August 13: Blog Finis….or Page One?

Greetings, Gentle Reader,                                                                         

To add to the confusion of the time travel that has characterized this blog, this final entry may ultimately introduce the book, Sojourn to Saguenay, which could augment your coffee table collection of Row, Canada! (2011), Locked Up, Locked Down (2008), and The Big Row (2006). My appetite to leave behind an old-timey print edition of this summer’s row is simply a manifestation of my Techno-Peasant temperament, so don’t order one up if you don’t want to. No pressure. But if you’re in the Inner Circle and have just received your signed copy in the mail or under your windshield wiper….well, enjoy!

My ten weeks of “summer enrichment and professional development” have been dominated and defined by only thirteen days of intense experience. While I might include my tepid preparation or this subsequent flurry of writing activity as a part of the rowing experience, in truth there is nothing quite like being underway in the boat, focused on the water, one’s body, and the unfolding day, stroke by stroke. I now pause more than a few times each day with a flashback of my time on the Richelieu or Lake Champlain, of the magnificent waters of the St Lawrence, or of coming to grips with nature and my own limits along the coast of the mountainous Charlevoix region.

If I print this all up in a bound volume, I’ll have to wrestle with the title. After all, I never made it to Saguenay by water; the boat was strapped to the roof of the Mini when Peg and I viewed the mouth of the river. Perhaps it’ll have to be Sojourn Towards Saguenay or even Sojourn to Saguenay, Part I ….if I intend to complete the trip someday.

The good news is that I was able to cover about 425 miles during the thirteen days of this adventure.... good work, perhaps, for a largely chair-bound fellow (Ouch! That’s too close to “large chair-bound fellow”) on the cusp of his 63^rd birthday. The reality is that I had intended to proceed 100 miles further but didn’t… and therein lies my lesson for the summer.

In retrospect, I’m fortunate to have experienced the severity of adversity that I faced in July. More than two thousand miles had led to overconfidence, a too-flip and casual attitude about “learning along the way” and accommodating trials as they emerged, a relaxed fatalism regarding what might be around the next bend or out of the next bay. This approach worked until it didn’t and when it didn’t, I had no margin for error. I’m pleased that I am able to write about all of this in the past tense, in my own voice, with the possibility of a sequel. Brian would have written a great memorial reflection, I am sure…. but happily, it will have to wait.

 Peace, love, and happiness,

Day 13, July 10: When is over 'over'?

I spent the rest of the day on the 9^th wrestling with my decision to stop the row as well as luxuriating, I must admit, in the shower and soft bed at the B&B. I knew that the safe and logical thing to do was to call it quits here at Baie St. Paul: 425 miles was not a totally shameful effort, and escalating conditions ahead beyond those that had so challenged me over the last two days all pointed towards this logical conclusion. And the news from Jane’s family was more than the capper; it was indeed time to go home.

Yet as I put the boat and my gear in storage by the barn across the road from the pier, I kept looking out at the river. Alternatingly calm and inviting, roiling and white-capped, the variability I was witnessing virtually hour-by-hour from the security of land represented the real danger. Just two or three days of concentrated effort would get me to the Saguenay river if normal conditions prevailed, but the “normalcy” of this region was volatility.

A Pretty Spot for a Boat to Wait.....

I was so close…yet so far.

Packing to catch the bus home that afternoon, I felt disappointment on a bunch of levels. I’d come up short on my stated destination for the first time in five long rows and over 2,000 miles. At any moment I could get back in the boat and try again, but I’d elected not to. In trying again, I would no doubt have another exciting adventure, right? Why not go? Was I losing spirit? Was 62 (now 63!) making itself felt? I again missed Matt’s company and counsel. I don’t know whether his capable presence and companionship would have spurred us both on or whether he would have said, “Pop, it’s beyond us; it’s time to fold ‘em.” I do know that I would have listened, and I missed his voice.

And then there was Alec, my Sage of Baie St Paul, who wandered down later in the afternoon to say hello and to applaud me for my good judgment. His respect for the St Lawrence was driven by a lifetime of observation far beyond my own single week of experience, and I’d like to think that his experience and candor enriched my “good judgment” at this moment.

So the packing continued and Nicole, Daniel, and Christian, my collegial hosts at Auberge Le Cormoran & Le Domaine Belle PLage, agreed to watch over my stuff while I was gone. Alec then guided me to the bus station along the most delightful path to any bus station, anywhere.

Gentle Reader, earlier in this blog I’ve already recounted most that has happened since: the overnight in Montreal’s bus station, Jane’s passing, Peg’s generosity and spirit in accompanying me back to Quebec, Timmy’s role in getting us through Customs and such. But as I gaze at this photo of the path to the bus station, the obvious closing metaphor forces its way to the page….

Sublime can supplant stupendous. Gentle closure, be it a walk down a grassy path to a bus station or a loving family gathered around a bedside, can trump the dramatic. Just trying hard can indeed rival clear accomplishment if one’s head is on right. And as Alec escorted me down this path, I wondered whether relying on the best natures of others, giving yourself over to the possibility of acceptance and hospitality and to rejection as well, teaches us more about ourselves than about anything else. On this short trip I’d met Peter, Phil and Helen, Denise and Gerald, Nancy and Nancy and Daniel, Nicole and Daniele and Christian, Michael and of course Alec…..and many others whose names I’d neglected to record but whose kindnesses will be paid forward.

At a moment when CNN, the background noise to this writing, conveys global challenges of every shape and form, my own insignificant sojourn suggests that countless unseen acts of compassion and unconditional kindness are the most important stories of all.

Thanks for having joined me.

Love, and be kind,

Al

Day 12, July 8: Finishing on Foot

Day 11 became Day 12 at first light, a kind of faint shadowbox that allowed me to discern sea from shore if only for a few hundred feet. I had been sitting stationary in the boat for the better part of two hours, waiting for contrast that would allow me to proceed and at one moment, after asking myself “Now?...Now?” a hundred times, I figured it was time to go. The tide that had pushed me off the beach was now beginning to run out, and I knew that what would otherwise have been a helpful additional current would now only mean the re-emergence of the boulder fields this morning. Without Chart #2, I was not certain how far I’d have row to reach Baie St. Paul, yesterday’s intended destination, and the only humor of this dark morning was the faint possibility that it had been waiting for me right around the next bend all night long.

It wasn’t.

But it felt good to be rowing again, getting the legs and arms moving and the blood coursing and some warmth developing under my rain gear. A heavy overcast remained and the light came slowly but evenly.

I hit my first unseen boulder within the hour. Then another, and then came the dreaded “hang up” which suspended the boat, twisted it in the current, and exposed me to a broadside dump. I’d had enough of this broken-field rowing routine last night and freeing the boat by using my tender cherry oar as a pole, I resolved to head out to deeper water immediately.

The grey water and sky offshore blended without a horizon but perhaps half a mile offshore, after a few more unavoidable bumps and grinds, I cleared the emerging boulders which were beginning to pop through the surface like seal heads. The relatively calm water was a relief, but I was not pleased to have to be so far out from unfamiliar shoreline in such poor visibility. Perhaps it would improve at sunrise?

I’d never been in thick fog on the water before, but I’d read about it. I’d read that it can come on you fast, that it can create a kind of vertigo when it’s close and there’s no contrast, and that relying on sound – the impact of waves on shore, the cresting of waves over obstacles- can be useful and perhaps one’s only navigational tool. What I read is true. The tradeoff for getting clear of the Kevlar-eating granite seals was flirting with the dense fog offshore. I started to row with the current, thinking that it was a reliable directional cue, and I tried to keep the sound of waves hitting the shore at a consistent decibel level as well, hoping that doing so would represent running a line parallel to shore. If only the shore ran in a straight line.

I ran into a few boulders as the shore curved towards me before I could react, and more than a few times I paused as the sound of waves on the shore became too faint for comfort. Above all, I realized that in this kind of visibility, I could pass Baie St Paul without ever seeing it, and the next stop, Malbaie, would be a bridge too far in my current state. I had to slow down, get in close, and hope for a change in the visibility.

At last, perhaps because of a rising sun that I couldn’t yet see, the fog began to thin and a breathtaking view of the base of the mountains of Charlevoix slowly emerged. I could see shore and even though I saw no sign of civilization, at least I could navigate safely.

This is a beautiful morning.....

About three more hours finally brought me to Baie St Paul, the town that was to have been my “easy reach” destination of yesterday. It was now late morning, I was famished and utterly spent, but a last treat awaited me before landfall: the low tide completely drains the harbor of Baie St Paul. If I wanted to make landfall, I would be obliged to get out of the boat and sledge it in through the mud. I estimated maybe half a mile, more or less, from the beginning of the mud to the pier. I also could just wait it out, but my meager stores and appetite to reach dry land compelled me to try it now, so out I jumped. Every boat in BSP was resting in the mud. Mine would, too.

That's my boat on the far right; you want sprinkles on that chocolate?

Gentle Reader, how do I describe the sensation of plodding through fine, viscous mud up to one’s thighs, on the one hand counting each yard as a step to recovery while, on the other hand, knowing that the gathering crowd on the pier was now pointing at me, not at the ocean? Fortunately, my heavily laden boat slid well through the ooze while I, pulling on the line strung over my shoulder, kept losing my balance or footing and took more than a few plunges into the chocolate. If I could have charged admission, I’d have made a few Canada-Bucks. As it was, exhausted, I reached the dock to a smattering of applause, crawled up on it like the survivor I was and remained motionless, catching my breath and savoring the security of terra firma.

This.......

...leads to this.

An onlooker let me know that the B&B across the road was offering a breakfast buffet until noon, news that galvanized me immediately. The proprietor was not entirely pleased with my attire or all-natural droppings on his rug in the foyer, but he accepted my reservation for a room that night and a friendship ensued….even after I attacked his buffet table.

That afternoon, after I pulled the boat from the mud and began to reclaim and clean my belongings, Alec sat down to ask me what I was up to. I explained my journey and, in particular, my last 24 hours. He said, “You’ve had a fine trip and have come a long way. Stop now, my friend. What you are now doing -and where you are going now, especially- is very dangerous. It gets much harder from here. Stop now.”

He knew the water well, and he knew what lay ahead. After what I’d experienced of late, I knew he was right. This should not be “Do or die,” should it?

I’d also been thinking a lot about my friend Jane Messenger who had just entered Hospice as I turned onto the St. Lawrence. Below I’ll re-post an excerpt of my earlier reflection simply to keep this blog “in order,” but my thoughts had been with her, my mom’s best friend, and with her family. Maybe it was time to go home and tend to the business of living, loving, and to witness real courage:

The “why” of my return involves Jane, the mother of my best friend (other than Brian) and my own mother’s best friend, who has entered hospice in Albany.  Early this week, when I learned of this turn of events and the urgency of her state, the present unconditional joy and freedom of this adventure pretty much evaporated; Jane has been “the other mom” in my life, a lady for whom the idea of “just being there” could have been coined, and rowing on in blissful exploration was just not in the cards. Jane, her wonderful family, and my own mom seemed too far away at a time when, as powerless as I am to effect events, I nonetheless felt like I needed to “be there” for someone else…. all of this (rowing) is trivia in the context of Jane’s present hospice travail, of course, and I’d ask you only to take a pause right now, close your eyes, and in recalling and embracing a wonderful, warm, spirited, selfless and generous lady in your own life, you’ll be embracing her.

On July 13th, Jane passed away peacefully in the presence of her loving family. I’d made many boneheaded decisions and wrong choices over the last 12 days, but catching a bus home in time to be with them was not one of them.   

 

Day 11, July 7: The New Longest Day, Part II…and, All Hail, Stephanie Kwolek!

…and with Gerald and Denise waving from the dock and 3/5 of my maps in hand, I pushed off at a too-late hour into the main stream above downtown Quebec City. It was overcast and had been drizzling during breakfast, a main morning meal I was no longer accustomed to. I’d have three or so hours of plugging against the tide, then slack, and then, downstream away from the things of man, the flush would start…and the bottom would fall out.

But for now I looked forward to seeing Quebec City from the water. I knew that the tidal effects here compelled the city to put its “Old Town” waterfront behind a lock, but I would not have the time to linger and wait for that lock to open at slack tide. Nonetheless, as I rowed past the city, I was surprised at how little public access there seemed to be to the St Lawrence itself. Industrial docks, bulk loading facilities, and ferry and tug piers dominated the entire shoreline; I couldn’t see a “promenade” enabling the public to see the water. I know that in not lingering to get “inside” the city’s lock, I missed what I’m certain is a charming river presence. Yet the main body of the St Lawrence is essentially walled off from the Quebecois for much of its passage through the city. Curious.

Maybe it should have struck me at that moment: in three days of rowing on the St Lawrence, I had not seen a single kayak, rowboat, or similar man-powered craft on the water. Not one. Cruising sailboats and such, yes, but no one was paddling or rowing. Rather than wondering “Why?” I simply considered myself lucky.

By mid-afternoon I’d made 15 miles or so, leaving the city behind as the extraordinary mountains of the Charlevoix region rose into the clouds on the northeast horizon. The current began to run faster, the tide began to run out, and I was booking along at 6 to 7 with easy strokes, in relatively calm water, my confidence rising even as I rowed off of my first chart and into the missing second. Gerald had touted Baie St Paul as an first excellent stop, alleging that it was just off of chart #1, and my plan was to stop there even if I had daylight ahead. It would be a good jumping-off point for Day 2 after Quebec City, and he and Denise had recently spent a week there enjoying the arts scene and restaurants. I could already taste dinner….

The ceiling lowered as the mountains encroached on the east (north) shore, my only avenue to the Saguenay. It was getting dark, I had now rowed off of Chart #1, but the sky still provided enough contrast with the shore and mountains so that I could still keep oriented along the coast. As I would learn later, I was still more than thirty miles from Baie St Paul…and there was nothing but rock walls and boulders between me and it as darkness fell. But I rowed on in blissful optimism, looking for the glow of a seaside village around then next bend.

It was around this time that I first thanked Stephanie Kwolek, the feted DuPont chemist credited with the invention of Kevlar. She had passed away on June 18^th at 90, and my Kevlar boat was a vestige of her genius. I struck a rock, hard, a rock that I could not see. Then, another. I was stunned; I could see no obstructions ahead, my oars were in what seemed to be deep water, and Wham!, then another. Oh, Stephanie! Hung up on a submerged rock, I was pulled sideways in the current as the boat tilted perilously upstream. The hull ground its way off the obstruction (Thanks, Stephanie!), and I was clear...at least for a few minutes. These rocks were emerging all around me as the tide went down, and I realized that I had unwittingly rowed into an endless field of boulders rising from the bottom, invisible at the surface and randomly spaced, extending farther out from the shore than I wanted to go at night.

My primary safety strategy has been to be close enough to shore so that a safe bailout could be effected before all is lost but I’d now rowed into terrain, at night, affording me no such alternative; the shore was piled high with rocks and vertical rock faces with no place to put out. I realized that I’d have to go offshore to get out of a rock field that would inevitably hole my boat. The Kevlar was getting me through for now but the hard grinding impacts, my boat literally bending and dimpling at times, would eventually find the limit of Stephanie’s stress calculations. Staying among the rocks was not an option; I headed out.

Old Paint just got older...and less painted. Thanks, Stephanie!!

Fortunately, the water and dark sky presented enough of a contrast that I could spot the boulders that were now emerging out of the receding tide; I could see and avoid but could only avoid what I could see, and rocks remaining just under the surface or masquerading as waves in the current hammered Old Paint many times. I eventually got clear of the rocks but the tradeoff was in now being uncomfortably far out in the river in a strong current with standing, rolling waves of frigidly cold water. And, of course, it started to rain. The visibility I desperately needed to stay in touch with a pitch-black shore began to deteriorate. It was now after 10:00 at night. A stupid time to be where I was. If Matt had been with me, we wouldn't have been there. I'd have had a reasonable adult with whom to confer and debate. I think we would have been elsewhere.  

Gentle Reader, when I tell you that in thousands of miles of rowing I have never been in a situation when I simply wished I was out of the boat and on shore, I speak truth. But this night, I wanted out. I had pushed on when I should have pulled up and now I was in trouble. Moving to Survival Mode from Rowing, I put all of my focus into staying upright while keeping shore in sight. I cared not a whit anymore about “making progress” except that which would get me past the next breaking wave rushing out of the night or off of the next rock looming off the bow. Staying upright until morning was everything.

Sometime later I spotted a single light over my right shoulder, the first sign of human presence I’d seen since dark. Reaching that light became my new goal, and I was resolved to get off the water at that point at whatever cost since it seemed that the light was quite close to the water. I let the current take me as I simply stabilized the boat as best I could, stabbing the water with my oars to take a wave at a better angle or to find a line around a rock. At one blessed moment the light and my sightline aligned in such a way that I could actually see the contour of the shore at the base of the light’s pole: piles of rock on either side…and a sliver of black beach in the middle. I made for it with all of my waning might, counting on Stephanie’s genius to absorb the inevitable bumps and grinds I’d endure in getting from here to there.

Thirteen hours and 48 miles into the day, Old Paint ground ashore and her hapless pilot tumbled out of the boat onto the coarse sand. Blessed sand. Land at last. I pulled the boat up as far as I could, tied its line around my ankle, fished my tent’s rain trap out of its sleeve, wrapped myself in it, fell in the sand, and slept. Before I closed my eyes, I looked at the light again; it illuminated the base of a ski area’s chair lift. Oh, Canada.

In the middle of the night- who knows what time?- Old Paint nudged me awake; the incoming tide was lifting her and driving her up and inwards, and it was time to reposition. I got up. The rain had stopped, I recall, but I was in a bit of a stupor and was famished. After pulling the boat further up the black sand, I dug into my stores for my can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew (the best emergency ration imaginable), popped the top, drank it in one draught, flung the can back in the boat, and fell back on the beach wrapped in my tarp like a sea otter in kelp. Picture Popeye gulping his spinach…and then falling asleep?

I will never throw this can away. Never, ever.

Later, in the middle of the night- who knows what time?- Old Paint nudged me awake again; the tide was still rising and driving her up and inwards and in repositioning a second time, I realized that I would run out of room on this beach before the tide had finished its work. The beach backed into a vertical wall that was cluttered with the detritus of the sea, clearly a demarcation line for high tide, and there’d be no room for us at the Inn when that line was reached sometime later tonight. I’d be back in the boat soon. This respite would soon be over.

I was now simply counting the hours and minutes until daylight, so I repositioned uphill one last time to wait it out as long as I could. I had called Peg earlier in the night to allay her concerns about my whereabouts and safety and wanted to call her again now, but what would I say? That I’d been an idiot? That I was in some trouble and did not know exactly where I was or what might happen between now and morning? That it was two in the morning and I was soon climbing back into the boat? That I loved her? That the can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew that everyone made fun of had just saved the day?

At a little before four AM it was time to get off of the disappearing beach.The sea would soon be at the wall and I wanted to plan my exit using the beach while I had it. Covered with sand and seaweed, I piled into the boat and rowed out to the edge of the stream inside the standing waves but now, with the rising tide, Old Paint was far enough over the boulders to be safe from impact. Daylight was ninety minutes or so away. Wrapped in my tent, dripping and shivering and cowed by circumstance, I decided that I’d simply sit tight until I could see. I used the oars only to maintain my position in a sweet spot between the cliffs and boulders of the shore and the unpleasantness outside.

Ninety minutes until tomorrow. Then I could row again.            

Day 11, July 7: The New Longest Day, Part I

As I was setting up my tent in a drizzle last night, an envoy from a group dining inside appeared and asked if I might be interested in sleeping in the gazebo on the side yard. “Better for the rain, yes?” she questioned in lilting English. “Ah, yes,” I replied gratefully, wondering why I could not shake my own lilting English French accent. Apparently they’d followed my arrival from across the river through the rain, and the amusement provided by my Snoopy-like wrestling match with my tent had earned me a much-improved set-up for the night. (Note to file: the hard plank floor of a dry gazebo at Levy at the invitation of friendly diners is far preferable to bootless groveling at the Quebec Yacht Club.)

Room with a View: Quebec City from the window of my gazebo.

 

As I quaffed a pre-bedtime libation in the restaurant- something carrying tonic, for resisting the bugs, of course- I met Gerald and Denise. They lived aboard a sailboat here at the marina, and I asked them if they knew where I might purchase charts for the waters to Saguenay. I had run off my map as I arrived in Quebec City, and I knew I’d be heading into large stretches of unpopulated shoreline ahead. My day had also taught me that the water was changing rapidly; this was no longer a charming river delivering me gently to my destination. Gerald said, “Meet me here at 9:30 tomorrow; I have charts for you.” How easy! 9:30 was on the late side for me, but I immediately recalled the scene in Casablanca when the young lovers, desperate to escape, arrange a meeting with Captain Renault to receive their coveted visa.

The young man declares, “We’ll be at your office at 7, Captain.”

“Fine,” replies Renault. “I’ll be there at 10.”

So I was there this morning at 9:30 and Claude was right on time, carrying a bundle of charts under his arm along with something of an appetite for breakfast. His lovely wife Denise accompanied him, and we talked of things Canadian, global, and personal. A musician, Gerald had also spent his career as a principle figure representing artists in labor negotiations in the US, Canada, and abroad. Between liberal forkfuls of hash browns and rye toast, I offered that he should be teaching labor relations and exploring issues of equity with the next generation before so much of his incredible experience is lost. Gerald's stories evoked what recalled reading and even experiencing in my own career….Sinclair Lewis, Walter Reuther, Saul Alinsky, Studs Terkel…all somehow rolled up in my compelling, passionate, principled breakfast companion. Incredible perspectives…a delightful couple....

Gerald and Denise bid me a Bon Voyage before The Mal Voyage.

 And..zoot alours! The Charts!

Gerald’s chart collection represented a collection of maps of waters from Quebec City to Saguenay…from which two middle maps were missing. My first mistake of the day was to elect to push off that morning with an incomplete set, putting me in the dark (literally, as I would find out that night…..) for over forty miles of coastline. In retrospect, this was an incomprehensibly bad call. After all, I’d had my confidence badly shaken yesterday, I had done a pretty realistic job of assessing the mistakes in judgment I had made…and yet here I was at almost noon, pushing off from Quebec City with incomplete charts into fifty miles of essentially uninhabited coastline of increasingly oceanic conditions with 40% of my path- and tonight’s probable landfall- “off the charts” in my possession.

Armchair Analysis: On August 22nd, 2006, I faced what I thought of as “The Longest Day” in an epic struggle to exit the Delaware River for the Chesapeake as I rowed from Troy, NY, to Baltimore. That day and night I covered 62 miles in 17 hours in bad conditions and, at the end, against a building tide, arrived in a heap on a dock at one in the morning. In Quebec I found myself comparing this kind of previous experience to my current situation, finding confidence that “I could do it” because I’d faced tough sledding before. I knew the tides were much, much stronger here in Canada, as was the flow of the St Lawrence. I knew that the water temperature of the Delaware was as that of a bathtub compared to the quick hypothermia underneath me now. And I knew that I had a rocky, unapproachable, and largely uninhabited coastline ahead as opposed to the refuge of marshes and glades of the Delaware. I knew all of this because I’d experienced it in Technicolor®, Surround-Sound®, and Reality® just yesterday…and yet I allowed an incomparable earlier experience cloud my judgment and fuel my boyish enthusiasm on this July departure.

It perhaps also bears noting that I was soon to be 63 years old this morning, not newly 55. When you’re 63, details like this matter.

So I pushed off - too late in the day, underequipped, and overconfident- for the final leg of my journey. I’d soon have a new standard of comparison for a “Longest Day,” one which I’d be grateful to have lived…and passed.     

 

Day 10, July 6 : First Signs….

 

Leaving Portneuf felt a bit like leaving home yet again: delightful people, convenient amenities, a protected harbor, hot water…but with a bit of a push I’d make Quebec City today, and the push had to start early. I’d texted Phil and Helen to see if they were behind me in their newly re-masted Beneteau, but they had yet to depart Sorel; getting the mast up and secured is one thing, but accurately rigging the umpteen miles of lines and cords that hang from it all is yet another. I let them know that Portneuf was a great port even without a storm and that they should make a point of stopping. Maybe Phil could talk some sense into the Screen family.

I felt like a cork coming out of a bottle as I hit the main stream from the marina basin; a standing wave ripped across the river where the turbulent main course hit the relatively still water of the harbor. Before traversing it to the main channel I pulled up to take it all in. It was daunting but seemed manageable. Nevertheless, I slipped into my lifejacket….and I would remain in it all day for the first time in over 2,000 miles of rowing. 

“Daunting but seems manageable” became my rubric for the next three days on the water, but like grade inflation, my standards began to creep as I made progress through increasing risk and found success in tamping down the “daunt”. This creep in judgment vs. reality would bring my rowing to an end in two more days.

If yesterday was a sleigh ride, today’s ride was a roller coaster as the winds continued to build and the current picked up in a narrowing river. Every mile closer to the Atlantic was delivering a stronger tidal effect and on this morning, my Machmeter indicated a groundspeed of better than 7 mph through the swells. I was estimating only a bit more than forty miles to Quebec City and at this pace I’d be there for a late lunch. Yeeehaaa!!...right?

Gentle Reader, no doubt you’ve heard expressions like “less is more” or “scarcity breeds demand”? How about “go slow to go fast”? “Slow and steady wins the race”? “Haste makes waste”? “Don’t run with scissors in your hands”? Well, maybe the scissors thing doesn’t really fit but the idea here, the irony, I guess, is that this morning I’d been given a trifecta of natural phenomenon that any rower would welcome: a following current, an outgoing tide, and strong tailwind. On still water, each would be a blessing. In combination on a river rapidly morphing into ocean, they became unusable at best…and opponents at worst.

As the waves built and soon became as confused and randomly directed as the 113^th Congress, I pulled down my diminutive “pusher sail” (good for tailwinds, bad for gales), dropped out of my sliding seat (good for power and efficiency, bad for center of gravity and stability), and settled into my fixed wicker seat. For long stretches I had to stop rowing altogether simply to maintain a safe heading relative to the large waves that were building and breaking around me. At times I even turned around, facing forward, stabbing at the water with directional, not propulsive, strokes in order to be able to see and take a path through the most threatening stuff.

As I read what I have just written, I wonder why I did not simply pull for shore to wait it out. In fact, my handwritten journal at the end of the day carries this closing sentence: “Took too many chances today in open water, pushing for speed and line. Took sail down twice after scaring myself…a dump (in the water) would have ended it all. Gotta’ slow down/ take time out!”

Did I really need to be ashore, safe and dry in my sleeping bag, to have this epiphany? The fact is that on the water, in the middle of it all, concentrating on staying upright and keeping the worst of the water out of the boat, knowing that you are making progress even if more at the whim of the river than your own heavy labor, the impulse is to stay at it, keep going, plug away, press on. Perhaps because I have spent a lot of time on many trips rowing against headwinds, currents, and waves, when the cards were with me this day- even if they were one quick draw away from overpowering me- my unthinking impulse was to keep going, to make progress, to take advantage of any serendipity regardless of seemingly manageable risk. As a former pilot I’m reminded of the malady of “get-home-itis” that plagues aviators who hazard flights through conditions beyond their experience or ability. You read the accident reports of crashes based on this “probable cause” and you say, “What poor judgment. Why didn’t he just wait it out? What could have been so important to have risked it all?”

These questions are rarely answered. They hang there, hoping to be used as lessons for the rest of us. 

So “daunting but manageable” got me to Quebec City late in the day, but the trifecta had compelled me to slow down, to limp into port in a cold downpour. I’d eaten only Nature Valley granola bars and water all day and, famished and freezing, I pulled into the Quebec City Yacht Club wondering if the 1% might be feeling generous this day. I noted that there was not another boat like mine in their inventory. A taciturn bureaucrat would not grant me permission to pitch a tent on their property but was perfectly happy to sell me an early dinner, and I was too tired to be righteously indignant. Sitting alone in their capacious dining room, dripping an expanding puddle on the flagstone floor and making periodic forays to the Men’s Room to warm myself with the hand dryer, I feasted.

I asked the Yacht Club Manager where I might find success pitching a tent for the night (hoping that he might relent at the last minute seeing as how I was obviously harmless, had just dropped a fortune on an early dinner at his empty establishment, and would leave no footprint of my presence the following morning). He said that downstream, a few miles past the city, a municipal beach on the east side was sometimes “used by those kayakers for such purposes.” I asked him about the small marina that was directly across the river from us in a clearly industrial-looking area, and he frowned and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, no. No, don’t go there.” 

Back in the boat in the cold rain of a grey evening, facing the river again just north of Quebec City, I rowed directly to Levy.

Today I’d picked up the first signs of the ocean ahead…a first taste of salt, a first taste of ceding control to the water….a first taste of doubt.

But tonight, I would sleep well at Levy.    

Day 9, July 5: Portneuf Pate’, Delivered

During the row Peg occasionally asked me to write a blog entry in longhand, to take a picture of my scribbling with my phone, and then to text it to her so she could transcribe and post material other than real-time tracking shorts of my progress. On July 5^th I wrote about my face-off with The Skunk of Trois Rivieres, a rodent which wilfully contested access to the Porta-Potti at my campsite, and all I would add now is that I still feel bad about my celebratory antics after running past this benign creature. It was silly then, and I feel silly bringing it up now. Let’s just move on, OK?

Original Text.....For the Ages

As I heat up my coffee on the beach this morning, my lil’ transistor radio is filled with Canadian commentary regarding the pending anniversary of last year’s tragedy; on July 6^th, a runaway train hauling oil derailed and exploded in the town of Lac-Megantic, not far away, killing 47 people. The blaze could be seen from space, and the long-term effects on the people and environment of the region occupied the airways all day. Along with tributes to heroic first responders, many callers worried that train safety – and the hauling of oil in particular- still had not received necessary scrutiny. The discussion reminded me of the impossibly long “oil train” that had passed Matt and me along the New York shore of Lake Champlain last week; the train- more than one hundred oil tank cars rolling along a track directly adjacent to the shore- took thirty minutes to fully pass us. We later noticed a poster in a marina calling on people in the Adirondacks to action in protest of growing rail shipments of oil through a region that would be devastated with a Megantic-like accident. Our addiction to fossil fuels seems to make such an event inevitable.

Boat packed, stretches done, skunk outwitted, and map sectioned and at hand, I launch for my second full day on the St Lawrence. The strong northwesterly wind and the downstream current offer me a morning’s rocket ride, my only concern being whether the wind will trouble the water into waves that will pose too much of a problem. My guideboat handles following waves very well but requires very close vigilance; if the plumb bow finds a lateral line during a run down the backside of a wave and veers left or right, an unmanageable “broach” will ensue….and an unwelcomed swim will immediately follow. Keeping the boat on the aquatic fall line is the prime imperative all morning long.    

Have you ever had one hand on the wheel while fishing around for that Slim Jim® you know is buried somewhere under the jumper cables behind the passenger seat?

Anyway, the morning’s Quebecois sleighride continues into the afternoon. At about 2:00 I pull off at a small beach to stretch a bit and discover a phalanx of truly spectacular Porta-Potties, a detail I mention here not out of prurient adolescent fixation but only because if you had been with me then, Gentle Reader, and if you were with me at this moment, you’d say, “Al, remember those Porta-Potties north of Portneuf? Unbelievable! You’ve gotta’ put them in.” Of course you’re right to wonder what particular features might catapult a Porta-Pottie from merely a welcomed surprise to “Unbelievable!” in a blog. Well-finished FRP construction, elevated above the ground and served by elegant aluminum stairs, ventilated by generous windows and stocked with three-ply toilet paper, these Best-In-Show Porta-Potties get a tip of the wide-brimmed hat from this grateful sojourner.

Tip 'o the Hat to "Unbelievable!"

The marina at Portneuf is nestled behind an enormous circular stone jetty and even though I’m reluctant to give up the great conditions that have enabled me to rack up a 45 mile + day, this looks like a good place to put in. The chart suggests I’d be pushing it if I rolled the dice any further. The boat and I are looking a little weatherworn as I grab the dock at the marina and before I can get out of the boat, a small crowd gathers. In my halting French accent I explain my situation and ask if I might pitch a tent somewhere nearby and within minutes, Hospitality is defined. The boat next to me delivers two cold beers and a plate of bread and pate’. Two cold beers and pate’, Gentle Reader, delivered-to-the-boat. De-liv-er-ed. Nancy, the marina manager, not only consents to my request about the tent but augments the beer with a dinner reservation.

The Boss Delivers...thanks, Nancy!

Dany and (yet another) Nancy applaud my madness and soon present me with a bowl of incredibly delicious freshly-picked strawberries, lamenting that Americans are too fixated on California produce and should look to the north, not to the west, for quality. Based on these plump berries and their congeniality (berries and hosts), I agree wholeheartedly.

Berries Across the Border?

This is a friendly place indeed and I immediately feel at home. Refreshed by a shower and basking in celebrity, I look forward to a great dinner and a sound night’s sleep before my assault on Quebec City tomorrow. But before I turn in, can I jump up on my soapbox for a minute?

I sit at the rail of a balcony overlooking the basin of the marina, the St Lawrence outside, and the vertical granite cliffs of the far shore bathed in the pink light of sunset. Silos and rich green fields direct one’s view to the horizon and painted clouds beyond. Two freighters ply the river, laboring north, sending up elegant bow waves and lending an oceanic tincture to a decidedly rural portrait. Seated across from me amid this splendor are two couples and two boys, ages eight and twelve, I’d guess, waiting for their dinners as well. The couples are engaged in animated conversation that I wish I could comprehend. The boys are looking into their respective screens.

The tankers pass. Sailboats are turning in for the night. The place is abuzz and yet settling in, a wonderful tableau…and soon, dinner is served.

The boys do not look up.

The boys do not look up from their screens for seventy minutes.

No conversation, no social contact, not a word is spoken as fingers fly. There is no sighting of the tankers, no glances upwards as meals arrive or acknowledgment of a service provided. The food is shoveled in around the sightlines to the screens. Chewing is labored when it takes place at all. Eyes are glazed…almost unblinking. The (assumed) parents regale one another while the boys- for seventy minutes- are in a different world...and are left to stay there.

I remember learning a lot from watching and listening to my parents and their friends in social settings. I remember fighting boredom with the power of my imagination. I even remember being miserable in settings where I wanted to run around and explore but had to remain at the table. I remember, too, the warmth of acknowledgment now and then, being invited into a snippet of an adult conversation, a moment of community and acknowledgment, a brick in the foundation of  maturity.

Many of those of you who know me may see my concerns about the screen lives of our young as a fixation, but I have to ask: What will these boys remember of this pristine night in Portneuf? Where did those seventy minutes go? What might this new construct suggest about their futures?

Overly dramatic, perhaps? I hope so. I really do.

Tomorrow: Quebec City at last?

      

        

   

Day 8, July 4: Delaware River, Part Deux?

No pictures today. It would be that kind of day.

Last night’s spaghetti did little to calm my anticipation of my first day on the St Lawrence. I was in the boat at 5:15 in the morning, wanting to take advantage of the perfect calm and quiet of the hour in order to acclimate myself to the river ahead. Trois-Rivieres was only about 40 miles downstream and while I was confident about reaching it with plenty of time to spare, I didn’t want waning daylight as an added variable along with other unknowns that I might face along the way.

The absolute quiet of the morning reminded me that I was departing on my own for the first time in over 700 miles. Matt no doubt was curled up in his featherbed in Saratoga at this very moment and I missed the easy banter, relaxed confidence, and motivational cadence of his company. 2010’s Row, Canada! adventure came to mind as well: eighteen days, 502 miles, all in Brian’s company. Pushing off on my own this morning evoked an afternoon in 1974 when Ron, my flight instructor, told me to come to a full stop on the runway after the third touch-and-go, climbed out of the plane, and shouted over his shoulder, “You’re ready. Go fly.”

Could “Go row” be any more challenging? Let’s see.

It was still dark but the combined lights from Sorel and Tracy, the well-marked channel buoys, an easily discernable shoreline, and the inevitability of morning light within the hour fed my urgency to get going right now. The boat was a bit lighter for the stuff I’d sent home with Matt and Courtney and, combined with the current, a steady 18 rpm yielded an easy 6 mph over a black mirror. My small wake described parallel silver slivers across the glass as the city lights receded behind me. It felt good to be underway again, and Trois-Rivieres seemed right around the corner: calm water, a following current, plenty of time, a lighter boat, and strong resolve seemed an unbeatable hand.

Obviously, I don’t play cards.

Two hours later, in rain but good light, I reached the large open lake that pretty much defines the passage between Sorel and Trois-Rivieres. Shallow outside of the shipping channel, eight or ten miles across at its widest point, and with no high ground on either side, this is the kind of water that can hammer a small boat when the wind comes up. In 2005, the Delaware River had taught me how wind-driven waves over the shallows can create the kind of frequency and sharp crests that quickly overwhelm a low-freeboarded boat like mine, so prudence suggested a shoreline course rather than staying in the channel and putting four or five miles of water on each side of the boat.

Sadly, I picked the wrong shore. Nature’s single card soon trumped my full hand.

Within an hour of my course along the southerly(westerly) side, a strong northeast wind kicked up (but of course!), quickly building nasty sharp-crested two-footers that compelled me to bail more than row . I was soon driven into the shallows and tall grass of shore. By 9:30 I’d covered twenty miles, already halfway to TR, but I was pinned in the tall grass by waves that would quickly overwhelm me if I ventured out again into the open water.

This was a low moment. It was raining hard. I was cold and essentially immobilized. No docks, no people, no progress, no alternatives appeared within my reach.

I called Peg. Sitting in the swamp in the rain, shivering, looking at the whitecaps hitting the grass offshore, I might even have whined a bit. She asked me how much further to TR, hun, and I said, “Maybe twenty miles.” I asked her what time it was. She said, “9:30.” Her voice helped. The moment stuck, a moment emblematic of how past experience can sometimes buoy one’s confidence and steel one’s resolve. It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was 20 miles from my destination.

Gentle Reader, I’m not a math guy but sitting in the rain in the swamp, even I could run these numbers: If I rowed until dark, roughly eleven hours from that very moment, I could make my destination (or hit spittin’ distance to TR) by sustaining an average of 1.8 mph. 1.8. 1.8. One-point-eight. Eleven hours. Eleven hours to dryness. Out of the swamp. Off of this Canadian version of the loathed Delaware River.

Considering the New Math (20/11= 1.8), I then took stock of what I knew to be true:

1.      I have rowed nonstop for eleven hours before, and I felt prepared to do it again if I had to.

2.      If I was to change my current state, I would have to.

3.      1.8 mph, about the pace of a child ambling across the family room to grab his/her favorite toy (or to get out of a cold rain), was also within my ability.

4.      I could not traverse the open water in these conditions, but I could slog through the high grass of the bordering marsh. The grass, a buffer of surface turbulence, beats down the waves even though it poses great friction and resistance to the hull and oars.

5.      Weather changes. I had eleven hours until dark. It could change for the worse, but I had the grass. If it changed for the better, I’d be in clover. Or gravy. Whatever.

6.      Sitting in the boat grousing was getting old. It was time to go.

Eric Burden and the Animals sang the classic “We’ve Got To Get Out of This Place” in the 60’s, and it became my adopted anthem on Lac St Pierre. It wasn’t pretty or easy and it hardly looked like rowing, but for the next four hours I kept 1.8 as the baseline on the GPS as I slogged through tall grasses and weeds, occasionally having to stand up in the boat to get a sightline on a course. I could hear the cresting waves of the open water over the whistling of the wind in the grass. It would be a long day unless…..unless…..

…unless the wind began to shift from north to westerly which, by mid-afternoon, became apparent as I continued my occasional prairie-dog sightings from the swamp. Could it be? That blasted crosswind was now veering around to become a blessed tailwind and, to make a long story short, by 3:00 I stuck my nose into the open water and caught a quartering tailwind and manageable waves towards Trois-Rivieres.  Clover and gravy. And I was out of that place and into the Trois-Rivieres marina by five thirty.

The marina would be happy to accept $20 for dockage for the rest of the day but would not let me camp out, but I didn’t really care. I was that tired. I told them that I was writing a blog and that their hospitality would be broadcast to the world and wouldn’t that be nice? They said no, no, don’t do that; doing so will only encourage more vagrants like yourself to visit our facility.

So, back in the boat, I hit the beach at a public campsite that I’d passed a bit upstream, ate tuna out of a drypack, and slept like a stone.

Oh, it was the 4^th of July, wasn’t it?

Clover and gravy, everyone. Clover and gravy.

     

 

Day 7, July 3: Cause for a Pause

Today, Day 7, is for rejuvenating , re-provisioning, and re-orienting. Courtney is on her way north from Saratoga to retrieve Matt; she’ll arrive in his truck looking as fresh as if she’d just bopped down to the corner store for the paper instead of having traveled 250 miles and through Customs before breakfast.

In the meantime, Matt and I have work to do.

Up off the dock after a night on the boards, Matt cleans his boat and packages his stuff for the trip home while I decide what to send back from my own too-heavy stores. I’ve been freighting around clothes I will not use, gear I will not get to, and gadgets I don’t even know how to deploy, and it’s time to shed a few pounds from the boat. After an hour of intense decision-making, two sea bags and the detritus of a week on the water are culled from my boat for the trip south in the truck; my boat is now lighter and marginally faster; less is more!

Clean up that room!

This morning I also covet the newer mechanicals in Matt’s boat; after all, the building St Lawrence is no place for equipment failure, right? Our boats are identical, but Matt's borrowed boat is very-low mileage while mine is showing some worrisome wear and tear. We wonder whether Bob Ashton will object to some temporary swapping-out of parts from his boat and while we debate his response, we swap out the parts: new floorboards, the rails for the sliding seat, and the sliding seat itself are purloined and installed in Old Paint while Bob’s boat takes on the old gear.   

Later that day I call Bob to ask permission. Whew. Knew he would. This is the stuff of friendship.

Courtney arrives right on schedule at 0930 and Telemachus morphs back into McGuyver, master rigger, as Matt secures Bob’s boat to the truck. Straps, ratchets, and lines knit it all together and within ten minutes they are good to go. (I make this point now only because later on it will take me, the alleged tree for this acorn, the better part of two hours to tie my boat (badly) onto my Mini. I have no such intuition about straps, ratchets, lines, and such.)

Courtney cheerfully jumps into the passenger seat for the rest of her 500 mile-day (Unsung Heroine Award #2!), Matt gives me the big bear-hug and as they pull away from the marina, I find myself welling up for a minute. Great kids, a wonderful week, the blessing of sharing….Al is a lucky man for a host of reasons that have nothing to do with rowing.

Time to get back to work; this may be a day off the water, but there are things to do.

We have rowed off the charts and I head off to find a map of the St Lawrence. Sure, I could have procured charts at any freaking time during the four freaking months that have passed since I hatched this freaking plan, but why would I do that when I could struggle at the very last minute? After walking around for a bit I find a map that covers the next leg to Quebec City but nothing for the waters beyond to the Saguenay. Quebec City is a big place, I reason. Surely I will find my next necessary charts there, right? Sounds reasonable, yes? This is the way I operate, Gentle Reader: superficially reasonable logic meeting uncooperative reality.

Anyway, when I return to the marina from my MapQuest, I spot Phil and his 42’ Beneteau at a public dock about half a mile away, a massive crane on the pier holding his 50’mast high in the air while he crouches on the deck trying to guide it all into place. His wife, sitting on a bench back at the marina, calmly suggests that I might consider joining this tableau. I note her furrowed brow.

Never having raised a mast so consequently not feeling very much like the cavalry coming to the rescue, I nevertheless quickly clamber down the steel rungs of the pier in time to “help” Phil with the placement of the foot of the mast into an impossibly tight fitting on deck. Even a child could see that there is no tolerance for error in this procedure. “I’ve never done this before, Phil,” I confess, “but I’ll do what you need me to do.” Phil advises me that this is a first for him as well…quite an admission as fifty feet of aluminum seeking a home bobs over our heads with each passing wave and wake. “But I’ve seen it done before.” Last night over cocktails on this very boat I learned of Phil’s engineering and design background, and it is the recent memory of this conversation that sustains my hope.

High above us, out of earshot but responding to our hastily contrived hand signals, the crane operator moves the mast in small increments as we try to guide this huge spear to the target. Since the boat is in the water and the deck is moving, the target is in perpetual motion. Holding this mast in place by hand is impossible; its mass is too great. All we can do is use the motion of the boat to “guide” it to a metal fitting on the cabin roof, and it takes many tries to finally get a hit. But it’s the spaghetti mix of stainless steel shrouds and stays that actually holds a mast in a vertical position, so while the crane guy holds the new line on the mast, we quickly scramble to affix the hardware. Excitement builds for me when, for some reason or other, I look over my shoulder and notice a huge freighter heading our way. It’s generating a very large cresting wake that will reach us in probably five minutes or so and if the mast is not standing independently and secure by then, who knows? The crane operator sees this unfolding drama as well and, after a surprising eye roll, smiles and shrugs. (I say “surprising” only because an eye roll is not what I‘d expect from a crane operator at a poignant moment such as this.) Phil, to his credit, misses this silent exchange and has his head down, doing the necessary work, totally focused, taking it step-by step, calmly giving me my next task which can best complement his task.

Gotta love an unflappable, sequentially-thinking engineer. I bet he has all of his charts, too.

And...hey, where is McGuyver? This is his bread and butter!

Depiction of the relative mechanical skills of McGuyver and his father 

Anyway, hours later, as we toast the apparently successful completion of this task back at the marina in the cockpit of the Beneteau, the mast towering straight and true above us, I secretly both wish and lament the fact that I’ll not be on this boat when the sail is next raised and real tension and torque is applied to this assembly.

The proof will be in the pudding, as they say….but I’ll be sitting at a different table. I hope it all works out.

Sunset in Sorel

 

Tomorrow will come early. Spaghetti in Sorel, then early to bed.