Author Biography

Daniel James Brown is the author of the widely acclaimed Daniel James Brown is the author of the widely acclaimed "Under a Flaming Sky: The Great Hinckley Firestorm of 1894" "Under a Flaming Sky: The Great Hinckley Firestorm of 1894". He lives in the country east of Redmond, Washington, with . He lives in the country east of Redmond, Washington, with his wife and two daughters. his wife and two daughters.

Review

Accolades for The Boys in the Boat (Young Readers Adaptation):

- New York Times bestseller
- #1 Pacific Northwest Bookseller Assocation bestseller

"The word teamwork, which can sound humdrum to kids in coaches' droning lectures, doesn't adequately describe the connection shared by the men in that boat in 1936. Illustrated with vintage photos, this moving book offers young people a vivid sense of that shared experience. A Depression-era story with timeless appeal." —Booklist, starred review

"Offering a model of masterful nonfiction writing, Brown expertly balances the leisurely pacing of the protagonists' back stories with the exciting race scenes, related with concrete nouns, lively verbs, and short sentences, selected and adapted for this edition by Mone. Many photographs, an easy-to-read timeline, and notes on "The Art of Rowing," complete with a diagram, add visual appeal. A fine companion to Laura Hillenbrand's Unbroken (2014), also about the 1936 Olympics and also adapted for young readers." —Kirkus

"Those seeking an inspiring true story or a great sports tale will be pleased with this stirring work." —School Library Journal

"It becomes almost impossible not to root for such a hardscrabble collection of underdogs as they exhibit hard work, sacrifice, teamwork, and loyalty at every stage of their collective journey to Berlin." —Horn Book

"With a lyrical flair, Brown tells the story of these men in a manner that intersperses the drama of the time period with the emotional and physical turmoil of their lives.  Young adult readers may not understand or even know about the desperation of the Depression, or what it was like at the genesis of Nazi Germany, but the tale of these persistent men, each with their own personal struggle, will entice readers of all ages." —VOYA

Accolades for the adult edition of The Boys in the Boat:
- #1 New York Times bestseller
- 2014 ABA Adult Nonfiction Book of the Year
- 2014 Washington State Book Award

"A suspenseful tale of triumph." —USA Today

"Evocative, cinematic prose." —Publishers Weekly

"This is Chariots of Fire with oars." —David Laskin, author of The Children's Blizzard

"A great and inspiring true story." —Nathaniel Philbrick, author of Mayflower

"A thrilling, heart-thumping tale." —Timothy Egan, author of The Worst Hard Time

"A robust, emotional snapshot of an era." —James Bradley, author of Flags of Our Fathers  

Review Quote

Accolades for The Boys in the Boat (Young Readers Adaptation): - New York Times

Excerpt from Book

Ever since The Boys in the Boat was first published, I have been traveling around the country talking to people about the story. When I first started, I quickly noticed that most of the people in my audiences were quite old. Some of them, in fact, were old enough to remember the events at the heart of the story, even though those events took place almost eighty years ago. But lately something interesting has begun to happen. More and more young people have begun to show up at my book talks. Often these younger people join with the older people, coming up to the front of the room to have their books signed. Frequently they pause at the signing table just to tell me how much they enjoyed the story and what it means to them personally. It sometimes seems strange to me to have a ninety-year-old grandma and a twelve-year-old student standing next to each other in front of me at the signing table. But listening to what both groups of readers have to say about the story, I have begun to understand. Some things are timeless. At first glance, this may seem to be a story about a time and place that is very different from the time and place you live in. After all, the young men at the center of this story dressed very differently than you and your friends do. They talked differently. They drove cars that look now as if they belong in museums. They sang songs that sound corny to our modern ears. They thought a radio was a marvel of modern technology. They lived through world events that now seem almost like ancient history. But here''s the thing. The boys in the boat were just that: boys. The problems they wrestled with were the same that you and your friends likely wrestle with today: family problems, making the team, succeeding at school, fitting in with other kids, learning whom you can and can''t trust, finding a way to make some money, figuring out how you feel about the opposite sex, deciding who and what you want to be a few years down the road. Under the surface, they really weren''t all that different. None of that, though, is really what the young people who come up to me at book events want to talk about. What they recognize in the story--and what they want to share with me--is the sheer excitement of being young, having a goal, striving to accomplish that goal, and making it happen, just as the boys in the boat did. Sometimes they talk about their volleyball team winning the regionals. Sometimes they talk about making first violin in the school orchestra. Sometimes they talk about wanting to be the first in their family to go to college. Sometimes they talk about falling short of their goal but being inspired by the book to try again. It is easy for those of us who are older and count ourselves wise to forget that it is the young who most often move the world forward. It is the young who have the boundless energy, passion, optimism, courage, and idealism to try to do what we elders might say is impossible. That''s what the boys in the boat attempted to do in this story. That''s why, eighty years later at my book-signing table, old men and women come to me with tears in their eyes, proudly remembering when they were young and full of fire. And it''s why standing right next to them are young men and women with beaming faces, bearing tales of their own brave attempts at the near impossible. So as you read this book, I hope you will keep in mind that at its heart this is a story about growing up, about wrestling with hope and doubt, about dreaming big, about going for the gold. In that sense, it''s really a story about you. Dawn row on Lake Washington. This book is a true story. It was born on a cold, drizzly, late spring day, several years ago, when I climbed over a split-rail cedar fence and made my way to the modest house where Joe Rantz lay dying. Joe was my neighbor Judy''s father, and she had asked me to come down and meet him. I knew only two things about him when I knocked on her door that day. I knew that in his midseventies he had single-handedly hauled a number of cedar logs down a mountain, cut and split them by hand, then built the nearly half-mile-long pasture fence I had just climbed over. And I knew that he had been one of nine young men from the state of Washington who shocked both the sports world and Adolf Hitler by winning a gold medal in rowing at the 1936 Olympics. When Judy opened the door and ushered me into her cozy living room, Joe was stretched out in a recliner with his feet up, all six foot three of him. He had a thin white beard, and his eyes were puffy. An oxygen tank stood nearby. Rain flecked a window that looked out into the wet woods. A fire was popping and hissing in the woodstove. Jazz tunes from the 1930s and 1940s were playing quietly on the stereo. Judy introduced me, and Joe offered me an extraordinarily long, thin hand. We talked for a while. Joe''s voice was thin and reedy, not much more than a whisper. When the conversation began to turn to his own life, I leaned closer and took out my notepad. I was surprised at first, then astonished, at what this man had endured and overcome in his life. But it wasn''t until he began to talk about his rowing career that he started, from time to time, to cry. He talked about learning the art of rowing, about the sleek and delicate wooden boats known as "shells," about tactics and techniques. He told stories about long, cold hours on the water under steel-gray skies, about smashing victories, and about marching under Adolf Hitler''s eyes into the Olympic Stadium in Berlin. But it was when he tried to talk about "the boat" that the tears really welled up in his bright eyes. At first I didn''t know what he meant by "the boat." I thought he meant the Husky Clipper , the racing shell in which he had rowed his way to glory. Then I thought he meant his crewmates. Eventually I realized that "the boat" was something more than just the shell or its crew. To Joe, it was something bigger than that, something mysterious and almost beyond definition. It was a shared experience, a golden moment long ago, when he had been part of something much larger than himself. Joe was crying partly for the loss of that moment, but much more for the sheer beauty of it. A Washington crew working out, circa 1929. As I was preparing to leave that afternoon, Judy removed Joe''s gold medal from the glass case against the wall and handed it to me. The medal had vanished once, years before. The family had searched high and low, then given it up for lost before they finally found it, buried in some insulating material in the attic. A squirrel had apparently taken a liking to the glimmer of the gold and hidden the medal away in its nest. As Judy was telling me this, it occurred to me that Joe''s story, like the medal, had been squirreled away out of sight for too long. I shook Joe''s hand and told him I would like to come back and talk to him some more. I said that I''d like to write a book about his rowing days. Joe grasped my hand again and said he''d like that, but then his voice broke once more. "But not just about me," he whispered. "It has to be about the boat." The Washington shell house, 1930s. 1 On a sunny October afternoon in 1933, two young men, taller than most, hurried across the University of Washington''s campus. The school was perched on a bluff overlooking the still waters of Seattle''s Lake Washington. A gray, overcast morning had given way to a radiant day, and students were lounging on the grass in front of the massive new stone library, eating, chatting, and studying. But the two boys, both freshmen in their first weeks of college, did not stop. They were on a mission. One of them, six-foot-three Roger Morris, had a loose, gangly build, dark hair, and heavy black eyebrows. The other, Joe Rantz, was a pencil tip shorter, but more solidly built, with broad shoulders, powerful legs, and a strong jaw. He wore his blond hair in a crew cut and watched the scene through gray eyes verging into blue. The boys, who had recently met in engineering class, rounded the library and descended a long grassy slope. They crossed Montlake Boulevard, dodging a steady stream of black automobiles. After a few more turns they followed a dirt road running through open woods and into a marshy area at the edge of Lake Washington. As they walked they began to overtake other boys headed in the same direction. Finally they came to a point of land jutting out into the water. An odd-looking building stood there, an old airplane hangar covered with weather-beaten shingles and inset with enormous windows. The sides slanted up toward the roof. At the front, a wide wooden ramp stretched from enormous sliding doors to a long floating dock. Lake Washington spread out to the east. The canal known as the Cut stretched to the west, connecting to Portage Bay and the calm waters of Lake Union. A crowd of young men, 175 in all, milled about nervously. They were mostly tall and lean, like Joe and Roger, though a dozen or so were noticeably short and slight. And they all shared the same goal. They wanted to make the University of Washington''s freshman rowing team. A handful of current team members, older boys wearing white jerseys emblazoned with large purple W s, stood with their arms crossed, eyeing the newcomers, sizing them up. Joe and Roger stepped inside the building. Along each wall of the cavernous room, the long, sleek racing shells were stacked four high on wooden racks. With their polished wooden hulls turned upward, they gleamed in white shafts of light that fell from the windows overhead. Faded but still color

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