Varnishing and vanishing...for now.

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

I’ve been varnishing the boat of late…getting the wood back into shape after too many years and miles of neglect. I’m not particularly handy, and yet this work has been uniquely satisfying: sanding lightly with the 150 grit…tack-clothing…sanding again with the finer 220 grit…tack clothing…applying a coat of spar varnish…cleaning up the spills and spatters….and then repeating the process after drying (four times). Sounds tedious, right? I, too, thought that it would be, but it’s gratifying to see some great wood saved, and it’s humbling to see how even my most fastidious effort pales in comparison to the original great work of the folks at Adirondack Guideboat.

As a teacher I have come to learn that the best learning is both hands-on and inviting of error, right? With this in mind, let me tell you about my first-ever attempt at varnishing.

I started at the stern, thinking I would hazard a small “test patch” to see if I should try my hand at the rest of the woodwork on the boat. I sanded the short stern deck and about two feet of gunwale on both sides. I did this with great trepidation. I’ve never vandalized another’s work before, and in fooling with the even-now imperfect original finish of my boat, I felt I was messing with a religious artifact.

I sanded carefully. I tack-clothed. I sanded again, delicately. More tack-cloth. Then, I varnished.
Voila! Yowee-Zowee! Woah! Lookin’ good! Oh, yes, I can do this!

Emboldened by this promising result and fueled by the impetuosity of youth and inexperience, I kept going, sanding and tack- clothing all the way to the bow. Head down, singularly focused on the wood in front of me, I labored with the intensity of an old-world craftsman (or a wanna-be Adirondack Guideboat boatbuilder), even enjoying the attention of street passers-by as they beheld what, to the layperson, seemed to be artisan at his craft. “Wow, he’s varnishing a boat!” I could hear them thinking. “How do you learn to do that? I wish I knew how to do that! That’s not a skill…it’s a gift from God.”

Of course, Gentle Readers who are experienced woodworkers like you, Brian, will immediately recognize my error just as I did when I finally stood up to wipe my brow and behold the wonder of my work. Oh, fecal matter! Each and every dust particle I had loosed from the wood during Phase Two now clung desperately to the fresh varnish of the test patch. (Yes, Brian, a suspended “dust” particle takes on the size of a marble when it hits fresh varnish.) If you had complexion problems as a kid or knew a kid who did, you can immediately picture the texture of the varnish I had applied. The formerly smooth, gleaming, seamless deck was now a picture-perfect non-skid surface, each embedded granule mocking me. “Why did you do that?” I heard them say as one. “Only an idiot would do that! That’s not a varnish job…it’s a testament to your childish impatience!”

Lesson learned, of course: Sand it all, then varnish.

I hit “reset” and started it all again the next day, and while I’m not finished, I remain hopeful. But I’m not about to submit my application to Adirondack Guide Boat anytime soon. Nor should they read it if I change my mind.

Gentle Reader, this is indeed the last blog. Kathy tells me she might put all this in booklet form as she did for “The Big Row”, complete with some unpublished photos. Let me know if you’re interested. I thought her earlier inclusion of the Roy Orbison piece was especially poignant and hope that there’s a possibility that, when the last page is turned, a Hallmark-esque Roy might cap the hard-copy reading experience. It would be hokey, but sweet.

Thanks once again to the donors, to Kathy for her wonderful stewardship of the blog, to you who encourage me and, of course, to Peg. I am one lucky fellah.
Varnishing…and now vanishing…for now.

Big Hugs, Big Ups,

Mr. Frei

Bonus Blogette

Kung Fu Kayaking

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

I write this from the wilds of New Hampshire, where we have been lakeside at a friend's charming, secluded house since Thursday. Two books and a few glasses of saucy Merlot later, we head home tomorrow.

Yesterday I explored an extraordinary creek - a smallish river, really - in a borrowed kayak. I could tell you about the hellish mosquitoes that pursued me - so large they carried facial expressions - but I won't. I could describe the beaver dam I had to crest, guarded by burly toothed rodents not at all pleased at the intrusion...but not now. (In any event, such description would pale next to a narration of my narrow escape from the animated swamp grasses which tugged at boat and paddle, threatening to enrobe and cocoon me as a marshland captive.) Or, I could paint the image of the moose that loomed out of the swamp grass, casting its shadow over the kayak and grunting in anticipation of its charge...but maybe this, too, is a story for later.

No, Gentle Reader, tonight I simply write to say thank you for the encouragement to lay down another blog entry or two, and I promise you that I will properly do so when we return home tomorrow.

For now, suffice to say that we're low B's on Southwest, assuring Peg and I seats together and pig-out space on the overheads. Life is good.

Thanks for the feedback. I'll come up with something.

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

PS The beaver dam and moose were real. The rest is kind of a blur.

Is it over?

Greetings, Gentle Reader,


Well, unless there’s a public clamor for additional blog entries- highly unlikely, but still possible - this will be it. The row is over, the recounting of the highlights is in my wake, and unless I were to peel back the onion skin on some of the cheesier personal reflections, it’s pretty much time to move on, nes pah?


Together, we’ve raised a bit of money for financial aid on this adventure (about $1100 at last count…bringing us to $27,000 over the last four years), and I am extraordinarily appreciative to those of you who have opened your checkbooks yet again during these trying times. The boys and families on the receiving end of your largesse sorely need this assistance, and their commitment to education deserves support. Thank you for providing it. And even though this is likely to be the last blog entry about “Mr. Frei Rows to Washington,” operators are still sanding by! You can send a check to The Boys’ Latin School, 822 West Lake Avenue, Baltimore, MD, 21210 ; happily, most envelopes accommodate checks (payable to The Boys’ Latin School) without incurring additional postal fees. And ink is light; lots of digits on those checks do not add appreciably to the weight, either. Hooray!


“So…what’s next, Mr. Frei?” you might wonder. “Any more rowing…any more Big Rows in the future?”


I’ll be rowing a lot on my home waters in a few weeks; my family and friends congregate at Lake George in the Adirondacks each summer. I like nothing better than rising very early, rowing on pre-dawn glass for two miles to my friend Brian’s house for a cup of good coffee and a perfectly toasted Freihofer’s Corn Toastie, and then continuing north until winds or aging muscles – such as they are – tell me it’s time to head home. Brian, who himself owns an exquisite cedar Adirondack Guideboat and knows how to row it, usually accompanies me. The image of Brain at the oars cutting an elegant swath through perfect waters is a picture that stays with me through the year…and one that I very much look forward to reliving each summer. He often brings his lovely wife Cecile and their hapless designer dog, Charlie, making the image all-the-more lovely. When Peg is along, it’s picture-perfect.


Of course, the real question is, “What’s the next “Big” row?” While I expect that I’ll row a hundred miles (or two) over the course of these halcyon morning outings in the Adirondacks, I’m already contemplating where next summer’s journey might take me.


Canada, for instance. There’s a lot to explore up there, and I suspect that the hospitality (and food) would be excellent, eh?


Kathy and Jane have some Michigan charts for me to ponder. Huh? Michigan? Why not?


The “Little Loop” beckons as well. From Troy, NY, one heads west on the Erie Canal and then, after Syracuse, up to Oswego and Lake Erie. Rowing north, well after Buffalo, the hearty rower then races down the St. Lawrence Seaway to Montreal, then right (south) down to (and through) the length of Lake Champlain, the Champlain Canal starting at Whitehall and, finally, back to Troy. There’s nothing “little” about this circle; I’m bushed just describing it. Maybe I ought to do it before I get much older? Maybe I’d need a longer summer vacation?


My Loomis 40th Reunion took place in June, reminding me yet again of my affection for a great school and my extraordinary classmates. Loomis is located in Connecticut, on the scenic Farmington River flowing into the Connecticut River. I wonder if I’ll be ready to row to (or from?) my 50th Reunion in 2019, when I’m 67? I’d better keep rowing. No “just rolling into the boat” in ten years.


How about a circumnavigation of the DelMarVa Peninsula? Check it out on a map. This, too, would be a biggie but would permit me to again start from home (and finish here, too). Unfortunately, the upper reaches of the DelMarVa present a good deal of Atlantic coast to gamble with…and Gentle Readers of good memory will recall my tepid-at-best feelings about the mighty (“frigging”) Delaware (see “The Longest Day” from “The Big Row” blog…or book). But, hey, if this was easy, everybody would be doing it, right?


Of course, friend Brian himself has offered up the specter of “The Ultimate Big Row”: start at Duluth, the westernmost point on the Great Lakes, and row home. Retire, Brian, and I’m in if we do this together. Would you expose that perfect cedar boat of yours to the rigors of the expedition? Maybe more accurately, would I permit you to do so? My rough calculations suggest that we’d have to throw the boats in the water at the moment the ice is clear in Duluth and row like mad all summer and fall to beat the season. I also think it’s likely that Peg and Cecile might have strong opinions on this option.


Or, perhaps you have some thoughts? I’m open to suggestions….


Well, thanks for reading, Gentle Reader. Maybe there’s another blog comin’, but this may well be it. Let me know, OK?


Thanks for being in the boat with me! And remember…822 West Lake Avenue. Ink is light.

Latah!

Mr. Frei

What was I thinking

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Many might wonder, “Mr. Frei, what do you think about during a trip like this? I mean, sixty hours in the same seat over eight days gives you a lot of time to…you know… kinda’ mull things over. Wanna share?”

Ah, Gentle Reader, a great question, and a natural one. My skull has at various times been described as “thick” or “empty,” to be sure, but sometimes the neurons are clicking, and your thoughtful question gives me a chance to think about what I was thinking. Let’s see. What was I thinking? Other than rowing, how did I pass the time?

Most of the time I was content to listen to the water and wind, watch the birds, waves, and shoreline receding behind me (however slowly), monitor my own breathing (however labored), and just let my mind wander. It’s astounding how ambient sound on the water can serve as a kind of cerebral anesthesia; at one minute one can be deeply in thought about a relationship, the past, the future, or a book, and then just…drift. For example, I mused that Subway’s Five Dollar Foot-Long would, if offered by the mile, cost $26,400. When you row a mile against the prevailing winds and currents, Gentle Reader, you might consider this to be a pretty good deal. And let me save you a trip to the calculator: The Five Dollar Foot Long, extended over the length of my trip, would run you $6,336,000.00. Now it’s sounding a little pricy, nes pah? “Please put some extra cheese on that” could have budget-busting implications.

I did bring a transistor radio - the same cheesy unit that accompanied me on the Erie Canal - but its tinny sound precluded listening to music. It also eats heavy “C” batteries like popcorn, so I listened primarily to Public Radio, relying on their early drive-time news and late commentaries to keep me abreast of last week’s demise of Michael Jackson, Ed McMahon, and Farrah Fawcett (every teen’s favorite Angel, except, of course, for Jacquelyn Smith). I missed a newspaper.

The conspicuous presence of military facilities over the course of my row prompted me to think a lot about military history and, more expansively, public policy. The Naval Academy, Pax River, Quantico, the Dahlgren Range…and earlier trips past West Point and the miles of shoreline restricted by the Aberdeen Proving Grounds on the Upper Chesapeake demonstrate the enormous expanses of land and influence these sites have on their surrounding communities. I reminded myself to check to see if there is by chance a navigable tributary past the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, thinking it would be fun to chalk up a trifecta of rowing past each of our service academies. Alas, there’s not.

I thought a lot about friends…family…my students…and even though I‘m not an especially spiritual person (except for a few moments under the tent/lightening rod at Quantico), the meaning of it all. I frequently marveled at my good fortune in being able to do exactly what I was doing at that moment, recognizing that my health and freedom and the quality of my relationships were the relief against which all of this was taking place…and enabled it to take place. Maybe it takes a big sky and a big ocean to slow down to appreciate that my moments – truly, most of our present moments –are moments of happiness, security, and tranquility that have been experienced by so very few in the pantheon of human history. I had just finished reading A Long Way Gone; Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah, a sobering first-person account of his experiences as both a refugee and, later, as a combatant in Sierra Leone’s civil war. It’s a raw read, not eloquent, but the window it offers to the straits of others is unforgettable, and its eloquence in putting the blessings of my own life in perspective– and those of my students, who are contemporaries of Beah - is moving indeed. Some books are well-timed for the occasion.

The idea of sustainability probably occupied my mind as much as anything else, an idea that teased me on many levels. Of course, there was the tangible evidence of a troubled environment around me (see the “Plastics” entry). I rowed past mile after mile of Mc Mansions sporting perfect (highly fertilized) lawns and artificially reconfigured shorelines…and would rarely see a person in sight. Literally hundreds of miles of fish and crab pots – thousands upon thousands of them – convinced me that were I an aquatic creature anywhere along my route, I could only hope to have time to procreate before meeting my fate on a plate or in a fryer. One need only read John Smith’s observations of these same waters – the thriving populations of fish, shellfish, and shoreline flora and fauna – to ask, “When is it over?” I often found myself wishing I could have been born in an earlier time to see these wonders only to recognize that had I been so, I – like people of an earlier era – could never have contemplated man’s mastery and depletion of his environment. Today, of course, our leading scientists are telling us what is coming - that unless we act soon and decisively, even these will be the good old days - yet our creature comforts, conveniences, and amusements are now our societal necessities, and public policy will lag behind the window of opportunity. I’ll just tell you that from the vantage point of a 15’ Adirondack Guideboat, the jury is still out, and it doesn’t look good.

Yeah, the sustainability issue was on my mind a lot…and they were not my happiest thoughts. Sorry to bring you down.

I very often wondered why I didn’t see others plying the waters in simple boats. Sure, not everyone enjoys my schedule; time in the summer is certainly at the heart of a teacher’s compensation system, and I suspect more than a few people would trade their cubicles, offices, or trucks to be out on the water. Yet other than a couple of folks out in rental kayaks, I passed not one kindred paddle man (or woman): jet skis, cruisers, and workboats galore…but no one proceeding under their own power. Steve and David up at Adirondack Guideboat preach the gospel all the time, and periodicals such as “Messing Around in Boats” and “The Small Craft Advisor” are filled with inspirational stories of those who strike out without the aid of fossil fuels. Folks, a child could do this…and the best part is, it brings out the kid in me. It would in you, too.
I just wish I had more company out there. But not too much, if you get my drift. Just you. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you.

So there you have it, Gentle Reader, the musings of a wannabe adventurer. Let me tell you, being off the grid for an extended time is a very healthy thing. The blather of Fox News and proselytizing of pundits – the inadequate, superficial sound bites, the obfuscation of fact for opinion – crowd out progressive dialogue and even, I think, meaningful internal monologues.

Each year I teach a short course to my 8th graders on what it means to be a discriminating consumer of media; getting away on an adventure like this teaches me how important it is that I practice what I teach.

Friends, family, the environment, our culture. Wind, waves, blisters, and fluids. I ask you, isn’t that enough fodder for eight days of quiet time?

Latah!

Mr. Frei

The kindness of strangers

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

“The row is over, Mr. Frei. Why do you keep writing? And how much more can there be to say?”
I have maybe two or three blogs left in the experiential kitty, so be patient. I write these entries as much for myself and posterity as for you, but the fact that a few of you are still reading certainly provides motivation…and compels me to keep the bar high. It is high, nes pah?

How about a tip of the floppy hat to my hosts along the way? Night #1 at Herring Bay took place at the end of my most productive single day: 47 miles. I camped on their floating dock for free, received access to their facilities, and this act of kindness was followed on Night # 2 at the Solomon Island Marina. The second night was a real “low” in that I was really feeling the effects of not having trained for this row. My hands were exceedingly tender as was, I publicly confess, my derriere, which sprouted bad blisters for the first time in almost a thousand miles of rowing. (Had I changed my technique? Is my silhouette changing? Do fish get thirsty?) As I hit the hay (on my tummy) that night, I seriously doubted that I could continue on Tuesday; the prospect of calling Peg for the rescue truck saddened me greatly, and I truly felt I had bitten off a little too much in just climbing into the boat on Sunday.

But there’s got to be a morning after, as they say, and I gingerly climbed into the boat on Wednesday AM to test my limits. Alas, by mile three I was back in a groove, making good time, and felt relieved that, for now, I did not have to throw in the Absorbine Junior soaked towel. The night at Solomons was a watershed moment….and I’m glad I persevered. On Wednesday I took to wrapping my hands in a light cloth soaked in salt water to stem the pain and abrasion, and doing so bought me some time until the blisters hardened to calluses. Something about salt water hurts…and helps.

Solomons Island was noteworthy for another reason. As an aviation buff, I was treated to a virtual airshow of military aircraft buzzing in and out of the Pax River Naval Air Station. C-130’s, P-3’s, T-38’s, F-18’s…and a few oddballs that I (delightfully) couldn’t identify were in my line of sight for many miles. Solomons Island is by no means a tranquil place because of all this kerosene-burning activity, but if you equate the roar of a Pratt & Whitney or GE turbofan to the sound of freedom, then it’s a serenade.

Lookout Point Marina, 33 miles later, hosted me on Night #3. They levied a $30 fee for a 15 foot rowboat (ouch) and placed me half a mile away in a park…but I was able to swim in a pool next to the tent, an unexpected - and very curative - treat. If young (5th grade) Alex and his dad had known who (or what) was sharing the lightly chlorinated water with them, they might have stayed poolside. As it was, I enjoyed their company. They live aboard their 38’ boat at the marina; Alex is on his way to either major league baseball or authorship (perfect!), and dad builds houses. Needless to say, Alex’s “house” is a popular sleepover destination for his buds.

Night #4 was taken at the McCarty’s winter residence, right off the Potomac. I was ready for a shower, a soft bed, and adult company. Thanks to the McCarty’s for opening their home to me…and to Peg for joining me and adding provisions to my dwindling stores.

Night #5, at Aqua Land Marina, was my most expensive and least comfortable night: $30 to park the boat and $15 more to camp out one mile away (at a site also owned by the Aqua Land Monolith). Ouch. (Editorial Aside: I bet the Europeans do this a lot better than we do; clearly, “we” are ready to accommodate the 40’ cruiser that will take on 200 gallons of fuel, but the lone voyager in a rowboat presents a conundrum to the typical marina. Many marinas tout themselves as “green” facilities, but when a truly “green” client arrives in a rowboat, heads get scratched and, in too many cases, the cash register must ring as if I were 30’ long and looking to hook up to power, the internet, and cable TV.)

Night #6 was my stormy night at Quantico – already documented in “Quandary in Quantico”– and again I say to my Marine hosts, thank you!

Night #7, spent at the Ft. Washington Marina, was an unexpected delight. At sunset, as I rowed in and scoped out possible sites, a delightful gal with a camera ran out of her houseboat and asked me to “row past one more time” because “the light was perfect.” I reluctantly complied – I was really bushed and now regret that my boyish enthusiasm didn’t immediately match her girlish excitement – but a wonderful conversation ensued and, before I knew it, Mary gave me the key code to the gate at the dock (establishing me as her “guest” and ensuring a safe dock on which to camp) and Peg, Conk, and I were able to treat Mary and her friend Phillip to dinner at the marina restaurant. It was a wonderful evening, again confirming for me that the real treat of these adventures is at least as much about the people you meet as about the rowing itself. Mary is a fascinating lady – her stories kept us up well into the evening, past closing time – and young Phillip, a Brit, is studying for the bar exam with a specialization in intellectual property rights. As you might imagine, I was relegated to the occasional “Pass the butter, please?” It was perfect.
Night #8, of course, was spent back home in Baltimore. I couldn’t help but marvel that my 240 mile, eight-day row to Washington was capped by a 55 minute drive home (it was Sunday afternoon, and traffic was light!).

Mary of Ft. Washington Marina

Much of the pleasure and excitement of these trips lies in the uncertainty of “what will happen next.” I can never be certain where I will spend the night; on this adventure, the McCarty residence was the only planned destination both because of their kindness and the certain and convenient respite their house represented. But winds, currents, and my own physical capacities are what determine the productivity of any given day, accounting for the range of distances covered on this trip: a “low” of 20 miles in six hours to the “high” of 47 miles in 11 hours. I spent 60 hours, 30 minutes at the oars over the eight days of the trip, and no two days were alike.


Folks who ask me about these adventures are often surprised at the notion that I don’t know where I will end up on any given day, and they equate this uncertainty to risk. While there may be some risk, it’s the nature of the risk and the discovery of one’s limits - and others’ hospitality- that makes this kind of adventure so much fun.


Off the grid…out of the loop…in the world. Was I born too late?


More latah? Almost done….


Mr. Frei

Plastics

Greetings, Reader,

A bit about the environment, if I may?

Covering 240 miles in eight days affords one the opportunity of close observation of one’s surroundings, and in that this row enabled me to crest the magic “1,000 mile” mark in my sojourns over the last four years, I think I now have some experiential perspective for my observations.

In ’06, for example, I was delighted at the apparent quality of the Hudson River and its shores. It is turbid as most moving bodies of water are, but I saw very, very little solid debris in the water or adorning the shores. I even got a lecture from a kid in Peeekskill “not to throw that bottle into our river,” a harangue I gratefully accepted and took to be a promising sign of the next generation’s stewardship of that body of water.Even the Jersey Shore looked good in ‘06; the inland waterway was pretty clear of trash and accrued plastics, perhaps because so many people call it home and have no appetite for living among their throw-aways.

I wish I could report the same about the Potomac.

Over the last three days of my row I hugged the Maryland side, primarily to stay out of a mean crosswind. By and large - perhaps because of lower, swampier terrain, perhaps because of economics or land access- it seems that the Maryland side is much less developed than the Virginia shore. This being said, I was appalled at the state of vast undeveloped stretches I paddled along; for mile after mile, as I gazed at the shore not ten feet away, I could not take more than two strokes without seeing evidence of our throw-away society: plastic bottles, tops, cans, bags, foil wrappers, cups, tires, wading pools, and shoes. Walk any aisle of a supermarket and you’ll see what I saw…stuff that will outlive us all and sully the environment for decades. At times, perhaps because of prevailing currents and wave action, the debris was piled up so thickly on the shore that the environment itself was out of view. This stuff is there forever, and as it slowly degrades it will simply take another form and integrate itself into the food chain. If that rockfish seems a tad oily or granular, it’s probably not something that the chef added.

These miles of trash were a depressing sight indeed and had I been empowered to make a single public policy decree upon my arrival in Washington, it would be, “No more plastic! Enough! We’re done! Find another way! Refill a glass bottle with tap water, carry your own cloth bag to the supermarket, and buy unprocessed, fresh foods! “Lunchables” may be a cute and convenient idea, but the thinking behind it has profound implications for our great grandkids. Find another way! ”

“Plastics.” It was the advice of promise in “The Graduate”. Today, it’s a disgraceful legacy.

As I rowed the lower stretches of the Potomac I surmised that unlike the Hudson, the major population centers of this river are located well upstream: DC, Alexandria, Georgetown, Fairfax…millions of people live right at the headwaters of the main body of the river, and the 110 miles of shoreline below them bear tragic evidence of their (our) consumptive ways. The detritus is out of sight and the shoreline below the population centers seems to act as a kind of plastic-attracting Velcro, capturing some (but certainly not all) of what reaches the water. My hat is off to Pete Seeger and the host of environmental organizations that have made such a difference on the Hudson. I wonder if there is such an initiative – or even outrage and sense of urgency – regarding the Potomac?

One Chesapeake creature which seems to be thriving is the ray. I don’t know what kind of ray I met, but I met hundreds…maybe thousands…of them. At one point on Day Two, while rowing in very shallow water, I became enmeshed in a “school” (flock? pack? pod? Who knows?) so thick that I had to stop rowing for fear of hitting them on their little heads with my oars, they were flapping their “wings” in excitement, bumping into the hull…this “ray stew” was both thrilling and a little unnerving. I and they drifted as a unit for a while, and then they flapped off to the stern and I was free. Cool little fellows…on their way to be big fellows? I’ll have to read up.

One other "all-natural" natural highlight was an apparently thriving osprey population. These magnificent birds build impressive nests of substantial sticks on top of virtually any remote, isolated horizontal surface; navigational signs and dead shoreline trees are their favorites. They’d be frantic at my approach, leaving the nest, cawing wildly, and swooping at me with talons outstretched to warn me off. At one point I duct-taped my floppy hat to my head thinking that if they grabbed it, I‘d have to stop and look for a replacement (a floppy hat in the blazing sun is a “mission critical” piece of equipment). Yet I soon had a recurring image of one of these burly birds snagging not just the hat but ripping off the head taped to it as well…and I parked the duct tape gambit. I saw five ot so Bald Eagles, but they were always at rest. Waiting. Watching. Our national bird.

So, kids, ditch the plastic. We adults haven’t, and it’s going to cost you dearly. Sad, but oh-so true.

Latah!

Mr. Frei

Quandary at Quantico

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

It’s been 48 hours since I came off the river, and this morning I felt the effects of the journey for the first time.

Yesterday, my first full day at home, seemed so…so…so very normal. Up early, I attacked the chores that face a sailor newly returned from the sea: sorting through stuff, running a laundry, rinsing and refreshing all boat mechanicals that had been “salted,” washing and waxing the boat itself, picking up varnish and sandpaper to attend to repairs, sorting through a week of snail mail and e-mail, yadda, yadda, yadda. I even washed and waxed the Mini. (To be sure, waxing a Mini is an intuitively light endeavor, but I add this small detail to convey the idea that yesterday I had lots of energy.)

But this morning I didn’t stir until 11 AM, and I’ve been sleepwalking ever since. I’ve knocked off some more mail and correspondence and a bit of reading, but I feel leaden and sleepy and will welcome an early bed time. It occurs to me that while I keep track of certain numbers and trends during the row, I am not especially attentive to (or even conscious of) how much sleep I get. Throughout each day on the water I’m in a state of quiet but constant calculus: assessing trends in my speed over the ground, navigating to optimize winds and currents, calculating times to next checkpoints, weighing my consumption of liquids against the distance to the next secure supply, and so on. But sleep comes at the end of all other imperatives, and as I wonder why I didn’t roll out of bed until 11 this morning, I suspect that I was getting precious little sound sleep last week.

In fact, I could still be recovering from last Friday night’s Quandary in Quantico….the real topic of this entry.

Last Friday was a hot, humid day on the Potomac. My lil’ transistor radio kept promising “increasing clouds and possible thunderstorms,” and I found myself hoping desperately for the shade of the former while naively discounting the possibility of the latter. By two in the afternoon I was so sun baked – baked clear through, and quite behind the hydration curve – that I pulled off on a small creek, found a sandy spit in the shade, flopped down in the grass, and promptly fell asleep (passed out?).

I was awakened by distant hushed voices. I cleared my head, looked up, and saw an approaching pontoon boat filled with teenagers, armed with compound bows, staring intently in the water, fishing. They’d target a hapless aquatic creature, chant, “ready, aim,” and let loose a fusillade of arrows into the stream.

Call me squeamish, but a disquieting hybrid of “Deliverance” and “Lord of the Flies” came immediately to mind. I quietly gathered my stuff…and fled.

By early evening I came across Quantico, the Center of the Universe for our Marine Corps. No marina was noted on my chart, and I was delighted to discover that the Corps is possessed of quite a nice facility on the base. I pulled in and, after explaining myself as best I could, asked three young fellows if the Leathernecks would mind if I pitched a tent on their dock.

“Sir, before we have this conversation, I think you need a bag of ice and at least one cold beer.”
Those teens on the pontoon boat need to discover the Marines.

Anyway, we easily negotiated a “don’t ask, don’t tell” arrangement, and they pointed out a nearby floating dock where I might pitch my tent somewhat out of sight of the sentries.
“So, Mr. Frei,” you may now be asking, “where’s the “Quandary in Quantico”? Sounds like a sweet deal so far.”

Be patient. At 9:00 I was settled into my tent, transistor in hand, laying back to listen to an hour replay of Diane Rehm on public radio…. a nice end to a tough day. Heat lightening occasionally illuminated the interior of the tent, and while distant thunder suggested that the earlier weather reports might come true, I was ready for the rain and a solid night’s sleep.

At 9:05, it hit. Lightning strikes all around….blinding, explosive shafts of white so close that the thunder was simultaneous. My tent seemed the highest object around, and its supporting rods suddenly seemed like encapsulating lightening rods. The idea crossed my mind that when I got hit, as it seemed I inevitably would, at least I’d be evenly cooked.

This fear quickly passed as an estimated 50 knot wind flattened the tent, then lifted it and dragged me to the edge of the wildly bucking floating dock. Being dumped into roiling water in a fully zippered tent was the next concern and I unzipped the side, frantically reached out, and grasped the nearest boards with both hands to stop my slide to the edge. Then the hail started…marble-sized ice chunks…literally bruising my hands and wrists as I held on for dear life. The continuous lightening illuminated my boat flailing itself against the dock, and I was concerned that it would take a possibly fatal beating. The wind-whipped waves rose to the point where I was often looking UP at the boat as waves crashed over the dock and into my now-collapsed tent.

It was bad, Gentle Reader. Real bad. The aforementioned “Quandary” was whether to rescue the boat or stay inside my sodden tent, which would be immediately swept away without the weight of my body and my claw-like grip on the dock.

I elected to stay low, out of Zeus’s line of fire, and assess the damage later. The lightening was, in a word, terrifying.

This madness lasted one full hour. I missed Diane Rehm show.

As the lightening receded and wind abated, I emerged. The waterfront of the base was a shambles; kayaks, trash bins, signs, branches, dinghies, crackling, flopping electrical lines…any and everything not tied down was strewn everywhere. My boat was 2/3 filled with water, and the gear in it was drenched. I swept the hail from the decking of the dock (snow shoveling on the Potomac in June!) and spent the next hour or so bailing (boat and tent) and taking stock of my stuff… and my good fortune.

I was off at 5:50 AM; while I owe the Marines my gratitude for their hospitality and could have demonstrated it by sticking around to help with a gargantuan clean-up effort, I thought our “don’t ask, don’t tell” arrangement gave me a chit to simply depart quietly. In retrospect I wish I’d stayed to help out, but then this blog might now be completed from the brig (which, I am certain, is adorned with a proper lightening rod).

They say that storms come up quickly on the Chesapeake and now, I do, too.

And, to the Marines: I owe ‘ya. Semper Fi!

From Couch Potato to Baked Potato

Full of energy after 7 full days of rowing!

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

My students will tell you that I’m a bit of a stickler for employing verb tenses which are appropriate to a given sequence of events, and this evening I’m happy to employ the past perfect as I report that Mr. Frei HAS rowed to Washington.

Al pulls in to the Gangplank Marina.

This blog entry is all that stands in the way of my first truly comfortable night’s sleep in eight days, so forgive me if this is short. I plan to chronicle the highlights over the next few days, but suffice to say that the journey took eight days and covered 240 miles on the nub; a calculus of seat time yields an average over-the-ground speed of 3.8 mph- not bad, I think, considering the paucity of training and the presence of a relentless headwind for the full length of the Potomac.
I couldn’t get into the Tidal Basin this afternoon, but the vistas in Washington were nonetheless awe-inspiring. As always I’m grateful to Peg, Kathy, David and Michele, and Tyler and Elizabeth for their wonderful reception and help in hucking the boat and my skanky gear to the truck.

Al next to the Sequoia (former Presidential yacht).

Let me end this evening’s short entry with a fund raising story. This morning, as I passed Alexandria’s Old Town, I recalled that there was a Starbuck’s located one short block from the pier. I peeled in, simian-flopped into and out of Starbuck’s for an iced mocha (heaven…and alarmed patrons!), and as I climbed back into the boat, two strangers approached and me asked what I was up to. One short story later, Michael gave me the last $4 in his pocket and Elaine fished a ten spot from her bag and wished me well.

Gentle Readers, I offer this quick tale not so much to tug on your own checkbook as to simply say that this example of unconditional kindness is what makes this kind of adventure much, much more than a journey. In the coming days you’ll read a bit about big waves, strong currents, a particular storm of biblical proportions, beautiful scenery and wildlife, etc etc etc…but mostly you’ll hear about generous, trusting, helpful people. There is perhaps no better way to take a thermometer test of the state of contemporary culture than to find yourself in a state of need; a core sample of populace along 240 miles of waterway may not be a valid, accurate test of our national care for one another…but if it’s even close, we’re in good shape.
Gotta say good night.

Tyler and Elizabeth made it in time to help .

More soon. Must…sleep….

Hugs,
Mr. Frei

Day 7 - June 27 - Video Entertainment in VA

Hello,

We met up with Mr. Frei in a little park on Mason Neck called Hallowing Point, and he was kind enough to do a little video for those of you who are interested in how he is holding up after so many miles of rowing. I guarantee that you will find this entertaining!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oN95g98ReeU

If you would like to see him arrive in DC tomorrow, please show up at the Gangplank Marina on Maine, Ave SW at 10:30. We are expecting him to arrive around 11 AM.

http://www.gangplank.com/

600 Water St SW Washington, DC 20024-2471 - (202) 554-5000

Plug this address into your GPS or go to http://www.mapquest.com/ for turn by turn directions

Hope to see you there!

I will post some photos later.

Day 6 - June 26, 2009 - Aqua Land to Quantico

Today was a tough one for Mr. Frei.

Baking in the sun and fighting the tides on the Potomac. However, he manage to make it 28 miles, all the way to Quantico. He was waiting until dark to pitch his tent, just in case they didn't want him on the Marine base.

We plan to meet him tomorrow at Mason Neck State Park with an egg salad sandwich and some cold drinks!

Looks like it will be midday on Sunday when he arrives in DC. Closer approximation tomorrow.

Day 5 - June 25 - Part II - to Aqua Land

Mr. Frei went from Colonial Beach, VA to Aqua Land, MD last evening. He was charged for his boat and camping, but had a good night's sleep.

He was off again at 8:30 this morning.

More later tonight!

Day 5 - June 25 - Glebe Harbor to Colonial Beach

Well, Mr. Frei decided to head out again this morning, after considering staying another day at the McCarty's place (see blog earlier today). He went 23 miles up the Potomac to Colonial Beach.

Below the map are some photos taken by Glen at Glebe Harbor. Thanks to both Glen and Wayne for their hospitality!

June 25 - Machodoc Creek, just off the Potomac

Leaving Glebe Harbor - 8:30 June 25th

Greetings, Gentle Reader,Dateline: 0720 hours, the McCarty Winter Residence on the Machodoc Creek, just off the Potomac.

Here’s the dilemma: Do I take a day off today, sitting as I am this morning on the McCarty deck, looking out on a placid creek which feeds into the Potomac? I could read a trashy novel, write a longer blog, give my hands and derriere a much-needed respite, take three showers, overfill my water glass with ice whenever I damn well felt like it, take a long afternoon nap, have access to a proper toilet, and – the best part of all- enjoy the pleasure of Peg’s company for the next 24 hours. (Yes, she drove down from Baltimore yesterday afternoon with a bucket of Bruce Lee Wings and a Big Hug. And yes, if you must know, I took the Big Hug before the first Wing.)

Or, Gentle Reader….do I get back in the boat by 9 and head up the river towards DC, about 90 miles away, with the ambition to finish this journey by Sunday night, dispensing with the pleasures and comforts listed above?

What to do, what to do….

Peg feels an admirable obligation to get back to Charm City to aid in the recovery of the real estate market…and I’m mindful that if she is going to collect me in DC at the end of this thing, Sunday would be the day to do it. So…I think it’s back in the boat in an hour or so…back at it.

I plan to recount my adventures in more detail at the end of this journey….for my own cathartic closure, if not to your amusement…but I will say this: the Chesapeake is enormous. Maybe the scale seems exaggerated to me because last summer’s journey took place on the Erie Canal; I was never more than 50 feet from shore, traversed through 34 or so locks, chatted it up with people at every turn, and felt very connected to my surroundings.

On the other hand, the Bay is immense…oceanic from the vantage point of six inches of freeboard…and other than Santiago-like conversations with the birds and the fish (and the rays….lots and lots of little rays…I’ve literally had to row my way (gently) through thick pods (schools) of them), this has been very much a “solo” trip. The scale is breathtaking…even a bit unnerving…and I can sometimes see navigational checkpoints five or more hours before I arrive at them. Over the last four days I’ve covered 136 miles (47, 37, 32, 20) in 34 hours of “seat time” (11,9,8,6)…and my hands and butt are feeling the lack of training. All other systems are checking in A-OK this morning, so I will head north.

Dahlgren Gunnery Range

So…I’ve got to collect my laundry from the dryer, pack the boat with stuff and tend to my paws, and push off. I hope to navigate through the Dahlgren gunnery range this afternoon; for any of you wanting to have fun interpreting “the rules” of the range, have some fun with the recording of their Schedule of Tests at 877 845 5656. I may have to count on a Range Boat for an escort!

Peg promises to get this on the blog sometime soon; thanks to those of you who are with me in spirit and, for some, in wallet. Remember…the proceeds go to the boys at Boys’ Latin. You aren’t reading for free, are you? :-)

Conk, thanks as always for the stellar sitework; I wish I could get on it…I wonder if anyone is reading, or even commenting? Maybe that PayPal option is scaring folks off…?

Hoping to arrive at Roosevelt Island sometime on Sunday….

Hugs,Mr. Frei

Day 3 - June 24, 2009 - Point Lookout to Glebe Harbor

Mr. Frei rowed 20 miles into the wind today, all the way from Lookout Point Marina, on St. Mary's River to Glebe Harbor on the Northern Neck of Virginia. He is actually sleeping in a bed tonight. Photos courtesy of Glen at Glebe Harbor.

Day 3 - Part II - 6/23/09

Al rowed from Solomon's Island to the Point Lookout Marina on the St. Mary's River.

He hopes to make it to Peg's parents' house in Glebe Harbor (near Montross on the Northern Neck of Virginia) tomorrow.

Day 3 - Part I - 6/23/2009

Afternoon update - Mr. Frei passed Point Lookout, Maryland at 2:30 today. More later tonight!

Photos below taken by Peg McCarty on 6/21.


The Chesapeake Bay Bridge - yahoo!!

Casey Merbler watches for Mr. Frei at Sandy Point State Park.

Mr. Frei pushes past Sandy Point State Park.

Day 2 - 6/22/09

Mr. Frei did 37 miles heading south along the Chesapeake Bay today. He is happily ensconced on Solomon's Island, and hopefully has eaten a good meal at one of the nice restaurants there.


The video shows Mr. Frei taking off from the Baltimore Inner Harbor at 9:15 AM on 6/21/2009.

First Day finished at Herring Bay

Hello,

Al made it 45 miles on this first day of his row. The winds were out of the north for a part of the day, which really helped him, but they were coming from the west later in the day, which made it a little tougher going.

The highlight of the day was seeing a school of rays.

First Day of the Row - June 21, 2009

Mr Frei left the Rusty Scupper at 9:15 AM with a few loyal fans there to cheer him on his way.

We then went to Ft. McHenry, and we barely beat him there.

Three cars worth drove down to Sandy Point State Park, but by the time he reached there at 1:30 PM, only Peg and Casey remained. The last I heard he was taking a rest there, and hoped to get past Annapolis tonight.

First photo was taken at Ft. McHenry, and the second at the start. The map shows his route up until 1:30. He was moving at more than 5 knots/hour.

Hope to have more information for you later tonight!

The night before the row begins!

Greetings, Gentle Reader June 20, 2009

It’s stopped raining. The sky is clear, the winds are calm. In eleven hours I push off from the dock.
My training today? Picking up a life jacket at West Marine…in the pouring rain. There seemed something prophetic about the act, but tonight’s skies promise pretty good weather tomorrow. But I’ve written enough about the weather, haven’t I?

Let me write a bit about Peg. She has watched patiently as I have piled provisions and equipment around the house, painted windows and peeled wallpaper as I have stared distantly into maps and charts, and is gracious and understanding beyond words as she lets me depart on this row-about. I know that it worries her a bit (the row, not my sloth around the house, which ought to be a cause of concern), and I am grateful beyond words to have her in my life. Peg, darlin’, thanks!!

Thanks, too, to Kathy, the Keeper of the Blog. Only Kathy can set up a site about a past-middle-age wannabe adventurer that would attract hapless readers from Brazil, Egypt, and beyond. Kathy, thanks for your help on this; I do better at the oars than in cyberspace.

Finally, thanks in advance of the row to the donors who have kept the fundraising gpong. The boys who receive the benefits of your generosity are enormously important to me, and I appreciate how so many of you see the seriousness of purpose in this otherwise lighthearted adventure.

So…ready or not, here I go. Thanks for tuning in, and you can count on Peg and Kathy to keep you posted in my absence.

Mr. Frei rows to Washington…starting tomorrow! I may have something to say about health care when I arrive, expect me to deliver my remarks from a standing position.

Hugs,
Mr. Frei

Three days until launch…

Greetings, Gentle Reader, June 18, 2009

Three days until launch…and I’m starting to feel a bit like Noah. The rain started last week, continued right through to torrential rains last night here in Baltimore, and culminated in a monsoon-like deluge while I trekked the aisles of Target this afternoon, provisioning for the row. The roof of the big box store thrummed under the impact of the rain; imagine what it will sound like on my floppy hat.

To be sure, the weather guessers predict a respite on Sunday and for the first few days of next week (if that is indeed what the whimsical Weather Channel icon of the bright little sun peeking over the dark, brooding cloud might mean), but for the purposes of my row, the damage is already done. All of this water will be hitting the mouth of the Potomac just as I make my turn up the river, 110 miles from my destination, and the image of rowing on a treadmill comes uneasily to mind.

It will be what it will be, Gentle Reader. Let it rain. Whatever.

“So, what did you buy at Target, Mr. Frei?” you might be asking inquisitively, wondering what an intrepid rower plans to place in his boat. Are you actually curious? Really? Well, here goes; take a peek into ‘lil Magellan’s storeroom:12 Cliff Bars (blueberry), 6 Kellogg Rice Krispie Bars, 4 packs of dried tuna, 4 packs of dried chicken, two bags of dried blueberries, one bag of dried bananas, two cans of Hungry Man Chili, two cans each of Chunky Sirloin Burger and Chunky Chicken soups, six bags of assorted beef and chicken jerky, four cans of Starbuck’s Double Shot coffee, two gallons of Gatorade, two gallons of water, various ointments, bandages, first aid tape, bug spray, sun goop, TP (sumputous six-ply; I‘ll be sitting a lot), vitamins, an allegedly rejuvenating protein powder, batteries, lube for the oarlocks, and, of course, duct tape, Gotta’ have duct tape. After all, something might go wrong.

While I expect to eat more than a few meals off the boat, by Day Three I’ll be shadowing quite a bit of sparsely-populated shoreline. Past experience has taught me that being caught short on provisions is a real bummer. Besides, all of the above does not account for very much weight (except for the liquids, the need for which is not debatable); my boat actually gains stability- and speed- if it rides a little lower in the water.

Of course, this list describes only the consumables. In addition to a small sea bag of dry clothing, I’ll be hucking my tent, a sleeping pad and bag, a mosquito net, a tarp, charts, flares, headlamps, a VHF radio, a nifty lightweight folding anchor (if I have to stop on the river, I don’t want to have to row in place), a sponge, a bailing jug, and a cheesy transistor radio for entertainment; I’ve learned that earpieces or headsets mask ambient sounds that you might want (or need) to hear…the approaching freighter’s horn, or the clang of a buoy…all of which, in a rowboat, are behind you.

BUT….one of the highlights of the last week was visiting the folks at Adirondack Guideboat on Monday. I urge any of you who pass by to stop at their shop in Vergennes, Vermont. Their enthusiasm for- and knowledge of - small boats is legend, and seeing Adirondack Guideboats in various stages of construction is fascinating. They had my oarlocks, oars, foot block, and rails refreshed in no time at all; sadly, they can’t work similar miracles with the propulsion unit. To Steve Kulback & Crew, I say thank you again: thanks for my beautiful boat and for your interest and encouragement in my adventures. To paraphrase my ’06 Big Row blog, if the parents of all those kids one sees mindlessly riding jet skis would buy an Adirondack Guideboat (for a lot mess money), toss in a gallon of water, some sandwiches, and a sleeping bag, and tell their kids to get lost for a couple of days, they’d be giving those kids the exquisite prospect of creative adventure, real fun, and an authentic experience of independence.

So mom, dad…get the kid a Guideboat. If he or she doesn’t use it, believe me, you will.
If I were doing any training for this row, I’d write about it here. So let’s move on, shan’t we?
There seems to be a bit of a groundswell of interest in seeing me off from the Rusty Scupper on Sunday. I’ll be tossing the boat in the water at 8, stocking and balancing it (a key preparatory activity) by 8:30, and pushing away at 9 after a few Big Gulps and Mochas. It’d be great to see you there; the ’Scupper does a mean breakfast in front of a great view of the Inner Harbor. Caution: if someone tosses a Sunday Times at me, departure might be delayed until 1.

Of course, Pay Pal and pledge opportunities persist. We’ve got a little momentum started, and you can add to The Big Mo at any time! Remember...100% of your contribution goes to the financial aid budget at Boys’ Latin School…to boys and families truly committed to education and expanded opportunities…and the need always outstrips the resource. Thanks, Gentle Reader, for anything you can do.

One more blog before I push off…then Peg and Kathy will provide periodic updates as I call in each night.

I know most of you will welcome a reprieve from my tortured prose. Who wouldn’t?

Hugs,
Mr. Frei

Only ten days to go!

Greetings, Gentle Reader, June 11, 2009

Another day of rain…and only ten days to go.

Another day of rain…and only ten days to go. Here’s what’s on my mind.

Throughout the Chesapeake watershed, the water gathers. From tiny puddles flowing into little streams, which themselves flow into the countless creeks and tributaries that feed the Potomac, the heavy rains of late are certainly having an impact on the volume and velocity of the river. I’ve been anticipating the upstream dash on the Potomac to be the most demanding segment of the row, and this rain will not make it any easier. I’m told that it takes a week or more for water in the highlands to make its way through the system to the Bay, so I’ll be attending to the Weather Channel from here on out with a keen eye. A bit of sun next week would be welcome. Another week of rain will see me rowing on an aquatic treadmill.

Today I visited REI with a $40 gift certificate with a determination to hold the line at forty: a couple of car-topping pads for transporting the boat this weekend, maybe some new straps, and a fistful of Sharkies were on the short list. (Those Gentle Readers of The Big Row will recall that Sharkies are essentially electrolyte Gummi Bears, perfect for quenching thirst and replenishing electrolytes without filling up.) Alas, no Sharkies...and no Sharkie surrogates. But I still blew past $40 by $38, reflecting that gift certificates are usually among the most expensive presents possible for the recipient, yes? Josh, thanks for the gift!

Tomorrow I head north to Loomis for my 40th high school reunion. Then, on Sunday, it’s off to Lake George to retrieve the boat from my mom‘s house, and on Monday it’s a whirlwind visit to the Adirondack Guideboat folks in Vermont who will administer some TLC to the mechanicals. I estimate I’ve got about 1500 miles on the oarlocks and pins, and it’s time for some tighter tolerances before I hit the Potomac. Finances may be a little loose in DC these days, but I’ll have none of that sloppiness on my ship.

Loomis is celebrating it’s 50th year of lacrosse this year, and this weekend I’ll try my hand at running on a midfield during the annual Alumni game. “Running” may be a stretch for what I’ll do, of course, but trust me to find a way to make my opponent’s superior speed, size, and endurance work against him. As Santiago says in Old Man and the Sea, “I have many tricks.” One of my Boys’ Latin colleagues, a fabulous player and stick-stringer extraordinaire, has lent me his stick for the upcoming game. Today I spent an hour at a wall getting used to it. Simply put, it is a magic wand. Players “in the day” had to learn to throw around the particular idiosyncrasies of their stick; they were wooden, hand crafted, and no two were exactly alike. THIS stick is truly an extension of the players will. “In the day” I was a mediocre player at best, but today - unopposed, I admit - I was able to put the ball wherever I wanted it, intuitively. Maybe my Loomis gambit will be to participate in the warm ups and then, like, have to make like a really important call or something. It could be ugly...but it will be fun.

Closer to home, it appears there could be a nice send-off at the Rusty Scupper on the 21st. I appreciate those of you who have said that brunch from 8 to 9AM on Sunday would be a pleasant way to see a foolish man embark on a banal journey. My own concern is that my penchant for morning coffee will have me reaching for the relief bottle more than once before I clear Fort McHenry. (TMI? Sorry.)

Finally, a word about fundraising, if I may? As you might have noticed on the website, Kathy has arranged for donors to be able to contribute via Pay Pal. I’ll ensure that your donation will be noted by Boys’ Latin and acknowledged for tax purposes. Very easy. All funds go into the Financial Aid budget at school, and as you might imagine, the stresses on this component of any independent school’s budget is, times being what they are, intense. I’ve not been pushing the fundraising element of this adventure very prominently, but I WILL say that donated monies affect real families in a most tangible way. So, if you’re thinking of climbing aboard with your checkbook, circle back to Pay Pal and make it happen now, OK? Sure, the Potomac might be running against me, but those strokes will come easier if I know you’re there. Just do it, OK?

One or two more blogs before launch, OK? Hope to see you at the Scupper on the 21st; it should be sunny!

Mr. Frei

Here is the route to Washington!

I’ll be off to DC one week from next Sunday….9AM on the 21st

Greetings, Gentle Reader, June 8, 2009

I certainly have not distinguished myself as a correspondent. It’s been a while.

Since our last chat I have conceived, executed and graded (1,022 pages) a final exam, exhorted 62 8th graders to “Be the baker, not the muffin” in a blessedly already-forgotten graduation speech, and been to the gym…once. But it was a good visit; I think this ‘ole engine has at least one more good row in it.

Last Friday night one of my students hosted a class celebration – quite a shindig on the Harbor – and among the amusements was a world-class Mechanical Bull. I capitalize Bull for those of you who have ridden – or have attempted to ride – such a device. You understand.

Gentle Reader, it strikes me as ironic that even as my colleagues and I urge our 8th graders to “use sound judgment” in the unfolding saga of their lives throughout the year, we (the relative oldsters) were so easily coaxed to ride The Mechanical Bull. I mean, here I am, soon to turn 58, a bit less flexible than I used to be, an entire summer of recreational activity, rowing, and leisure ahead of me, now climbing a Mechanical Bull at the encouragement of a corral of hollerin’ thirteen year old boys. Even as I vaulted on and grabbed the rope, Evil Twin Skippy was whispering in my ear, “Al, Al…whoa, pardner. Hold on, buck-a-roo. This is cause for pause. Think about it.”

Three times, Gentle Reader. Three times I leapt aboard, three times my upper body endured contortions not recommended for my demographic; three times I was dashed to the mat like a wet Sham Wow. Not pretty. I hope that the pangs that I presently feel in my lower back are temporary…and that I have learned something. I DO know that whispering calming words in the ear of a Mechanical Bull may be good theater, but such tenderness does not in any way influence what will happen next.

I’ll be off to DC one week from next Sunday….9AM on the 21st, for those of you who’d like to add to my stores of Yoo Hoo, Slim Jims, and Electrolyte Sharkies. I’ll be departing from The Rusty Scupper, the Inner Harbor eatery that hosted my arrival from Troy in ’06. The 21st is one of the longer days of the year, so I figured I’d make it easy for anyone who might like to come down to see me off. It’ll be rain or shine; my experience is that boats row pretty well in the rain, and I can’t be fishing for excuses if I’m to get a start on this thing.

Back to the gym tomorrow…13 days to go. I think I’ve started kinda’ late.

Random thoughts

Greetings, Gentle Reader, May 24, 2009

This sultry spring afternoon finds me gently tapping at these keys which, to date, represents the lion’s share of my training for the row. Yet I worry not. It will not be a race, and there are a full four weeks left – four weeks from today – to attend to the power plant. I’m naively inclined to think that a lifetime of moderate physical fitness is a bit like money in the checking account…ready to be withdrawn at one’s leisure. Yet, in my case, the “leisure” has been all too protracted, and I’ll have to get at it…but tomorrow, OK?

During this lull before my students’ final exam, I‘ve been doing a bit of personal reading, a luxury that my typical schedule does not easily grant. I’m just finishing Drew Faust’s This Republic of Suffering, a splendidly written reflection about the physical, moral, and spiritual costs of the Civil War. Faust recounts the civil war historian James McPherson’s estimate that, “the overall mortality rate for the south exceeded that of any country in World War I and that of all but the region between the Rhine and the Volga in World War 2.” Faust reminds us that “the number of soldiers (from both sides) who died between 1861 and 1865, an estimated 620,000, is approximately equal to the total American fatalities in the Revolution, the War of 1812, the Mexican War, the Spanish American War, World War I, World War II, and Korea combined.” What a cost to form “a more perfect union.”

I didn’t select this book for its relevance to an impending Memorial Day weekend, but this holiday is in fact a direct relative of the recognition this country placed on military service directly after World War 1. The narrative reminds me of the extraordinary number of historical sites I’ll be rowing past in a few weeks…and of how much I have yet to learn about them. Point Lookout, for instance, the spot at which I’ll be making a dramatic (for me) sweep from the Chesapeake Bay into the wide mouth of the Potomac, was the site of the Union’s largest prisoner-of-war camp. Conditions in this camp – and all civil war camps – were appalling, and the death rates of the interred were very high. At the onset of the war, and for very different reasons, each side anticipated a short and rather painless affair, and neither side was prepared for the rapidly swelling number of prisoners. Yes, this is serious stuff for my own lighthearted journal, yet I do hope to take in as much of the depth and breadth of this history as I can. Lord knows that laboring upstream on the Potomac will give me plenty of time for quiet contemplation.

In fact, let this be an invitation to any of my readers who may be American History buffs to send me a note via this blog regarding points of interest along my route. I’ll be doing my own investigations, of course, but I’d certainly enjoy a little erudite audience participation…and it would bind me to my many passengers-in-spirit. Come on, climb aboard!

On a lighter note, one week from today will probably find me in this very same seat, feverishly (but hopefully) grading my students’ final exams. I spent yesterday writing it, remembering as I did so a sage soul once say, “The best exam is one that teaches rather than tests.” In class on Friday I also heard myself say, “Gentlemen, whatever exam I write for you will test mastery, not long term memory.” Their blank stares conveyed something between incomprehension and fear, cues that any good teacher does not hope to read in his students. I hope to strike a balance, and I am fortunate to count my older brother as my proverbial canary in the mineshaft. I always send him a copy of the test and Bill, a most literate, thoughtful, and honest soul, gives me pretty good feedback. He scored a solid B- last year (he’s getting better at verbals and interrogatives), but I am always most anxious to hear of his response to the essay question. He knocks the essay out of the park each year…he’s a terrific writer…and, frankly, I count the essay as the arbiter of how well I have coached my fellows in the power of language. Sigh. Well, we’ll see. Should I post the exam on this blog? Are you feeling curious, confident, or maybe even nostalgic for your own 8th grade English experience? Are you curious to see if you, too, might graduate from middle school? (Note: there is no way I would volunteer to take the math or science exams…)

This weekend’s other highlight – certainly so if one lives in Baltimore – is the NCAA men’s lacrosse championship. Yes, it’s being played in Boston again this year – sort of like holding the Australian Football Championships in Topeka, Kansas (ok, a slight exaggeration, but true lacrosse fans will get my point) – and tomorrow, Monday, Syracuse will face Cornell in the championship game. I’m conflicted. My mom, brother, and sister are all Orange People, yet yours truly, having played for Dartmouth back in the day when sticks were wood and men were afraid, harbors an allegiance to all things Ivy. Cornell is the odds-on underdog, and perhaps in the spirit of this row (with me being the underdog, the Bay and the Potomac being heavily favored), we’ll keep fingers and toes crossed for the Big Red.

In closing, you’ll note that I have not been beating the fundraising drum very hard. Or, at all, really. I’d just remind you that any pledges on my progress (pennies, dollars, or precious stones per mile…or, why not a flat sum?) go towards the Boys’ Latin Financial Aid budget. The needs remain great, as you might suspect, the boys I teach are wonderful, and they are supported by parents whose priorities are in exactly the right place. If the spirit moves you, let Kathy, me, or Boys’ Latin know directly.

After all, look what you get for your pledge: a warm, altruistic feeling, a figurative seat in the boat, and guilt-free reading that, in this case, includes ruminations on the Civil War, a book recommendation, reflections on education, a conflicted insight on the NCAA lacrosse championship game, and this plaintive plea. If I could include a Snugli or a Sham Wow, I would.

‘Till next time, Al

Kevlar Adirondack Guideboat

A great way to learn about the history of the type of boat that Mr. Frei is rowing from Baltimore to Washington!

A New Starting Date

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

This weekend I chatted with a neighbor who asked whether I have a row up my (short) sleeve this summer. When I described my intention to row to Washington, his face darkened. “DC, eh?” he asked, in the way people ask when what they really mean to say is, “Don’t even think about it.” He went on to describe a Baltimore-to- DC trip he and his wife made some years ago in their 31 foot powerboat. They took water over the transom (big waves), made hellaciously slow progress (wind and current), and faced heavy traffic, relentless bugs, and stifling heat and humidity. Why, the flat screen in the cabin even beat itself to death in the blow. No flat screen! Oh, the horror!!

He hasn’t talked me out of it, but this kind of first-person narrative tends to command my attention. I’m not likely to lose the flat screen that I won’t have in the rowboat, but I’m reminded that while this may be a shorter trip than journeys past, I’ll do well to prepare for the worst…and the worst, in his description, rivals the worst I’ve seen over 800 miles. Our conversation took me back to my own purgatory on the Delaware River in ’06, “a Kiddie Waterpark from Hell,” I think I called it, and I heard myself muse, “DC, eh…?”

As I read about typical Chesapeake weather in June, I learn that the winds usually blow from the south. Unless I am fortunate enough to hit a favorable weather window, this will make for a long 100 mile pull to the south, to Point Lookout (or, is it Point! Look Out!!) at the mouth of the Potomac. So - as if this has anything to do with optimizing weather probabilities - how about a new starting date for launch? Let’s try Sunday, June 21st, only because friends have wisely pointed out that if I hope to see anyone present to see me off, Sunday makes more sense than Monday. So Sunday morning it is.

To date, my physical preparation has been negligible. Peg worries, and she has a point. Between school, grading, and coaching, I have yet to find my way to the gym. Trotting after 8th graders does require some stamina, but it’s a stamina different than that called for in a boat. 8th graders command your presence, patience, an affable social nature, and a plucky optimism that can see past the moment to potential and achievement. Rowing long distances commands a plucky optimism, to be sure, and patience, but ’presence’ and sociability are superfluous. It’s a solo trip. One talks to one’s self at one’s own risk. But I’m fooling myself if I think I can row myself to the necessary fitness level in the early days of this trip; without a modicum of preparation, a south wind will beat me back into the Inner Harbor in short order. Humiliating. Worse, even, than losing the flat screen in the cabin. I’ll need to get with it, and soon.

Yet I have taken steps to get the boat in shape. The week before the row I’ll be taking my beloved boat back up to its Vermont birthplace - the Adirondack Guideboat Company - for some fresh hardware and a new knick-knack or two. Today, Steve Kaulback and the AGC crew were featured on Martha Stewart in a segment chronicling her acquisition of an exquisite cedar Adirondack Guideboat. Her impeccable tastes include things nautical, as it turns out, and it’s nice to know that while her sock drawer and mine likely bear little resemblance, we share an affection for the sensation of those cherry oars bending under a load, the effortless glide which rewards even modest effort.

You go, Martha! See you on the Potomac, perhaps?

Not many readers yet, but I’ll build a bit more tension in future blogs even while Kathy spreads the word as only she can. I hope you like the new cover photo she devised over the weekend. I myself think that it presages a post-apocalyptic row past the Capitol building after the last iceberg has melted (is that a polar bear wading down the aisle?), but I’ll leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to render your own judgment.

Talk to you later this week….

Mr. Frei