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!