The Big Row

If you would like a paperback version of Mr. Frei's adventures last summer, please send an email to ktylerconk@aol.com for information. It is only $20.00, and includes some of the news clippings that came out after the row had ended. All profits go to Recycled Love, an animal rescue organization in Baltimore, MD (www.recycledlove.org).

You can see his blog on his latest fundraising row, completed on June 16, 2007, at www.rowforrescue.blogspot.com.

This is a test. This is a test. Is anyone still reading?

Well, Gentle Reader, I wussed out. I was all set to take the boat back up to the Adirondacks this weekend, but I didn't. I couldn't. There is just too much water down here and some days ahead - at least before summer - that promise many happy hours at the oars. Taking the boat back seemed a supressable admission that winter is here and that rowing would have to wait until next July...and I just couldn't do it. So I didn't, and it feels good. My buddy is waiting for the next (local) adventure.

But my drive north was a trip down memory lane. I crossed the Susquehanna on I-95, which afforded me a good view down the river to the expanse of the Chesapeake that I passed on my way to the harrowing landing on the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. It was a millpond. Later I crossed the loathed Delaware; again, placid glass. Further north I was over the Hudson. No rowers (or any boats at all, for that matter) were in sight, and it looked serene. When I get to retire, I'll definitely be taking advantage of the relative solitude of a late-season voyage.

Things on the highway were far less serene. Lunatics on cell phones, tailgaters, construction, tolls...all of this made rowing look like a preferred mode of transportation if a schedule were not in the mix. But the darters...oh, those darters...those are the ones who make my blood boil. A darter is a person who will take advantage of any space you leave in front of you while underway. I was taught that one should leave one car-length in front for every ten miles-per-hour you are moving. Makes sense to me; after all, why exert the total concentration that tailgating requires if the difference in arrival time is a mere two seconds?

Clearly, at highway speeds, this is an irresistable space for those who simply have to arrive seconds before you do. They dart in, I back off, another darts in, I back off some more, etc. etc. and before you know it, the darter who edged you out in Delaware is sidling up to the Starbuck's kiosk in Ramapo before you even get out of New Jersey. God, how I hate darters.

I hate them so much that, after a while, I'll start to tailgate just to play the game. I'll leave a juicy space ahead of me in the passing lane, watch a darter move up on my right, and then close the distance with him to preculde his dart. He backs off, I back off, the space opens up, he moves, I move....heh heh heh. It's a sick and twisted world.

Otherwise, life is good. The kids wrote their first major essays last weekend while I was on the road, and now begins the twenty-or-so hours it takes to read them and offer the most constructive comments I can. This can wear me down, but it's my belief that the act of writing is part of the mix of coming to see one's self as a writer, and I would not like my own endurance to become the limiting factor in their progress. Truth be told, I like reading their essays. It's especially interesting as the year goes on and one is able to see them cease and desist the early bonehead mistakes and move to a new, somewhat more sophisticated level of bone-headedness. These guys grow a lot in 8th grade, and it shows up in their writing in very gratifying ways.

On another front, we had the first incidence of grafitti at school that I can remember in a very long time. Someone "decorated" the toilet seats in the bathroom with...are you ready?...Swedish Fish - a simple mosaic of multi-colored fish set in a kind of festival pattern, evoking a Spanish motif. How do you come down hard on an entire population for the whimsy of a truly visionary artist? Sometimes a fish should be flushed, as should the subjective definition of grafitti. Now you know why I'm called Mr. Frei, the Discipline Guy, a.k.a The Pit Bull with the Soft Bite.
To paraphrase Mel Brooks, it's good, sometimes, to be the king.

Other updates? 6th grade football is still undefeated, Jimmy continues to recover from his wounds, OJ, I presume, is still looking for the real killer, and my boat is still in Bob's back yard, waiting.

And, Gentle Reader, you're still reading?

xxoo

Mr. Frei

Greetings, Gentle Reader. Up for a bonus blog?

It won't be anything nautical; in fact, the boat gets trucked back up to the Adirondacks this weekend on Peg's truck, back to its home waters, blissfully past the frigging Delaware, along the bucolic Jersey shore, over the mighty Tappan Zee, and up the scenic Hudson to its winter home. It'll be odd making a 13-day journey in six hours or so, with no adoring rabble to greet me. Sigh.

So what's up?

I suppose the great domestic news here is our temporary acquisition of a foster dog...our second one in two months...this one named Jimmy. Mobey, our porcine seal-with-legs, was successfully adopted last month and by all accounts is well on his way to domestic bliss. He's lost 8 of the necessary 15 or so pounds that he has to lose to shake his "piglet" moniker, and we wish him well. Jimmy, the newcomer, is a beagle who was on Death Row, and at death's door; he'd been hit by a car and apparently abandoned and was a mess: a broken pelvis (I wasn't sure dogs had pelvises), a broken leg, and various nicks and scrapes.

Happily, Jimmy doesn't really understand that he's supposed to be incapacitated; he's the happiest and most affectionate 'lil guy imaginable, and when walking him it's like being with OJ, relentlessly looking for the Real Killer. He's beagle through and through, and when he's back on his feet (all four) again, it'll be tough to let him go. Peg, bless her heart, has the patience of a saint...and it is these hapless creatures who are blessed. It's reassuring to know that if I ever get hit by the car, I'll already be here.

School's going well; we continue to fathom the depths of great literature while endeavouring to create some of our own, brushing up on that pesky grammar and vocabulary along the way. My 6th grade football team takes an unblemished (2-0) record into its third game tomorrow. The last contest was a 50-38 slugfest where both teams gained a combined (estimated) 2.5 miles of offense, prompting the refs to call time-outs just to catch their breaths.

This past weekend was poignant in that I wrote my first Dartmouth letter of recommendation for a student I taught in my first year. Heavy, huh? He's National Honor Society, plays a piano like Mozart, and last year played (left handed!) defense for the #1 high school lacrosse team in the country...a real triple threat. Sadly, to paraphrase the Kinks, college admissions today "is a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world," and there are no guarantees. My letter is like the proverbial quarter and a cup of coffee, but we can hope.

I suppose I've finally landed from the high of the row. It lasted a long time; in fact, I received a final $45 check on saturday while at "Family Day" at school...a nice capstone to your own over-the-top contributions. But, truth be told, I earned it. I'd volunteered to be a "target" in a pie-throwing booth, and the eighth graders lined up ten deep to take their shots. Might it have had something to do with the test I gave them on Friday? Anyway, Jimmy (yes, like the beagle, and with a similar devil-may-care attitude) scored a direct hit with a Cool Whip missile; I've never before had every cranial cavity filled to overflowing with Kool Whip, and I don't recommend it. After the stars subsided, I kept hearing Fifth Dimension songs through a paisley haze. Just...weird.

I hope this blogette finds you well, Gentle Reader. As I drive the boat north, I'll be thinking of you-

xxoo

Mr. Frei

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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!