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.            

Intermission, Part Deux

I know, I know, you want to get back on the row, and so do I, but these next few strokes are simply to document our (Peg, Timmy, and me) present (7/27) return from Quebec with Old Paint on board.

Mini with a Mohawk

 We collected the boat and my gear at Baie St Paul this week and then spent four days gooning around the Charlevoix/Saguenay area, and what a beautiful part of the world it is! While a mid-January visit might assault our opinions of “habitability,” the grandeur of this area as a summer destination is breathtaking. We dipped our toes in the frigid waters, climbed into a Zodiac for a whale watch at the mouth of the Saguenay River, and enjoyed the cuisine and hospitality of the area; I saw my first Beluga and Humpback whales (way cool), ate my first Canadian Chinese food (at a pizza shack…not as rewarding as seeing the whales), and of course asked myself each day if I could have/should have continued from Baie St Paul to Saguenay. The short of it is that I think I made the right call.

 So….this travelogue of our return will now give way to the resumption of the row, but not without the encouragement to any and all of you to visit our Neighbors to the North. Quebec is not far away but if you are pressed for time or money, a visit there can act as a reasonable surrogate for a trip across the Big Pond, I think, with the added benefit that French Canadians are still engaged with disco in ways that Americans (or the French) are not. For a child of the 60’s, the car radio in Quebec is a jukebox.

Now…back to the row!

There we were, pushing off for our second day on the Richelieu, yet another early south wind building behind us….