings me to my point.
Too many businesses rely on meaningless calls to action – "sell more", or "churn less" – without actually understanding what is happening in the business at the time. And more often than not, marketing is guilty of the same generic battle cry, without actually being able to tie the promise that the brand makes to the reality the business delivers.
Coffee that relies upon the cliches of the category – aroma, coffee beans and a good old mug.
Universities that trade off pictures of smiling students on campus as their stock in trade.
And, professional services companies who fill their brochures with thirtysomethings in suits, shaking hands, walking up stairs, and generally looking serious but savvy – and all with the benefit of a soft focus.
Not only are all these examples tired, boring and lazy, but they do nothing to promote what is exciting or unique about the brand in question. They simply gloss over the details, yell "Come on!" at anyone who will listen, and hope someone equally myopic will give them a go. No wonder people often remark on how marketing is "hardly rocket science" – at this level, it's not even basic arithmetic.
I was lucky, I learned my lesson, and I managed to stay dry through my brief career as a cox.
However, many marketers don't have the benefit of strong and experienced leaders to pull them aside when needed. As a result, many find themselves struggling to steer the ship – in fact, they're too busy fighting the battle to sink or swim.
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