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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!
