Duvall Y. Hecht
April 23, 1930 - February 10, 2022
To many of us, Duvall Y. Hecht was more than a coach. He was a mentor and an inspirational leader whose words and wit propelled many of us into becoming who we are today. Erudite but rugged, he was always ready with a quote about life, whether from one of his own mentors, master boat builder George Pocock, or someone of great historic stature like Winston Churchill. After all, Duvall was not only well-read, but he also helped bring audiobooks into the mainstream with his company, Books on Tape.
Duvall pulled the rowing program into existence back in 1965 and then kept it moving year after year after year with the same dedication and vigor that he demanded of his rowers — stroke after stroke after stroke. Though he had removed himself from regular involvement in the program a few years ago, his absence is felt like a chasm. Indeed, it now takes a board of dedicated alumni in full swing to keep the program going, something Duvall seemed able to do almost single-handedly over the years.
Thank you, Duvall, for everything, every time.
Please consider leaving a tribute to Duvall in the comments section at the bottom of this page.
Text by Bill Butler from September 4, 2008.
When Duvall Hecht was asked to the podium to receive his 2002 induction to the UCI Athletic Hall of Fame, the 150+ rowers past and present in the audience rose to their feet in a sustained, standing ovation. They were honoring the man who had contributed so much to each of their lives as Coach and Director of Rowing at UCI; role model as an athlete, Olympic Gold medalist, leader, scholar, and entrepreneur; and his extraordinarily generous material support to the UCI program during almost four decades of service.
Those rowers were expressing their own gratitude and mirroring that of the full complement of 1,500+ UCI student-rowers who had pulled for the Irvine crews. They were from all 36 years of the Men’s Crews and 13 years of the Women’s Crews; spanned four decades of ages; ranged in education across the full breadth of university disciplines of science to fine arts to engineering to business; represented all facets of professions, careers and public service; and had traveled to UCI that day from all across the United States. All were linked as crewmates by their shared rowing experiences in the programs created and lead by the man for whom they were now standing.
Duvall was “present at creation” of the UCI campus in 1965 when, as a young man of 34, he made a personal appeal to Dan Aldrich, the first Chancellor of UCI, for rowing to be among the five founding sports. “Chancellor Dan” approved Duvall’s proposal and agreed to provide matching funds, up to a point. This act of cooperation started the two men on a path of close friendship sustained over the coming decades.
Duvall did all the “heavy lifting” for the program in those beginning years to acquire the property on Shellmaker Island for the crew base; to build the “temporary” boathouse and dock; to acquire shells, oars, and coaching launches; and to raise the money for all of it.. He also recruited the first student-rowers and served as head coach for the first four years of the program.
Under his leadership, the program was successful from the very start, with UCI recording wins against just about every West Coast university crew including the three perennial powers of UCLA, Cal, and Stanford, each then with larger enrollments and much longer rowing traditions than UCI. Those early successes have served as inspiration for all the crews that followed.
Duvall returned to the position of coach in the 1970s, 1990s, and the 2000s. In total, he has served as coach for 14 years, without financial compensation; Director of Rowing for 15 years; and head of the Rowing Alumni Association for 24 years. He has represented the Crew with his full vigor and charm to each of the seven UCI Athletic Directors, from Dr. Wayne Crawford in 1965 to Mike Izzi in 2008.
Duvall has also personally donated generously to the crews and coaches and, on occasions, “rode to the rescue” with material support for a program that was affected by strained budgets of the Athletic Departments and a still quite young alumni who often could contribute only their enthusiasm and encouragement.
You make a living by what you get. You make a life by what you give.
But for the initiative, inspiration, leadership, and money from Duvall Hecht, the UCI Rowing program likely would never have been created nor served so well the student-rowers of the past four decades. For this, we express our deepest gratitude. For all of his accomplishments and generosities to the crew and others, we recognize and honor his extraordinary and exemplary life.
Duvall graduated from Beverly Hills High School in 1948, the year before the enrollment there of Donald Bren, another who would subsequently make substantial contributions to UCI. As at UCI, Duvall (BHHS, ’48) has been inducted into that school’s Hall of Fame.
He attended Menlo College for one year (1948-1949) and then continued on to Stanford University where he first rowed and was a member of Stanford’s crews for three years.
As a harbringer of the future, a 1951 dual meet between USC and Stanford on Lido Channel first introduced a young Hecht to the beauty and rowing opportunities of Newport Bay.
At the start of the 1951-52 collegiate season, Jim Beggs, former Stanford varsity coach (1950 & 1951) and Yale coxswain (’49) , persuaded Duvall and Jim Fifer (stroke and #7, respectively, in the Stanford varsity) to spend the year training with him to race in the 2+ trials and compete at the 1952 Olympics. Both agreed.
Throughout their senior year, Hecht and Fifer rowed each morning as the stern pair in Stanford V8+ and each afternoon in the 2+ with “Beggsie”. As Duvall would later say, their row in the morning was for strength and intrasquad competition and their row in the afternoon was for technique and personal coaching.
At the end of the collegiate season, the Stanford varsity 8+ (without Hecht and Fifer) finished 4th at the 1952 IRAs in Syracuse, New York, losing to Navy, Princeton and Cornell (in that order) and defeating all other West Coast universities.
Several weeks after the IRA, Beggs, Hecht, and Fifer won the 2+ trials and later that summer competed in Helsinki, winning their heat but then losing several days later and failing to make the finals.
In the following years, Duvall and Jim Fifer stayed close, serving as jet pilots for the Marines and the Navy, respectively, both stationed in Florida.
In 1955, they resumed their Olympic path, but now in the 2-. They first trained in Florida and then relocated to Philadelphia to be coached by their former coxswain Jim Beggs who was now freshman coach at the University of Pennsylvania.
In late June 1956 on Lake Onondaga, NY, the two again won the Olympic trials in their event. They defeated by 6 boat lengths the favored 2- of Logg and Price from Rutgers University who had also been on the 1952 Olympic team and had won the Gold Medal in Helsinki. Defeating the reigning Olympic gold medal 2- was a good start on their approach to the 1956 Olympic games in Melbourne.
After the trials, Hecht and Fifer relocated to Seattle, Washington with fellow Stanford rowers Conn Findlay, Art “Dan” Ayrault and Kurt Sieffert (cox) who had won the 2+ trials. There they would train intensively on Lake Washington for 4 months under legendary coach and racing shell maker Stan Pocock, leading up to the November 1956 games in Melbourne.
James Beggs, James Fifer, Duvall Hecht
– Helsinki Olympics ’52
In Melbourne, Hecht and Fifer dominated their event. They had the fastest winning time in the heats by 11 seconds. And, in the finals, they won the gold by defeating the 3-time European Champion 2- from the Soviet Union by 8 seconds.
Their 2+ training partners from Lake Washington also won Gold, and these two boats became the first Olympic medalists in the 50+ year history of Stanford Crew.
In the years immediately after Melbourne, Duvall completed his service in the Marines; was a commercial pilot for Pan American Airlines; completed a masters degree in journalism at Stanford (’60); taught at Menlo College, then a 2-year men’s college; and started a rowing crew at Menlo, sharing space in the Stanford boathouse. In 1960, Hecht’s Menlo College crew, composed of 7 novice rowers and one sophomore with a year experience, traveled to Philadelphia and placed 2nd in the V8+.
In 1961, Duvall got a job offer from the Dean Witter stock brokerage firm in Los Angles and moved with his family to Southern California to their new home in Newport Beach. For the next 9 nine years, he had a very successful practice at the firm. But the experience of the long computer between home and office, prophetically, challenged him to fill his time while driving and would generate one of his future entrepreneurial efforts.
In late 1964, Duvall found himself sitting next to UCI Chancellor Dan Aldrich on a commuter PSA airline flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Duvall and Chancellor Dan had previously met socially, arranged by a Stanford acquaintance of Duvall’s. But, before this short plane ride, they had never discussed UCI or intercollegiate rowing.
At that time, the Aldrich and the new UCI administration were striving to complete the buildings of the newest UC campus in time for the first students in the Fall of 1965.
During this flight, Duvall described the benefits of an intercollegiate rowing crew and outlined how such a program could be started. The Chancellor was sufficiently impressed with the 34-year-old Hecht that he committed to provide matching funds (up to $25,000) for the program if Duvall provided his proposal in writing.
Duvall, now a man who would always seize an opportunity, did so promptly. The chance meeting on the plane occurred on a Friday, and Duvall was at the UCI administration offices the following Monday with his proposal.
Watch Duvall Hecht and Jimmy Fifer winning their heat and final race in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics. Duvall shares some thoughts on his performance in this gold medal victory below.
It isn’t how many strokes you take, but how effective they are.
Here is a remarkably well restored copy of a film George [Pocock] took in 1956 of our pair in Melbourne. It shows a number of different styles, and you can compare their effectiveness by the results.
Fifer and I were generally three to five beats lower than the competition. It isn’t how many strokes you take, but how effective they are. What made our stroke effective? Couple of things …
First, we put everything we could into each stroke … lots of effort, sure, but no more than anyone else. The difference is that technically, with oars close to the water and with the roll-up being the final part of the extension for more reach, we got a lot more water to work with.
I can’t emphasize too strongly how important “with oars close to the water and with the roll-up being the final part of the extension for more reach” is to maximizing a crew’s effectiveness. You can see how carefully we approached the catch. The connection with the water was at the speed we were moving, and when the oar took its hold on the water, we began the acceleration. Absolutely no lost motion or wasted effort … no cavitation. Nothing interfered with the run of the boat … no vertical motion whatsoever.
We also carried the work as far as we could into the bow. Something in physics about that, about power applied over distance, in this case distance being the arc of the oar through the water.
We let the boat get all the run it could out of each stroke. By rowing two or three beats higher, the competition cut off the run. But first you have to boost the effective power in the water.
Everyone is equally fatigued at the end of a race, so it isn’t just effort. It’s effort effectively applied.
You can see the Russian pair, our chief competitor, and how short they are in the water. They approach the catch with their oars high off the water and then smack the catch hard with their oars … to my eye, they miss a ton of water, and their only recourse is to row at a higher rate, which compounds their problem.
Everyone is equally fatigued at the end of a race, so it isn’t just effort. It’s effort effectively applied.
Chicken Feed and Fast Boats
or, How Chance Opportunities and the Stars Aligned to Create Our Rowing Program at UCI
They know something about themselves that they didn’t know four years earlier. What they know is that nobody will ever give them anything they can’t do.
by Duvall Hecht
Act I: Dan Aldrich
In 1952, when I was a senior at Stanford, the Western Sprints were held on the north Lido Channel. We didn’t win the race, but it was the nicest of water I had ever rowed on. “Someday,” I thought, “there will be a collegiate crew here and it will be great!”
Fast forward 12 years to 1964. UCI was a still a bean field, though the first bulldozers were beginning their work, and the new chancellor, Dan Aldrich, had set up his office in a temporary building on what would soon be the campus.
A friend invited me to a Cal Alumni event, where Dan spoke, and where I met him. He knew the value of athletics and spoke about their importance at this new branch of the UC. A few days later I called to ask for an appointment to talk about crew.
Dan was a very impressive man – big, ruggedly handsome, outgoing, perhaps in his mid-40s. At Brown University he had been a track and field athlete – discus, shot put and javelin – and then served in the Navy during WWII. He was Chancellor at UC Riverside before coming to UCI. At our meeting, Dan patiently heard me out. He told me a number of others had suggested crew at UCI, thanked me for my interest, and sent me on my way. I thought, “Well, that’s it. I’ve had my 30 minutes.”
A couple of weeks later, after a Friday business trip to San Francisco, I was at SFO waiting for my flight home. Those were the days when you walked across the tarmac out to the plane. Dan Aldrich was the furthest thing from my mind when I looked up and saw him a little way ahead of me, headed for the same airplane. I put on some speed, caught up, reintroduced myself – and sat down next to him for an uninterrupted hour and a half.
He was returning from a meeting at Cal, where he had given a presentation to the Trustees. He had a beautiful oversize portfolio, full color renderings, bound in Morocco leather, one for each trustee. Dan let me examine his copy. I thought, “Wow! So that’s how the big boys do it!”
To be polite, Dan asked if I had any further thoughts on the rowing program at UCI. He probably regretted it, because it opened the floodgates. An hour later, as we stepped off the airplane, Dan, probably thinking he was at last getting rid of me, said, “Well, if you’re so sure that’s what should be done, why don’t you give me a written plan?” In other words, “Get out of my ear!” But he had just handed me the keys to the kingdom, because I saw what a big boy presentation looked like, right?
I spent the weekend on my faithful Remington typewriter and created a 25 page proposal, complete with drawings, lay out, boathouse dimensions, cost estimates, recruiting ideas, salaries for coaches and riggers, racing schedules and equipment needs, and put it in the nicest folder I could find – not quite Morocco, but close – and took it to him on Monday.
A few days later I met with him again. “That’s all you need?” he asked. “That and water and the young men, which won’t cost you anything,” I told him. “Okay,” he said, “you’re my guy.” I said, “What does that mean?” He said, “You go out and raise the money!” I staggered, so he smiled and added “Whatever you raise, I’ll match it.”
Now that’s a sporting proposition! So I called all my friends for help. I was asking for $1000 and needed 25 takers. The $1000 could be spread over three years. That sort of money meant something in 1964. In the event, when it was doubled by Dan’s contribution, it paid for the boathouse, three eights, a coaching launch and a training barge, plus 36 oars.
Act II: Bill Boland
The next problem was where to build the boathouse? Even in those days it was hard to find property on the water in Newport Beach. I tried half a dozen leads with no results. Then a friend who lived down here suggested I check out Shellmaker Island. He said the man who ran the dredging operation there was named Bill Boland.
Shellmaker Island got its start in the early 1900s when Redlands, Riverside and San Bernardino were the chicken and egg capitol of California – no thought then of “Inland Empire!” It was home to a modest dredging operation which scoured the bay for clamshells. The clamshells arrived at the island destined for the mill, still in operation in 1964. The mill reduced the clamshells to grit. Why?
Chickens require grit for their gizzards to grind up their feed. At the same time, if the grit provides calcium for the egg shell, you get a twofer. There is no better source for grit and calcium than ground-up clamshells. From there it is just a step to see what’s coming – the mill bagged the grit and labeled the bags “Shellmaker,” as in egg shells – thus, Shellmaker Island. When Bill Boland bought Shellmaker, Inc. after World War II, the migration from Los Angeles was just beginning. Every waterfront home wanted a dock, which of course required dredging. Bill’s was the only dredging operation on Newport harbor, and his work shifted from grit for chickens to docks for millionaires.
When I first met him, 1964, the island was completely wild. The mill, hardly ever used by this time, stood across a large open space from the four sheds that served as office, tool room, shop and storage room. The sheds were typical California construction – uninsulated bat and board – the roofs similarly constructed and covered with tar paper. For air-conditioning, you opened the windows, and for toilets, you used the outhouse. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. You could hear the rain pound on the roof. It was heaven!
It was also an ecological paradise before ecological became an excuse to beat up on people. Old pumps, cables, pontoons, rusty pipes, crane extensions, decomposing rowboats that had served their time, lay off in the weeds and provided shelter for the bunnies. The irony is that with the transfer to Fish and Game and their Taj Mahal airplane hangar to house half a dozen cops and bureaucrats, the island became less hospitable to its critter population but better suited to the image DFG people have of themselves. However, that dismal event lay far in the future.
On my first visit, Bill Boland invited me into his office, which he shared with Johnny Jones, his bookkeeper. Johnny’s father drove the toilet truck that serviced the outhouse. Nobody gave themselves any airs. Informality was Bill’s style. He wore khakis, ankle boots, short sleeve shirt open at the neck, no jacket. He smiled, leaned back in his chair: “What can I do for you today?” Before I answered, I noticed half a dozen pictures behind him, all of the F4U, the gullwing Corsair, symbol of Marine Corps aviation during World War II. And there was Bill standing in the pictures with his squadron mates around him. “My God,” I thought, “I’m talking to a Marine pilot.” In 1964 I was still a weekend warrior with the Marines, and what’s more, I had flown the Corsair! This was made in heaven! (And it was about to get better!)
“Bill,” I said, “you were a Marine pilot! I am too!” “OK,” he said, “but you probably don’t have any time in the Corsair.” “Actually, I do – ten years ago, when I was at Cherry Point, Joe McPhail brought the Minneapolis reserve squadron there in Corsair’s and let me check out in one.” “Joe McPhail?” said Bill. “Joe was my wingman in the South Pacific!”
When we finally settled down to talk about what had brought me to Shellmaker Island, we were best friends. He showed me around the island and asked where I would like to put the boathouse. We walked the outlines of what would be our sublease.
As I got ready to leave, he said, “If I let you do this, can I get rid of you if I don’t like having you around?” And I said, “Sure, but will give you no reason not to like us.” And he said, “Okay. I’ll call you and let you know.”
The next day, Bill called to say that it was ours, but that he would need about a week for the lawyers to write up the agreement. Ten days later I picked it up for Dan Aldrich to sign, and took the autographed copy back to Bill. He took it to the Irvine Company, because they owned the island, which Bill leased from them.
The vice president to whom he handed the lease looked at it and said, “Bill! Don’t you know you need our permission before you make a sublease?” Bill said, “Sure I do. I was just afraid somebody would say no.”
“I was just afraid somebody would say no,” so Bill went ahead and did it anyway. Imagine trying that on a bureaucrat on the Coastal Commission or a timeserver at Fish and Game!
Bill helped us every step of the way. He built the boat racks in the boathouse. He put in water and electricity. He added the lighting. He brought the crane over to put up the flagpole. He dredged out our docking area. He bulldozed a level area for our parking. We had a 25 year honeymoon, then the Irvine Company gave the property to DFG, and the rest is history
Bill and I remained friends till the day he died. To look at him you wouldn’t think it, but he was a fine musician, a pianist. He had a Bosendorfer Grand which he gave a good workout every couple of weeks with a group of fellow musicians. He would fix dinner for everyone, the bourbon flowed freely, and they had music for dessert.
After the island was transferred to DFG, Bill moved to Petaluma and then to Inverness, where he retired. He built a house in the redwoods, halfway down a ravine where a creek flowed year- round. Steelhead came up it in the spring to spawn in the headwaters. As he grew older, he built a guesthouse to live in and, as he had no children and his idiot wife had left him, he gave the main house to his nephew. He loved living there, in the shade, in the cool, with his Bosendorfer and books for company.
Bitterness had no part of Bill. He always remembered the good. “I’ve had plenty of sunshine in my life,” he said, “and now I’m happy to be here where it’s cool and shady.” A year or two later his nephew’s wife came down to his house to give him the newspaper. He always enjoyed reading it with his morning coffee. The coffee was there, steaming in a mug by the window, and Bill was there too, stretched out on the floor. His work was over, and the UCI crew lost one of the best friends it ever had.
Act III: UCI Crew
When you strip it to its core, rowing is about the men, the water, the boats and the coaches. That’s it. You can have great circumstances for the flourishing of a crew, and you can have terrible, but the circumstances don’t make a great crew – you do. You can complain about anything and everything. It’s profitless. It is what it is.
When you put the boats in the water, when you go out on the bay at 5:00 AM, you can’t blame anybody or anything if you don’t do the best job you can. You flush all the negatives out of your mind, and as a coach you demand the men do the same. They learn that rowing, like life, is a game that’s won between the ears.
It can only be won by focusing, focusing totally, on the job at hand. That’s what every coach at UCI, and really every rowing coach in the country, tries to do and tries to teach. The young men who get that message, who stick around long enough to find the sublime unity in a boat that moves well, and who after four years of rolling out of bed at 4:30 a.m. and showing up to row in the dark in any kind of weather, who remember the crunch of ice on the dock under their bare feet – they know something about themselves that they didn’t know four years earlier.
What they know is that nobody will ever give them anything they can’t do. And that is a terrific lesson to learn early in life, knowing with absolute certainty that whatever gets thrown at you, you can handle it.
So, do I love rowing? Do I love coaching? Listen. I was nothing. When I entered Stanford as a sophomore transfer, I found that freshman and sophomores were required to take a PE class.
Rather than play badminton, I tried crew. I was in the third boat all year, and if there had been a fourth, I would’ve been in it. No chance I’d row my junior year.
That fall, sucking down a Lucky Strike on the third floor of the Zete house, someone yelled “Hey Dewey, there’s a guy down here to see you!” So I bounced downstairs, very cool with the Lucky in the side of my mouth, and there was my rowing coach, Jimmy Beggs. Even though I didn’t plan to row anymore, I liked Jimmy was sufficiently embarrassed that I tossed that cigarette in the fireplace. Of course Jimmy had seen it. He stood at the door for a long minute, looking at me. Then he said, “You know, I thought you might have some potential and that I’d ask you to come back out for crew. But now, I don’t think so.” He turned and walked away.
Well, it may have been child psychology, but nobody treats me that way! So I showed up and rowed as a junior. For the first time in my life I trained. I got the idea of what crew was about. Beggsie had been a coxswain at Yale before he came to Stanford as a graduate student in 1949. He had taken a pair-with-cox to the 1948 Olympic trials. They came in second, and Jimmy promised himself he would find another couple of oarsmen in 1952 and make it to Helsinki. In the fall of my senior year, he asked me if I would like to try it with him. He said I could choose who I wanted to row with. There was no doubt in my mind that it should be Jimmy Fifer.
Jimmy Beggs brought a brand-new Pocock pair down from Seattle in January, 1952. Fifer built us a dock at Redwood City. We rowed every morning in eights out of the Stanford boathouse at Palo Alto yacht harbor, afternoons at Redwood City with Jimmy Beggs. We began to move the boat pretty well.
In July we went East to the Olympic trials at Lake Quinsigamond in Worcester, Massachusetts. We had never raced before. After going through elimination heats, we came up against the pair from the US Naval Academy. They had won the Eastern sprints championships and were undefeated through their competitive season. In the final race, we beat them by about a foot. It took 15 minutes for the judges to develop the film – the longest 15 minutes of my life.
So we won the American championship and made the Olympic team, thus realizing our goal. In Helsinki, we were eliminated in the semi finals. Did I learn something from that? You bet I did! We set our goal to win the American championship, which we did. Then we went to the Olympic Games, where we had no further goal, and where we failed.
But amazingly – no, miraculously – four years later Fifer and I got an opportunity to row again, this time in a straight pair. Jimmy Beggs, who was then at Penn coaching freshman, agreed to coach us. He did such a good job that we won a gold-medal in Australia.
How could that be? We were the same two people, same height and weight, as we were four years earlier. The difference was all mental. There was only one thing in our minds, and that was to overcome the shame of having lost. The shame! Failing is a wonderful motivation, because you cannot live there.
When I got the opportunity to coach at Menlo JC in 1958, I was on fire to pass my experiences on to a new generation of oarsmen. And tonight, as I look out at everyone in this room and see people from the founding crew at UCI to the most recent oarsmen, I feel blessed and grateful to God to have been connected in a vital, visceral way to young men who took to heart the lessons of rowing and made of themselves more than otherwise they would ever have made, had they not discovered as oarsmen what was possible for them to give, to take, to endure.
I am grateful for having been given the great opportunity and privilege of helping to create the UCI rowing program five decades ago. Even more, I cherish my time on the water as a coach, where I have tried to share the vision I inherited and the lessons I learned from the four great coaches who taught me how boats should move over water.
I thank you for your support, and now turn over to a new generation responsibility for the next 50 years of UCI crew, confident that its best years lie ahead.
This is an interview of Duvall by Samuel McCulloch, Professor Emeritus of History, UCI Historian, talking about Duvall’s founding of UCI crew, Books on Tape, his return to UCI in 1992, philosophy on the program, funding, coaching, etc. A lot of topics are captured in this interview with Duvall and are very much still applicable today.
Interview with Duvall Hecht
Date: 1992-07-06
Collection: McCulloch (Samuel C.) Oral Histories
Owning Institution: UC Irvine, Libraries, University Archives
Source: Calisphere
Date of access: February 24 2022 19:01
If you have any photos of Duvall that you'd like to share, please contact David Heimerl.
Online References
Social Media Tributes
An Olympic rowing gold medalist later made a splash in audio books https://t.co/xQrBugENqt via @WSJ
— James R. Hagerty (@JamesRHagerty) February 23, 2022
Duvall Hecht, who popularized audiobooks as founder of Books on Tape, dies at 91https://t.co/xyLpBm81qD
— The Washington Post (@washingtonpost) March 2, 2022
Duvall Hecht, whose daily grind to L.A. led to Books on Tape, dies at 91 https://t.co/4KIqLoVosj
— Los Angeles Times (@latimes) February 19, 2022
A devout hunter, he visited Wyoming each year and wouldn’t return until he had felled enough antelope to stock his freezer with little serving-sized bricks of meat.
Kaplan’s restaurant, in Santa Ana off the 55 Freeway, was his selected breakfast haunt in those days. He knew the manager, and all the staff, on a first name basis. He could violate every California health code with a wave of his hand.
The staff would hop to it like we were royalty. Duvall always allowed the nonsensical and often inappropriate banter of collegiate oarsmen, but by example, somehow derived the respect from each of us to the staff that they deserved.
We learned that knowing someone’s name was powerful.
We learned that looking someone in the eye, shaking their hand, and succinctly detailing your needs, with a promise of fair treatment and fair pay… was powerful.
Dewey was a Champion in Olympic Rowing and in life. Very glad to have known him.
Duvall’s influence crosses decades and generations no doubt. He was such an incredible and excellent teacher, story teller, leader and man, who cared immensely for his “students”, his boys and girls in the boat. He is sorely missed and I am forever thankful for what he has done for the Irvine community at large, for the men’s crew of 1992 and for me personally in bringing to us all the amazing sport that is rowing and teaching us lessons of life. God bless you Duvall and may our paths cross again….
Duvall was the mentor of mentors, he listened intently and responded with great advice drawn from a lifetime of listening, reading living and adventuring. What draws a man to sell the iconic Books on Tape, a multi million dollar business he built that predated streaming media, and travel the country in his 70s by semi truck delivering camper shells for a manufacturer? He was truly a renaissance man and will be missed by all who knew or came in contact with him.
Until we meet again…
Duvall was a man of great vision, courage, and determination! I have hundreds of pieces of correspondence we exchanged over the years. He came to UCLA as coach (where I rowed 67-71) after I graduated and was serving in a guided missile destroyer off Vietnam. We met live at a Churchill Society annual convention in San Francisco in 1990. Duvall was grand and magnanimous as well as the master encourager. In all things he was a genuine prince. He was truly one of the finest humans I have known and he will be missed.
Duvall gave me the confidence to believe in myself and pass that gift on to others.
In the words of others-
And I never thought I’d feel this way
And as far as I’m concerned
I’m glad I got the chance to say
That I do believe, I love you
And if I should ever go away
Well, then close your eyes and try
To feel the way we do today
And then if you can remember
Keep smiling, keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me, for sure
That’s what friends are for
For good times and bad times
I’ll be on your side forever more
That’s what friends are for
Well, you came in loving me
And now there’s so much more I see
And so by the way
I thank you
Oh and then for the times when we’re apart
Well, then close your eyes and know
The words are coming from my heart
And then if you can remember
Keep smiling and keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me, for sure
That’s what friends are for
In good times and bad times
I’ll be on your side forever more
That’s what friends are for
Keep smiling, keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me, for sure
That’s what friends are for
For good times and bad times
I’ll be on your side forever more
That’s what friends are for
Keep smiling, keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me, for sure
Cause I tell you, that’s what friends are for
Whoa, good times and the bad times
I’ll be on your side forever more
That’s what friends are for
Love,
Scotty
p.s. robots, chimneys, and especially fire hydrants love you too
When I graduated law school, three years after I stopped rowing, Duvall helped me get a job in a difficult market. He kept my spirits up and encouraged me along the way. I needed that.
We watched the film United 93 at the theatre in Costa Mesa. It moved us both deeply. Duvall talked about politics and life without nonsense but he also had a great sense of humor and optimism about it. That’s rare. One of the many books he gave me was by HL Mencken. Duvall understood me better than I understood me at that time.
Duvall had greater insight into people than anyone I have ever met.
Around 2009, Duvall and I helped form Friends of UCI Rowing together and sat on the initial Board. We both understood that the power of a fundraising org comes from the camaraderie and good memories we shared with our old friends, teammates, and coaches who shaped us into the men we are today. We talked about money but we kept things light and fun. I got to spend more time with Duvall from sitting on that Board with him. He treated me to spare ribs and an unforgettable bottle of wine that I still remember to this day.
The man had good taste.
I miss my friend already. I’d like to be with my teammates who share fond memories of Duvall.
I always felt lucky to be in Duvall’s presence.
And what of Duvall’s artistic pursuits, not the least of which was his eager and enthusiastic singing avocation in the Apollo Club? I recall that Duvall started singing as an Apollo member possibly at the same time- – Spring of 1988 or so- – as did I. The manager of the choir, Dr. Riccio would regularly, at the close of rehearsals, thank Duvall among the members ‘for all that he did’ at LA Athletic and the choir. Although then in my youth, I scarcely gave thought about what Duvall was contributing beyond a bellowing bass-baritone to the chorus; now in my more-advanced youth, let us say, I realize that Duvall was working behind the scenes in unseen ways making sure that the group had sufficient resources- from marking pencils for scores all the way to adequate attendance at our concerts- to perpetuate the cause of music at Los Angeles Athletic Club.
Our gratifying times well-spent at the Chinatown eatery Yee Mee Loo (4th & Ord for those without a current Thomas Guide) after any number of rehearsals proved a congenial and social outlet beyond the singing business at hand. When the Northridge quake took Yee Mee Loo off the map permanently, Duvall and I commiserated in a solemn way: Now that Duvall has also left us, how gratifying to see all the solemn wishes and the many lives, particularly those of youth, he influenced with a love for his fellow (hu)man.
Chris Saranec, Music Director & Conductor of Apollo Men’s Chorus, resident at LA Athletic Club
I did not attend UCI but am thankful to have had Duvall Hecht as a coach at UCLA. I appreciated that he saw something in me that I had not yet discovered. I also appreciate that I had occasion last year to email him and continue our connection. I appreciate that I had an opportunity to share with him the success of my children, both in life and in rowing. He commented that I was living the American dream. I am sure he could make that connection from the wonderful life that he lived.
-Guy Weaser (UCLA ’78)
On a Friday afternoon in September 1973, in my freshman year at UCLA, I accepted an invitation from a few the guys in the dorm to “see them row” on Bologna Creek. Little did I know…
I was introduced to Coach Hecht, and he graciously invited me into the launch. I was enthralled, but didn’t say much. At the end of practice he said, “well Carolyn, we’ll see you Monday morning at 4:30am (or whatever God-awful time we used to get out there.)
I stammered back something like, “but I just came to watch, I don’t have any experience…”
Dewey looked me in the eyes (the way I’m sure ALL of you recall), and said something like, “I don’t care what you do or don’t know, you can work hard and prove yourself starting on Monday.”
That simple act of believing in me, believing in a 19 year old kid who had never been in team sports, or had any reason for this man to think I could do the job, stayed with me my whole life.
I took on jobs where people challenged me; I would think back to my time on crew, as a coxswain, doing something that required excellence, starting out 100% novice.
In later years, in my job, we often gave people with criminal records a chance at a job. They would start to tell me their past, but I would stop them. I would look them in the eye and say “I don’t care what you do or don’t know, you can work hard and prove yourself starting on Monday.”
Thanks Coach Hecht.
RIP
I heard Duval’s name for the first time when trying out for rowing as a novice back in 1978. At that point, he was just name from the past associated with building the program. He was heavily into his books on tape company then so I didn’t actually meet him until 1979 when he attended several function leading to the naming of an 8 after him. It was only after I heard in speak at a reception that I realized how dedicated he was to program he had build a decade earlier. He inspired many and most importantly, continued to breathe life over and over into a financially struggling program. More than four decades later we continue to see the fruits of his labor. That to me is what makes him a legacy and we all owe him a big thank you.
I joined UCI crew as a coxswain for the novice men’s team in the fall of 1995, with no experience or understanding of the sport, I was just small and wanted to be part of UCI athletics. In that first year, I learned not only the foundations of rowing, but the beauty that could be found in tidal reports, dark months, and tying the perfect knot back at the dock. In the summer of 1996 I started working for Books on Tape, and at the same time my mother passed away from cancer. Duvall took time out of his busy day in the mornings that summer, before we went to work, to teach me to scull. He freely invested that time in me and supported me through the worst moment of my life. He encouraged me to join the women’s team to row, and I took the lessons I learned from him with me through the rest of my rowing career, and now into my running career. I am forever in debt to the man who taught me to row, taught me that game meat is delicious, and showed me how to be compassionate to others from a place of authority. Duvall, you will never be forgotten by that little coxswain/receptionist to whom you gave light during the darkest of times.