As I write
this entry at my mom’s dock at Lake George, back where Matt and I started
exactly two weeks ago, I’m reminded of Ricky Ricardo’s line, I’ve “got some ‘splainin’ to do.”
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.
So here I
am, back at the lake. It’s a vigil of sorts, if still from a bit of a distance,
but it feels like the right thing to do and the right place to be.
So the row
is on hold…or, is it?
As
previously noted, the boat is stored at Auberge Le Cormoran & Le Domaine
Belle Plage at Baie St Paul, a charming inn about 60 miles short of the
Saguenay River. Proprietors Nicole and Daniel, exhibiting the hospitality typical
of so many on this route, have allowed me to store my boat alongside their barn
adjacent to a freshly planted flower garden, and the detritus of my cargo is
tucked inside.
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| Guideboat's present home |
In
addition, as I packed up, Adam, a nearby summer neighbor who resides in Montreal,
provided wonderful commentary of Baie St. Paul and guided me to a magical shortcut
to the bus station.
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| Prettiest walk ever to a bus station....n'est-ce pas? |
The boat will be safe until Peg and I return, and I am enormously appreciative
of my hosts’ generosity of spirit in allowing me to maintain an outpost.
So, again
you ask, is the row on hold?
Gentle
Reader, your question has been on my mind since I sledged the boat through the
mud into Baie St. Paul on Wednesday.
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| Stuck in the mud...lower right. Muddie' Pate' la Baie? |
Since leaving Quebec City, I’ve come to experience what my
research and those with local knowledge have stated without exception: this
stretch of the St Laurence River is truly the beginning of the North Atlantic Ocean.
The tides and currents are far stronger than my own horsepower; when those
forces are in full play, I can only point the boat, I cannot propel or direct it.
The fog which instantaneously enveloped me on Tuesday morning put me into
complete white-out conditions; I had read of sailors navigating in pea-soup solely
by the sound of the waves crashing on shore…and now I’ve had to do it out of
necessity. Keeping situational awareness of the seaward cresting waves looking
to spill you while staying off shore just enough not to lose touch with it is
pretty exciting….and might I add, harrowing. The winds that turn in an instant
and, in pressing against tide or the current, create funnel waves through which
I simply cannot row without being rolled are no longer abstract ideas inspiring
caution: they’re scary, and they arise in minutes as water and winds shift. But
most sobering of all is the price one would pay for a single mistake in these
conditions. The water at this point in the St Laurence is bone-crushingly cold.
Yes, I wear a safety vest, but it would be of little help in water that would
render me hypothermic and helpless within minutes, with no prospect of help. These
are truly Varsity conditions and more than a few times on Tuesday and Wednesday
I recognized that my appetite for adventure and moderate skill as an oarsman
were placing me in circumstances of real peril with no tolerance for error. Six
inches of freeboard at the beam are all that separate me from the most
dangerous environment I’ve ever encountered -frigid, turbulent, remote waters,
flash fogs and deep-water rapids- and do I really have to rely on Clint
Eastwood to pose the key questions? “Are you feeling lucky, punk?” and, of
course, “A man has to know his limitations.”
Last night
my mom reflected that maybe Jane’s turn for the worse, as sad and poignant for
all of us as it is, is a kind of small gift to her that got me, her son, off
the water in time to really think through my next decision. When I go back up
to Baie St. Paul, do I get back in the boat and continue the row, seasoned by
caution? Or, as Adam urged me when he said goodbye on Wednesday, should I
consider my journey sufficiently meritorious at this moment and put the boat on
the roof of the Mini…finis, complete, ferme’?
Yesterday
Peg offered an elegant compromise, one which is sticking to the ribs this
morning as perhaps a fitting ending: put the boat on the Mini, drive to the Saguenay
River, wait for proper conditions, suit up, and row her, Tiny Timmy, and myself
out a ways to see and hear the whales.
I’m liking
this idea.
So, to be
sure, until my boat is resting back on the dock here in home waters, the Sojourn
to Saguenay will continue. I still have a lot to think and write about….some
events and people and ideas that deserve mulling and reflection if only for my
own sense of closure. I want to tell you more about Helen and Phil from Essex, Nancy of Portneuf, Gerald and Denise of Levy/Quebec City,
Adam of Baie St Paul, rejection at Camp Dudley and Trois Riviere, unconditional
hospitality everywhere else, sobering evidence of emerging Canadian (hence
worldwide) screen addiction, my first seal, my first whale, my night spent wrapped
in a rain tarp on the beach, the heroic role of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Matt’s
emerging ambitions as an America’s Cup competitor,
and of course my
own sobering confrontation with a limitation after thousands of miles in my
guideboat….so much to remember and to save, and maybe some of it will be
amusing enough to be of interest.
All of this
is trivia in the context of Jane’s and her family's circumstances, 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.
Big ups,
Al
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