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Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Heroic Support
Greetings, Gentle Reader.
The Big Row is long over, but your curiosity perists, suggesting either that my prose is analogous to Chinese food (or at least MSG), or that you have far too much time on your hands. Either way, I'm glad you're back at the electronic 'fridge, 'cause I'm happy to put some heat on aging the Egg Foo Youg. Always.
Tonight I want to shine light on the real heroes of my row...the support team which aided me through conception, planning, execution, and an all-too-grand entrance into the Inner Harbor. I wish I could have each of you at my boat right now with a laundry marker, inscribing your names and perhaps a witticism; you guys were the fuel in my tank.
First, there's Peg. When this trip was a gleam in my eye, I initially saw a bit of a cloud in hers...yet she has been nothing but supportive and positive from Day One. Sure, there was a new dog in the house when I got home (Mobey, a foster dog, who will leave us on Friday for his new home in the country. Picture, Gentle Reader, a "Far Side" dog, and you have Mobey. Were we to subject him to radical cosmetic surgery and remove his ears and legs, he would be a seal, and a damn cute one, too), but this was no price at all to pay for Peg's love, support, and extraordinary logistical effort. Peg, I love you. You do things for me effortlessly, constantly, unconditionally, and I only hope to be worthy of you.
And Kathy, vaunted Blog Mistress and logistician extraordinairre. Kathy is responsible for virtually everything you see on the blog, and her enthusiasm for the project, for the community it has gathered, and her unending creativity have made this a truly communal event. She is the one primarily responsible for putting you all in the boat with me, and I couldn't be more grateful. "Kathy." Rhymes with "Can do." Sorta. There may be some truth to the adage, "There are no friends like old friends," but we have to come up with one that speaks to newer friends who we can't imagine never having had in our lives. Kathy, you rock.
Along the way, various characters popped up who made the trip a joy. Of the understimulated hoard that showed up for the launch in Troy on 8/5, perhaps most memorable is brother Bill. Bill waved goodbye with the rest of them and then kept popping up along the banks of the Hudson like an animated "Where's Waldo." He'd appear from tank farms, emerge from bushes, wave wildly from abandoned piers, flash his lights from bridges and dirt roads. I mean, 30 miles down the Hudson I was afraid to take a break for fear that he was watching and would report back on his slacker brother. Bill, how you (or your car) got to the places you did is beyond me, but it sure enlivened my first day; when a send-off lasts for four hours, you know you've been sent off by people who really care.
And Peter. What can I say about Peter? Peter drove down from Vermont, wisely bypassing the send-off in Troy, parked his car in Saugerties (50 miles downstream), got on his bike, and spent the day biking perhaps twice my 50 mile day, searching, calling, searching, ever searching. His Chevy was a treasure trove of Gatorade, sandwiches, marginally edible if healthy oatmeal cookies, and useful "sundries" for a rookie rower; Peter rowed competitively at Dartmouth, our alma-mater, and knows what a fellow needs to ply the water. We shared a tent in Saugerties and a floor at the Marlboro Yach Club, and his mobility delivered the only two morning cups of coffee I would see for many days. Above all, I appreciated his sage early advice on pacing, the importance of taking a break now and then and, most importantly, his incandescent spirit and great humor. Peter, frankly, was instrumental in enabling me to establish a pace and pattern that would ensure the successful completion of the trip. How can I thank him?
I've already written about Bill Flammer, my host in Stone Harbor, and his heroic dash to Cape May with the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich. Lore for the ages.
Then there's Andy and Sandy who, themselves hosted by Sandy's gracious sister and her husband, treated me like royalty in Beach Haven. Andy put the finishing touches on Sandy's bolognase sauce...and my fears that such a repast would have me looking for the men's room on my boat the next day were unfounded. That sauce was the best I had ever had, it went through me like a bullet train, and I was totally refreshed the next morning. They had driven all the way from Princeton to make my trip more comfortable; the plasure of their company was, as always, the best fuel of all. Again, how does one say "thanks"?
Peg and Kathy ran some logistics from shore as well, meeting me in Staten Island, monitoring my progress under the Verenzano Bridge, helping me through the morass of Sandy Hook, and even arranging a meeting, in Highlands, NJ, with the delightful Connie Cottrell and her family. Connie was the national champion in Jersey Speed Skiffs in 1970; I now own her boat, and just tipping a drink with someone who has forgotten more about something than you will ever learn is, for me, downright enthralling.
Other heros? Oh, there were many:
Everyone who gave me permission to sleep on their dock, their floor, or their beach.
The fisherman who gave me the skinny on the C&D Canal...which emboldened me to try this critical passage at night.
Folks who had the curiosity to ask what the hell I was up to instead of just wondering silently.
The girl in Mantaloking who gave me the key code to the men's room (and, I suppose indirectly, the guy I never met in Mantaloking who must have given her the key code).
The two gals on the park bench in Ocean City who not only urged me to tell my story, but who also, later, put in a good word for me with the cops as I rolled out my bag on the dock.
Cheryl & Cheryl in Chesapeake City (see pervious blog entry). I'm going back there for my next haircut and a Gatorade, and maybe a gift. Simply unbelievable.
My mom, who gets the "Traveled Furthest Award" for greeting me at the Inner Harbor. We don't get to pick our moms, but somehow I think I might have.
The Boys' Latin School community: my students, their families, and my colleagues. I am blessed to work - if one can really call it "work" - at such a place. (This week one of my students from last year said, "Man, Mr, Frei, you look ripped. Can I see the pythons?" I mean, I think this was a compliment; he'd never said anything quite like that to me before.)
And, finally, each of you. Frankly, the fact that this thing has taken on a life of its own beyond the act of rowing itself has been the best part of the experience. Your readership has been flattering and fun to pander to, your checks have largly cleared and are now doing the good work promised, and I'm going to miss this when it is finally over.
"Mr. Frei, you raise an interesting point. When do you think this will be over?"
Gentle Reader, to paraphrase Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, "You have me on the hip." I have a few more stories I'd like to tell just to complete this travelogue - if only for my own posterity - but as we all know, at some point the Egg Foo Young has to go. And, as they say on Broadway, "Leave them wanting more." Or, as Kenny Rogers sang, "Know when to fold 'em."
Soon, Gentle Reader, soon.
But not yet.
xxoo
Mr. Frei
The Big Row is long over, but your curiosity perists, suggesting either that my prose is analogous to Chinese food (or at least MSG), or that you have far too much time on your hands. Either way, I'm glad you're back at the electronic 'fridge, 'cause I'm happy to put some heat on aging the Egg Foo Youg. Always.
Tonight I want to shine light on the real heroes of my row...the support team which aided me through conception, planning, execution, and an all-too-grand entrance into the Inner Harbor. I wish I could have each of you at my boat right now with a laundry marker, inscribing your names and perhaps a witticism; you guys were the fuel in my tank.
First, there's Peg. When this trip was a gleam in my eye, I initially saw a bit of a cloud in hers...yet she has been nothing but supportive and positive from Day One. Sure, there was a new dog in the house when I got home (Mobey, a foster dog, who will leave us on Friday for his new home in the country. Picture, Gentle Reader, a "Far Side" dog, and you have Mobey. Were we to subject him to radical cosmetic surgery and remove his ears and legs, he would be a seal, and a damn cute one, too), but this was no price at all to pay for Peg's love, support, and extraordinary logistical effort. Peg, I love you. You do things for me effortlessly, constantly, unconditionally, and I only hope to be worthy of you.
And Kathy, vaunted Blog Mistress and logistician extraordinairre. Kathy is responsible for virtually everything you see on the blog, and her enthusiasm for the project, for the community it has gathered, and her unending creativity have made this a truly communal event. She is the one primarily responsible for putting you all in the boat with me, and I couldn't be more grateful. "Kathy." Rhymes with "Can do." Sorta. There may be some truth to the adage, "There are no friends like old friends," but we have to come up with one that speaks to newer friends who we can't imagine never having had in our lives. Kathy, you rock.
Along the way, various characters popped up who made the trip a joy. Of the understimulated hoard that showed up for the launch in Troy on 8/5, perhaps most memorable is brother Bill. Bill waved goodbye with the rest of them and then kept popping up along the banks of the Hudson like an animated "Where's Waldo." He'd appear from tank farms, emerge from bushes, wave wildly from abandoned piers, flash his lights from bridges and dirt roads. I mean, 30 miles down the Hudson I was afraid to take a break for fear that he was watching and would report back on his slacker brother. Bill, how you (or your car) got to the places you did is beyond me, but it sure enlivened my first day; when a send-off lasts for four hours, you know you've been sent off by people who really care.
And Peter. What can I say about Peter? Peter drove down from Vermont, wisely bypassing the send-off in Troy, parked his car in Saugerties (50 miles downstream), got on his bike, and spent the day biking perhaps twice my 50 mile day, searching, calling, searching, ever searching. His Chevy was a treasure trove of Gatorade, sandwiches, marginally edible if healthy oatmeal cookies, and useful "sundries" for a rookie rower; Peter rowed competitively at Dartmouth, our alma-mater, and knows what a fellow needs to ply the water. We shared a tent in Saugerties and a floor at the Marlboro Yach Club, and his mobility delivered the only two morning cups of coffee I would see for many days. Above all, I appreciated his sage early advice on pacing, the importance of taking a break now and then and, most importantly, his incandescent spirit and great humor. Peter, frankly, was instrumental in enabling me to establish a pace and pattern that would ensure the successful completion of the trip. How can I thank him?
I've already written about Bill Flammer, my host in Stone Harbor, and his heroic dash to Cape May with the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich. Lore for the ages.
Then there's Andy and Sandy who, themselves hosted by Sandy's gracious sister and her husband, treated me like royalty in Beach Haven. Andy put the finishing touches on Sandy's bolognase sauce...and my fears that such a repast would have me looking for the men's room on my boat the next day were unfounded. That sauce was the best I had ever had, it went through me like a bullet train, and I was totally refreshed the next morning. They had driven all the way from Princeton to make my trip more comfortable; the plasure of their company was, as always, the best fuel of all. Again, how does one say "thanks"?
Peg and Kathy ran some logistics from shore as well, meeting me in Staten Island, monitoring my progress under the Verenzano Bridge, helping me through the morass of Sandy Hook, and even arranging a meeting, in Highlands, NJ, with the delightful Connie Cottrell and her family. Connie was the national champion in Jersey Speed Skiffs in 1970; I now own her boat, and just tipping a drink with someone who has forgotten more about something than you will ever learn is, for me, downright enthralling.
Other heros? Oh, there were many:
Everyone who gave me permission to sleep on their dock, their floor, or their beach.
The fisherman who gave me the skinny on the C&D Canal...which emboldened me to try this critical passage at night.
Folks who had the curiosity to ask what the hell I was up to instead of just wondering silently.
The girl in Mantaloking who gave me the key code to the men's room (and, I suppose indirectly, the guy I never met in Mantaloking who must have given her the key code).
The two gals on the park bench in Ocean City who not only urged me to tell my story, but who also, later, put in a good word for me with the cops as I rolled out my bag on the dock.
Cheryl & Cheryl in Chesapeake City (see pervious blog entry). I'm going back there for my next haircut and a Gatorade, and maybe a gift. Simply unbelievable.
My mom, who gets the "Traveled Furthest Award" for greeting me at the Inner Harbor. We don't get to pick our moms, but somehow I think I might have.
The Boys' Latin School community: my students, their families, and my colleagues. I am blessed to work - if one can really call it "work" - at such a place. (This week one of my students from last year said, "Man, Mr, Frei, you look ripped. Can I see the pythons?" I mean, I think this was a compliment; he'd never said anything quite like that to me before.)
And, finally, each of you. Frankly, the fact that this thing has taken on a life of its own beyond the act of rowing itself has been the best part of the experience. Your readership has been flattering and fun to pander to, your checks have largly cleared and are now doing the good work promised, and I'm going to miss this when it is finally over.
"Mr. Frei, you raise an interesting point. When do you think this will be over?"
Gentle Reader, to paraphrase Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, "You have me on the hip." I have a few more stories I'd like to tell just to complete this travelogue - if only for my own posterity - but as we all know, at some point the Egg Foo Young has to go. And, as they say on Broadway, "Leave them wanting more." Or, as Kenny Rogers sang, "Know when to fold 'em."
Soon, Gentle Reader, soon.
But not yet.
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The Stalking
Back for more?
Gentle Reader, I can understand my own penchant for wanting to write about my trip; it's a way of depressurizing, reflecting, and savoring the experience for a second time. But you? Surely you have better use for your time than to keep revisiting this fractured prose.
It's nice that several friends (and my mom) were quoted in today's piece in The Messenger(see link). I am blessed with good friends - people who have zest for life and caring, unconditional spirits. I know they are unconditional because I do so little for them. The only stretch in the article is my mom's statement that she thought I would just "row around the dock" in my gift; if she'd 'a thunk that, she would have selected a pram. What a kidder.
The checks keep coming in...many over their pledge amount...and you are making the post-row fundraising a very painless - even joyous - affair. To one and all, thanks; I'll have to come up with an appropriate way to express my gratitude.
Gentle Reader, May I tell you about my Barnegat Bay day? The Bay is an enormous body of water inside the Intercoastal in New Jersey, the setting for what I'll refer to as The Stalking.
It was about noon on Saturday, the 12th...one week and a day into my journey.
I was just abreast of Barnegat Light, where the a significant outlet to the ocean feeds the bay. The water was moderately calm, the sun high, and I had a nice breeze from astern. I was in a rhythm, a kind of zone, and the strokes were coming easily. I was grateful for the prospect of reaching the lower, more sheltered stretch of the Intercoastal that afternoon with relative ease. That's when I saw it: a large dark shape, maybe 20 feet directly behind the boat, coming on slowly. No fin broke the water, but that didn't stop my imagination from instantaneously kicking into high gear. Jaws, Jaws 2, Jaws 3, Shark Week, Stay Out of the Water Week...all of the vivid Discovery Channel and Animal Planet shark footage I had ever seen came roaring to life in Technicolor / Surround Sound as if I were dragging a Big Screen behind the boat.
Unfortunately, I also immediately recalled experiments performed by marine biologists off of the Faralon Islands in California. They tested the attractiveness of various shapes to the Great White population which thrives there, concluding that surfers are especially interesting to sharks because the shapes of their boards evoke the shape of seals, their favorite dish. Any child can see that my boat, when viewed from below, carries a stunningly similar shilouette. I didn't need a child in the boat to remind me of this unhappy corellation; my Inner Child was perfectly capable of raising the point, and I couldn't quiet him down.
To compound my concerns, I had been chewing on Slim Jims at this point of the row. For those of you unfamiliar with this popular yet mysterious meat snack, here's how it goes: You bite off a piece, chew it with determination, and after you have absorbed the nutritive chemicals and ersatz meat products contained therein, you are left with a wad of pulp that cannot be chewed further - and should most definitely not be swallowed. So...I'd been spitting wads of masticated Slim Jims over the side for some time, which my Inner Child immediately translated into...yes...chum.
So I had the shape...I was trailing the scent...and now I had some mysterious and unwelcome company.
The shape weaved from left to right behind the boat, then approached to within ten feet or so, then it would disappear for a moment and reappear further astern again. It soon became more curious, accelerating close to the stern and veering off to one side or another.(While things may appear closer in a rear view mirror, I was already facing backwards, and whatever it was needed no magnification; had I been in a kayak, I might have remained blissfully unaware of its presence.)
I was praying that it would break the surface for air; I'd have gleefully thrown my last Slim Jim to a Flipper, and my wallet, too. Yet the shadow didn't broach the surface...nor did I see the dreaded fin. But whatever it was was was there, and it was large, and I learned that a simple shape in the water can convey a most unsettling primal malevolence.
Then...after maybe five or six more passes past the beam of the boat, it was gone.
Only then did I begin to feel the effects of the drama. An immediate threat tends to galvanize you; you focus on the here and now, which in my case was the maintainence of a steady rhythm and doing everything possible to mimic the movements of a healthy, formidable, unpanicked creature...anything other than the hapless, thrashing seals off the Faralons. My "shadow" - whatever it was - had apparently lost interest, but for the next hour the adrenalin was flowing freely...and I tucked the remaining Slim Jims under the seat for more confined waters.
Gentle Reader, I can't tell you that I saw a shark. Whatever it was never revealed itself. When I recounted this tale to my dear friend Brian, he sounded skeptical. "Are you sure it wasn't the shadow of your own boat? Maybe a shadow created by passing clouds, or water variations?"
Brian, I don't have to see the car to hear it coming. I don't have to taste the coffee to smell it perking. I don't have to hear the siren to know that I should soon grope for my license and registration. And, believe me, I didn't have to see a fin to feel a presence. I can only say that I wish you'd been with me. Oh, how I wish that you'd been with me. There, and on the Delaware. I love you that much.
In retrospect, I feel a bit silly that I felt such post-encounter anxiety from something just a click above an apparition. Perhaps this is indeed a testament to the power of the cocktail of a vivid imagination stirred with graphic media images. Yet I've always subscribed to Woody Allen's line, "Whenever I'm in the water, I feel like I'm on the menu."
More, Gentle Reader?
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Gentle Reader, I can understand my own penchant for wanting to write about my trip; it's a way of depressurizing, reflecting, and savoring the experience for a second time. But you? Surely you have better use for your time than to keep revisiting this fractured prose.
It's nice that several friends (and my mom) were quoted in today's piece in The Messenger(see link). I am blessed with good friends - people who have zest for life and caring, unconditional spirits. I know they are unconditional because I do so little for them. The only stretch in the article is my mom's statement that she thought I would just "row around the dock" in my gift; if she'd 'a thunk that, she would have selected a pram. What a kidder.
The checks keep coming in...many over their pledge amount...and you are making the post-row fundraising a very painless - even joyous - affair. To one and all, thanks; I'll have to come up with an appropriate way to express my gratitude.
Gentle Reader, May I tell you about my Barnegat Bay day? The Bay is an enormous body of water inside the Intercoastal in New Jersey, the setting for what I'll refer to as The Stalking.
It was about noon on Saturday, the 12th...one week and a day into my journey.
I was just abreast of Barnegat Light, where the a significant outlet to the ocean feeds the bay. The water was moderately calm, the sun high, and I had a nice breeze from astern. I was in a rhythm, a kind of zone, and the strokes were coming easily. I was grateful for the prospect of reaching the lower, more sheltered stretch of the Intercoastal that afternoon with relative ease. That's when I saw it: a large dark shape, maybe 20 feet directly behind the boat, coming on slowly. No fin broke the water, but that didn't stop my imagination from instantaneously kicking into high gear. Jaws, Jaws 2, Jaws 3, Shark Week, Stay Out of the Water Week...all of the vivid Discovery Channel and Animal Planet shark footage I had ever seen came roaring to life in Technicolor / Surround Sound as if I were dragging a Big Screen behind the boat.
Unfortunately, I also immediately recalled experiments performed by marine biologists off of the Faralon Islands in California. They tested the attractiveness of various shapes to the Great White population which thrives there, concluding that surfers are especially interesting to sharks because the shapes of their boards evoke the shape of seals, their favorite dish. Any child can see that my boat, when viewed from below, carries a stunningly similar shilouette. I didn't need a child in the boat to remind me of this unhappy corellation; my Inner Child was perfectly capable of raising the point, and I couldn't quiet him down.
To compound my concerns, I had been chewing on Slim Jims at this point of the row. For those of you unfamiliar with this popular yet mysterious meat snack, here's how it goes: You bite off a piece, chew it with determination, and after you have absorbed the nutritive chemicals and ersatz meat products contained therein, you are left with a wad of pulp that cannot be chewed further - and should most definitely not be swallowed. So...I'd been spitting wads of masticated Slim Jims over the side for some time, which my Inner Child immediately translated into...yes...chum.
So I had the shape...I was trailing the scent...and now I had some mysterious and unwelcome company.
The shape weaved from left to right behind the boat, then approached to within ten feet or so, then it would disappear for a moment and reappear further astern again. It soon became more curious, accelerating close to the stern and veering off to one side or another.(While things may appear closer in a rear view mirror, I was already facing backwards, and whatever it was needed no magnification; had I been in a kayak, I might have remained blissfully unaware of its presence.)
I was praying that it would break the surface for air; I'd have gleefully thrown my last Slim Jim to a Flipper, and my wallet, too. Yet the shadow didn't broach the surface...nor did I see the dreaded fin. But whatever it was was was there, and it was large, and I learned that a simple shape in the water can convey a most unsettling primal malevolence.
Then...after maybe five or six more passes past the beam of the boat, it was gone.
Only then did I begin to feel the effects of the drama. An immediate threat tends to galvanize you; you focus on the here and now, which in my case was the maintainence of a steady rhythm and doing everything possible to mimic the movements of a healthy, formidable, unpanicked creature...anything other than the hapless, thrashing seals off the Faralons. My "shadow" - whatever it was - had apparently lost interest, but for the next hour the adrenalin was flowing freely...and I tucked the remaining Slim Jims under the seat for more confined waters.
Gentle Reader, I can't tell you that I saw a shark. Whatever it was never revealed itself. When I recounted this tale to my dear friend Brian, he sounded skeptical. "Are you sure it wasn't the shadow of your own boat? Maybe a shadow created by passing clouds, or water variations?"
Brian, I don't have to see the car to hear it coming. I don't have to taste the coffee to smell it perking. I don't have to hear the siren to know that I should soon grope for my license and registration. And, believe me, I didn't have to see a fin to feel a presence. I can only say that I wish you'd been with me. Oh, how I wish that you'd been with me. There, and on the Delaware. I love you that much.
In retrospect, I feel a bit silly that I felt such post-encounter anxiety from something just a click above an apparition. Perhaps this is indeed a testament to the power of the cocktail of a vivid imagination stirred with graphic media images. Yet I've always subscribed to Woody Allen's line, "Whenever I'm in the water, I feel like I'm on the menu."
More, Gentle Reader?
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Lemonade from Lemons
Greetings, Gentle Reader.
My heart soars like a hawk; the pledged checks are streaming in, and I am struck by the quality of support this adventure has received. Some checks are from folks who hadn't pledge but who have been swept up in this post-row silliness, many checks exceed the amount pledged (suggesting that my own flawed record-keeping may not, after all, be the worst on the planet), and still others are enquiring how to pledge. All in all, you are making this part of the experience painless...and especially gratifying...and I thank you. After all, it's for the kids, and you are making a difference.
More people than I would have expected continue to tune in to new blog entries, so tonight let me reward your continuing interest with The Tale of My Hardest Day...and encourage you to, soon, get a life. This can't be that interesting.
My Hardest Day actually started start the night before, Monday, 8/17. That morning I had left Stone Harbor, N.J., an idyllic enclave on the Intercoastal. (I have already recounted how Bill Flammer drove himself to Cape May to intercept me in order to deliver my forgotten Wa-Wa-Supreme Roast Beef sandwich...an act of kindness that was to be vital to my well-being that evening.)
I hit the Cape May Canal late in the morning, five hours (and 19 miles) into my day. I transited it with no difficulty, but all the way through I wondered what conditions would prevail at the other end of the Canal: Delaware Bay, the 16 mile-wide mouth of the Delaware River. Much like the dental appointment that you just can't defer, the Delaware had been on my mind since August 5. Last March, in fact, I had stood on the shore of the Cape May Canal jetty and had seen The Big Waters, felt the lash of a strong west wind, and hoped that my emergence in August at that very spot would take place in more benign conditions. It would soon be time to darken the dentist's door.
Alas, Gentle Reader, my hopes of March were answered. I was greeted with a gentle southwesterly wind, delightful rollers headed my way up the bay, and a slack tide. I had a window of opportunity to make some serious headway on the body of water that had concerned me most - indeed, the water that was most oceanic in its proportions and possibilities - and I dug in to make the most of it.
After a few miles of sandy strand and delightful camps, the eastern shore of the Delaware morphs into vast expanses of grassland and swamp; no homes, no beach, no docks, no towns, no boats...no nothin'. As darkness fell after a gratifying 46 mile day, the wind rose sharply and veered from the west, presenting me with the broadside waves that would be the primary challenge throughout the next day. After 12 hours and 30 minutes in the seat, it was time to pull up. A low tide offered a small stretch of sand onto which I fell, exhausted and cramped, and there, Gentle Reader, is where I literally wolfed down the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast beef Sandwich...and blessed Bill Flammer for the umpteenth time that day. Ever see the lions tearing into the gazelle on Animal Planet? You've got the picture of me and my sandwich.
My solitary sandy spot was about four feet square and just above the waterline; the tide was coming in, and I knew that within the hour I would lose it entirely. I used the clean, secure footing of the sand to reconfigure the boat for the night, moving items and hardware fore and aft to make room for my sleeping bag and a tarp in the middle. I pulled the boat up as far as I could into the tall grass, fell into the bag, and was immediately asleep, cradling my oars. Honest. I love those cherry oars.
It was the gentle rocking of the boat that woke me up. I was on my back, and a gorgeous waning amber moon lit the boat and the stalks of grass surrounding me. I could hear waves lapping against the boat...I could feel the flexing of the hull under their pressure...and as lay on my back, stalks of glittering grass slowly marched past the boat in a surreal, stately parade. I was moving, albeit slowly, surrounded by the vegetation, suspended in the water, too tired to do anything but enjoy the spectacle and fight the heavy lids.
I woke before dawn...not a bad night's sleep...and sat up in the boat. I was sitting in a small grassy room with a roof open to the stars. I stood up in the boat and faced the river. I was 75 feet from shore, high in the grass, where the tide had deposited my cradle. It would be a muddy slog to get the boat back to shore, but I thanked my good fortune for the good night's sleep. The strong west wind had kept the bugs down...and yet I anticipated that it would not be my friend in the coming day.
Thus began My Hardest Day, after a night in the boat that was almost magical in its beauty.
I launched from the sandy spit that had blessedly reappeared from under the tide. It was a tough launch into the surf, but with some good timing and moves absorbed from watching Mary Lou Retton in the Olympics, I was underway before 7.
Thus began My Hardest Day. But, importantly, my Most Rewarding (hence the hackneyed but catchy title to this blog).
The eastern shore of the southern Delaware River is very shallow...vast stretches of two-to-three foot depths are typical. In water so shallow, a strong wind will build a special kind of wave. Gentle Reader, before this trip I thought waves that capped had certain rhythms...rise, cap, subside, rise, cap, subside. Lady Delaware presented me her version of a Kiddie Water Park from Hell. The waves came at me broadside in steady, predictable rows about three feet high, but the crests didn't break; the shallow depths, I think, sustained the crests and they just kept on coming, continuously breaking without breaking down. Perfect for the kid at the waterpark, bad for a boat which, fully loaded, presents at most six inches of freeboard.
I made only 3 miles in my first two hours, and that was accomplished only through total concentration in the timing of my strokes and the constant adjustment of the heading of the boat. The inevitable momentary lapse in concentration cost me dearly; I was hit by a cascade that exceeded the length of the boat and was immediately sitting in a water tub full to the gunwales...with fish. Yes, fish. I'm about to lose everything in the boat and I'm focused on...the fish. See, I don't especially like fish, unless it's a properly prepared Chilean Sea Bass with some nice buttered asparagus on the side. I saw no such fish in the boat.
It's a credit to the boat that it didn't roll. I climbed into the Wave Pool, dragged the boat to the swamp, and bailed. The fish found their own way out. I didn't lose anything, but it would be a while 'till I slept in anything dry. Only Kathy's transistor radio, my constant companion, was dealt a fatal blow; for the rest of the trip it would emit frequent farting sounds which, truth be told, rivaled in breadth and depth of thought much of the talk radio I had been listening to.
Back on the water, I resolved to call it a day at 20 miles, even if it meant another night in the swamp. Within another hour (only a mile later), another lapse, another swamping (same fish?), another slog to the swamp...and even by noon, 20 miles looked foolishly optimistic.
"So Al, where is the lemonade in this story? I can see the "hardest day" part, but where is the sweet?"
Ah, Gentle Reader, you lead me to recount The Biggest Lesson Learned on my row. Distance rowing is physically challenging, to be sure, but it's every bit as much a head game. It's cerebral. It's great physical exertion that happens in slow motion, giving one plenty of time to contemplate self and situation and surroundings. But it was the periodic audit of self that would tip the day.
At some point around noon, I got angry. Not angry at the river, which astounded me with its size and variability, nor at my circumstance, which was purely elective, but rather with myself. I was angry at having set a 20 mile goal that would put me in the swamp for another night (no more Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwiches, and running low on fluids) before I had reached the end of my endurance. I determined that I would row that day until I could row no more. It was time to reach down to see what was there. At that moment I became capability-oriented, not time or distance oriented. Screw the GPS. Put it away. Just keep rowing.
To make a grueling story short, I kept at it. The wind abated a bit by late afternoon, and soon, for the first time, the Delaware shore emerged in the west. I made a six-mile dash into the wind (at last, no more demonic firemen trying to fill the boat with firehouses!)for the promise of the shelter its lee might provide, and I was rewarded for this gamble by glassy water at sunset.
I arrived at the mouth of the C&D Canal after dark, utterly exhausted. I saw no spot to pull in for the night, and I knew that the Coast Guard might have qualms about letting a row boat through the canal the next day. No one was around, the tide was again slack, and I knew there was a place to pull in 13 miles into the canal. At this point I was experiencing a kind of euphoria (exhaustion? dehydration?) at having exceeded my 20 mile goal by 29 miles, the waters of greatest concern now blessedly behind me. But a nighttime passage of the C&D? It sounded stupid even at the time, but sometimes the stupidity in front of you looks like the optimal path. Gentle Reader, if you ever find yourself rationalizing any of your future options in this way, give me a call. Let's talk.
I had been warned of the tidal effect of the C&D canal. When the tide gets moving, its effects are dramatically amplified in the Canal...far exceeding the over-the-ground speed I could sustain, even when fresh, in my boat. That night, when it started to move after slack, it would be building against me. In a perverse pilot to a game show entitled "Beat the Tide," I headed in, slinking past the Coast Guard station like a U-Boat leaving Brest in 1944, knowing that my window of opportunity was short. The prospect of investing hours and scarce calories only to be flushed out of the Canal loomed large. It would be a race.
Suffice to say that as the tide began to build, my over-the-ground progress became absurdly slow and very, very painful. I knew that if I lagged before 13 miles, there would come that moment when my maximum effort would yield less speed than the building current. The alternative of The Flush was too awful to contemplate. The miles passed in slow motion; I'd by now placed the GPS back in sight and furtive flashes of light showed my speed declining despite maximum effort...2.8 mph...1.9 mph...all the while the illusion of the current going the other way making it seem that I was flying. The freighters making nighttime passages through the canal beheld the image of an idiot in an unlit boat rowing madly against the tide, a sight as amusing as it must have been cause for concern; weren't we at Amber Alert? But I hugged the side of the canal where the heavier traffic could not go and where the current was less strong. My fatigue was overwhelming, yet I had no choice but to continue. I sang every Tommy James and the Shondells song I knew, and I have no idea why. "My Baby Does the Hanky Panky" got me thinking about what I must have thought hanky panky was when I was 13, or what Tommy meant us to think. It was enough to get me through. In retrospect, I wish I'd summoned Portia's "mercy" speech from "The Merchant of Venice" or Wordsworth's "The World is Too Much With Us." It would have made better copy for the blog; after all, I'm an English teacher, and you'd think I'd have summoned something a little more profound than Tommy James and the Shondells in this time of stress. Sheeesh.
Anyway, I reached the Chesapeake Marina at 12:45 AM. I drank a gallon of water from the first hose I could find, climbed into my wet sleeping bag on the dock next to the boat, and slept the sleep of the dead.
62 miles, 17 hours. Not bad for a 20-mile day.
It was my Hardest Day...and, I think, my best.
More later? Let me know, 'K? If you keep reading, I'll keep writing. In the parlance of pop psychology, I'm what's known as "a pleaser."
xxoo
Mr. Frei
My heart soars like a hawk; the pledged checks are streaming in, and I am struck by the quality of support this adventure has received. Some checks are from folks who hadn't pledge but who have been swept up in this post-row silliness, many checks exceed the amount pledged (suggesting that my own flawed record-keeping may not, after all, be the worst on the planet), and still others are enquiring how to pledge. All in all, you are making this part of the experience painless...and especially gratifying...and I thank you. After all, it's for the kids, and you are making a difference.
More people than I would have expected continue to tune in to new blog entries, so tonight let me reward your continuing interest with The Tale of My Hardest Day...and encourage you to, soon, get a life. This can't be that interesting.
My Hardest Day actually started start the night before, Monday, 8/17. That morning I had left Stone Harbor, N.J., an idyllic enclave on the Intercoastal. (I have already recounted how Bill Flammer drove himself to Cape May to intercept me in order to deliver my forgotten Wa-Wa-Supreme Roast Beef sandwich...an act of kindness that was to be vital to my well-being that evening.)
I hit the Cape May Canal late in the morning, five hours (and 19 miles) into my day. I transited it with no difficulty, but all the way through I wondered what conditions would prevail at the other end of the Canal: Delaware Bay, the 16 mile-wide mouth of the Delaware River. Much like the dental appointment that you just can't defer, the Delaware had been on my mind since August 5. Last March, in fact, I had stood on the shore of the Cape May Canal jetty and had seen The Big Waters, felt the lash of a strong west wind, and hoped that my emergence in August at that very spot would take place in more benign conditions. It would soon be time to darken the dentist's door.
Alas, Gentle Reader, my hopes of March were answered. I was greeted with a gentle southwesterly wind, delightful rollers headed my way up the bay, and a slack tide. I had a window of opportunity to make some serious headway on the body of water that had concerned me most - indeed, the water that was most oceanic in its proportions and possibilities - and I dug in to make the most of it.
After a few miles of sandy strand and delightful camps, the eastern shore of the Delaware morphs into vast expanses of grassland and swamp; no homes, no beach, no docks, no towns, no boats...no nothin'. As darkness fell after a gratifying 46 mile day, the wind rose sharply and veered from the west, presenting me with the broadside waves that would be the primary challenge throughout the next day. After 12 hours and 30 minutes in the seat, it was time to pull up. A low tide offered a small stretch of sand onto which I fell, exhausted and cramped, and there, Gentle Reader, is where I literally wolfed down the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast beef Sandwich...and blessed Bill Flammer for the umpteenth time that day. Ever see the lions tearing into the gazelle on Animal Planet? You've got the picture of me and my sandwich.
My solitary sandy spot was about four feet square and just above the waterline; the tide was coming in, and I knew that within the hour I would lose it entirely. I used the clean, secure footing of the sand to reconfigure the boat for the night, moving items and hardware fore and aft to make room for my sleeping bag and a tarp in the middle. I pulled the boat up as far as I could into the tall grass, fell into the bag, and was immediately asleep, cradling my oars. Honest. I love those cherry oars.
It was the gentle rocking of the boat that woke me up. I was on my back, and a gorgeous waning amber moon lit the boat and the stalks of grass surrounding me. I could hear waves lapping against the boat...I could feel the flexing of the hull under their pressure...and as lay on my back, stalks of glittering grass slowly marched past the boat in a surreal, stately parade. I was moving, albeit slowly, surrounded by the vegetation, suspended in the water, too tired to do anything but enjoy the spectacle and fight the heavy lids.
I woke before dawn...not a bad night's sleep...and sat up in the boat. I was sitting in a small grassy room with a roof open to the stars. I stood up in the boat and faced the river. I was 75 feet from shore, high in the grass, where the tide had deposited my cradle. It would be a muddy slog to get the boat back to shore, but I thanked my good fortune for the good night's sleep. The strong west wind had kept the bugs down...and yet I anticipated that it would not be my friend in the coming day.
Thus began My Hardest Day, after a night in the boat that was almost magical in its beauty.
I launched from the sandy spit that had blessedly reappeared from under the tide. It was a tough launch into the surf, but with some good timing and moves absorbed from watching Mary Lou Retton in the Olympics, I was underway before 7.
Thus began My Hardest Day. But, importantly, my Most Rewarding (hence the hackneyed but catchy title to this blog).
The eastern shore of the southern Delaware River is very shallow...vast stretches of two-to-three foot depths are typical. In water so shallow, a strong wind will build a special kind of wave. Gentle Reader, before this trip I thought waves that capped had certain rhythms...rise, cap, subside, rise, cap, subside. Lady Delaware presented me her version of a Kiddie Water Park from Hell. The waves came at me broadside in steady, predictable rows about three feet high, but the crests didn't break; the shallow depths, I think, sustained the crests and they just kept on coming, continuously breaking without breaking down. Perfect for the kid at the waterpark, bad for a boat which, fully loaded, presents at most six inches of freeboard.
I made only 3 miles in my first two hours, and that was accomplished only through total concentration in the timing of my strokes and the constant adjustment of the heading of the boat. The inevitable momentary lapse in concentration cost me dearly; I was hit by a cascade that exceeded the length of the boat and was immediately sitting in a water tub full to the gunwales...with fish. Yes, fish. I'm about to lose everything in the boat and I'm focused on...the fish. See, I don't especially like fish, unless it's a properly prepared Chilean Sea Bass with some nice buttered asparagus on the side. I saw no such fish in the boat.
It's a credit to the boat that it didn't roll. I climbed into the Wave Pool, dragged the boat to the swamp, and bailed. The fish found their own way out. I didn't lose anything, but it would be a while 'till I slept in anything dry. Only Kathy's transistor radio, my constant companion, was dealt a fatal blow; for the rest of the trip it would emit frequent farting sounds which, truth be told, rivaled in breadth and depth of thought much of the talk radio I had been listening to.
Back on the water, I resolved to call it a day at 20 miles, even if it meant another night in the swamp. Within another hour (only a mile later), another lapse, another swamping (same fish?), another slog to the swamp...and even by noon, 20 miles looked foolishly optimistic.
"So Al, where is the lemonade in this story? I can see the "hardest day" part, but where is the sweet?"
Ah, Gentle Reader, you lead me to recount The Biggest Lesson Learned on my row. Distance rowing is physically challenging, to be sure, but it's every bit as much a head game. It's cerebral. It's great physical exertion that happens in slow motion, giving one plenty of time to contemplate self and situation and surroundings. But it was the periodic audit of self that would tip the day.
At some point around noon, I got angry. Not angry at the river, which astounded me with its size and variability, nor at my circumstance, which was purely elective, but rather with myself. I was angry at having set a 20 mile goal that would put me in the swamp for another night (no more Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwiches, and running low on fluids) before I had reached the end of my endurance. I determined that I would row that day until I could row no more. It was time to reach down to see what was there. At that moment I became capability-oriented, not time or distance oriented. Screw the GPS. Put it away. Just keep rowing.
To make a grueling story short, I kept at it. The wind abated a bit by late afternoon, and soon, for the first time, the Delaware shore emerged in the west. I made a six-mile dash into the wind (at last, no more demonic firemen trying to fill the boat with firehouses!)for the promise of the shelter its lee might provide, and I was rewarded for this gamble by glassy water at sunset.
I arrived at the mouth of the C&D Canal after dark, utterly exhausted. I saw no spot to pull in for the night, and I knew that the Coast Guard might have qualms about letting a row boat through the canal the next day. No one was around, the tide was again slack, and I knew there was a place to pull in 13 miles into the canal. At this point I was experiencing a kind of euphoria (exhaustion? dehydration?) at having exceeded my 20 mile goal by 29 miles, the waters of greatest concern now blessedly behind me. But a nighttime passage of the C&D? It sounded stupid even at the time, but sometimes the stupidity in front of you looks like the optimal path. Gentle Reader, if you ever find yourself rationalizing any of your future options in this way, give me a call. Let's talk.
I had been warned of the tidal effect of the C&D canal. When the tide gets moving, its effects are dramatically amplified in the Canal...far exceeding the over-the-ground speed I could sustain, even when fresh, in my boat. That night, when it started to move after slack, it would be building against me. In a perverse pilot to a game show entitled "Beat the Tide," I headed in, slinking past the Coast Guard station like a U-Boat leaving Brest in 1944, knowing that my window of opportunity was short. The prospect of investing hours and scarce calories only to be flushed out of the Canal loomed large. It would be a race.
Suffice to say that as the tide began to build, my over-the-ground progress became absurdly slow and very, very painful. I knew that if I lagged before 13 miles, there would come that moment when my maximum effort would yield less speed than the building current. The alternative of The Flush was too awful to contemplate. The miles passed in slow motion; I'd by now placed the GPS back in sight and furtive flashes of light showed my speed declining despite maximum effort...2.8 mph...1.9 mph...all the while the illusion of the current going the other way making it seem that I was flying. The freighters making nighttime passages through the canal beheld the image of an idiot in an unlit boat rowing madly against the tide, a sight as amusing as it must have been cause for concern; weren't we at Amber Alert? But I hugged the side of the canal where the heavier traffic could not go and where the current was less strong. My fatigue was overwhelming, yet I had no choice but to continue. I sang every Tommy James and the Shondells song I knew, and I have no idea why. "My Baby Does the Hanky Panky" got me thinking about what I must have thought hanky panky was when I was 13, or what Tommy meant us to think. It was enough to get me through. In retrospect, I wish I'd summoned Portia's "mercy" speech from "The Merchant of Venice" or Wordsworth's "The World is Too Much With Us." It would have made better copy for the blog; after all, I'm an English teacher, and you'd think I'd have summoned something a little more profound than Tommy James and the Shondells in this time of stress. Sheeesh.
Anyway, I reached the Chesapeake Marina at 12:45 AM. I drank a gallon of water from the first hose I could find, climbed into my wet sleeping bag on the dock next to the boat, and slept the sleep of the dead.
62 miles, 17 hours. Not bad for a 20-mile day.
It was my Hardest Day...and, I think, my best.
More later? Let me know, 'K? If you keep reading, I'll keep writing. In the parlance of pop psychology, I'm what's known as "a pleaser."
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Some shots from Al's victorious return to Baltimore!
Do a left double-click on your mouse while the cursor is over the Title above to see some photos taken the afternoon of Al's return. You can then view the slideshow and/or click on the thumbnail photos individually to see who the characters are...
Ahhh. Sunday Musings
Greetings, Gentle Reader.
Ah, what a luxury to be reclining in a soft chair with the Sunday Times, a hot cup of coffee in hand, cares of weather and waves in the not-so-distant past.
Truth be told, I'm going through a bit of withdrawal as I reflect that a week ago I still had the Delaware ahead of me...and two weeks ago today I was commencing my second full day on the Hudson. The boat and oars are now oiled and waxed...the callouses are already softening...I've rediscovered the short walk to 7-11 and all of its vices. Sigh. I did, however, get to the gym yesterday, lest I too-soon lose all vestige of the unintended benefits of my adventure. I beat on the rowing machine like a drum.
As I peruse the Business section of the Times this moring, however, I realize that my recent headlines of experiential discovery are not theirs. While the Times is silent on the matter, my row has revealed the true center section of the US economy: the one activity that fuels our continued supremacy in economic affairs, and one that certainly plays a material contributing role in the stability - such as it is - of our culture.
I speak, of course, of fishing.
Let me be clear. I don't fish. Frankly, I just don't get it. But I can testify that the capital investment and human resource dedicated to fishing must exceed that of the automotive, steel making, and fast-food industries combined. Sorta like golf, I guess.
I passed literally thousands of people - no, tens of thousands - sitting in watercraft of every sort equipped with sophisticated electronics, devilishly clever equipment, and attendant life-support material, all acquired for the single purpose of either catching a fish or, perhaps, for getting away from a spouse. Hundreds of times I would row gently past this population and ask, "Any luck?" or, "Are they biting?" or even an optimistic, "What's for dinner tonight?"
Gentle Reader, not once in 452 miles of inquiry was I met with the sight of a fish or even of an expression of hope. This is a very glum group. Whetever they are doing isn't working. My tribulations on the Delaware inadvertantly put more fish in my boat than I saw in the aggregation of all other boats I passed on my trip. They sit in the blazing sun in rowboats, center-consoles, "sport-fishing" boats, pontoon boats, run-abouts, ski boats, cruisers, sail boats, and charter boats. They stare blankly into the water, sometimes jerking the line (either on purpose, or perhaps as a reslt of the startle reflex one experiences as one wakes up?), waiting...waiting...waiting.
I not once got a happy response from a fisher-person in 13 days...much as I have rarely met a "happy" golfer. But make no mistake about it: the equipment and infrastructure necessary to keep this hapless fleet at sea employs millions and recirculates billions of dollars. I should, in retrospect, perhaps be grateful for their practice of their insanity. Indirectly, it keeps a lot of us fed, if not with fish.
It would be small-minded to lampoon fishing without taking a shot at myself, Gentle Reader, so let me get off my high horse and confess my own act of stupidity on my last full day on the Chesapeake, the day before my arrival in Baltimore.
I left my chart of the Chesapeake on the dock at the C&D Canal. "OK, so I just head south and try not to miss the largest city in Maryland, one of the largest ports on the eastern seaboard." (This is the kind of scintillating self-talk one has after 12 days alone in a small boat.)
As the day progressed it became clear that I would not make Baltimore on Wednesday night. There was an island several miles ahead. The water was perfectly flat, the tide was with me; making it before sunset was a lock. I pictured myself settling in with a hale and hearty fishing community (hopefully not a glum one), regaling them with tales of my adventure and, perhaps, getting some pointers on a best approach to Baltimore the next day. The island glowed in a beautiful sunset, and even from a distance I could see the reflectivity of numerous signs around its perimeter. "Welcome" signs, perhaps, pointing the way to refuge on the other side, perhaps a 7-11, or even a Starbucks.
Gentle Reader, there is no small irony to the idea that well before you can read a sign that says, "Danger! Unexploded Ordinance! Entry Strictly Forbidden," you are already in danger. As I was to learn three more times that night in complete darkness, the umbrella of the Aberdeen Proving Ground stretches over vast expanses of land and water in this part of the Chesapeake; was that a rock my oar just swept...or the casing of an unexploded 500 pound bomb? Yes, my stout boat is made of Kevlar, and isn't Kevlar used in the fabrication of bullet-proof vests? False logic, Gentle Reader, false logic. Aberdeen is big, I surmised, because it's where they test The Big Ones.
Needless to say, when I finally touched shore at 11:30 PM on a beach devoid of signs and shell casings, I was much releived. I slept the sleep of the reprieved...or of the hoplessly stupid.
Lessons learned?
1. Don't leave the charts on the dock.
2. Not all signs are large enough to serve the purpose intended.
3. Some mud flats and rocks generate a "pucker factor" all out of proportion to others.
4. There is much wildlife in Aberdeen that can't read signs.
Well, I'm looking forward to enjoying this day...but I do miss the water.
Let me know if you are reading.
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Ah, what a luxury to be reclining in a soft chair with the Sunday Times, a hot cup of coffee in hand, cares of weather and waves in the not-so-distant past.
Truth be told, I'm going through a bit of withdrawal as I reflect that a week ago I still had the Delaware ahead of me...and two weeks ago today I was commencing my second full day on the Hudson. The boat and oars are now oiled and waxed...the callouses are already softening...I've rediscovered the short walk to 7-11 and all of its vices. Sigh. I did, however, get to the gym yesterday, lest I too-soon lose all vestige of the unintended benefits of my adventure. I beat on the rowing machine like a drum.
As I peruse the Business section of the Times this moring, however, I realize that my recent headlines of experiential discovery are not theirs. While the Times is silent on the matter, my row has revealed the true center section of the US economy: the one activity that fuels our continued supremacy in economic affairs, and one that certainly plays a material contributing role in the stability - such as it is - of our culture.
I speak, of course, of fishing.
Let me be clear. I don't fish. Frankly, I just don't get it. But I can testify that the capital investment and human resource dedicated to fishing must exceed that of the automotive, steel making, and fast-food industries combined. Sorta like golf, I guess.
I passed literally thousands of people - no, tens of thousands - sitting in watercraft of every sort equipped with sophisticated electronics, devilishly clever equipment, and attendant life-support material, all acquired for the single purpose of either catching a fish or, perhaps, for getting away from a spouse. Hundreds of times I would row gently past this population and ask, "Any luck?" or, "Are they biting?" or even an optimistic, "What's for dinner tonight?"
Gentle Reader, not once in 452 miles of inquiry was I met with the sight of a fish or even of an expression of hope. This is a very glum group. Whetever they are doing isn't working. My tribulations on the Delaware inadvertantly put more fish in my boat than I saw in the aggregation of all other boats I passed on my trip. They sit in the blazing sun in rowboats, center-consoles, "sport-fishing" boats, pontoon boats, run-abouts, ski boats, cruisers, sail boats, and charter boats. They stare blankly into the water, sometimes jerking the line (either on purpose, or perhaps as a reslt of the startle reflex one experiences as one wakes up?), waiting...waiting...waiting.
I not once got a happy response from a fisher-person in 13 days...much as I have rarely met a "happy" golfer. But make no mistake about it: the equipment and infrastructure necessary to keep this hapless fleet at sea employs millions and recirculates billions of dollars. I should, in retrospect, perhaps be grateful for their practice of their insanity. Indirectly, it keeps a lot of us fed, if not with fish.
It would be small-minded to lampoon fishing without taking a shot at myself, Gentle Reader, so let me get off my high horse and confess my own act of stupidity on my last full day on the Chesapeake, the day before my arrival in Baltimore.
I left my chart of the Chesapeake on the dock at the C&D Canal. "OK, so I just head south and try not to miss the largest city in Maryland, one of the largest ports on the eastern seaboard." (This is the kind of scintillating self-talk one has after 12 days alone in a small boat.)
As the day progressed it became clear that I would not make Baltimore on Wednesday night. There was an island several miles ahead. The water was perfectly flat, the tide was with me; making it before sunset was a lock. I pictured myself settling in with a hale and hearty fishing community (hopefully not a glum one), regaling them with tales of my adventure and, perhaps, getting some pointers on a best approach to Baltimore the next day. The island glowed in a beautiful sunset, and even from a distance I could see the reflectivity of numerous signs around its perimeter. "Welcome" signs, perhaps, pointing the way to refuge on the other side, perhaps a 7-11, or even a Starbucks.
Gentle Reader, there is no small irony to the idea that well before you can read a sign that says, "Danger! Unexploded Ordinance! Entry Strictly Forbidden," you are already in danger. As I was to learn three more times that night in complete darkness, the umbrella of the Aberdeen Proving Ground stretches over vast expanses of land and water in this part of the Chesapeake; was that a rock my oar just swept...or the casing of an unexploded 500 pound bomb? Yes, my stout boat is made of Kevlar, and isn't Kevlar used in the fabrication of bullet-proof vests? False logic, Gentle Reader, false logic. Aberdeen is big, I surmised, because it's where they test The Big Ones.
Needless to say, when I finally touched shore at 11:30 PM on a beach devoid of signs and shell casings, I was much releived. I slept the sleep of the reprieved...or of the hoplessly stupid.
Lessons learned?
1. Don't leave the charts on the dock.
2. Not all signs are large enough to serve the purpose intended.
3. Some mud flats and rocks generate a "pucker factor" all out of proportion to others.
4. There is much wildlife in Aberdeen that can't read signs.
Well, I'm looking forward to enjoying this day...but I do miss the water.
Let me know if you are reading.
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Friday, August 18, 2006
I Can Walk!!
Gentle Reader, one of my favorite movies is Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. Those of you familiar with this film may recall the magical moment when Dr. Strangelove rises from his wheelchair with the words, "...I can walk!" This image came to mind to me this morning when I first stepped from a real bed...rising vertically to my feet, no sliding seat in sight and, as if in a bad out-take from Planet of the Apes, simian-shuffled towards a real bathroom with running (hot) water. Yes, I miss my boat, but it's good to be home.
First, let's get some necessary unpleasantness out of the way, shan't we? I'll be writing about this adventure in installments as the muse strikes, with no particular objective other than to distill the highs and lows in a way that might be entertaining for you and cathartic for m...but we still have some unfinished and - hopefully - not unanticipated nor unpleasant business: I've got to collect money from those of you who have pledged.
First, here are some key statistics:
13 days on the water. 452 miles rowed. 3.898 mph average speed. Minimum mileage in a day: 7.5 (impenetrable headwind wind in NJ). Maximum mileage in a day: 62 (pure mad-dog determination to get off the frigging Delaware River). Average daily miles: 34.8 Swampings: 2. Capsizes: 0. Gatorade consumed: Incalcuable. Gatorade bottles "refilled" (with my own 'special blend' that I'm thinking of labeling "Second Time Around." Think of it, Gentle Reader: Gatorade's marketing buzz is, "Is it in you?" STA's will be, "It was in me!": dozens. Mechanical/ Equipment issues: 0. Acts of unconditional kindless by friends and total strangers: countless. Pounds lost: 10. Fat converted to something else: Yes, but don't expect to see me in a calendar.
For the purposes of pledges, the operative stat is 452. Unless you have made a flat-fee pledge (in retrospect, a sage decision, oh ye of little faith), just multiply your pledge rate (pennies/dollars per mile) by 450 or so...and we'll say the final two were on the house. Write the check to The Boys' Latin School, and send it to me at 825 William Street, Baltimore, MD, 21230. You'll (again) make me very happy, and we'll collectively have done some great good through this venture.
Here's the rub: not all blog readers are pledgers (Oh, the horror! Refer to earlier blog entry utilizing an elegant and appropriate Public Radio analogy), and not all pledgers have revealed their addresses so that I can notify them of their pledge by mail. I DO have (courtesy of Kathy, of course) a hundred or so elegant "Thanks for Pulling With Mr. Frei" pledge reminders, and you have only to e mail your address to me at alfrei@earthlink.net to receive this token of thanks as yet another reminder. It'll look good on the 'fridge.
So...help me collect your money with a minimum of hassle...and know how much I appreciate your participation. We're helping some great kids. In you I have great friends.
So...with that aside, where do I start? How about at the end?
Legend has it that Gen McArthur had to jump off the landing craft a dozen times for the press when he indeed finally "returned," and Fox News asked me to get back in the boat...back on that granite-hard seat on which I'd been sitting for 109.8 hours...to re-enact my arrival to a crowd disappointingly even more animated for the presence of the cameras. I fell asleep before the news last night, so I have no idea if it played or, if so, how it played, but at least I played.
Today, during my first full day ashore in two weeks, my gratitude to you, to Peg, to Kathy, and to scores of other friends and family is comingled with a certain sadness in missing my boat. Today Peg and I placed it in a safe spot in a neighbor's back yard, where it will stay until I take it back up to its home waters of Lake George. It has been a good...no, it's been a great...horse. It is a heroic craft, because without fanfare it enabled this amature to compete a trip that would otherwise have been beyond his capabilities. I cannot think of a vessel better suited to allow one to take a trip like this, safely. Our world would be a better place indeed if the parents of the countless kids I saw joyriding on jetskis had, instead (and for less money), purchased an Adirondack Guideboat for their kid, put him in it with a bedroll, a couple of sandwiches, and a jug of water, and told him (or her) to get lost for a couple of days.
I love my boat. It saved my bacon more than once - as I will recount in later blog installments should you care to continue to read - and I'd have been overjoyed if it could have joined us knocking down Tater Tots at Regi's last night. Tomorrow I'll give it a good scrub and wax, but not so thorough that I remove the (dare I say "sexy"?) scars she gathered along the way. She's not a show boat any longer, but she carries a plucky kind of 'been-there, done-that' patina that we all hope Condi might wear in a few years.
OK, time for a "Most Heroic" episode, and then I'll sign off for another chapter tomorrow.
Bill Flammer is a Loomis Chaffee Trustee /colleague who, with his wife Terri, opened his home to me in Ocean City. They hosed me off, fed me royally, and I thoroughly enjoyed their company and appreciated their encouragement. Bill was up a 5:45 the next morning to roust me out and see me off and, after packing the boat with the two days of provisions I thought I would need on the Delaware, I bid him a thankful adieu. Two hours later I remembered that I'd forgotten to pack the enormous roast beef sandwich that was to have been the core of my evening meal. It was still on the top shelf of his 'fridge...but there was no turning back. The tide, especially around Cape May, waits for no man...nor for any Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich, even though, truth be told, it should.
I rowed on, lamenting my haste and wondering how to re-manage my meager stores. More than three hours into my day I picked up a shout in the distance, over my shoulder. (Yes, Gentle Reader, when you're rowing, everything important is over your shoulder. It's a very painful fact of life.) Ahead of me, standing on the wharf of a fish processing plant, of all places, Bill was waving a Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich in the air like a game show contestant. He had driven from Ocean City to Cape May, sandwich in a cooler bag, and he had patiently waited for me to show. Did I already mention unconditional acts of kindness? Bill, how can I thank you? Later you will learn how, like the fabled Powdermilk Biscuits, that sandwich gave me the strength to do what had to be done on the Delaware at a time of peril.
Or, in closing, might I mention Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends in Chesapeake City, MD? Chesapeake City is as charming as it is devoid of any place to buy portable bottled refreshments. No Wa-Wa, no 7-11, no retail food establishments at all...just a charming community of shops and boutiques...a veritable artists' colony and retreat that had shooed the neon out of town.
I was desperate for provisions. I asked a passer-by where I might find some Gatorade or such, and he said, "Go to Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends; they'll have what you need. "
Gentle Reader, I went. I stood at the door and looked in. It was a charming gift shop / hair salon combo place...delightful for what it was, but not a place in which you or I would order up a Gatorade. I turned around, crestfallen. I couldn't hit the Chesapeake with an empty boat. I stopped a kid.
"Young man, when you're thirsty and in need of refreshment, where do you go?"
"Go see Cheryl and Cheryl, mister. They've got what you need."
I was desperate. I returned to the storefront and again peered in the window, hesitating. Now I ask you, Gentle Reader, how comfortable would you be walking into a car dealership and asking which aisle might hold the pasta sauce? A pet store...to find metric drill bits? A Starbuck's...to order stuffed-crust pizza? I mean, come on. It's a gift shop hair salon. Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends is a gift shop hair salon. A curious combo, I grant you, and Cheryl and Cheryl pull it off suprisingly well, but nothing about it promised yet another miracle in the back room.
To make a long story short, the kid was right. They had what I needed, and I said I'd put them in the blog, so Cheryl and Cheryl, Angels of Chesapeake City and Augmentors of The Big Row, I thank you for your grace at my incredulity. You girls have got it goin' on. In retrospect I suspect that had I asked for pasta sauce, metric drill bits, or stuffed-crust pizza, Cheryl and Cheryl might have cocked their eyebrows at one another, nodded imperceptibly, and taken me to yet another back room. If you're ever in Chesapeake City, go vist them. And don't be afraid to ask.
Let's wrap it up for tonight, yes? Your future blog visits will suggest whether my recounting of this adventure in episodic installments is of any interest...but I'll probably keep writing them come what may; it'll keep a wonderful life experience from fading too quickly.
And...if you are a reader and a pledger, I plead with you to either get your address to me right away, or at least let me know that you are licking a stamp without the need for further provocation. It will sure help with the bookkeeping if you will do so. My bookkeeping is just so-so...but that's another story...for another blog.
452 miles.
3.898 mph.
Sitting.
xxoo, 'till later. Tomorrow, probably.
Mr. Frei
P.S. Left click (twice) with mouse on title to see full route!
First, let's get some necessary unpleasantness out of the way, shan't we? I'll be writing about this adventure in installments as the muse strikes, with no particular objective other than to distill the highs and lows in a way that might be entertaining for you and cathartic for m...but we still have some unfinished and - hopefully - not unanticipated nor unpleasant business: I've got to collect money from those of you who have pledged.
First, here are some key statistics:
13 days on the water. 452 miles rowed. 3.898 mph average speed. Minimum mileage in a day: 7.5 (impenetrable headwind wind in NJ). Maximum mileage in a day: 62 (pure mad-dog determination to get off the frigging Delaware River). Average daily miles: 34.8 Swampings: 2. Capsizes: 0. Gatorade consumed: Incalcuable. Gatorade bottles "refilled" (with my own 'special blend' that I'm thinking of labeling "Second Time Around." Think of it, Gentle Reader: Gatorade's marketing buzz is, "Is it in you?" STA's will be, "It was in me!": dozens. Mechanical/ Equipment issues: 0. Acts of unconditional kindless by friends and total strangers: countless. Pounds lost: 10. Fat converted to something else: Yes, but don't expect to see me in a calendar.
For the purposes of pledges, the operative stat is 452. Unless you have made a flat-fee pledge (in retrospect, a sage decision, oh ye of little faith), just multiply your pledge rate (pennies/dollars per mile) by 450 or so...and we'll say the final two were on the house. Write the check to The Boys' Latin School, and send it to me at 825 William Street, Baltimore, MD, 21230. You'll (again) make me very happy, and we'll collectively have done some great good through this venture.
Here's the rub: not all blog readers are pledgers (Oh, the horror! Refer to earlier blog entry utilizing an elegant and appropriate Public Radio analogy), and not all pledgers have revealed their addresses so that I can notify them of their pledge by mail. I DO have (courtesy of Kathy, of course) a hundred or so elegant "Thanks for Pulling With Mr. Frei" pledge reminders, and you have only to e mail your address to me at alfrei@earthlink.net to receive this token of thanks as yet another reminder. It'll look good on the 'fridge.
So...help me collect your money with a minimum of hassle...and know how much I appreciate your participation. We're helping some great kids. In you I have great friends.
So...with that aside, where do I start? How about at the end?
Legend has it that Gen McArthur had to jump off the landing craft a dozen times for the press when he indeed finally "returned," and Fox News asked me to get back in the boat...back on that granite-hard seat on which I'd been sitting for 109.8 hours...to re-enact my arrival to a crowd disappointingly even more animated for the presence of the cameras. I fell asleep before the news last night, so I have no idea if it played or, if so, how it played, but at least I played.
Today, during my first full day ashore in two weeks, my gratitude to you, to Peg, to Kathy, and to scores of other friends and family is comingled with a certain sadness in missing my boat. Today Peg and I placed it in a safe spot in a neighbor's back yard, where it will stay until I take it back up to its home waters of Lake George. It has been a good...no, it's been a great...horse. It is a heroic craft, because without fanfare it enabled this amature to compete a trip that would otherwise have been beyond his capabilities. I cannot think of a vessel better suited to allow one to take a trip like this, safely. Our world would be a better place indeed if the parents of the countless kids I saw joyriding on jetskis had, instead (and for less money), purchased an Adirondack Guideboat for their kid, put him in it with a bedroll, a couple of sandwiches, and a jug of water, and told him (or her) to get lost for a couple of days.
I love my boat. It saved my bacon more than once - as I will recount in later blog installments should you care to continue to read - and I'd have been overjoyed if it could have joined us knocking down Tater Tots at Regi's last night. Tomorrow I'll give it a good scrub and wax, but not so thorough that I remove the (dare I say "sexy"?) scars she gathered along the way. She's not a show boat any longer, but she carries a plucky kind of 'been-there, done-that' patina that we all hope Condi might wear in a few years.
OK, time for a "Most Heroic" episode, and then I'll sign off for another chapter tomorrow.
Bill Flammer is a Loomis Chaffee Trustee /colleague who, with his wife Terri, opened his home to me in Ocean City. They hosed me off, fed me royally, and I thoroughly enjoyed their company and appreciated their encouragement. Bill was up a 5:45 the next morning to roust me out and see me off and, after packing the boat with the two days of provisions I thought I would need on the Delaware, I bid him a thankful adieu. Two hours later I remembered that I'd forgotten to pack the enormous roast beef sandwich that was to have been the core of my evening meal. It was still on the top shelf of his 'fridge...but there was no turning back. The tide, especially around Cape May, waits for no man...nor for any Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich, even though, truth be told, it should.
I rowed on, lamenting my haste and wondering how to re-manage my meager stores. More than three hours into my day I picked up a shout in the distance, over my shoulder. (Yes, Gentle Reader, when you're rowing, everything important is over your shoulder. It's a very painful fact of life.) Ahead of me, standing on the wharf of a fish processing plant, of all places, Bill was waving a Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich in the air like a game show contestant. He had driven from Ocean City to Cape May, sandwich in a cooler bag, and he had patiently waited for me to show. Did I already mention unconditional acts of kindness? Bill, how can I thank you? Later you will learn how, like the fabled Powdermilk Biscuits, that sandwich gave me the strength to do what had to be done on the Delaware at a time of peril.
Or, in closing, might I mention Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends in Chesapeake City, MD? Chesapeake City is as charming as it is devoid of any place to buy portable bottled refreshments. No Wa-Wa, no 7-11, no retail food establishments at all...just a charming community of shops and boutiques...a veritable artists' colony and retreat that had shooed the neon out of town.
I was desperate for provisions. I asked a passer-by where I might find some Gatorade or such, and he said, "Go to Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends; they'll have what you need. "
Gentle Reader, I went. I stood at the door and looked in. It was a charming gift shop / hair salon combo place...delightful for what it was, but not a place in which you or I would order up a Gatorade. I turned around, crestfallen. I couldn't hit the Chesapeake with an empty boat. I stopped a kid.
"Young man, when you're thirsty and in need of refreshment, where do you go?"
"Go see Cheryl and Cheryl, mister. They've got what you need."
I was desperate. I returned to the storefront and again peered in the window, hesitating. Now I ask you, Gentle Reader, how comfortable would you be walking into a car dealership and asking which aisle might hold the pasta sauce? A pet store...to find metric drill bits? A Starbuck's...to order stuffed-crust pizza? I mean, come on. It's a gift shop hair salon. Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends is a gift shop hair salon. A curious combo, I grant you, and Cheryl and Cheryl pull it off suprisingly well, but nothing about it promised yet another miracle in the back room.
To make a long story short, the kid was right. They had what I needed, and I said I'd put them in the blog, so Cheryl and Cheryl, Angels of Chesapeake City and Augmentors of The Big Row, I thank you for your grace at my incredulity. You girls have got it goin' on. In retrospect I suspect that had I asked for pasta sauce, metric drill bits, or stuffed-crust pizza, Cheryl and Cheryl might have cocked their eyebrows at one another, nodded imperceptibly, and taken me to yet another back room. If you're ever in Chesapeake City, go vist them. And don't be afraid to ask.
Let's wrap it up for tonight, yes? Your future blog visits will suggest whether my recounting of this adventure in episodic installments is of any interest...but I'll probably keep writing them come what may; it'll keep a wonderful life experience from fading too quickly.
And...if you are a reader and a pledger, I plead with you to either get your address to me right away, or at least let me know that you are licking a stamp without the need for further provocation. It will sure help with the bookkeeping if you will do so. My bookkeeping is just so-so...but that's another story...for another blog.
452 miles.
3.898 mph.
Sitting.
xxoo, 'till later. Tomorrow, probably.
Mr. Frei
P.S. Left click (twice) with mouse on title to see full route!
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Aug 17 - 9:30 PM Baltimore, MD
In case Mr. Frei has crashed and won't be able to make an update until tomorrow, I just want to tell everyone that he made a spectacular entrance to Baltimore's Inner Harbor. In fact, it was so beautiful that Fox 45 news had him re-enact it. Al insists the cheers for the television cameras were far louder than the ones when he actually arrived, but I don't think so...
He was first spotted by his mother and Jane who were atop Federal Hill with a pair of binoculars. They called us down on the Rusty Scupper Pier and we knew just when he would come around the point. A few people actually shed tears at the sight of him (no naming of names here).
The festive welcoming party moved into the bar area at the Rusty Scupper where we heard some tales of the row. I am hoping that Mr. Frei will continue to post to this blog for a while, as I think everyone has become addicted to his writing and would love to hear a lot of the details!
Thanks to everyone who showed up to welcome him! His mother traveled all the way from Lake George, NJ and several friends drove all the way from Princeton, NJ.
I will post photos and some video tomorrow...
He was first spotted by his mother and Jane who were atop Federal Hill with a pair of binoculars. They called us down on the Rusty Scupper Pier and we knew just when he would come around the point. A few people actually shed tears at the sight of him (no naming of names here).
The festive welcoming party moved into the bar area at the Rusty Scupper where we heard some tales of the row. I am hoping that Mr. Frei will continue to post to this blog for a while, as I think everyone has become addicted to his writing and would love to hear a lot of the details!
Thanks to everyone who showed up to welcome him! His mother traveled all the way from Lake George, NJ and several friends drove all the way from Princeton, NJ.
I will post photos and some video tomorrow...
I'm Back!
Yes, Gentle Reader, I made it. Or, I should say, we made it.
But this moment's overriding fact is that, as I write this, I'm fatigued beyond belief. I want my initial post-return blog post to be worthy of your loyal readership and interest in this adventure, so I beg your forgiveness in asking that you allow me to hit the hay for the evening and let me pick it up tomorrow: some key trip stats, some highlight stories and, without getting preachy, maybe some lessons learned.
Right now...must...sleep. To those of you who met me at the Rusty Scupper at 2:52 PM (making it a 2-way tie for guessing the arrival day and time...Evan Obligin and Doc McCarty were each off by only seven and one half minutes on a trip lasting thirteen days...go figure...), many thanks for the rousing arrival celebration. To Peg, Kathy, and Mom...and the many others I'll applaud tomorrow, a special thanks.
The Sun was there, and Fox News, too. Clearly, I timed my arrival for a slow news day.
Wish I could stay up to watch it.
Must sleep.
See you tomorrow.
xxoo
zzzzzz, too.
Mr. Frei
But this moment's overriding fact is that, as I write this, I'm fatigued beyond belief. I want my initial post-return blog post to be worthy of your loyal readership and interest in this adventure, so I beg your forgiveness in asking that you allow me to hit the hay for the evening and let me pick it up tomorrow: some key trip stats, some highlight stories and, without getting preachy, maybe some lessons learned.
Right now...must...sleep. To those of you who met me at the Rusty Scupper at 2:52 PM (making it a 2-way tie for guessing the arrival day and time...Evan Obligin and Doc McCarty were each off by only seven and one half minutes on a trip lasting thirteen days...go figure...), many thanks for the rousing arrival celebration. To Peg, Kathy, and Mom...and the many others I'll applaud tomorrow, a special thanks.
The Sun was there, and Fox News, too. Clearly, I timed my arrival for a slow news day.
Wish I could stay up to watch it.
Must sleep.
See you tomorrow.
xxoo
zzzzzz, too.
Mr. Frei
Aug 17 - 9AM - Mr. Frei's Current Location
The journey is almost over. Click on the link above to see the route for the last day.
Make sure to comb your hair, etc. because there may be some media coverage of his arrival around 3PM. The excitement is building...
Make sure to comb your hair, etc. because there may be some media coverage of his arrival around 3PM. The excitement is building...
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Aug 16 - 10:45 PM - Chesapeake at Middle River
Since he was rowing in the dark, he is not sure, but thinks that he is on a beach near Middle River. He sees two smokestacks...
At least we know he is safe for the night.
Total mileage for today was 27 miles.
It is still looking like 3PM in the Inner Harbor!
Further details in the morning...
At least we know he is safe for the night.
Total mileage for today was 27 miles.
It is still looking like 3PM in the Inner Harbor!
Further details in the morning...
Aug 16 - 9:21 PM - near Aberdeen
Al is still rowing, so can't give you his resting place yet. Apparently, he was going by Aberdeen Proving Ground, and there were a lot of signs that made it seem a little tad (that's for you Al) unfriendly. So, he is moving on until he finds a safe spot.
The comments are great! Glad to see we finally got one from Michigan. Still waiting for the one from Minnesota! Al will have a lot of fun reading them.
Will create a final post tonight when I hear that he is safely bedded down for the night.
The comments are great! Glad to see we finally got one from Michigan. Still waiting for the one from Minnesota! Al will have a lot of fun reading them.
Will create a final post tonight when I hear that he is safely bedded down for the night.
Double_Click Here to See Photos of the launch
The link takes you to flikr.com and then you can click on "View as slideshow" to see them automatically.
These photos were taken by Emmy Lou Kelly, one of Al's cousins. Thanks Emmy Lou. Hope you don't mind the captions!
These photos were taken by Emmy Lou Kelly, one of Al's cousins. Thanks Emmy Lou. Hope you don't mind the captions!
Al does the Hudson by Peter Thomson
Aug 16 - AM - C & D Canal -
Chesapeake Inn
No, Mr. Frei is not going backwards! I misunderstood the message last night and thought that he was 5 miles south of the canal in the Chesapeake, but he was still on the Delaware, just 5 mile south there!
I spoke with him this morning after he had had his first solid food in a day and a half, and between the groans caused by a full stomach he told me that he was 10 miles through the C & D Canal at the Chesapeake Inn and Marina.
Everyone who knows Al will shake their head when they hear the following piece of news. At midnight last night he decided that he didn't feel comfortable where he was and rowed north to the C & D canal and began making his way through it. He actually made it 2/3 of the way though the canal. Therefore, his total for yesterday was actually 62 miles!
He is pretty sure that he will hit (not literally) the water taxi dock at the Rusty Scupper on the south side of the inner harbor at 3PM tomorrow, so make your plans!
Will post some pics from his days on the Hudson from his friend Peter later today.
No, Mr. Frei is not going backwards! I misunderstood the message last night and thought that he was 5 miles south of the canal in the Chesapeake, but he was still on the Delaware, just 5 mile south there!
I spoke with him this morning after he had had his first solid food in a day and a half, and between the groans caused by a full stomach he told me that he was 10 miles through the C & D Canal at the Chesapeake Inn and Marina.
Everyone who knows Al will shake their head when they hear the following piece of news. At midnight last night he decided that he didn't feel comfortable where he was and rowed north to the C & D canal and began making his way through it. He actually made it 2/3 of the way though the canal. Therefore, his total for yesterday was actually 62 miles!
He is pretty sure that he will hit (not literally) the water taxi dock at the Rusty Scupper on the south side of the inner harbor at 3PM tomorrow, so make your plans!
Will post some pics from his days on the Hudson from his friend Peter later today.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Aug 15 - On the Chesapeake!
Mr. Frei had his toughest row yet today. His boat was swamped twice, causing him to have to go to shore to bail out, and little fish were jumping in the boat.
He crossed the Delaware where it was 7 miles wide against a strong wind, but achieved a total mileage today of 39 miles in 10 hours and 44 minutes. The plan is to sleep on a beach about 5 miles south of the C & D canal.
He also said that the row today would have been impossible at the beginning of the journey, but his strength and endurance have greatly improved.
I encourage everyone who has been reading this blog to put an entry in the guest book. The only required field is the name field, and if you enter your email address, it will remain private. I would like to make a book for Al, which include photos, blog entries and all of your comments.
Finally, the prediction is now that he may arrive in Baltimore as early as Thursday afternoon! Looks like I will be taking time off from work...
P.S. Double-click the Title to see probable sleeping location
He crossed the Delaware where it was 7 miles wide against a strong wind, but achieved a total mileage today of 39 miles in 10 hours and 44 minutes. The plan is to sleep on a beach about 5 miles south of the C & D canal.
He also said that the row today would have been impossible at the beginning of the journey, but his strength and endurance have greatly improved.
I encourage everyone who has been reading this blog to put an entry in the guest book. The only required field is the name field, and if you enter your email address, it will remain private. I would like to make a book for Al, which include photos, blog entries and all of your comments.
Finally, the prediction is now that he may arrive in Baltimore as early as Thursday afternoon! Looks like I will be taking time off from work...
P.S. Double-click the Title to see probable sleeping location
Aug 15th - Morning - Delaware River
From Peg: Al called at 7 this morning and I think he actually had an OK night. He said he's facing a stiffer wind (so probably bigger waves) today.
Please sign the guest book. I will present it to him when he returns to Baltimore. Humor is appreciated. You don't have to enter your email address unless you want to.
Thanks!
Please sign the guest book. I will present it to him when he returns to Baltimore. Humor is appreciated. You don't have to enter your email address unless you want to.
Thanks!
Monday, August 14, 2006
Aug 14 - Camping 33 miles up the Delaware River
Mr. Frei only knows that he traveled 33 miles up from Cape May along the right bank of the Delaware River. He is hanging out on a mud flat with 6 horseshoe crabs, so thinks that he will sleep in the boat tonight. Also, the tide might come in on him, so it is a practical idea in 2 ways.
His total mileage from Stone Harbor to the mud flats was 48 miles in 13 hours. He has now covered almost half his distance on the Delaware.
Two people increased their pledges today because they are so impressed with his performance, so it looks as though I will have to do something about the pledge paddle!
Aug 14 - Stone Harbor to Delaware Bay
Mr. Frei called with the good news that he had already made it through the Cape May canal and was just getting into the Delaware Bay. He said the winds were with him and there were gently rolling waves. He has to do 70 miles on the Delaware before hitting the Chesapeake Canal.
Thanks to Bill Flammer's generosity in Stone Harbor, he is refreshed and feeling strong!
More later today.
Thanks to Bill Flammer's generosity in Stone Harbor, he is refreshed and feeling strong!
More later today.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Aug 9 - Video - Staten Island - Part 3 (dbl click)
Aug 9 - Video - Staten Island - Part 2 (dbl click)
Aug 9 - Video - Staten Island - Part I (dbl click)
Aug 13 - 3:30 PM - Stone Harbor, NJ
Mr. Frei had an easy day (by his standards) today with a 22 mile row of 6 and one half hours of flat water. Progress was a little slow as he was fighting the tides.
Sighting of the day was a fox stalking a duck (duck got away).
He is probably enjoying his first vodka tonic at the home of his friend Bill Flammer, which just happens to be on the waterway in Stone Harbor. After a cold night on the City Dock in Ocean City last night, he will be "living large" tonight.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Aug 12 - 12:05 AM - Ocean City, NJ
Sorry this is late tonight. The blogmeister attended a Peter, Paul and Mary concert tonight - it was great! I received the following from Peg:
Al called around 7:30. His cell phone is low and he hasn't tried the radio recharger yet, so he didn't talk too long.
He's in Ocean City (yeah!) at the public dock - 10 hours, 40 miles today. Didn't have his coordinates.
He doesn't want to leave his stuff unattended, so he'll be dining on 3 Slimfasts tonight.
Tomorrow he's headed to Stone Harbor and will be staying with Bill Flammer, a fellow Loomis board member. He's planning a short day and a long nap.
Al called around 7:30. His cell phone is low and he hasn't tried the radio recharger yet, so he didn't talk too long.
He's in Ocean City (yeah!) at the public dock - 10 hours, 40 miles today. Didn't have his coordinates.
He doesn't want to leave his stuff unattended, so he'll be dining on 3 Slimfasts tonight.
Tomorrow he's headed to Stone Harbor and will be staying with Bill Flammer, a fellow Loomis board member. He's planning a short day and a long nap.
Aug 12 - 1:38 PM - Atlantic City, NJ
Mr. Frei just called from a casino in Atlantic City (actually still rowing in his boat) to say that he has covered 22 miles so far today, and has been beset by power boats with drivers who behave as though gasoline is still 39 cents a gallon! On a positive note, he has seen beautiful bird life in the grasslands today. (Double click on Title to see aerial view of where he is)
Earlier today there was an enormous shadow under the boat for about 5 minutes, which seemed quite ominous, but no fin broke the water. He did feel as though he was being trailed though.
He hopes to get to the south side of Ocean City today, and is highly motivated since his friend Bill Flammer will be meeting him when he gets to Stone Harbor (probably the next day) with a vodka tonic.
Final Results of original poll:
Nathan's Coney Island 29
Brian Rooney's Interview 13
Bob Ashton's Cooldown 1
Hurricane Peg 1
Complete works of Shakespeare 1
It looks as though everyone knows Mr. Frei pretty well.
Earlier today there was an enormous shadow under the boat for about 5 minutes, which seemed quite ominous, but no fin broke the water. He did feel as though he was being trailed though.
He hopes to get to the south side of Ocean City today, and is highly motivated since his friend Bill Flammer will be meeting him when he gets to Stone Harbor (probably the next day) with a vodka tonic.
Final Results of original poll:
Nathan's Coney Island 29
Brian Rooney's Interview 13
Bob Ashton's Cooldown 1
Hurricane Peg 1
Complete works of Shakespeare 1
It looks as though everyone knows Mr. Frei pretty well.
Aug 12 - Today's Circuitous Route
Aug 12 - Launched at Beach Haven, NJ - 6:47AM
Update from Al's pal Andy Steginsky at 6:47 AM:
Getting ready to launch Al from beach haven yacht club. Beautiful day. Good
winds from the north.
Al was confused for a California guy in Wawa!
He had a great night's sleep and was well fed!
----------------
Thanks to Andy, Sandy, Gail, Skip and the person who thought Al was a California boy (good for the ego)!
Getting ready to launch Al from beach haven yacht club. Beautiful day. Good
winds from the north.
Al was confused for a California guy in Wawa!
He had a great night's sleep and was well fed!
----------------
Thanks to Andy, Sandy, Gail, Skip and the person who thought Al was a California boy (good for the ego)!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Aug 11 - Beach Haven, NJ - Back in stride
The winds turned around today so Mr. Frei was able to row 40 miles in 9 hours. It was a big wave day, like a "Nantucket sleigh ride", enormous surf with the boat taking on a lot of water. However, the weather was beautiful.
He is staying with his friends Andy and Sandy tonight on Long Beach Island, and feasting on spaghetti bolognaise. You can see information about the Barnegat Lighthouse, which he passed today by double clicking on the Title above.
Correction from Andy Steginsky:
39 miles! Really staying at Skip and Gail Cimino's house, Sandy's sister
and brother-in-law. (They live in Brant Beach, Long Beach Island.
He is staying with his friends Andy and Sandy tonight on Long Beach Island, and feasting on spaghetti bolognaise. You can see information about the Barnegat Lighthouse, which he passed today by double clicking on the Title above.
Correction from Andy Steginsky:
39 miles! Really staying at Skip and Gail Cimino's house, Sandy's sister
and brother-in-law. (They live in Brant Beach, Long Beach Island.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Aug 10 - launch at Brielle Marina
I have put another short video of Mr. Frei starting his day during The Big Row.
Double-click on the Title to view...
Double-click on the Title to view...
Aug 10 - Mantoloking - Know when to fold 'em
Mr. Frei's lonely guideboat awaiting tomorrow's row
Mantoloking Yacht Club (Not a bad place to stay!)
Mr. Frei had a slight setback today after fighting a 20 knot headwind for 3 hours. He had to call it quits in the waterway next to Mantoloking, NJ, which turned out to be a beautiful place to stop. If he had been heading north, he could have easily gone all the way back to Staten Island, but alas...he was heading south. Therefore, the total for today was 7.5 miles, although he had to back-track about half a mile to get back to the yacht club when he realized he was fighting a losing battle.
Thank you to the Mantoloking Yacht Club (another MYC) for providing him with a safe place to sleep and access to the men's room!
Mantoloking Yacht Club (Not a bad place to stay!)
Mr. Frei had a slight setback today after fighting a 20 knot headwind for 3 hours. He had to call it quits in the waterway next to Mantoloking, NJ, which turned out to be a beautiful place to stop. If he had been heading north, he could have easily gone all the way back to Staten Island, but alas...he was heading south. Therefore, the total for today was 7.5 miles, although he had to back-track about half a mile to get back to the yacht club when he realized he was fighting a losing battle.
Thank you to the Mantoloking Yacht Club (another MYC) for providing him with a safe place to sleep and access to the men's room!
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Aug 9th - launch at Liberty Park Marina
A short video of Al launching this morning in Jersey City can be seen if you double-click on the TITLE here.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Aug 9 - West Long Branch, NJ -This will be short...
Greetings, Gentle Reader,
This is my first blog from the road...and it will be necessarily short: I'm pretty bushed, and today was a killer. I left Jersey City this AM and battled headwinds, water taxis, freighters bringing Chinese goods to Wal-Mart, emerging blisters, the shadows of fins, and my own fertile imagination for 9 hours and thirty two minutes to get to Sandy Hook...over a serpentine distance of 30.2 miles. Not a blazing speed, but it was a day that saw waves that blocked a view of the shore.
The boat is performing beautifully, but we were close to the limit today while 6 miles from the nearest shore...and (to my relief, frankly) the Coast Guard will not permit a beach launch from Sandy Hook, so a trip modification is in order. I'll be car-topping the boat 12 miles south to Manasquan Inlet, avoiding water that the locals tell me (and that I saw today) is simply too dangerous: the combination of the full moon (enhances tidal effect) and the recent southerly winds make things rough even for the power boaters who approach to ask if I need rescuing!
So...I will make up the 12 miles by doing circles in the Inner Harbor should I get home...but, tomorrow, "going outside" promises to be beyond my limits...and I hope you will understand.
As of today, I'm at 185 miles in 43:45 of "seat time." I'm taking waterstained notes of impressions that I'll write up when I can keep my eyes open, but I'll just say that the folks along the way have been great, I'm keeping my sanity, and I am enormously appreciative of the work Kathy and Peg have done to keep this thing updated...and thanks to Peter for his great "wingman" help over the first three days.
Happy 29th again, Peg!
Gentle Reader...I must sleep. Must...sleep.....
xx00......to zzzzzzz's..........
Mr. Frei
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
August 8th - Jersey City, NJ - Liberty State Park
I am sorry to be filing so late (Brian), but we have just gotten to the hotel after driving about 400 miles, meeting up with Al, having dinner and going through a maze to find this hotel near the Newark Airport.
Al had his best day yet (40 miles in 7 1/2 hours), and said he was quite thrilled going through New York Harbor. Only near miss was a water taxi. I was hoping that he could update the blog tonight, but he is whipped. This will be the first night that he has slept in a bed for a while.
Going under the Tappan Zee Bridge was the only really difficult part of the row today. The currents are definitely stronger under a bridge.
He will launch at 7:30 tomorrow and hopes to reach Sandy Point, NJ.
More news tomorrow!
Monday, August 07, 2006
August 7th - 31 miles to Haverstraw Yacht Club
Mr. Frei traveled 31 miles against a strong headwind to reach Haverstraw Yacht Club in Haverstraw, NY. He actually did his fastest time yet though, traveling at 7.4 miles/hr as he went past West Point Military Academy. We suspect that he was noticed at West Point, and that his good friend Peter filled people in about his journey since there were some views to the blog from West Point Military Academy this afternoon.
Peter Thompson has been a great help to Mr. Frei during the last few days. He provided good advice, boosted his morale and provided some equipment that made the trip more comfortable. Since Peter has now departed for his home in Vermont, Mr. Frei asked me to send his thanks!
The goal for tomorrow is to reach Liberty Marina in Jersey City, NJ, where there will be a nice view of the Statue of Liberty.
Peg and I plan to meet him in Jersey City with a big bottle of his favorite blueberry milk from Sherman's Farm stand here in NH.
There was a nice comment from the Arakelians on the blog site today, which we will read to Mr. Frei tomorrow. Feel free to add any comments to the site, and we will read them to him. Your good wishes energize him!
Kathy
Peter Thompson has been a great help to Mr. Frei during the last few days. He provided good advice, boosted his morale and provided some equipment that made the trip more comfortable. Since Peter has now departed for his home in Vermont, Mr. Frei asked me to send his thanks!
The goal for tomorrow is to reach Liberty Marina in Jersey City, NJ, where there will be a nice view of the Statue of Liberty.
Peg and I plan to meet him in Jersey City with a big bottle of his favorite blueberry milk from Sherman's Farm stand here in NH.
There was a nice comment from the Arakelians on the blog site today, which we will read to Mr. Frei tomorrow. Feel free to add any comments to the site, and we will read them to him. Your good wishes energize him!
Kathy
Sunday, August 06, 2006
August 6th - 34 miles to Marlboro, NY
Mr. Frei and his friend Peter are camping in the clubhouse of the Marlboro Yacht Club in Marlboro, NY tonight. They also were invited to a big cookout there, so are eating well! It's a good thing they can stay on the grounds there because otherwise they would be listening to freight trains going by every 10 minutes.
He did 34 miles today against the wind in 9 1/2 hours. He and Peter lunched at Hyde Park, the former home of Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Mr. Frei says that the Hudson River is looking very clean, a few dead fish, but no real trash.
A BIG THANK YOU to the Marlboro Yacht Club for their hospitality!
August 5th - Passing Through Albany
Double-click on the subject line to go to the set of photos that Mark McCarty took as Mr. Frei passed through Albany around 9:30 AM on August 5th.
Preparations for The Big Row - August 4th
AN ESSENTIAL ITEM
Pruning out the non-essentials
Mr. Frei with some of his many admirers
Captain Al, Commodore Peg, and Chief Petty Officer Matt
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Day 1 - Troy, NY - Saugerties, NY (click here video)
Mr. Frei rowed a total of 50.5 miles today aided by current and wind, in 10 and a half hours. Some sights that he saw were a dead pig, 3 bald eagles, and lots of jumping fish.
His friend Peter met him at noon and stole half his lunch! However, he made up for it by providing a ride to a gourmet restaurant called Miss Lucy's Kitchen (Zagat rated), and half of a tent for sleeping.
The plan for tomorrow is to reunite with Peter for lunch at Hyde Park...
That's it for plans for now...more to come...
He had a great sendoff at the Troy City Dock this morning around 7:30 (contest entries will be adjusted for the extra 1 1/2 hours). Many friends and relatives were there to cheer him on. He was surprised to see some friends that had told him that they couldn't make it - the Ashtons and the Rooneys.
Check out the launch video by double-clicking on the subject line above. You will only have to turn your head sideways for several seconds (conklincam error).
His friend Peter met him at noon and stole half his lunch! However, he made up for it by providing a ride to a gourmet restaurant called Miss Lucy's Kitchen (Zagat rated), and half of a tent for sleeping.
The plan for tomorrow is to reunite with Peter for lunch at Hyde Park...
That's it for plans for now...more to come...
He had a great sendoff at the Troy City Dock this morning around 7:30 (contest entries will be adjusted for the extra 1 1/2 hours). Many friends and relatives were there to cheer him on. He was surprised to see some friends that had told him that they couldn't make it - the Ashtons and the Rooneys.
Check out the launch video by double-clicking on the subject line above. You will only have to turn your head sideways for several seconds (conklincam error).
Thursday, August 03, 2006
T-Minus....
Greetings, Gentle Reader.
We (you!) have pushed the Pledge Paddle to over $11,000! In about 32 hours I'll be pushing away from the Troy dock, and at this point each mile- should I make it all the way - will yield about $24 for the fellows at Boys' Latin. At 4 mph, that's about $96 per hour...almost a professional-grade salary. To say the least, I'm motivated...and tremendously grateful to all of you who have taken an interest in this venture. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
If my training over the last ten days has illminated anything (other than the myriad weak points of this aging body), it has demonstrated the sheer magnitude of how far 450 miles is in a row boat. As I've suggested before, this trip will need to be attempted as a series of 32- mile day trips if I am to make it all the way; 450 miles seems dauntingly far, but 32 miles each day seems plausible, dontcha' think?
Starting on Saturday, Peg and Kathy will be updating the blog each day as best they can, and while their accounts of my adventure will be in third person and necessarily abridged, you'll at least not be kept in suspense as to the size of the check you will be writing. Tonight I saw Brian's dog attired in the "I'm Waiting for Mr. Frei" T-shirt...and aside from the questionable ethic of contributing to the doggie garnment industry, I have to admit that it was darned cute and placed some money in the till.
I visited the Troy Dockmaster for a second time this week, and the City of Troy has bequeathed a Key to the Dock to me so that I might get a very early start on Saturday. Not exactly a key to the city, but more useful.
Tomorrow, the day before I start, is my 55th birthday. Family and friends will be gathering for pizza and creme brulee by the lake- the final Training Meal of Choice- and I suspect I'll start the day with a final short row to say goodbys to my favorite summer places. Lake George has been a great - if an unrealistic - environment in which to prepare. Last night was spent on an island about 15 miles up the lake with Peg, Kathy, & friends. I know I'm only deluding myself if I think that this counted as "preparation" for my future overnights at docks and campsites along the way. We enjoyed all the comforts of home and a perfect evening punctuated by a tremendous thunderstorm that dropped virtually no rain. Certainly, once I start, I will not be so lucky. The Weather Channel promises a pretty good day on Saturday: cooler, with a light wind from the NNE, which is perfect for my purposes.
In these final hours before my departure I'm receiving all sorts of advice about items to bring along. This well-intentioned counsel is bumping into my determination to keep the boat as light as possible. Tonight's suggestions included a flare gun ( I will only shoot a hole in the boat, or myself), a 20-foot telescoping flagpole with distress flags, wing mirrors so I won't have to keep turning around, and a wheeled dolly to portage the boat if necessary. I would note that none of these suggestions convey a sense confidence, nor do any of them include items that might facilitate celebration in Baltimore should I make it. Sigh. (It's Shark Week on "The Discovery Channel," and I'm suprised no none has offered ideas for protection on that score as well.)
Gentle Reader, unless I can haul my aching carcass into a marina that has an internet connection, this may well be my last comunication until I get to Baltimore. If I can locate such a resource, you'll be hearing from me. If you hear from me in this way, however, it will be an at opportunity cost of $96/ hour...or it might mean that I still have retained sense enough to wait out bad weather or to listen to my body. Either way, stay in touch through my able surrogates, and know that your interest and support have made this adventure much more than I ever hoped it could have been, even without having yet pulled a stroke south.
Thanks for joining me. I'll not be rowing alone.Kathy asks me to remind you that merchandise is still available" "The mall is still open!" Sheesh.
Blisters are calluses...I'm as ready as I can be.
Latah!
Mr. Frei
We (you!) have pushed the Pledge Paddle to over $11,000! In about 32 hours I'll be pushing away from the Troy dock, and at this point each mile- should I make it all the way - will yield about $24 for the fellows at Boys' Latin. At 4 mph, that's about $96 per hour...almost a professional-grade salary. To say the least, I'm motivated...and tremendously grateful to all of you who have taken an interest in this venture. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
If my training over the last ten days has illminated anything (other than the myriad weak points of this aging body), it has demonstrated the sheer magnitude of how far 450 miles is in a row boat. As I've suggested before, this trip will need to be attempted as a series of 32- mile day trips if I am to make it all the way; 450 miles seems dauntingly far, but 32 miles each day seems plausible, dontcha' think?
Starting on Saturday, Peg and Kathy will be updating the blog each day as best they can, and while their accounts of my adventure will be in third person and necessarily abridged, you'll at least not be kept in suspense as to the size of the check you will be writing. Tonight I saw Brian's dog attired in the "I'm Waiting for Mr. Frei" T-shirt...and aside from the questionable ethic of contributing to the doggie garnment industry, I have to admit that it was darned cute and placed some money in the till.
I visited the Troy Dockmaster for a second time this week, and the City of Troy has bequeathed a Key to the Dock to me so that I might get a very early start on Saturday. Not exactly a key to the city, but more useful.
Tomorrow, the day before I start, is my 55th birthday. Family and friends will be gathering for pizza and creme brulee by the lake- the final Training Meal of Choice- and I suspect I'll start the day with a final short row to say goodbys to my favorite summer places. Lake George has been a great - if an unrealistic - environment in which to prepare. Last night was spent on an island about 15 miles up the lake with Peg, Kathy, & friends. I know I'm only deluding myself if I think that this counted as "preparation" for my future overnights at docks and campsites along the way. We enjoyed all the comforts of home and a perfect evening punctuated by a tremendous thunderstorm that dropped virtually no rain. Certainly, once I start, I will not be so lucky. The Weather Channel promises a pretty good day on Saturday: cooler, with a light wind from the NNE, which is perfect for my purposes.
In these final hours before my departure I'm receiving all sorts of advice about items to bring along. This well-intentioned counsel is bumping into my determination to keep the boat as light as possible. Tonight's suggestions included a flare gun ( I will only shoot a hole in the boat, or myself), a 20-foot telescoping flagpole with distress flags, wing mirrors so I won't have to keep turning around, and a wheeled dolly to portage the boat if necessary. I would note that none of these suggestions convey a sense confidence, nor do any of them include items that might facilitate celebration in Baltimore should I make it. Sigh. (It's Shark Week on "The Discovery Channel," and I'm suprised no none has offered ideas for protection on that score as well.)
Gentle Reader, unless I can haul my aching carcass into a marina that has an internet connection, this may well be my last comunication until I get to Baltimore. If I can locate such a resource, you'll be hearing from me. If you hear from me in this way, however, it will be an at opportunity cost of $96/ hour...or it might mean that I still have retained sense enough to wait out bad weather or to listen to my body. Either way, stay in touch through my able surrogates, and know that your interest and support have made this adventure much more than I ever hoped it could have been, even without having yet pulled a stroke south.
Thanks for joining me. I'll not be rowing alone.Kathy asks me to remind you that merchandise is still available" "The mall is still open!" Sheesh.
Blisters are calluses...I'm as ready as I can be.
Latah!
Mr. Frei
