The Big Row

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

S'been a long time since a blog entry, and for those of you still reading - which in itself calls for a psychologically-oriented blog entry - this will most likely be it. I mean, it's over, and today was the capstone.

Today I was invited to speak about the row to an alumni group at Boys' Latin -remarks that I delivered this afternoon - and I figured that while I was at it, I'd deliver some thoughts to the assembled Middle School as well. (I had an inside track in scheduling that one, since I'm apparently in charge of scheduling speeches.) Since I'm not a big Power Point fan, this morning I hauled the boat and its accessories up the highway to school, figuring that seeing the real thing would be at least equal to ineptly flogging a keyboard in public. Tom and I couldn't squeeze the boat through the maze of angles that lead to the gym, so we placed it outside so the kids could see it on the way in and out. Similarly, an hour later at a different site, the alums filed past this Shackelton-esque display on their way into what I feared might be their nap time.

I enjoyed the notalgia of the day. Last weekend I spent a couple of hours trying to write "speeches" appropriate for each of these two constituencies, but it all sounded contrived compared to the candor you allow me on these pages. So...I went to these pages and pulled some excerpts...and they seemed to go over OK. Sure, the kids were compelled to sit through it, but I think they enjoyed the drama - such as it was - of "The Stalking." The alums hung in gamely through "Lemons to Lemonade," which you may recall was the story of my longest day. They asked some great questions at the end...asking me to recount other highs and lows...and I enjoyed my time with them immensely. I don't have any more bookings (unless I shamelessly book myself again at Middle School...imagine that internal monologue, Gentle Reader...), so when I put the boat away tonight I think I heard it (or was it me?) utter a kind of plaintive exhale. It's over. As I write this, a cold November-like rain is falling outside, perhaps nature's way of confirming that the summer escapade is, indeed, over.

It's been a wonderful ride.

So...what now? What's next? For now, it's great to back in the rhythm of school. My 8th graders are a particularly congenial lot. They are working hard, behaving themselves just enough, and pushing the envelope in all the places that an eighth grader should push. My classroom feels like a welcoming place, and I have to periodically audit myself to make sure we are actually learning something. My 58 students and I have a kind of unspoken arrangement: they'll keep me on the straight-and-narrow in the instruction of grammar ( a skill that Kay, Helen, Cammie, and Amy, my 6th and 7th grade colleagues, do a magnificant job in imparting), and I'll take them as far down the literature and writing path as my modest skills and their patience will allow. It's an arrangement that has worked well in the past, and this group seems to have bought into it enthusiastically.

Among the various and sundry administrative duties that come with my other role as Assistant Headmaster (Mr Frei, the Disciplinarian: The Pit Bull with the Soft Bite), perhaps my favorite current assignment is as a co-coach of the 6th grade flag football team. To this 55 year- old former (on his best day, only modestly talented) athlete, coaching 10-11 year-olds is both a sobering and joyful activity.

It's sobering because you cannot demonstrate certain techniques without exposing yourself to enormous embarrassment. For example, I coach the defensive squad, and during the first week I thought I would demonstrate pass coverage against my Lilliputian receivers. Bad call, Mr. Frei. While my technique might have been impeccable, I was no more able to cover these little pocket rockets that I could cover Amani Toomer on any given Sunday. I'll be hell on wheels when I'm playing on the Nursing Home team someday, but for now I'll have to wait.

It's joyful, even exhilerating, on game days, because in our league the coach gets to be on the field with the boys during games. It is, after all, not about winning or losing..it's about sportsmanship and learning the game, right? Humm. Anyway, during the 4th quarter of our 19-14 win on Tuesday, we held during two goal-line stands. Now, Gentle Reader, a goal line stand in 6th grade flag football is a dicey thing, since the Red Zone is essentially anything inside the 50 yard line... so anything inside the ten is a relative walk in the park. With under a minute to go, we were on our five, facing a talented triple-threat quarterback on his home field, fourth and goal. A missed snap, a batted-down pass, a decisive stuff of a sweep, and a heroic plugging of the line on a quarterback sneak later...and bedlam. Ah, the joys of teaching.

Sniff. Let's leave it at that, OK?

Love you guys. For the readership, for the support, for it all- thank you.

Mr. Frei

Franny West of Jamaica Plain in Boston, MA used her wide assortment of connections to get Mr. Frei honored at a recent Red Sox game! Bubblegum Music , Mr. Frei's favorite genre, was played in the background.

Way to go Franny!

As you can see, the majority of people (64%) know that Mr. Frei's stomach is a prime motivator. Nathan's Famous was just a little too far across the water for a detour, but he did find some delicious onion rings in Jersey City. (By the way, another favorite is Regi's tater tots, for those who feel the need to bribe him.)

Read about The Little Row below!

Greetings, Gentle Reader. The end is near, but it's not here today.

Kathy is simply unbelievable in her maintainence of this blog site. Today I planned to write about yesterday's outing and, as is my practice, I went to the site first just to "check in." There it is...a picture of Peg and I pushing off for our "race," as well as an update on pledge receipts. Sheesh. I feel like such a slacker.

Yes, Gentle Reader, the pledge payments crested $15 k this week and, with last night's receipts of a wonderful, over-the-top check from Laura and a beaut from my son, we're nudging...are you ready?...$17k. This is serious money doing seriously good work, and I am overwhelmed at how so many of you exceeded your pledge amounts or weighed in with a check without pledging in the first place. Perhaps my early Public Radio rant had some effect or, more likely, I am simply blessed to know so many people with great hearts.

And yes, Gentle Reader, the boat went in the water again yesterday, this time at Wye Island, on Maryland's Eastern Shore, for the Wye Island Regatta. I had intended to treat this row not as a race, but as a liesurly row around some new and reputedly beautiful waters. I also intended bring Peg and Kathy along as a way of saying thanks for their amazing support of this summer's hijinks.

Had I been thinking ahead, I would have cast my boat as the Roman galley from Ben-Hur; Peg would have been in the stern, beating some crab mallets against the bongos we discovered in the basement...and Kathy, in the bow, would have employed a whip whenever she commanded Peg to get us up to ramming speed.

Alas, the day dawned drizzly, Kathy was running late (and elected to wait for a kinder day, thus sparing me the whip), and we pushed off from the dock late amid the "racing kayak" and 8's class. This regatta is advertised as being for, "all person-powered boats, including shells (sweep and scull, singles, doubles, 4's, and 8's), gigs, dories, racing and recreational kayaks, outriggers, canoes, and whaleboats." My Adirondack Guideboat fit none of these categories, so I was placed in the "Miscellaneous" group (stop your snickering!!!!) with three other vessels. Since I started late, I have no idea what the other "miscellaneous" vessels were, but I didn't see another guideboat there, which was a disappointment. We did get help pulling the boat from the top of the car by the crew of an 8-man War Canoe...a magnificent craft indeed...manned by a decidedly unwar-like but hale and hearty crew.

So...with Peg in the stern in her jaunty straw hat, a waterproof map, and a cooler in the bow (for balance only, as it turns out, because I couldn't reach it), off we went...the only boat in a fleet of more than a hundred carrying a "non-contributing passenger." We started amid a gaggle of racing kayaks; the double shells, 4's, and 8's were the only classes yet to start behind us. They stagger the start this way, I think, with the idea that these faster boats will catch the slower, earlier starters, and the mayhem of 100+ boats approaching the finish line at approximately the same in a Dunkirk-like spasm of desperation might engage the spectators.

Being back in the boat felt wonderful. The tissues of the protective callouses have have long-since been swept down the shower's drain (sorry for the gross image, but that's where I think my lil' tabs went, one by one), but otherwise I felt like I was starting just another day of The Big Row. Of course, having Peg along for company for the next 2:44 was the best part of all. Her presence in the stern made for an unbalanced and less efficient boat, yet her company, encouragement, and enjoyment of the trip more than made up for the hydrodynamic penalty. And, truth be told, it was fun passing (or even being passed by) other boats; I know they were envious of my companion, even if she did get to oggle the buff guys in the shells as they went by. It was also a welcome change to have a set of keen eyes facing forward. I don't think I had to turn around more than three or four times all day but, let's face it, with Peg along, why would I want to?

So off we went, in a drizzle that went to a steady rain that periodically abated and finally gave way to broken couds and patches of sun. Wye Island is a natural paradise; beautiful coves, enticing creeks, and solitude around almost every turn. It begged for further exploration and while I didn't intend to race, let's face it: if you put more than one "person-powered boat" in the water, somebody's gonna pee on the fire hydrant, the testosterone's gonna flow, and you're gonna pull harder. I was able to leave the kayaks behid me and pass more than a few before the finish...I even dusted the whaleboat (which I took no pleasure in, because its bulbous hull was being gamely propelled by a grim-faced husband/ wife team...and it was a very cool boat)...but the shells and sculls just kept flying by at what seemed to be twice our speed. Pretty demoralizing, but fascinating to see the teamwork and precision which differentiated the faster boats from the slower.

We (how nice to say "we") averaged about 4.8 mph (you readers may recall the The Big Row average was 3.89). I did work a good deal harder than on most legs of TBR because of the "competition" factor, and I suspect I would have bettered my pace considerably if I'd been alone and on a properly balanced boat. But I know I wouldn't have had a better time. I placed third in the MIscellaneous category (out of four...), but 1 & 2 didn't have Peg, the sandwiches, or the fun.

Car-topping the boat back over the Bay Bridge was kind of bittersweet. Looking over the impressive expanse of the Chesapeake, my now somewhat trained eye sized up the waves, wind, and current for "what it would be like" to be down there...knowing full well that my summer adventure and any serious rowing is most likely over for the year. The boat draped over our truck had been my passport to a delightful adventure this summer and was a loyal, trustworthy companion, and when we put it away last night in Bob's back yard I again felt like I was abandoning a dear friend. From childhood I have always been (too?) inclined to ascribe animate qualities to inanimate objects...and last night was no exception. Maybe I'll drop in tomorrow for an unexpected visit and an unconditional coat of wax and oil. It'll feel good for both of us.

What's next? Maybe the Northern Forest Canoe Trail (see last weekend's New York Times Travel section); no Big Water, but an attractive pending adveture nonetheless. Maybe more of the Intercoastal. Or maybe I'll take seriously Brian's call of last week. In a tone reminicent of The Graduates's "plastics," he uttered, "Duluth." It's the most distant point on the Great Lakes. I'm certain he meant that we should start from Duluth and row home...because, let's face it, "Pulling for Duluth" lacks the kind of motivational ring that "Pulling for Home" carries, yes? MUST...GET...TO...DULUTH is not a mantra that would inspire a 62 mile day.

Brian, incidentally, is the proud owner of a true cedar Adirondack Guideboat, a work of art, breathtakingly beautiful, and he knows how to row it. If he is to put his boat and person at risk, I want to be there to see it.

Gentle Reader, just know that if there's a "next," you're invited along.

Latah,

Mr. Frei

Mr. Frei rowed in the Wye Island regatta today, a 12 mile race around the island, which is on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. He brought his lovely assistant, Peg, to motivate him as it was a rainy day. He has promised to write a blog entry about it later!

Gentle Reader, if you're reading this you are, indeed, a die-hard. I mean, remember Ferris Beuller at the end of his movie? "It's over. Go home. It's over. Go."

I suspect that this will be the penultimate blog entry (I think that means the next-to-last one?), and tonight I thought I'd relate a little of what it was actually like to be in the boat for a day. I've written about being stalked, swamped, and "saluted" (in New York), among other things, but I haven't really shared what a "typical" day in the boat was like, from the gunwhales in, so to speak. Interested? If so, read on. If not, tune in next week to say goodbye.

Actually, there wasn't really a typical day; the conditions always changed, the currents and winds never repeated themselves in exactly the same way, and my body always carried the rigors (or the rest) of the previous day in a way that influenced my performance on the subsequent day. Yet I did settle into a routine..an almost ritualistic set of behaviors and activities...that must have been effective enough for me to complete the trip, yes?

In addition, while my daily "hours in the seat" over 13 days averaged roughly 9, the range was a low of 2:40 (when I hit a headwall of wind on the intercoastal in NJ which simply brought me to a standstill for the day) to a high of 17 hours (ugh...the Herculean dash to - and through- the C&D Canal, which has already been documented). But 8 of my days were in the 9-to-12 hour-per-day category, so let's talk about a typical one-of-those, shan't we?

I was usually up at 6 and on the water before 7. While I'd like to tell you that I performed sophisticated and arcane stretching exercises and yoga positions before getting into the boat, alas, by the time I positioned my provisions and supplies to adequately balance the boat, my boyish enthusiasm would get the better of me and I would just get in and go. Hey, wouldn't you?

Configuring the boat each morning became a ritual in itself, requiring an attention to sequence and detail that, as anyone who knows me will attest, is not my long suit: Roll up the sleeping bag, deflate and store the now rock-hard inflatable mattress, attend to personal hygiene, swap out the batteries in the GPS for fresh ones, store all clothing in sea bags, lube oars, oar locks, and sliding seat rails, align charts for the day's passage, clear the boat of uninvited guests, position liquids and lunch (when available) for easy access, dispose of trash, lather up with sun goop, load the boat carefully for balance fore-and-aft (with a little bias toward the bow for better tracking), attend to personal hygiene again, thank my patron (if available at that hour)for the night, climb in, bandage (or lube) the hands, push off, don the floppy hat, start the GPS Taskmaster 2000XL, and go.

One constant of each morning was that the first few hours of every day were sublime. The water was always calm, the sunrise always glorious, and the goal of making 20 miles before noon was always motivational. I'd start off on the sliding seat; my butt would usually be revived from the rigors of the previous day, and this device enabled me to get my legs in the game and make somewhat better time, fairly effortlessly, early in the day. Typically, this would change by hour four or five; even with my magical (and substantial hereditary natural) seat padding, my bottom would numb by noon, and I'd switch to the more comfortable (fixed) wicker seat for two to three hours to revive (it). The wicker seat also lowers the center of gravity of the boat by an inch or two, which made the boat a much more stable platform in the typically rougher water of the afternoon.

I positioned the GPS on some velcro on the cooler in front of me, at my feet, so that I could monitor my speed over the ground (bottom) at a glance, and I glanced frequently. Ben-Hur had the fellow banging the mallets...I had my GPS...and each prompted the same behavior: keep the pace, or get whipped. In my case, the "whipping" was self-induced, of course, but I aimed to maintain a speed of 3.5 to 4.0 mph...which meant some enhanced effort when tides, winds, or currents were not cooperating. In retrospect, the GPS was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing, of course, was that I felt I had some control over "managing" my pace and the commensurate rate of caloric expenditure, and it instilled some confidence in assessing "how I was doing." The curse was that the confidence was false, of course; I was doing the best that I could, and I'd like to think that I'd have made essentially the same judgements and the same progress without it. It did rob me of a bit of pure uncertainty which would have added more adventure to the journey (read All Natural), and I probably could have calculated my progress in a less precise way using watch and charts. Yet it was useful to know my actual rate of speed at a glance; the device quickly spoiled me. If I'd had a Mr. Coffee aboard, I probably would have used that, too.

I'd try to make at least 20 miles by noon each day; I figured that if 36 miles was my "average requirement" to finish the trip in two weeks, then the afternoon's 16 could be taken at a more leisurely pace if conditions permitted...or ground out through sheer pluck and gritty determination before nightfall if things went sour. This strategy worked well; it afforded me the luxury of three "monster" days (62, 50.5, and 46 miles) when I got ahead of the pace and stayed ahead, and it put miles in the bank for the tougher days when wind or waves conspired against me (7.5, 19.9, 22.4).

The hours in the boat...almost 120 in all...were never, ever boring. I purposefully didn't wear headphones. I wanted to hear what was around me in an unfiltered, unobstructed way, and it's a decision I do not regret- even though some high-fidelity tunes would have been nice at times. I did have Kathy's cool transistor radio bungeed into a thwart for periodic weather, NPR, talk radio, "manatee sightings," or oldies sessions, but I never tired of just listening to the sounds of the oars slicing the water, the water streaming past the hull and, yes, even my own heavy breathing. I talked to myself, sang to myself, and greeted all within earshot to keep myself amused. Birds, trains, the resonance of bridges, the drone of boats, and the 'coming-to-life' of the shore every morning provided all the aural entertainment I could need...or want.

I'd typically take about a five minute break at the end of each hour, and more frequently when the sun was high: water or Gatorade, a Power Bar or beef jerky, a lube-job on the oarlocks (I quickly learned to eat the beef jerky first, then lube the oars), and hand maintainence. I started without gloves, since I'd developed the beginning of callouses before I started, but when Peter left me at the end of Day Three, he left his bike gloves with me. They proved effective at delaying the bursting of new blisters that had developed. By Day Six I dispensed with the gloves, because they were creating a new, mountainous range of blisters in places that did not contact the oars...but they had bought me time for the early abrasions to heal, and after that I was glove-less. Nonetheless, I had some Mystery Cream that I'd apply sparingly each hour, and my hands never caused me the pain or trouble I'd feared. Indeed, when I arrived at the Inner Harbor, mine were not the hands of an 8th grade English teacher. Arrrrgghh. Tonight they look almost...normal.

Hours would slide by, hour after hour; 8 am would look like 5pm, 10 am would look like 2 pm; from the gunwhales in, the only relevant clock was the development of the day's physical fatigue. No hour was boring; the sensory richness of being on the water in a small boat with a worthy destination in mind enlivened each and every moment. Sounds hokey, I know, but it's true. Sure, if you've read the blog, some moments were more "interesting" or joyful than others, but never did I find myself bored or questioning my sanity. Others may have, but not me. I'm certifiably self-delusional and, if I might say so, I'm pretty good company.

A word about personal hygiene in the boat...only because many have asked. Let me just say that the ergonomics of the seat in my boat, coupled with the dimensional properties of a Gatorade bottle, made this a breeze. I might have gathered a glance or two at times, but when you've gotta go, you've gotta go. The final ratio of bottles in, bottles out? 4:1. And the color and turbidity? Perfect, if I might say so. After a harrowingly close call, I was always mindful to store the re-filled bottles behind me, out of sight (and easy reach). Whew.

I could never really predict my destination at the beginning of each day (winds, tides, current, body, unforseen events), but by about 2 or 3PM I'd begin to plot a destination for the night. My charts described marina facilities and depicted beaches that might make suitable accomodations, and I'd pick both a "layup" destination and a stretch destination, the latter to keep me appropriately motivated during the afternoon hours when the body might be saying, "Enough!" My arrivals had to be comical to the hapless onlooker...like a bad out-take from The Planet of the Apes. I was Roddy McDowell, clambering awkwardly out of the boat, stooped in a simian posture, arms dangling lifelessly by my sides, shuffling desperately towards the nearest water source or bathroom. I would never be in too much of a hurry to set up camp, because being out of the boat was liberation enough.

The end -of-day routine was a sloppy version of the morning's: blow up the matress, unroll the bag, sometimes set up a tarp, attend to persoal hygiene, eat something that wasn't moving, and sleep. Oh, the sleep. It came effortlessly and immediately. I never feared for my safety in my surroundings. I was simply too tired.

Gentle Reader, please don't take my sometimes overly-dramatic prose too seriously. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that 90% of you who read this could make this same trip next summer. With a little bit of physical preparation, you could do it. A row like this is more a product of patience, perseverance, and a moderate appetite for uncertainty- more of a head game than a shoulders game. Really. Just be sure to attempt it in an Adirondack Guideboat. Did I tell you how much I love my boat? I think I have.

One more blog to good-bye, unless you bark like a dog.

I'll miss you.

Mr. Frei

PS: The pledge payments topped $14,000 this week. Oh, yes, how I'll miss you. You guys rock!!!!!!

Shame on me, Gentle Reader, for promising so much and yet delivering so little.

I do indeed still have a few more entries up my sleeve, and I shouldn't let so many days go by between them. In this way, keeping up a blog is like calling your mom now and then; you know you should do it more often, you want to do it, you may even look forward to doing it...but shamefully, the action lags the intention.

"Yo, Mr. Frei. What's with the catchy blog title tonight?"

Ah, Gentle Reader, your impetuosity is admirable, and even reassuring. So let's have at it.

As you flower children will recall, S&G sang the definitive version of Bridge Over Troubled Waters . They used the title line as a simile...."like a bridge over troubled waters"...and since it's safe to assume that neither Paul nor Art have rowed an Adirondack guideboat under the Tappan Zee bridge, I'm here to testify that the waters under a bridge can indeed be troubled, ironically because of the brige itself.

"Woah, Mr. Frei, hold on a minute. You mean that S&G's heartwarming simile masks the hydrodynamic reality of the way flowing water interacts with the displacement of the bridge abuttments themselves, and that the symbolic turbulence they refer to is simply a manifestation of incompressable water seeking an alternative path downstream?"

You've got it, Gentle Reader! That's exactly what I'm saying, and frankly, I couldn't have said it better myself. And while they may have been referring to the "troubled waters" of life and relationships, there is a lot actually going on under those bridges that doesn't meet the eye.

But let me start at the beginning of Day 4, which will:

1. Further develop the above phenomenon, at the risk of forever tainting your future pure appreciation for Simon & Garfunkle's beautiful ballad,

2. Briefly describe the three hours during which I maintained the fastest speed during the my 13 day trip, and

3. Lead to a ham-handed description of what it is like to travel New York's harbor (and Manhattan's shore) in an Adirondack guideboat.

Whew.

Tuesday, 8/8, started at the Stoney Point Yacht Club, about 35 miles north of NYC. They had graciously allowed me to sleep under an awning in front of their clubhouse, which was a blessing; the night presented a parade of spectacular thunderstorms typical of the Hudson Valley in summer. I was able enjoy a three-hour fireworks display that was not fabricated in Italy or New Jersey while (cowering) under the relative comfort and safety of an awning instead of my boat - which would have been the only alternative.

I was off at 7 the next day, rowing against the last of an incoming tide. This was a good thing, because I knew that as it went to slack and then turned downstream later that morning, I'd have both the tide and current with me, along with the blessed breeze rising from the northeast. My log shows that during hours 5,6, and 7 of that day, my sustained speeds "over the ground" were 5.3, 6.7, and a ludicrous 7.1 mph. During this period I passed under the Tappan Zee (more on this in a moment), ghosted along the magnificent rock walls and flora of the Pallisades, and slid into the upper reaches of New York harbor itself.

Picture, Gentle Reader, all of this liquid energy sliding down the narrow trough known as the Hudson River, only to confront the pilings of the Tappan Zee Bridge. I've driven over the Tappan Zee Bridge hundreds of times...enough so that I always mutter to myself, "Tappan Zee Bridge? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" (I mutter it to myself quietly, under my breath, so as not to alarm passengers. It's really stupid.).

I've always been impressed with the bridge's length and it's graceful curvature as it traverses one of the widest parts of the river but, frankly, I've never given much thought to the engineering or structure that makes this dramatic entry to New York City possible. Underneath the Tappan Zee are dozens of enormous concrete pilings. They have to be enormous, I suppose, to withstand the crushing pressure of the ice that flows down the river each spring, as well as to bear the incalcuable weight of the Twinkies and chocolate chip cookies I, for one, ask them to suatain upon each crossing. The largest of these pilings are at least thirty feet across, and I suspect these dimensions increase below the waterline.

When the combined force of the current and an ebb tide, aided by a following wind, hits these pilings, all hell breaks loose. The water above simply can't gently "meet up" with the water downstream, and the 200 or so yards above the bridge are, as mariners like to understate, "confused." Confused?? No, pissed off is more like it. I mean, this water wants to get through. (Gentle Reader, picture 65 eighth graders trying to file through a single door to a cafeteria for lunch and you get the idea. Mayhem outside...even on their best behavior...and placid order, even calm, inside.) I actually turned the boat around above the bridge, outside of the zone of "confusion," trying to jockey for a space or an angle that might avoid waters that even my maximum effort might not surmount. Sure enough, right-of-center, one of the pilings seemed to be offering marginally less aquatic chaos than the rest; I traversed across the face of the roil to pick my slot and committed myself to the necessary passage. It was thrilling and, yes, for some few minutes I was completely at the mercy of the flow - not unlike being in the vortex of an irresistible stream of 8th graders on our way to lunch - and, as at lunch, I was soon ejected into the calm of downstream, a bit wet and adrenalized, but ready to press on.

Lesson learned: When there is no other choice, go with the flow.

From here I enjoyed a virtual e-ticket ride to NYC. I passed under the George Washington bridge at almost 7mph...noticably faster than the traffic above...and waved giddily at the investment bankers stalled in the gridlock. Did they think I was some sort of Richard Branson nee'r-do-well, out for a morning row while my minions monitored my empire? Perhaps they thought I was a true adventurer, having cast off his worldly cares and possessions to see the world. More likely I appeared to be the dilletante that I am, a wanna-be adventurer who must necessarily cling to the mothership of contemporary culture, sleeping under an awning instead of his boat, cell phone at his side in a sea-bag, writing a blog for his own amusement. A few people cheerily returned my wave...one gave me the finger. Only because it was New York, I returned his salutation...but later regretted the impulse because many of the Happy Wavers might have mistakenly thought it was meant for them. I hope some of them are reading the blog and will accept this heartfelt apology. It was for thjat guy in the grey Lexus. To him, no apology. What was with that, anyway?

Anyway, the GW is a suspension bridge that relies on only two major pilings, affording me the chance to pick placid waters for the dash under. The mach meter still showed almost 7mph all the way to the harbor, Staten Island, and Liberty Marina, my destination for the night.

Gentle Reader, I soon regretted the confluence of natural energy that was making this part of the row so effortlessly rapid. I wanted more time to soak up the sensory overload of my environment, so for about 30 minutes, as I entered the upper waters of New York harbor, I simply stopped rowing.

From the vantage point of a small boat, this space is breathtaking. I have never felt so small, but the sense that is most stimulated from this perspective is that of hearing. From the water in an unpowered boat, one feels, rather than hears, the enormous wave of white noise that cascades from both shores. Every truck, every subway train, and I suspect every dropped dish and butterfly flapping its wings melds into a monotonastic harmonic thrum that one actually senses with the body rather than hears with the ears. It's the aggregated vibration of living...of industry, of life and, sadly, maybe of Intel being off a few points that day...that thickens the air, pulses on the skin, penetrates the body and makes your own presence an afterthought.

It was way cool.

The end of this day brought me to Staten Island..and to Kathy and Peg's care, and to the bliss of shared onion rings that evening. "Adventurer"? I guess not.

Anyway, it was a very good day.

More?

xxoo

Mr. Frei