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Sunday, August 20, 2006
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
