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