…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 18th 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. |
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.
