August 13: Blog Finis….or Page One?

Greetings, Gentle Reader,                                                                         

To add to the confusion of the time travel that has characterized this blog, this final entry may ultimately introduce the book, Sojourn to Saguenay, which could augment your coffee table collection of Row, Canada! (2011), Locked Up, Locked Down (2008), and The Big Row (2006). My appetite to leave behind an old-timey print edition of this summer’s row is simply a manifestation of my Techno-Peasant temperament, so don’t order one up if you don’t want to. No pressure. But if you’re in the Inner Circle and have just received your signed copy in the mail or under your windshield wiper….well, enjoy!

My ten weeks of “summer enrichment and professional development” have been dominated and defined by only thirteen days of intense experience. While I might include my tepid preparation or this subsequent flurry of writing activity as a part of the rowing experience, in truth there is nothing quite like being underway in the boat, focused on the water, one’s body, and the unfolding day, stroke by stroke. I now pause more than a few times each day with a flashback of my time on the Richelieu or Lake Champlain, of the magnificent waters of the St Lawrence, or of coming to grips with nature and my own limits along the coast of the mountainous Charlevoix region.

If I print this all up in a bound volume, I’ll have to wrestle with the title. After all, I never made it to Saguenay by water; the boat was strapped to the roof of the Mini when Peg and I viewed the mouth of the river. Perhaps it’ll have to be Sojourn Towards Saguenay or even Sojourn to Saguenay, Part I ….if I intend to complete the trip someday.

The good news is that I was able to cover about 425 miles during the thirteen days of this adventure.... good work, perhaps, for a largely chair-bound fellow (Ouch! That’s too close to “large chair-bound fellow”) on the cusp of his 63^rd birthday. The reality is that I had intended to proceed 100 miles further but didn’t… and therein lies my lesson for the summer.

In retrospect, I’m fortunate to have experienced the severity of adversity that I faced in July. More than two thousand miles had led to overconfidence, a too-flip and casual attitude about “learning along the way” and accommodating trials as they emerged, a relaxed fatalism regarding what might be around the next bend or out of the next bay. This approach worked until it didn’t and when it didn’t, I had no margin for error. I’m pleased that I am able to write about all of this in the past tense, in my own voice, with the possibility of a sequel. Brian would have written a great memorial reflection, I am sure…. but happily, it will have to wait.

 Peace, love, and happiness,

Day 13, July 10: When is over 'over'?

I spent the rest of the day on the 9^th wrestling with my decision to stop the row as well as luxuriating, I must admit, in the shower and soft bed at the B&B. I knew that the safe and logical thing to do was to call it quits here at Baie St. Paul: 425 miles was not a totally shameful effort, and escalating conditions ahead beyond those that had so challenged me over the last two days all pointed towards this logical conclusion. And the news from Jane’s family was more than the capper; it was indeed time to go home.

Yet as I put the boat and my gear in storage by the barn across the road from the pier, I kept looking out at the river. Alternatingly calm and inviting, roiling and white-capped, the variability I was witnessing virtually hour-by-hour from the security of land represented the real danger. Just two or three days of concentrated effort would get me to the Saguenay river if normal conditions prevailed, but the “normalcy” of this region was volatility.

A Pretty Spot for a Boat to Wait.....

I was so close…yet so far.

Packing to catch the bus home that afternoon, I felt disappointment on a bunch of levels. I’d come up short on my stated destination for the first time in five long rows and over 2,000 miles. At any moment I could get back in the boat and try again, but I’d elected not to. In trying again, I would no doubt have another exciting adventure, right? Why not go? Was I losing spirit? Was 62 (now 63!) making itself felt? I again missed Matt’s company and counsel. I don’t know whether his capable presence and companionship would have spurred us both on or whether he would have said, “Pop, it’s beyond us; it’s time to fold ‘em.” I do know that I would have listened, and I missed his voice.

And then there was Alec, my Sage of Baie St Paul, who wandered down later in the afternoon to say hello and to applaud me for my good judgment. His respect for the St Lawrence was driven by a lifetime of observation far beyond my own single week of experience, and I’d like to think that his experience and candor enriched my “good judgment” at this moment.

So the packing continued and Nicole, Daniel, and Christian, my collegial hosts at Auberge Le Cormoran & Le Domaine Belle PLage, agreed to watch over my stuff while I was gone. Alec then guided me to the bus station along the most delightful path to any bus station, anywhere.

Gentle Reader, earlier in this blog I’ve already recounted most that has happened since: the overnight in Montreal’s bus station, Jane’s passing, Peg’s generosity and spirit in accompanying me back to Quebec, Timmy’s role in getting us through Customs and such. But as I gaze at this photo of the path to the bus station, the obvious closing metaphor forces its way to the page….

Sublime can supplant stupendous. Gentle closure, be it a walk down a grassy path to a bus station or a loving family gathered around a bedside, can trump the dramatic. Just trying hard can indeed rival clear accomplishment if one’s head is on right. And as Alec escorted me down this path, I wondered whether relying on the best natures of others, giving yourself over to the possibility of acceptance and hospitality and to rejection as well, teaches us more about ourselves than about anything else. On this short trip I’d met Peter, Phil and Helen, Denise and Gerald, Nancy and Nancy and Daniel, Nicole and Daniele and Christian, Michael and of course Alec…..and many others whose names I’d neglected to record but whose kindnesses will be paid forward.

At a moment when CNN, the background noise to this writing, conveys global challenges of every shape and form, my own insignificant sojourn suggests that countless unseen acts of compassion and unconditional kindness are the most important stories of all.

Thanks for having joined me.

Love, and be kind,

Al

Day 11, July 7: The New Longest Day, Part I

As I was setting up my tent in a drizzle last night, an envoy from a group dining inside appeared and asked if I might be interested in sleeping in the gazebo on the side yard. “Better for the rain, yes?” she questioned in lilting English. “Ah, yes,” I replied gratefully, wondering why I could not shake my own lilting English French accent. Apparently they’d followed my arrival from across the river through the rain, and the amusement provided by my Snoopy-like wrestling match with my tent had earned me a much-improved set-up for the night. (Note to file: the hard plank floor of a dry gazebo at Levy at the invitation of friendly diners is far preferable to bootless groveling at the Quebec Yacht Club.)

Room with a View: Quebec City from the window of my gazebo.

 

As I quaffed a pre-bedtime libation in the restaurant- something carrying tonic, for resisting the bugs, of course- I met Gerald and Denise. They lived aboard a sailboat here at the marina, and I asked them if they knew where I might purchase charts for the waters to Saguenay. I had run off my map as I arrived in Quebec City, and I knew I’d be heading into large stretches of unpopulated shoreline ahead. My day had also taught me that the water was changing rapidly; this was no longer a charming river delivering me gently to my destination. Gerald said, “Meet me here at 9:30 tomorrow; I have charts for you.” How easy! 9:30 was on the late side for me, but I immediately recalled the scene in Casablanca when the young lovers, desperate to escape, arrange a meeting with Captain Renault to receive their coveted visa.

The young man declares, “We’ll be at your office at 7, Captain.”

“Fine,” replies Renault. “I’ll be there at 10.”

So I was there this morning at 9:30 and Claude was right on time, carrying a bundle of charts under his arm along with something of an appetite for breakfast. His lovely wife Denise accompanied him, and we talked of things Canadian, global, and personal. A musician, Gerald had also spent his career as a principle figure representing artists in labor negotiations in the US, Canada, and abroad. Between liberal forkfuls of hash browns and rye toast, I offered that he should be teaching labor relations and exploring issues of equity with the next generation before so much of his incredible experience is lost. Gerald's stories evoked what recalled reading and even experiencing in my own career….Sinclair Lewis, Walter Reuther, Saul Alinsky, Studs Terkel…all somehow rolled up in my compelling, passionate, principled breakfast companion. Incredible perspectives…a delightful couple....

Gerald and Denise bid me a Bon Voyage before The Mal Voyage.

 And..zoot alours! The Charts!

Gerald’s chart collection represented a collection of maps of waters from Quebec City to Saguenay…from which two middle maps were missing. My first mistake of the day was to elect to push off that morning with an incomplete set, putting me in the dark (literally, as I would find out that night…..) for over forty miles of coastline. In retrospect, this was an incomprehensibly bad call. After all, I’d had my confidence badly shaken yesterday, I had done a pretty realistic job of assessing the mistakes in judgment I had made…and yet here I was at almost noon, pushing off from Quebec City with incomplete charts into fifty miles of essentially uninhabited coastline of increasingly oceanic conditions with 40% of my path- and tonight’s probable landfall- “off the charts” in my possession.

Armchair Analysis: On August 22nd, 2006, I faced what I thought of as “The Longest Day” in an epic struggle to exit the Delaware River for the Chesapeake as I rowed from Troy, NY, to Baltimore. That day and night I covered 62 miles in 17 hours in bad conditions and, at the end, against a building tide, arrived in a heap on a dock at one in the morning. In Quebec I found myself comparing this kind of previous experience to my current situation, finding confidence that “I could do it” because I’d faced tough sledding before. I knew the tides were much, much stronger here in Canada, as was the flow of the St Lawrence. I knew that the water temperature of the Delaware was as that of a bathtub compared to the quick hypothermia underneath me now. And I knew that I had a rocky, unapproachable, and largely uninhabited coastline ahead as opposed to the refuge of marshes and glades of the Delaware. I knew all of this because I’d experienced it in Technicolor®, Surround-Sound®, and Reality® just yesterday…and yet I allowed an incomparable earlier experience cloud my judgment and fuel my boyish enthusiasm on this July departure.

It perhaps also bears noting that I was soon to be 63 years old this morning, not newly 55. When you’re 63, details like this matter.

So I pushed off - too late in the day, underequipped, and overconfident- for the final leg of my journey. I’d soon have a new standard of comparison for a “Longest Day,” one which I’d be grateful to have lived…and passed.     

 

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….

July 11, 2014 - An Important Pause

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.

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.

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.

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

 

               

 

          

June 29, 2014 - Mooney Bay NY

Matt rigged up an awesome sail and he and Al coasted for a while today, but on the whole our rowers will be glad to leave the big waters of Champlain tomorrow for the Richelieu River.   They covered 38 miles and are spending the night in Mooney Bay, only 12 miles from the Canadian border.

They're well-positioned to clear US customs tomorrow by what they've heard is the closing time of noon.

June 24, 2014: Training by Actually Rowing

The Think System is behind me. Yesterday I climbed into my boat and rowed.  

Resetting the ergonomics of the sliding seat, ensuring the proper security and lubrication of the oarlocks, arranging the handy little bungee cords I use to secure stuff along the sides…to be honest, all of this took longer to accomplish than the actual seven-mile initial outing. And to be totally honest - and why not be?- this brief foray on the water was itself punctuated by two separate coffee stops: Brian’s house is 2.2 miles north of my mom’s, and I can always count on him for a strong cup ‘o Joe, great insights on the news, and the epiphany that if we both head north for 1.3 miles more, Bob and Tina will augment our coffee with muffins until, well, until it’s time to head home.

That’s how I got to seven miles, four cups of coffee, and two muffins by noon yesterday.  

“Al,” you may be asking, “what did seven miles, four leisurely cups, and two Everything Muffies teach you yesterday about your state of preparedness for your journey?

Yours is a fair and good question, Gentle Reader, one that should be considered in the incubator of history. In 1969, Apollo 11 took one and one half preliminary orbits around the earth, going nowhere but checking systems and gaining steam before heading off to the moon. But nobody sits down next to you in a diner, stares into the curdled cream in his coffee, and sighs, “Man, those Apollo guys sure were something to take those extra one and one half orbits before they headed off to the moon….” And when Indy was over, did anybody ask, “Hey, how many warm-up laps did Ryan Hunter-Reay take before that flag went down?”  I think not. And Hillary? She traveled 956,733 miles as Secretary of State, far more than I will in the coming weeks. Does anyone ever ask how far she rowed before she started her remarkable round of itinerant diplomacy?

I rest my case. We each prepare in our own ways. But the chickens will come home to roost on Friday morning at 7AM when the orbits end, the flag does down, the wheels go up, and Saguenay sits 560 miles off the bow.

Today, I rest. It’s my way.

Mo’ latah!

Al    

June 20, 2014: Still training. Training hard(ly).

Whew! Today I washed and waxed the Mini. “Wax on, wax off….wax on, wax off….” I imagined the stoical Mr. Miyagi standing by, arms folded, nodding imperceptibly as long-dormant musculature came back to life, generously overlooking the fact that Daniel-san was 14 back in ’84 and had something to work with. The Mini, significantly smaller than the ’46 Buick that was the object of the Karate Kid’s labors, enabled me to stumble inside to a training Guinness (“a food, not beer”) before any real damage was done.

“So much, for now, regarding the motor’s continuing overhaul, Al. Don’t let it get tedious. But what about the hull? What are you rowing?”  

Ah, Gentle Reader, thanks for the counsel and candor. You’re right. I’m (usually) only a few keystrokes from tedious if not already over the line. Let me try to pull it back from the edge.

Permit me to offer a tip ‘o the wide-brimmed hat and this link to the Adirondack Guide Boat Company in Vergennes, Vermont.  http://www.adirondack-guide-boat.com/ Having rowed my guide boat for more than a few thousands of miles through all kinds of weather, water, and “inadvertent contacts,” I can assure you that any superlative that these otherwise modest craftsmen ascribe to their boats is grossly understated.  Easily driven, stable under a load, and as durable as Vermont craftsmanship and Kevlar can make her, the Adirondack guide boat is the perfect vessel for this kind of trip. And if an elegant sheer line between plumb ends defines “salty good looks,” she’s got that, too. During The Big Row in ’06, I suggested that if parents ditched the jet-skis and put their kids into one of these boats instead, threw in a jug of water and some tuna sandwiches and told them to get lost for a few days, lives -and the environment- would improve. Better yet, if the parents themselves parked the Clorox Bottle, picked up the oars and a saucy Merlot and adopted, if only for a few days, the liberating spirit of enlightened discomfiture, things- big things- would be better yet.

So tomorrow (Saturday) I’ll actually climb into my boat for the first time this year and yes, the training (as defined by actually rowing) will indeed begin in earnest. I’ve already slapped some fresh varnish on the gunwales and oars, and it’s a tribute to these boats that so little has to be done to ensure safety for so long. Hands must harden and, to be honest, derrieres must acclimate (TMI?), as these are the repetitive-motion contact points with boat, but Old Paint herself is resting…waiting…ready.

No wax on, wax off for her.

Let’s just get going, she says.        

Big ups..’mo latah.

Al

June 19, 2014: This is Training?

I’m eight days away from pushing off on a 550 mile row, and I have yet to touch an oar since 2013.

“So, Al, exactly how have you planned to be ready? Surely there must be some preparatory activity in advance of, like, you know, the actual…rowing?”

Ah, Gentle Reader, an understandable question. And in asking it, I can pick up an endearing hint of concern in your voice, the tone one might hear six miles down the road in being asked, “Honey, did you turn off the oven?”

Let’s see. Training.

Well, Peg and I are on Chicken Duty this week, taking care of the ten chickens and six chicklets that live right around the corner from our apartment here on campus. If you were to accompany us on a typical round, you might readily agree that Chicken Duty counts as training, calling as it does for perseverance (waiting out a chicken as she decides whether or not to enter the coop at the end of the day), pain tolerance (absorbing the relentless pecks of the chicklets before you can place the feeding tray on the ground), and self-discipline (“Get up and do it again,” as Jackson Browne sang in ’76; the chickens are there every day, day after day. So, of course, is Saguenay.)

Not sufficiently rigorous? Well there’s more, of course:

Since The Norton Center for the Common Good is moving to new quarters this summer, I filled several boxes with books and papers- heavy books and dense papers- and then I deconstructed my Harkness Table which was built by a guy who does not know the meaning of “portability”.

I got a haircut on Tuesday and ate Sushi.

I walked to town for stamps on Wednesday. I’ll need stamps, I think, and I went to get them.

I watched Shark Girl on cable last night.

I’ve eaten a lot of the perishables in the ‘fridge. Can’t have them going bad while I’m gone.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this row, and I’ve been looking at maps.

OK, OK….I see your point: there’s not a lot of rigor here. It may be that as on other rowing adventures, I‘ll get in shape by getting into the boat on 6/27 and starting to row. But there’s something to say about Professor Harold Hill’s inspired “Think System” (The Music Man, 1962). Hill, you may recall, opines, “You don’t have to bother with the notes” in mastering music. In the end the kids play the music, the parents are delighted, Hill is vindicated, and he gets the girl…a happy ending all around. Maybe I don’t need to bother too much with the strokes yet, either?

I’ll leave the Sojourn to Saguenay metaphor to you, Gentle Reader. You’ll do fine.

   

June 17, 2014

Greetings, Gentle Reader, and welcome aboard!

What follows, the documentation of my fifth rowing sojourn of significance (if one defines “significant” as, umm, like, well,uh….a few weeks on the water) may entertain, it may even enthrall, or it may more likely cure insomnia, but it necessarily follows in the wake of accounts of my earlier aquatic journeys:The Big Row (Albany, NY to Baltimore), Locked Up, Locked Down (The Erie Canal), Mr. Frei Rows to Washington, and Row Canada (Kingston, Ontario to Cleverdale, NY) are all in the books…the last one covering 502 miles over 18 days with Brian Rooney rowing gamely alongside as a wingman.http://mrfreicanadianrow11.blogspot.com/

This summer will be different.

“Different how, Al?” you may be wondering.

Good question, Gentle Reader.  Here’s how.

First, I will be starting in my home waters, not finishing there. The Big Row (Troy to Baltimore) featured a tumultuous welcome in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor by friends, Fox News, and even my own mother. At that time I was living in Baltimore, so “home waters” fits, right? The Erie Canal adventure ended in Troy, where I was born….the very definition of “home waters,”yes? Row Canada finished at the Lake George Club and a lobster; I’m not a member, but it’s close to my mom’s camp on the lake…so let’s call it “home” for the sake of adhering to atoo-hastily contrived theme, OK?

So here’s what’s up this time around: At O-Dawn-Early on 6/27,I’ll push off from my mom’s dock on Lake George, row north up Lake George, up Lake Champlain, and then up the Richelieu River to the St. Lawrence Seaway where I’ll hook a hard right towards- and then past- Quebec. I’ll hang a hard left when I get to the Saguenay River, meandering north as far as time and body will allow, finishing (I’m estimating) 550 miles or so from home waters in the vicinity of Lac St Jean. No bands, no Fox News (thank God), no glitter or glitz will mark my arrival - just a boy and his boat, a bit worse for the wear but enriched by the experience, slogging ashore, a bit thinner, perhaps, falling into Peg’s embrace and then into the Mini for a ride home.

Second, I’ll be starting with a wingman….but not finishing with him. My dear son Matt has procured a matching boat and will accompany me for the first 150 miles or so- maybe more if we get lucky with the winds on Champlain- and I could not be happier to have his company. He has to split after five days to get back to work, so along the way I may regale him with the virtues of the academic life and an academic calendar which make missing work in July…Ha! Academic! Anecdotally, among Matt’s very many virtues is his certification as a massage therapist, just the kind of guy an out-of-shape sexagenarian might hope to have along on the opening days of a rowing adventure, yes? More on this later, I suspect.

Third, I will be completing my journey through the Saguenay fjord, home waters of the Greenland shark. This is “different”because, Gentle Reader, the specter of the Greenland shark lingers once you’ve checked it out, as I have. Check it out:

http://planetsave.com/2013/06/02/greenland-shark-eats-a-polar-bear-sleeper-shark-facts-lifespan-diet-and-video/

It swims at less than two knots but eats pretty much anything in its path. Think “aquatic snow blower,” as my colleague Joe Neary has described it. While I can row at 4.5 or faster, much faster if I feel I am being pursued, I only hope that I don’t hit one of these fellows from behind, angering it into a burst of undocumented speed.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the “difference” of thisparticular row could be framed as a magical confluence of time and distance…or as an elderly pipedream masquerading as boyish enthusiasm. The hard fact is that when I push off from the dock on the morning of 6/27 fortified by a hot coffee, a warm Corn Toastie, and Matt’s supportive company, I’ll never have been older (a month or so short of 63, if you must know), and I’ll never have tried to row farther (maybe 600 miles if one counts scenicly motivated meanderings, precautionary courses, and wrong turns).

So, this will be a different row. But Viva la difference, as they say in Quebec, nes pah?

I hope I get there to hear it in person.

Gentle Reader, I’ll be documenting my preparation (such as it is)over the next ten days, and I’ll do my best to assure that you’re up-to-date on my progress (such as it will be) once I push off.  

I’ll be glad to have you aboard. It will make it easier knowing you’re vicariously in the boat with me, especially when that dorsal fin pokes through the surface. If I can row faster than the Greenland shark that’s after me, I can certainly swim faster than the virtual crew member who is not in the water with me.

Like much of what you may read later, that makes no sense whatsoever.

But it will.

Big Ups,

Al