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.