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.