The Big Row

The Big Row - It is now a book!

2007-06-23T12:54:00.001-05:00

If you would like a paperback version of Mr. Frei's adventures last summer, please send an email to ktylerconk@aol.com for information. It is only $20.00, and includes some of the news clippings that came out after the row had ended. All profits go to Recycled Love, an animal rescue organization in Baltimore, MD (www.recycledlove.org).

You can see his blog on his latest fundraising row, completed on June 16, 2007, at www.rowforrescue.blogspot.com.

Channel 10 News

2007-01-14T20:35:00.000-05:00

Wussed Out

2006-10-17T20:41:00.000-05:00

This is a test. This is a test. Is anyone still reading?

Well, Gentle Reader, I wussed out. I was all set to take the boat back up to the Adirondacks this weekend, but I didn't. I couldn't. There is just too much water down here and some days ahead - at least before summer - that promise many happy hours at the oars. Taking the boat back seemed a supressable admission that winter is here and that rowing would have to wait until next July...and I just couldn't do it. So I didn't, and it feels good. My buddy is waiting for the next (local) adventure.

But my drive north was a trip down memory lane. I crossed the Susquehanna on I-95, which afforded me a good view down the river to the expanse of the Chesapeake that I passed on my way to the harrowing landing on the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. It was a millpond. Later I crossed the loathed Delaware; again, placid glass. Further north I was over the Hudson. No rowers (or any boats at all, for that matter) were in sight, and it looked serene. When I get to retire, I'll definitely be taking advantage of the relative solitude of a late-season voyage.

Things on the highway were far less serene. Lunatics on cell phones, tailgaters, construction, tolls...all of this made rowing look like a preferred mode of transportation if a schedule were not in the mix. But the darters...oh, those darters...those are the ones who make my blood boil. A darter is a person who will take advantage of any space you leave in front of you while underway. I was taught that one should leave one car-length in front for every ten miles-per-hour you are moving. Makes sense to me; after all, why exert the total concentration that tailgating requires if the difference in arrival time is a mere two seconds?

Clearly, at highway speeds, this is an irresistable space for those who simply have to arrive seconds before you do. They dart in, I back off, another darts in, I back off some more, etc. etc. and before you know it, the darter who edged you out in Delaware is sidling up to the Starbuck's kiosk in Ramapo before you even get out of New Jersey. God, how I hate darters.

I hate them so much that, after a while, I'll start to tailgate just to play the game. I'll leave a juicy space ahead of me in the passing lane, watch a darter move up on my right, and then close the distance with him to preculde his dart. He backs off, I back off, the space opens up, he moves, I move....heh heh heh. It's a sick and twisted world.

Otherwise, life is good. The kids wrote their first major essays last weekend while I was on the road, and now begins the twenty-or-so hours it takes to read them and offer the most constructive comments I can. This can wear me down, but it's my belief that the act of writing is part of the mix of coming to see one's self as a writer, and I would not like my own endurance to become the limiting factor in their progress. Truth be told, I like reading their essays. It's especially interesting as the year goes on and one is able to see them cease and desist the early bonehead mistakes and move to a new, somewhat more sophisticated level of bone-headedness. These guys grow a lot in 8th grade, and it shows up in their writing in very gratifying ways.

On another front, we had the first incidence of grafitti at school that I can remember in a very long time. Someone "decorated" the toilet seats in the bathroom with...are you ready?...Swedish Fish - a simple mosaic of multi-colored fish set in a kind of festival pattern, evoking a Spanish motif. How do you come down hard on an entire population for the whimsy of a truly visionary artist? Sometimes a fish should be flushed, as should the subjective definition of grafitti. Now you know why I'm called Mr. Frei, the Discipline Guy, a.k.a The Pit Bull with the Soft Bite.
To paraphrase Mel Brooks, it's good, sometimes, to be the king.

Other updates? 6th grade football is still undefeated, Jimmy continues to recover from his wounds, OJ, I presume, is still looking for the real killer, and my boat is still in Bob's back yard, waiting.

And, Gentle Reader, you're still reading?

xxoo

Mr. Frei

Bonus Blog

2006-10-09T23:20:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader. Up for a bonus blog?

It won't be anything nautical; in fact, the boat gets trucked back up to the Adirondacks this weekend on Peg's truck, back to its home waters, blissfully past the frigging Delaware, along the bucolic Jersey shore, over the mighty Tappan Zee, and up the scenic Hudson to its winter home. It'll be odd making a 13-day journey in six hours or so, with no adoring rabble to greet me. Sigh.

So what's up?

I suppose the great domestic news here is our temporary acquisition of a foster dog...our second one in two months...this one named Jimmy. Mobey, our porcine seal-with-legs, was successfully adopted last month and by all accounts is well on his way to domestic bliss. He's lost 8 of the necessary 15 or so pounds that he has to lose to shake his "piglet" moniker, and we wish him well. Jimmy, the newcomer, is a beagle who was on Death Row, and at death's door; he'd been hit by a car and apparently abandoned and was a mess: a broken pelvis (I wasn't sure dogs had pelvises), a broken leg, and various nicks and scrapes.

Happily, Jimmy doesn't really understand that he's supposed to be incapacitated; he's the happiest and most affectionate 'lil guy imaginable, and when walking him it's like being with OJ, relentlessly looking for the Real Killer. He's beagle through and through, and when he's back on his feet (all four) again, it'll be tough to let him go. Peg, bless her heart, has the patience of a saint...and it is these hapless creatures who are blessed. It's reassuring to know that if I ever get hit by the car, I'll already be here.

School's going well; we continue to fathom the depths of great literature while endeavouring to create some of our own, brushing up on that pesky grammar and vocabulary along the way. My 6th grade football team takes an unblemished (2-0) record into its third game tomorrow. The last contest was a 50-38 slugfest where both teams gained a combined (estimated) 2.5 miles of offense, prompting the refs to call time-outs just to catch their breaths.

This past weekend was poignant in that I wrote my first Dartmouth letter of recommendation for a student I taught in my first year. Heavy, huh? He's National Honor Society, plays a piano like Mozart, and last year played (left handed!) defense for the #1 high school lacrosse team in the country...a real triple threat. Sadly, to paraphrase the Kinks, college admissions today "is a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world," and there are no guarantees. My letter is like the proverbial quarter and a cup of coffee, but we can hope.

I suppose I've finally landed from the high of the row. It lasted a long time; in fact, I received a final $45 check on saturday while at "Family Day" at school...a nice capstone to your own over-the-top contributions. But, truth be told, I earned it. I'd volunteered to be a "target" in a pie-throwing booth, and the eighth graders lined up ten deep to take their shots. Might it have had something to do with the test I gave them on Friday? Anyway, Jimmy (yes, like the beagle, and with a similar devil-may-care attitude) scored a direct hit with a Cool Whip missile; I've never before had every cranial cavity filled to overflowing with Kool Whip, and I don't recommend it. After the stars subsided, I kept hearing Fifth Dimension songs through a paisley haze. Just...weird.

I hope this blogette finds you well, Gentle Reader. As I drive the boat north, I'll be thinking of you-

xxoo

Mr. Frei

Today it ended...

2006-09-28T19:28:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

S'been a long time since a blog entry, and for those of you still reading - which in itself calls for a psychologically-oriented blog entry - this will most likely be it. I mean, it's over, and today was the capstone.

Today I was invited to speak about the row to an alumni group at Boys' Latin -remarks that I delivered this afternoon - and I figured that while I was at it, I'd deliver some thoughts to the assembled Middle School as well. (I had an inside track in scheduling that one, since I'm apparently in charge of scheduling speeches.) Since I'm not a big Power Point fan, this morning I hauled the boat and its accessories up the highway to school, figuring that seeing the real thing would be at least equal to ineptly flogging a keyboard in public. Tom and I couldn't squeeze the boat through the maze of angles that lead to the gym, so we placed it outside so the kids could see it on the way in and out. Similarly, an hour later at a different site, the alums filed past this Shackelton-esque display on their way into what I feared might be their nap time.

I enjoyed the notalgia of the day. Last weekend I spent a couple of hours trying to write "speeches" appropriate for each of these two constituencies, but it all sounded contrived compared to the candor you allow me on these pages. So...I went to these pages and pulled some excerpts...and they seemed to go over OK. Sure, the kids were compelled to sit through it, but I think they enjoyed the drama - such as it was - of "The Stalking." The alums hung in gamely through "Lemons to Lemonade," which you may recall was the story of my longest day. They asked some great questions at the end...asking me to recount other highs and lows...and I enjoyed my time with them immensely. I don't have any more bookings (unless I shamelessly book myself again at Middle School...imagine that internal monologue, Gentle Reader...), so when I put the boat away tonight I think I heard it (or was it me?) utter a kind of plaintive exhale. It's over. As I write this, a cold November-like rain is falling outside, perhaps nature's way of confirming that the summer escapade is, indeed, over.

It's been a wonderful ride.

So...what now? What's next? For now, it's great to back in the rhythm of school. My 8th graders are a particularly congenial lot. They are working hard, behaving themselves just enough, and pushing the envelope in all the places that an eighth grader should push. My classroom feels like a welcoming place, and I have to periodically audit myself to make sure we are actually learning something. My 58 students and I have a kind of unspoken arrangement: they'll keep me on the straight-and-narrow in the instruction of grammar ( a skill that Kay, Helen, Cammie, and Amy, my 6th and 7th grade colleagues, do a magnificant job in imparting), and I'll take them as far down the literature and writing path as my modest skills and their patience will allow. It's an arrangement that has worked well in the past, and this group seems to have bought into it enthusiastically.

Among the various and sundry administrative duties that come with my other role as Assistant Headmaster (Mr Frei, the Disciplinarian: The Pit Bull with the Soft Bite), perhaps my favorite current assignment is as a co-coach of the 6th grade flag football team. To this 55 year- old former (on his best day, only modestly talented) athlete, coaching 10-11 year-olds is both a sobering and joyful activity.

It's sobering because you cannot demonstrate certain techniques without exposing yourself to enormous embarrassment. For example, I coach the defensive squad, and during the first week I thought I would demonstrate pass coverage against my Lilliputian receivers. Bad call, Mr. Frei. While my technique might have been impeccable, I was no more able to cover these little pocket rockets that I could cover Amani Toomer on any given Sunday. I'll be hell on wheels when I'm playing on the Nursing Home team someday, but for now I'll have to wait.

It's joyful, even exhilerating, on game days, because in our league the coach gets to be on the field with the boys during games. It is, after all, not about winning or losing..it's about sportsmanship and learning the game, right? Humm. Anyway, during the 4th quarter of our 19-14 win on Tuesday, we held during two goal-line stands. Now, Gentle Reader, a goal line stand in 6th grade flag football is a dicey thing, since the Red Zone is essentially anything inside the 50 yard line... so anything inside the ten is a relative walk in the park. With under a minute to go, we were on our five, facing a talented triple-threat quarterback on his home field, fourth and goal. A missed snap, a batted-down pass, a decisive stuff of a sweep, and a heroic plugging of the line on a quarterback sneak later...and bedlam. Ah, the joys of teaching.

Sniff. Let's leave it at that, OK?

Love you guys. For the readership, for the support, for it all- thank you.

Mr. Frei

Boston Celebrates Mr. Frei's Journey

2006-09-28T18:51:00.000-05:00

Franny West of Jamaica Plain in Boston, MA used her wide assortment of connections to get Mr. Frei honored at a recent Red Sox game! Bubblegum Music , Mr. Frei's favorite genre, was played in the background.

Way to go Franny!

Poll I - Results - You know him pretty well!

2006-09-17T18:32:00.000-05:00

As you can see, the majority of people (64%) know that Mr. Frei's stomach is a prime motivator. Nathan's Famous was just a little too far across the water for a detour, but he did find some delicious onion rings in Jersey City. (By the way, another favorite is Regi's tater tots, for those who feel the need to bribe him.)

Read about The Little Row below!

The "Little Row"

2006-09-17T13:48:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader. The end is near, but it's not here today.

Kathy is simply unbelievable in her maintainence of this blog site. Today I planned to write about yesterday's outing and, as is my practice, I went to the site first just to "check in." There it is...a picture of Peg and I pushing off for our "race," as well as an update on pledge receipts. Sheesh. I feel like such a slacker.

Yes, Gentle Reader, the pledge payments crested $15 k this week and, with last night's receipts of a wonderful, over-the-top check from Laura and a beaut from my son, we're nudging...are you ready?...$17k. This is serious money doing seriously good work, and I am overwhelmed at how so many of you exceeded your pledge amounts or weighed in with a check without pledging in the first place. Perhaps my early Public Radio rant had some effect or, more likely, I am simply blessed to know so many people with great hearts.

And yes, Gentle Reader, the boat went in the water again yesterday, this time at Wye Island, on Maryland's Eastern Shore, for the Wye Island Regatta. I had intended to treat this row not as a race, but as a liesurly row around some new and reputedly beautiful waters. I also intended bring Peg and Kathy along as a way of saying thanks for their amazing support of this summer's hijinks.

Had I been thinking ahead, I would have cast my boat as the Roman galley from Ben-Hur; Peg would have been in the stern, beating some crab mallets against the bongos we discovered in the basement...and Kathy, in the bow, would have employed a whip whenever she commanded Peg to get us up to ramming speed.

Alas, the day dawned drizzly, Kathy was running late (and elected to wait for a kinder day, thus sparing me the whip), and we pushed off from the dock late amid the "racing kayak" and 8's class. This regatta is advertised as being for, "all person-powered boats, including shells (sweep and scull, singles, doubles, 4's, and 8's), gigs, dories, racing and recreational kayaks, outriggers, canoes, and whaleboats." My Adirondack Guideboat fit none of these categories, so I was placed in the "Miscellaneous" group (stop your snickering!!!!) with three other vessels. Since I started late, I have no idea what the other "miscellaneous" vessels were, but I didn't see another guideboat there, which was a disappointment. We did get help pulling the boat from the top of the car by the crew of an 8-man War Canoe...a magnificent craft indeed...manned by a decidedly unwar-like but hale and hearty crew.

So...with Peg in the stern in her jaunty straw hat, a waterproof map, and a cooler in the bow (for balance only, as it turns out, because I couldn't reach it), off we went...the only boat in a fleet of more than a hundred carrying a "non-contributing passenger." We started amid a gaggle of racing kayaks; the double shells, 4's, and 8's were the only classes yet to start behind us. They stagger the start this way, I think, with the idea that these faster boats will catch the slower, earlier starters, and the mayhem of 100+ boats approaching the finish line at approximately the same in a Dunkirk-like spasm of desperation might engage the spectators.

Being back in the boat felt wonderful. The tissues of the protective callouses have have long-since been swept down the shower's drain (sorry for the gross image, but that's where I think my lil' tabs went, one by one), but otherwise I felt like I was starting just another day of The Big Row. Of course, having Peg along for company for the next 2:44 was the best part of all. Her presence in the stern made for an unbalanced and less efficient boat, yet her company, encouragement, and enjoyment of the trip more than made up for the hydrodynamic penalty. And, truth be told, it was fun passing (or even being passed by) other boats; I know they were envious of my companion, even if she did get to oggle the buff guys in the shells as they went by. It was also a welcome change to have a set of keen eyes facing forward. I don't think I had to turn around more than three or four times all day but, let's face it, with Peg along, why would I want to?

So off we went, in a drizzle that went to a steady rain that periodically abated and finally gave way to broken couds and patches of sun. Wye Island is a natural paradise; beautiful coves, enticing creeks, and solitude around almost every turn. It begged for further exploration and while I didn't intend to race, let's face it: if you put more than one "person-powered boat" in the water, somebody's gonna pee on the fire hydrant, the testosterone's gonna flow, and you're gonna pull harder. I was able to leave the kayaks behid me and pass more than a few before the finish...I even dusted the whaleboat (which I took no pleasure in, because its bulbous hull was being gamely propelled by a grim-faced husband/ wife team...and it was a very cool boat)...but the shells and sculls just kept flying by at what seemed to be twice our speed. Pretty demoralizing, but fascinating to see the teamwork and precision which differentiated the faster boats from the slower.

We (how nice to say "we") averaged about 4.8 mph (you readers may recall the The Big Row average was 3.89). I did work a good deal harder than on most legs of TBR because of the "competition" factor, and I suspect I would have bettered my pace considerably if I'd been alone and on a properly balanced boat. But I know I wouldn't have had a better time. I placed third in the MIscellaneous category (out of four...), but 1 & 2 didn't have Peg, the sandwiches, or the fun.

Car-topping the boat back over the Bay Bridge was kind of bittersweet. Looking over the impressive expanse of the Chesapeake, my now somewhat trained eye sized up the waves, wind, and current for "what it would be like" to be down there...knowing full well that my summer adventure and any serious rowing is most likely over for the year. The boat draped over our truck had been my passport to a delightful adventure this summer and was a loyal, trustworthy companion, and when we put it away last night in Bob's back yard I again felt like I was abandoning a dear friend. From childhood I have always been (too?) inclined to ascribe animate qualities to inanimate objects...and last night was no exception. Maybe I'll drop in tomorrow for an unexpected visit and an unconditional coat of wax and oil. It'll feel good for both of us.

What's next? Maybe the Northern Forest Canoe Trail (see last weekend's New York Times Travel section); no Big Water, but an attractive pending adveture nonetheless. Maybe more of the Intercoastal. Or maybe I'll take seriously Brian's call of last week. In a tone reminicent of The Graduates's "plastics," he uttered, "Duluth." It's the most distant point on the Great Lakes. I'm certain he meant that we should start from Duluth and row home...because, let's face it, "Pulling for Duluth" lacks the kind of motivational ring that "Pulling for Home" carries, yes? MUST...GET...TO...DULUTH is not a mantra that would inspire a 62 mile day.

Brian, incidentally, is the proud owner of a true cedar Adirondack Guideboat, a work of art, breathtakingly beautiful, and he knows how to row it. If he is to put his boat and person at risk, I want to be there to see it.

Gentle Reader, just know that if there's a "next," you're invited along.

Latah,

Mr. Frei

Wye Island 12 miler - September 16, 2006

2006-09-16T17:55:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei rowed in the Wye Island regatta today, a 12 mile race around the island, which is on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. He brought his lovely assistant, Peg, to motivate him as it was a rainy day. He has promised to write a blog entry about it later!

It's Almost Over

2006-09-09T19:27:00.000-05:00

Gentle Reader, if you're reading this you are, indeed, a die-hard. I mean, remember Ferris Beuller at the end of his movie? "It's over. Go home. It's over. Go."

I suspect that this will be the penultimate blog entry (I think that means the next-to-last one?), and tonight I thought I'd relate a little of what it was actually like to be in the boat for a day. I've written about being stalked, swamped, and "saluted" (in New York), among other things, but I haven't really shared what a "typical" day in the boat was like, from the gunwhales in, so to speak. Interested? If so, read on. If not, tune in next week to say goodbye.

Actually, there wasn't really a typical day; the conditions always changed, the currents and winds never repeated themselves in exactly the same way, and my body always carried the rigors (or the rest) of the previous day in a way that influenced my performance on the subsequent day. Yet I did settle into a routine..an almost ritualistic set of behaviors and activities...that must have been effective enough for me to complete the trip, yes?

In addition, while my daily "hours in the seat" over 13 days averaged roughly 9, the range was a low of 2:40 (when I hit a headwall of wind on the intercoastal in NJ which simply brought me to a standstill for the day) to a high of 17 hours (ugh...the Herculean dash to - and through- the C&D Canal, which has already been documented). But 8 of my days were in the 9-to-12 hour-per-day category, so let's talk about a typical one-of-those, shan't we?

I was usually up at 6 and on the water before 7. While I'd like to tell you that I performed sophisticated and arcane stretching exercises and yoga positions before getting into the boat, alas, by the time I positioned my provisions and supplies to adequately balance the boat, my boyish enthusiasm would get the better of me and I would just get in and go. Hey, wouldn't you?

Configuring the boat each morning became a ritual in itself, requiring an attention to sequence and detail that, as anyone who knows me will attest, is not my long suit: Roll up the sleeping bag, deflate and store the now rock-hard inflatable mattress, attend to personal hygiene, swap out the batteries in the GPS for fresh ones, store all clothing in sea bags, lube oars, oar locks, and sliding seat rails, align charts for the day's passage, clear the boat of uninvited guests, position liquids and lunch (when available) for easy access, dispose of trash, lather up with sun goop, load the boat carefully for balance fore-and-aft (with a little bias toward the bow for better tracking), attend to personal hygiene again, thank my patron (if available at that hour)for the night, climb in, bandage (or lube) the hands, push off, don the floppy hat, start the GPS Taskmaster 2000XL, and go.

One constant of each morning was that the first few hours of every day were sublime. The water was always calm, the sunrise always glorious, and the goal of making 20 miles before noon was always motivational. I'd start off on the sliding seat; my butt would usually be revived from the rigors of the previous day, and this device enabled me to get my legs in the game and make somewhat better time, fairly effortlessly, early in the day. Typically, this would change by hour four or five; even with my magical (and substantial hereditary natural) seat padding, my bottom would numb by noon, and I'd switch to the more comfortable (fixed) wicker seat for two to three hours to revive (it). The wicker seat also lowers the center of gravity of the boat by an inch or two, which made the boat a much more stable platform in the typically rougher water of the afternoon.

I positioned the GPS on some velcro on the cooler in front of me, at my feet, so that I could monitor my speed over the ground (bottom) at a glance, and I glanced frequently. Ben-Hur had the fellow banging the mallets...I had my GPS...and each prompted the same behavior: keep the pace, or get whipped. In my case, the "whipping" was self-induced, of course, but I aimed to maintain a speed of 3.5 to 4.0 mph...which meant some enhanced effort when tides, winds, or currents were not cooperating. In retrospect, the GPS was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing, of course, was that I felt I had some control over "managing" my pace and the commensurate rate of caloric expenditure, and it instilled some confidence in assessing "how I was doing." The curse was that the confidence was false, of course; I was doing the best that I could, and I'd like to think that I'd have made essentially the same judgements and the same progress without it. It did rob me of a bit of pure uncertainty which would have added more adventure to the journey (read All Natural), and I probably could have calculated my progress in a less precise way using watch and charts. Yet it was useful to know my actual rate of speed at a glance; the device quickly spoiled me. If I'd had a Mr. Coffee aboard, I probably would have used that, too.

I'd try to make at least 20 miles by noon each day; I figured that if 36 miles was my "average requirement" to finish the trip in two weeks, then the afternoon's 16 could be taken at a more leisurely pace if conditions permitted...or ground out through sheer pluck and gritty determination before nightfall if things went sour. This strategy worked well; it afforded me the luxury of three "monster" days (62, 50.5, and 46 miles) when I got ahead of the pace and stayed ahead, and it put miles in the bank for the tougher days when wind or waves conspired against me (7.5, 19.9, 22.4).

The hours in the boat...almost 120 in all...were never, ever boring. I purposefully didn't wear headphones. I wanted to hear what was around me in an unfiltered, unobstructed way, and it's a decision I do not regret- even though some high-fidelity tunes would have been nice at times. I did have Kathy's cool transistor radio bungeed into a thwart for periodic weather, NPR, talk radio, "manatee sightings," or oldies sessions, but I never tired of just listening to the sounds of the oars slicing the water, the water streaming past the hull and, yes, even my own heavy breathing. I talked to myself, sang to myself, and greeted all within earshot to keep myself amused. Birds, trains, the resonance of bridges, the drone of boats, and the 'coming-to-life' of the shore every morning provided all the aural entertainment I could need...or want.

I'd typically take about a five minute break at the end of each hour, and more frequently when the sun was high: water or Gatorade, a Power Bar or beef jerky, a lube-job on the oarlocks (I quickly learned to eat the beef jerky first, then lube the oars), and hand maintainence. I started without gloves, since I'd developed the beginning of callouses before I started, but when Peter left me at the end of Day Three, he left his bike gloves with me. They proved effective at delaying the bursting of new blisters that had developed. By Day Six I dispensed with the gloves, because they were creating a new, mountainous range of blisters in places that did not contact the oars...but they had bought me time for the early abrasions to heal, and after that I was glove-less. Nonetheless, I had some Mystery Cream that I'd apply sparingly each hour, and my hands never caused me the pain or trouble I'd feared. Indeed, when I arrived at the Inner Harbor, mine were not the hands of an 8th grade English teacher. Arrrrgghh. Tonight they look almost...normal.

Hours would slide by, hour after hour; 8 am would look like 5pm, 10 am would look like 2 pm; from the gunwhales in, the only relevant clock was the development of the day's physical fatigue. No hour was boring; the sensory richness of being on the water in a small boat with a worthy destination in mind enlivened each and every moment. Sounds hokey, I know, but it's true. Sure, if you've read the blog, some moments were more "interesting" or joyful than others, but never did I find myself bored or questioning my sanity. Others may have, but not me. I'm certifiably self-delusional and, if I might say so, I'm pretty good company.

A word about personal hygiene in the boat...only because many have asked. Let me just say that the ergonomics of the seat in my boat, coupled with the dimensional properties of a Gatorade bottle, made this a breeze. I might have gathered a glance or two at times, but when you've gotta go, you've gotta go. The final ratio of bottles in, bottles out? 4:1. And the color and turbidity? Perfect, if I might say so. After a harrowingly close call, I was always mindful to store the re-filled bottles behind me, out of sight (and easy reach). Whew.

I could never really predict my destination at the beginning of each day (winds, tides, current, body, unforseen events), but by about 2 or 3PM I'd begin to plot a destination for the night. My charts described marina facilities and depicted beaches that might make suitable accomodations, and I'd pick both a "layup" destination and a stretch destination, the latter to keep me appropriately motivated during the afternoon hours when the body might be saying, "Enough!" My arrivals had to be comical to the hapless onlooker...like a bad out-take from The Planet of the Apes. I was Roddy McDowell, clambering awkwardly out of the boat, stooped in a simian posture, arms dangling lifelessly by my sides, shuffling desperately towards the nearest water source or bathroom. I would never be in too much of a hurry to set up camp, because being out of the boat was liberation enough.

The end -of-day routine was a sloppy version of the morning's: blow up the matress, unroll the bag, sometimes set up a tarp, attend to persoal hygiene, eat something that wasn't moving, and sleep. Oh, the sleep. It came effortlessly and immediately. I never feared for my safety in my surroundings. I was simply too tired.

Gentle Reader, please don't take my sometimes overly-dramatic prose too seriously. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that 90% of you who read this could make this same trip next summer. With a little bit of physical preparation, you could do it. A row like this is more a product of patience, perseverance, and a moderate appetite for uncertainty- more of a head game than a shoulders game. Really. Just be sure to attempt it in an Adirondack Guideboat. Did I tell you how much I love my boat? I think I have.

One more blog to good-bye, unless you bark like a dog.

I'll miss you.

Mr. Frei

PS: The pledge payments topped $14,000 this week. Oh, yes, how I'll miss you. You guys rock!!!!!!

Simon & Garfunkel Weren't Kidding....

2006-09-04T18:04:00.000-05:00

Shame on me, Gentle Reader, for promising so much and yet delivering so little.

I do indeed still have a few more entries up my sleeve, and I shouldn't let so many days go by between them. In this way, keeping up a blog is like calling your mom now and then; you know you should do it more often, you want to do it, you may even look forward to doing it...but shamefully, the action lags the intention.

"Yo, Mr. Frei. What's with the catchy blog title tonight?"

Ah, Gentle Reader, your impetuosity is admirable, and even reassuring. So let's have at it.

As you flower children will recall, S&G sang the definitive version of Bridge Over Troubled Waters . They used the title line as a simile...."like a bridge over troubled waters"...and since it's safe to assume that neither Paul nor Art have rowed an Adirondack guideboat under the Tappan Zee bridge, I'm here to testify that the waters under a bridge can indeed be troubled, ironically because of the brige itself.

"Woah, Mr. Frei, hold on a minute. You mean that S&G's heartwarming simile masks the hydrodynamic reality of the way flowing water interacts with the displacement of the bridge abuttments themselves, and that the symbolic turbulence they refer to is simply a manifestation of incompressable water seeking an alternative path downstream?"

You've got it, Gentle Reader! That's exactly what I'm saying, and frankly, I couldn't have said it better myself. And while they may have been referring to the "troubled waters" of life and relationships, there is a lot actually going on under those bridges that doesn't meet the eye.

But let me start at the beginning of Day 4, which will:

1. Further develop the above phenomenon, at the risk of forever tainting your future pure appreciation for Simon & Garfunkle's beautiful ballad,

2. Briefly describe the three hours during which I maintained the fastest speed during the my 13 day trip, and

3. Lead to a ham-handed description of what it is like to travel New York's harbor (and Manhattan's shore) in an Adirondack guideboat.

Whew.

Tuesday, 8/8, started at the Stoney Point Yacht Club, about 35 miles north of NYC. They had graciously allowed me to sleep under an awning in front of their clubhouse, which was a blessing; the night presented a parade of spectacular thunderstorms typical of the Hudson Valley in summer. I was able enjoy a three-hour fireworks display that was not fabricated in Italy or New Jersey while (cowering) under the relative comfort and safety of an awning instead of my boat - which would have been the only alternative.

I was off at 7 the next day, rowing against the last of an incoming tide. This was a good thing, because I knew that as it went to slack and then turned downstream later that morning, I'd have both the tide and current with me, along with the blessed breeze rising from the northeast. My log shows that during hours 5,6, and 7 of that day, my sustained speeds "over the ground" were 5.3, 6.7, and a ludicrous 7.1 mph. During this period I passed under the Tappan Zee (more on this in a moment), ghosted along the magnificent rock walls and flora of the Pallisades, and slid into the upper reaches of New York harbor itself.

Picture, Gentle Reader, all of this liquid energy sliding down the narrow trough known as the Hudson River, only to confront the pilings of the Tappan Zee Bridge. I've driven over the Tappan Zee Bridge hundreds of times...enough so that I always mutter to myself, "Tappan Zee Bridge? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" (I mutter it to myself quietly, under my breath, so as not to alarm passengers. It's really stupid.).

I've always been impressed with the bridge's length and it's graceful curvature as it traverses one of the widest parts of the river but, frankly, I've never given much thought to the engineering or structure that makes this dramatic entry to New York City possible. Underneath the Tappan Zee are dozens of enormous concrete pilings. They have to be enormous, I suppose, to withstand the crushing pressure of the ice that flows down the river each spring, as well as to bear the incalcuable weight of the Twinkies and chocolate chip cookies I, for one, ask them to suatain upon each crossing. The largest of these pilings are at least thirty feet across, and I suspect these dimensions increase below the waterline.

When the combined force of the current and an ebb tide, aided by a following wind, hits these pilings, all hell breaks loose. The water above simply can't gently "meet up" with the water downstream, and the 200 or so yards above the bridge are, as mariners like to understate, "confused." Confused?? No, pissed off is more like it. I mean, this water wants to get through. (Gentle Reader, picture 65 eighth graders trying to file through a single door to a cafeteria for lunch and you get the idea. Mayhem outside...even on their best behavior...and placid order, even calm, inside.) I actually turned the boat around above the bridge, outside of the zone of "confusion," trying to jockey for a space or an angle that might avoid waters that even my maximum effort might not surmount. Sure enough, right-of-center, one of the pilings seemed to be offering marginally less aquatic chaos than the rest; I traversed across the face of the roil to pick my slot and committed myself to the necessary passage. It was thrilling and, yes, for some few minutes I was completely at the mercy of the flow - not unlike being in the vortex of an irresistible stream of 8th graders on our way to lunch - and, as at lunch, I was soon ejected into the calm of downstream, a bit wet and adrenalized, but ready to press on.

Lesson learned: When there is no other choice, go with the flow.

From here I enjoyed a virtual e-ticket ride to NYC. I passed under the George Washington bridge at almost 7mph...noticably faster than the traffic above...and waved giddily at the investment bankers stalled in the gridlock. Did they think I was some sort of Richard Branson nee'r-do-well, out for a morning row while my minions monitored my empire? Perhaps they thought I was a true adventurer, having cast off his worldly cares and possessions to see the world. More likely I appeared to be the dilletante that I am, a wanna-be adventurer who must necessarily cling to the mothership of contemporary culture, sleeping under an awning instead of his boat, cell phone at his side in a sea-bag, writing a blog for his own amusement. A few people cheerily returned my wave...one gave me the finger. Only because it was New York, I returned his salutation...but later regretted the impulse because many of the Happy Wavers might have mistakenly thought it was meant for them. I hope some of them are reading the blog and will accept this heartfelt apology. It was for thjat guy in the grey Lexus. To him, no apology. What was with that, anyway?

Anyway, the GW is a suspension bridge that relies on only two major pilings, affording me the chance to pick placid waters for the dash under. The mach meter still showed almost 7mph all the way to the harbor, Staten Island, and Liberty Marina, my destination for the night.

Gentle Reader, I soon regretted the confluence of natural energy that was making this part of the row so effortlessly rapid. I wanted more time to soak up the sensory overload of my environment, so for about 30 minutes, as I entered the upper waters of New York harbor, I simply stopped rowing.

From the vantage point of a small boat, this space is breathtaking. I have never felt so small, but the sense that is most stimulated from this perspective is that of hearing. From the water in an unpowered boat, one feels, rather than hears, the enormous wave of white noise that cascades from both shores. Every truck, every subway train, and I suspect every dropped dish and butterfly flapping its wings melds into a monotonastic harmonic thrum that one actually senses with the body rather than hears with the ears. It's the aggregated vibration of living...of industry, of life and, sadly, maybe of Intel being off a few points that day...that thickens the air, pulses on the skin, penetrates the body and makes your own presence an afterthought.

It was way cool.

The end of this day brought me to Staten Island..and to Kathy and Peg's care, and to the bliss of shared onion rings that evening. "Adventurer"? I guess not.

Anyway, it was a very good day.

More?

xxoo

Mr. Frei

Heroic Support

2006-08-29T18:39:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

The Big Row is long over, but your curiosity perists, suggesting either that my prose is analogous to Chinese food (or at least MSG), or that you have far too much time on your hands. Either way, I'm glad you're back at the electronic 'fridge, 'cause I'm happy to put some heat on aging the Egg Foo Youg. Always.

Tonight I want to shine light on the real heroes of my row...the support team which aided me through conception, planning, execution, and an all-too-grand entrance into the Inner Harbor. I wish I could have each of you at my boat right now with a laundry marker, inscribing your names and perhaps a witticism; you guys were the fuel in my tank.

First, there's Peg. When this trip was a gleam in my eye, I initially saw a bit of a cloud in hers...yet she has been nothing but supportive and positive from Day One. Sure, there was a new dog in the house when I got home (Mobey, a foster dog, who will leave us on Friday for his new home in the country. Picture, Gentle Reader, a "Far Side" dog, and you have Mobey. Were we to subject him to radical cosmetic surgery and remove his ears and legs, he would be a seal, and a damn cute one, too), but this was no price at all to pay for Peg's love, support, and extraordinary logistical effort. Peg, I love you. You do things for me effortlessly, constantly, unconditionally, and I only hope to be worthy of you.

And Kathy, vaunted Blog Mistress and logistician extraordinairre. Kathy is responsible for virtually everything you see on the blog, and her enthusiasm for the project, for the community it has gathered, and her unending creativity have made this a truly communal event. She is the one primarily responsible for putting you all in the boat with me, and I couldn't be more grateful. "Kathy." Rhymes with "Can do." Sorta. There may be some truth to the adage, "There are no friends like old friends," but we have to come up with one that speaks to newer friends who we can't imagine never having had in our lives. Kathy, you rock.

Along the way, various characters popped up who made the trip a joy. Of the understimulated hoard that showed up for the launch in Troy on 8/5, perhaps most memorable is brother Bill. Bill waved goodbye with the rest of them and then kept popping up along the banks of the Hudson like an animated "Where's Waldo." He'd appear from tank farms, emerge from bushes, wave wildly from abandoned piers, flash his lights from bridges and dirt roads. I mean, 30 miles down the Hudson I was afraid to take a break for fear that he was watching and would report back on his slacker brother. Bill, how you (or your car) got to the places you did is beyond me, but it sure enlivened my first day; when a send-off lasts for four hours, you know you've been sent off by people who really care.

And Peter. What can I say about Peter? Peter drove down from Vermont, wisely bypassing the send-off in Troy, parked his car in Saugerties (50 miles downstream), got on his bike, and spent the day biking perhaps twice my 50 mile day, searching, calling, searching, ever searching. His Chevy was a treasure trove of Gatorade, sandwiches, marginally edible if healthy oatmeal cookies, and useful "sundries" for a rookie rower; Peter rowed competitively at Dartmouth, our alma-mater, and knows what a fellow needs to ply the water. We shared a tent in Saugerties and a floor at the Marlboro Yach Club, and his mobility delivered the only two morning cups of coffee I would see for many days. Above all, I appreciated his sage early advice on pacing, the importance of taking a break now and then and, most importantly, his incandescent spirit and great humor. Peter, frankly, was instrumental in enabling me to establish a pace and pattern that would ensure the successful completion of the trip. How can I thank him?

I've already written about Bill Flammer, my host in Stone Harbor, and his heroic dash to Cape May with the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich. Lore for the ages.

Then there's Andy and Sandy who, themselves hosted by Sandy's gracious sister and her husband, treated me like royalty in Beach Haven. Andy put the finishing touches on Sandy's bolognase sauce...and my fears that such a repast would have me looking for the men's room on my boat the next day were unfounded. That sauce was the best I had ever had, it went through me like a bullet train, and I was totally refreshed the next morning. They had driven all the way from Princeton to make my trip more comfortable; the plasure of their company was, as always, the best fuel of all. Again, how does one say "thanks"?

Peg and Kathy ran some logistics from shore as well, meeting me in Staten Island, monitoring my progress under the Verenzano Bridge, helping me through the morass of Sandy Hook, and even arranging a meeting, in Highlands, NJ, with the delightful Connie Cottrell and her family. Connie was the national champion in Jersey Speed Skiffs in 1970; I now own her boat, and just tipping a drink with someone who has forgotten more about something than you will ever learn is, for me, downright enthralling.

Other heros? Oh, there were many:

Everyone who gave me permission to sleep on their dock, their floor, or their beach.

The fisherman who gave me the skinny on the C&D Canal...which emboldened me to try this critical passage at night.

Folks who had the curiosity to ask what the hell I was up to instead of just wondering silently.

The girl in Mantaloking who gave me the key code to the men's room (and, I suppose indirectly, the guy I never met in Mantaloking who must have given her the key code).

The two gals on the park bench in Ocean City who not only urged me to tell my story, but who also, later, put in a good word for me with the cops as I rolled out my bag on the dock.

Cheryl & Cheryl in Chesapeake City (see pervious blog entry). I'm going back there for my next haircut and a Gatorade, and maybe a gift. Simply unbelievable.

My mom, who gets the "Traveled Furthest Award" for greeting me at the Inner Harbor. We don't get to pick our moms, but somehow I think I might have.

The Boys' Latin School community: my students, their families, and my colleagues. I am blessed to work - if one can really call it "work" - at such a place. (This week one of my students from last year said, "Man, Mr, Frei, you look ripped. Can I see the pythons?" I mean, I think this was a compliment; he'd never said anything quite like that to me before.)

And, finally, each of you. Frankly, the fact that this thing has taken on a life of its own beyond the act of rowing itself has been the best part of the experience. Your readership has been flattering and fun to pander to, your checks have largly cleared and are now doing the good work promised, and I'm going to miss this when it is finally over.

"Mr. Frei, you raise an interesting point. When do you think this will be over?"

Gentle Reader, to paraphrase Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, "You have me on the hip." I have a few more stories I'd like to tell just to complete this travelogue - if only for my own posterity - but as we all know, at some point the Egg Foo Young has to go. And, as they say on Broadway, "Leave them wanting more." Or, as Kenny Rogers sang, "Know when to fold 'em."

Soon, Gentle Reader, soon.

But not yet.

xxoo

Mr. Frei

The Stalking

2006-08-24T20:27:00.000-05:00

Back for more?

Gentle Reader, I can understand my own penchant for wanting to write about my trip; it's a way of depressurizing, reflecting, and savoring the experience for a second time. But you? Surely you have better use for your time than to keep revisiting this fractured prose.

It's nice that several friends (and my mom) were quoted in today's piece in The Messenger(see link). I am blessed with good friends - people who have zest for life and caring, unconditional spirits. I know they are unconditional because I do so little for them. The only stretch in the article is my mom's statement that she thought I would just "row around the dock" in my gift; if she'd 'a thunk that, she would have selected a pram. What a kidder.

The checks keep coming in...many over their pledge amount...and you are making the post-row fundraising a very painless - even joyous - affair. To one and all, thanks; I'll have to come up with an appropriate way to express my gratitude.

Gentle Reader, May I tell you about my Barnegat Bay day? The Bay is an enormous body of water inside the Intercoastal in New Jersey, the setting for what I'll refer to as The Stalking.

It was about noon on Saturday, the 12th...one week and a day into my journey.

I was just abreast of Barnegat Light, where the a significant outlet to the ocean feeds the bay. The water was moderately calm, the sun high, and I had a nice breeze from astern. I was in a rhythm, a kind of zone, and the strokes were coming easily. I was grateful for the prospect of reaching the lower, more sheltered stretch of the Intercoastal that afternoon with relative ease. That's when I saw it: a large dark shape, maybe 20 feet directly behind the boat, coming on slowly. No fin broke the water, but that didn't stop my imagination from instantaneously kicking into high gear. Jaws, Jaws 2, Jaws 3, Shark Week, Stay Out of the Water Week...all of the vivid Discovery Channel and Animal Planet shark footage I had ever seen came roaring to life in Technicolor / Surround Sound as if I were dragging a Big Screen behind the boat.

Unfortunately, I also immediately recalled experiments performed by marine biologists off of the Faralon Islands in California. They tested the attractiveness of various shapes to the Great White population which thrives there, concluding that surfers are especially interesting to sharks because the shapes of their boards evoke the shape of seals, their favorite dish. Any child can see that my boat, when viewed from below, carries a stunningly similar shilouette. I didn't need a child in the boat to remind me of this unhappy corellation; my Inner Child was perfectly capable of raising the point, and I couldn't quiet him down.

To compound my concerns, I had been chewing on Slim Jims at this point of the row. For those of you unfamiliar with this popular yet mysterious meat snack, here's how it goes: You bite off a piece, chew it with determination, and after you have absorbed the nutritive chemicals and ersatz meat products contained therein, you are left with a wad of pulp that cannot be chewed further - and should most definitely not be swallowed. So...I'd been spitting wads of masticated Slim Jims over the side for some time, which my Inner Child immediately translated into...yes...chum.

So I had the shape...I was trailing the scent...and now I had some mysterious and unwelcome company.

The shape weaved from left to right behind the boat, then approached to within ten feet or so, then it would disappear for a moment and reappear further astern again. It soon became more curious, accelerating close to the stern and veering off to one side or another.(While things may appear closer in a rear view mirror, I was already facing backwards, and whatever it was needed no magnification; had I been in a kayak, I might have remained blissfully unaware of its presence.)

I was praying that it would break the surface for air; I'd have gleefully thrown my last Slim Jim to a Flipper, and my wallet, too. Yet the shadow didn't broach the surface...nor did I see the dreaded fin. But whatever it was was was there, and it was large, and I learned that a simple shape in the water can convey a most unsettling primal malevolence.

Then...after maybe five or six more passes past the beam of the boat, it was gone.

Only then did I begin to feel the effects of the drama. An immediate threat tends to galvanize you; you focus on the here and now, which in my case was the maintainence of a steady rhythm and doing everything possible to mimic the movements of a healthy, formidable, unpanicked creature...anything other than the hapless, thrashing seals off the Faralons. My "shadow" - whatever it was - had apparently lost interest, but for the next hour the adrenalin was flowing freely...and I tucked the remaining Slim Jims under the seat for more confined waters.

Gentle Reader, I can't tell you that I saw a shark. Whatever it was never revealed itself. When I recounted this tale to my dear friend Brian, he sounded skeptical. "Are you sure it wasn't the shadow of your own boat? Maybe a shadow created by passing clouds, or water variations?"

Brian, I don't have to see the car to hear it coming. I don't have to taste the coffee to smell it perking. I don't have to hear the siren to know that I should soon grope for my license and registration. And, believe me, I didn't have to see a fin to feel a presence. I can only say that I wish you'd been with me. Oh, how I wish that you'd been with me. There, and on the Delaware. I love you that much.

In retrospect, I feel a bit silly that I felt such post-encounter anxiety from something just a click above an apparition. Perhaps this is indeed a testament to the power of the cocktail of a vivid imagination stirred with graphic media images. Yet I've always subscribed to Woody Allen's line, "Whenever I'm in the water, I feel like I'm on the menu."

More, Gentle Reader?

xxoo

Mr. Frei

Lemonade from Lemons

2006-08-22T19:53:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

My heart soars like a hawk; the pledged checks are streaming in, and I am struck by the quality of support this adventure has received. Some checks are from folks who hadn't pledge but who have been swept up in this post-row silliness, many checks exceed the amount pledged (suggesting that my own flawed record-keeping may not, after all, be the worst on the planet), and still others are enquiring how to pledge. All in all, you are making this part of the experience painless...and especially gratifying...and I thank you. After all, it's for the kids, and you are making a difference.

More people than I would have expected continue to tune in to new blog entries, so tonight let me reward your continuing interest with The Tale of My Hardest Day...and encourage you to, soon, get a life. This can't be that interesting.

My Hardest Day actually started start the night before, Monday, 8/17. That morning I had left Stone Harbor, N.J., an idyllic enclave on the Intercoastal. (I have already recounted how Bill Flammer drove himself to Cape May to intercept me in order to deliver my forgotten Wa-Wa-Supreme Roast Beef sandwich...an act of kindness that was to be vital to my well-being that evening.)

I hit the Cape May Canal late in the morning, five hours (and 19 miles) into my day. I transited it with no difficulty, but all the way through I wondered what conditions would prevail at the other end of the Canal: Delaware Bay, the 16 mile-wide mouth of the Delaware River. Much like the dental appointment that you just can't defer, the Delaware had been on my mind since August 5. Last March, in fact, I had stood on the shore of the Cape May Canal jetty and had seen The Big Waters, felt the lash of a strong west wind, and hoped that my emergence in August at that very spot would take place in more benign conditions. It would soon be time to darken the dentist's door.

Alas, Gentle Reader, my hopes of March were answered. I was greeted with a gentle southwesterly wind, delightful rollers headed my way up the bay, and a slack tide. I had a window of opportunity to make some serious headway on the body of water that had concerned me most - indeed, the water that was most oceanic in its proportions and possibilities - and I dug in to make the most of it.

After a few miles of sandy strand and delightful camps, the eastern shore of the Delaware morphs into vast expanses of grassland and swamp; no homes, no beach, no docks, no towns, no boats...no nothin'. As darkness fell after a gratifying 46 mile day, the wind rose sharply and veered from the west, presenting me with the broadside waves that would be the primary challenge throughout the next day. After 12 hours and 30 minutes in the seat, it was time to pull up. A low tide offered a small stretch of sand onto which I fell, exhausted and cramped, and there, Gentle Reader, is where I literally wolfed down the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast beef Sandwich...and blessed Bill Flammer for the umpteenth time that day. Ever see the lions tearing into the gazelle on Animal Planet? You've got the picture of me and my sandwich.

My solitary sandy spot was about four feet square and just above the waterline; the tide was coming in, and I knew that within the hour I would lose it entirely. I used the clean, secure footing of the sand to reconfigure the boat for the night, moving items and hardware fore and aft to make room for my sleeping bag and a tarp in the middle. I pulled the boat up as far as I could into the tall grass, fell into the bag, and was immediately asleep, cradling my oars. Honest. I love those cherry oars.

It was the gentle rocking of the boat that woke me up. I was on my back, and a gorgeous waning amber moon lit the boat and the stalks of grass surrounding me. I could hear waves lapping against the boat...I could feel the flexing of the hull under their pressure...and as lay on my back, stalks of glittering grass slowly marched past the boat in a surreal, stately parade. I was moving, albeit slowly, surrounded by the vegetation, suspended in the water, too tired to do anything but enjoy the spectacle and fight the heavy lids.

I woke before dawn...not a bad night's sleep...and sat up in the boat. I was sitting in a small grassy room with a roof open to the stars. I stood up in the boat and faced the river. I was 75 feet from shore, high in the grass, where the tide had deposited my cradle. It would be a muddy slog to get the boat back to shore, but I thanked my good fortune for the good night's sleep. The strong west wind had kept the bugs down...and yet I anticipated that it would not be my friend in the coming day.

Thus began My Hardest Day, after a night in the boat that was almost magical in its beauty.

I launched from the sandy spit that had blessedly reappeared from under the tide. It was a tough launch into the surf, but with some good timing and moves absorbed from watching Mary Lou Retton in the Olympics, I was underway before 7.

Thus began My Hardest Day. But, importantly, my Most Rewarding (hence the hackneyed but catchy title to this blog).

The eastern shore of the southern Delaware River is very shallow...vast stretches of two-to-three foot depths are typical. In water so shallow, a strong wind will build a special kind of wave. Gentle Reader, before this trip I thought waves that capped had certain rhythms...rise, cap, subside, rise, cap, subside. Lady Delaware presented me her version of a Kiddie Water Park from Hell. The waves came at me broadside in steady, predictable rows about three feet high, but the crests didn't break; the shallow depths, I think, sustained the crests and they just kept on coming, continuously breaking without breaking down. Perfect for the kid at the waterpark, bad for a boat which, fully loaded, presents at most six inches of freeboard.

I made only 3 miles in my first two hours, and that was accomplished only through total concentration in the timing of my strokes and the constant adjustment of the heading of the boat. The inevitable momentary lapse in concentration cost me dearly; I was hit by a cascade that exceeded the length of the boat and was immediately sitting in a water tub full to the gunwales...with fish. Yes, fish. I'm about to lose everything in the boat and I'm focused on...the fish. See, I don't especially like fish, unless it's a properly prepared Chilean Sea Bass with some nice buttered asparagus on the side. I saw no such fish in the boat.

It's a credit to the boat that it didn't roll. I climbed into the Wave Pool, dragged the boat to the swamp, and bailed. The fish found their own way out. I didn't lose anything, but it would be a while 'till I slept in anything dry. Only Kathy's transistor radio, my constant companion, was dealt a fatal blow; for the rest of the trip it would emit frequent farting sounds which, truth be told, rivaled in breadth and depth of thought much of the talk radio I had been listening to.

Back on the water, I resolved to call it a day at 20 miles, even if it meant another night in the swamp. Within another hour (only a mile later), another lapse, another swamping (same fish?), another slog to the swamp...and even by noon, 20 miles looked foolishly optimistic.

"So Al, where is the lemonade in this story? I can see the "hardest day" part, but where is the sweet?"

Ah, Gentle Reader, you lead me to recount The Biggest Lesson Learned on my row. Distance rowing is physically challenging, to be sure, but it's every bit as much a head game. It's cerebral. It's great physical exertion that happens in slow motion, giving one plenty of time to contemplate self and situation and surroundings. But it was the periodic audit of self that would tip the day.

At some point around noon, I got angry. Not angry at the river, which astounded me with its size and variability, nor at my circumstance, which was purely elective, but rather with myself. I was angry at having set a 20 mile goal that would put me in the swamp for another night (no more Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwiches, and running low on fluids) before I had reached the end of my endurance. I determined that I would row that day until I could row no more. It was time to reach down to see what was there. At that moment I became capability-oriented, not time or distance oriented. Screw the GPS. Put it away. Just keep rowing.

To make a grueling story short, I kept at it. The wind abated a bit by late afternoon, and soon, for the first time, the Delaware shore emerged in the west. I made a six-mile dash into the wind (at last, no more demonic firemen trying to fill the boat with firehouses!)for the promise of the shelter its lee might provide, and I was rewarded for this gamble by glassy water at sunset.

I arrived at the mouth of the C&D Canal after dark, utterly exhausted. I saw no spot to pull in for the night, and I knew that the Coast Guard might have qualms about letting a row boat through the canal the next day. No one was around, the tide was again slack, and I knew there was a place to pull in 13 miles into the canal. At this point I was experiencing a kind of euphoria (exhaustion? dehydration?) at having exceeded my 20 mile goal by 29 miles, the waters of greatest concern now blessedly behind me. But a nighttime passage of the C&D? It sounded stupid even at the time, but sometimes the stupidity in front of you looks like the optimal path. Gentle Reader, if you ever find yourself rationalizing any of your future options in this way, give me a call. Let's talk.

I had been warned of the tidal effect of the C&D canal. When the tide gets moving, its effects are dramatically amplified in the Canal...far exceeding the over-the-ground speed I could sustain, even when fresh, in my boat. That night, when it started to move after slack, it would be building against me. In a perverse pilot to a game show entitled "Beat the Tide," I headed in, slinking past the Coast Guard station like a U-Boat leaving Brest in 1944, knowing that my window of opportunity was short. The prospect of investing hours and scarce calories only to be flushed out of the Canal loomed large. It would be a race.

Suffice to say that as the tide began to build, my over-the-ground progress became absurdly slow and very, very painful. I knew that if I lagged before 13 miles, there would come that moment when my maximum effort would yield less speed than the building current. The alternative of The Flush was too awful to contemplate. The miles passed in slow motion; I'd by now placed the GPS back in sight and furtive flashes of light showed my speed declining despite maximum effort...2.8 mph...1.9 mph...all the while the illusion of the current going the other way making it seem that I was flying. The freighters making nighttime passages through the canal beheld the image of an idiot in an unlit boat rowing madly against the tide, a sight as amusing as it must have been cause for concern; weren't we at Amber Alert? But I hugged the side of the canal where the heavier traffic could not go and where the current was less strong. My fatigue was overwhelming, yet I had no choice but to continue. I sang every Tommy James and the Shondells song I knew, and I have no idea why. "My Baby Does the Hanky Panky" got me thinking about what I must have thought hanky panky was when I was 13, or what Tommy meant us to think. It was enough to get me through. In retrospect, I wish I'd summoned Portia's "mercy" speech from "The Merchant of Venice" or Wordsworth's "The World is Too Much With Us." It would have made better copy for the blog; after all, I'm an English teacher, and you'd think I'd have summoned something a little more profound than Tommy James and the Shondells in this time of stress. Sheeesh.

Anyway, I reached the Chesapeake Marina at 12:45 AM. I drank a gallon of water from the first hose I could find, climbed into my wet sleeping bag on the dock next to the boat, and slept the sleep of the dead.

62 miles, 17 hours. Not bad for a 20-mile day.

It was my Hardest Day...and, I think, my best.

More later? Let me know, 'K? If you keep reading, I'll keep writing. In the parlance of pop psychology, I'm what's known as "a pleaser."

xxoo

Mr. Frei

Some shots from Al's victorious return to Baltimore!

2006-08-20T20:34:00.000-05:00

Do a left double-click on your mouse while the cursor is over the Title above to see some photos taken the afternoon of Al's return. You can then view the slideshow and/or click on the thumbnail photos individually to see who the characters are...

Ahhh. Sunday Musings

2006-08-20T10:27:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

Ah, what a luxury to be reclining in a soft chair with the Sunday Times, a hot cup of coffee in hand, cares of weather and waves in the not-so-distant past.

Truth be told, I'm going through a bit of withdrawal as I reflect that a week ago I still had the Delaware ahead of me...and two weeks ago today I was commencing my second full day on the Hudson. The boat and oars are now oiled and waxed...the callouses are already softening...I've rediscovered the short walk to 7-11 and all of its vices. Sigh. I did, however, get to the gym yesterday, lest I too-soon lose all vestige of the unintended benefits of my adventure. I beat on the rowing machine like a drum.

As I peruse the Business section of the Times this moring, however, I realize that my recent headlines of experiential discovery are not theirs. While the Times is silent on the matter, my row has revealed the true center section of the US economy: the one activity that fuels our continued supremacy in economic affairs, and one that certainly plays a material contributing role in the stability - such as it is - of our culture.

I speak, of course, of fishing.

Let me be clear. I don't fish. Frankly, I just don't get it. But I can testify that the capital investment and human resource dedicated to fishing must exceed that of the automotive, steel making, and fast-food industries combined. Sorta like golf, I guess.

I passed literally thousands of people - no, tens of thousands - sitting in watercraft of every sort equipped with sophisticated electronics, devilishly clever equipment, and attendant life-support material, all acquired for the single purpose of either catching a fish or, perhaps, for getting away from a spouse. Hundreds of times I would row gently past this population and ask, "Any luck?" or, "Are they biting?" or even an optimistic, "What's for dinner tonight?"

Gentle Reader, not once in 452 miles of inquiry was I met with the sight of a fish or even of an expression of hope. This is a very glum group. Whetever they are doing isn't working. My tribulations on the Delaware inadvertantly put more fish in my boat than I saw in the aggregation of all other boats I passed on my trip. They sit in the blazing sun in rowboats, center-consoles, "sport-fishing" boats, pontoon boats, run-abouts, ski boats, cruisers, sail boats, and charter boats. They stare blankly into the water, sometimes jerking the line (either on purpose, or perhaps as a reslt of the startle reflex one experiences as one wakes up?), waiting...waiting...waiting.

I not once got a happy response from a fisher-person in 13 days...much as I have rarely met a "happy" golfer. But make no mistake about it: the equipment and infrastructure necessary to keep this hapless fleet at sea employs millions and recirculates billions of dollars. I should, in retrospect, perhaps be grateful for their practice of their insanity. Indirectly, it keeps a lot of us fed, if not with fish.

It would be small-minded to lampoon fishing without taking a shot at myself, Gentle Reader, so let me get off my high horse and confess my own act of stupidity on my last full day on the Chesapeake, the day before my arrival in Baltimore.

I left my chart of the Chesapeake on the dock at the C&D Canal. "OK, so I just head south and try not to miss the largest city in Maryland, one of the largest ports on the eastern seaboard." (This is the kind of scintillating self-talk one has after 12 days alone in a small boat.)

As the day progressed it became clear that I would not make Baltimore on Wednesday night. There was an island several miles ahead. The water was perfectly flat, the tide was with me; making it before sunset was a lock. I pictured myself settling in with a hale and hearty fishing community (hopefully not a glum one), regaling them with tales of my adventure and, perhaps, getting some pointers on a best approach to Baltimore the next day. The island glowed in a beautiful sunset, and even from a distance I could see the reflectivity of numerous signs around its perimeter. "Welcome" signs, perhaps, pointing the way to refuge on the other side, perhaps a 7-11, or even a Starbucks.

Gentle Reader, there is no small irony to the idea that well before you can read a sign that says, "Danger! Unexploded Ordinance! Entry Strictly Forbidden," you are already in danger. As I was to learn three more times that night in complete darkness, the umbrella of the Aberdeen Proving Ground stretches over vast expanses of land and water in this part of the Chesapeake; was that a rock my oar just swept...or the casing of an unexploded 500 pound bomb? Yes, my stout boat is made of Kevlar, and isn't Kevlar used in the fabrication of bullet-proof vests? False logic, Gentle Reader, false logic. Aberdeen is big, I surmised, because it's where they test The Big Ones.

Needless to say, when I finally touched shore at 11:30 PM on a beach devoid of signs and shell casings, I was much releived. I slept the sleep of the reprieved...or of the hoplessly stupid.

Lessons learned?

1. Don't leave the charts on the dock.
2. Not all signs are large enough to serve the purpose intended.
3. Some mud flats and rocks generate a "pucker factor" all out of proportion to others.
4. There is much wildlife in Aberdeen that can't read signs.

Well, I'm looking forward to enjoying this day...but I do miss the water.

Let me know if you are reading.

xxoo

Mr. Frei

I Can Walk!!

2006-08-18T14:47:00.000-05:00

Gentle Reader, one of my favorite movies is Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. Those of you familiar with this film may recall the magical moment when Dr. Strangelove rises from his wheelchair with the words, "...I can walk!" This image came to mind to me this morning when I first stepped from a real bed...rising vertically to my feet, no sliding seat in sight and, as if in a bad out-take from Planet of the Apes, simian-shuffled towards a real bathroom with running (hot) water. Yes, I miss my boat, but it's good to be home.

First, let's get some necessary unpleasantness out of the way, shan't we? I'll be writing about this adventure in installments as the muse strikes, with no particular objective other than to distill the highs and lows in a way that might be entertaining for you and cathartic for m...but we still have some unfinished and - hopefully - not unanticipated nor unpleasant business: I've got to collect money from those of you who have pledged.

First, here are some key statistics:

13 days on the water. 452 miles rowed. 3.898 mph average speed. Minimum mileage in a day: 7.5 (impenetrable headwind wind in NJ). Maximum mileage in a day: 62 (pure mad-dog determination to get off the frigging Delaware River). Average daily miles: 34.8 Swampings: 2. Capsizes: 0. Gatorade consumed: Incalcuable. Gatorade bottles "refilled" (with my own 'special blend' that I'm thinking of labeling "Second Time Around." Think of it, Gentle Reader: Gatorade's marketing buzz is, "Is it in you?" STA's will be, "It was in me!": dozens. Mechanical/ Equipment issues: 0. Acts of unconditional kindless by friends and total strangers: countless. Pounds lost: 10. Fat converted to something else: Yes, but don't expect to see me in a calendar.

For the purposes of pledges, the operative stat is 452. Unless you have made a flat-fee pledge (in retrospect, a sage decision, oh ye of little faith), just multiply your pledge rate (pennies/dollars per mile) by 450 or so...and we'll say the final two were on the house. Write the check to The Boys' Latin School, and send it to me at 825 William Street, Baltimore, MD, 21230. You'll (again) make me very happy, and we'll collectively have done some great good through this venture.

Here's the rub: not all blog readers are pledgers (Oh, the horror! Refer to earlier blog entry utilizing an elegant and appropriate Public Radio analogy), and not all pledgers have revealed their addresses so that I can notify them of their pledge by mail. I DO have (courtesy of Kathy, of course) a hundred or so elegant "Thanks for Pulling With Mr. Frei" pledge reminders, and you have only to e mail your address to me at alfrei@earthlink.net to receive this token of thanks as yet another reminder. It'll look good on the 'fridge.

So...help me collect your money with a minimum of hassle...and know how much I appreciate your participation. We're helping some great kids. In you I have great friends.

So...with that aside, where do I start? How about at the end?

Legend has it that Gen McArthur had to jump off the landing craft a dozen times for the press when he indeed finally "returned," and Fox News asked me to get back in the boat...back on that granite-hard seat on which I'd been sitting for 109.8 hours...to re-enact my arrival to a crowd disappointingly even more animated for the presence of the cameras. I fell asleep before the news last night, so I have no idea if it played or, if so, how it played, but at least I played.

Today, during my first full day ashore in two weeks, my gratitude to you, to Peg, to Kathy, and to scores of other friends and family is comingled with a certain sadness in missing my boat. Today Peg and I placed it in a safe spot in a neighbor's back yard, where it will stay until I take it back up to its home waters of Lake George. It has been a good...no, it's been a great...horse. It is a heroic craft, because without fanfare it enabled this amature to compete a trip that would otherwise have been beyond his capabilities. I cannot think of a vessel better suited to allow one to take a trip like this, safely. Our world would be a better place indeed if the parents of the countless kids I saw joyriding on jetskis had, instead (and for less money), purchased an Adirondack Guideboat for their kid, put him in it with a bedroll, a couple of sandwiches, and a jug of water, and told him (or her) to get lost for a couple of days.

I love my boat. It saved my bacon more than once - as I will recount in later blog installments should you care to continue to read - and I'd have been overjoyed if it could have joined us knocking down Tater Tots at Regi's last night. Tomorrow I'll give it a good scrub and wax, but not so thorough that I remove the (dare I say "sexy"?) scars she gathered along the way. She's not a show boat any longer, but she carries a plucky kind of 'been-there, done-that' patina that we all hope Condi might wear in a few years.

OK, time for a "Most Heroic" episode, and then I'll sign off for another chapter tomorrow.

Bill Flammer is a Loomis Chaffee Trustee /colleague who, with his wife Terri, opened his home to me in Ocean City. They hosed me off, fed me royally, and I thoroughly enjoyed their company and appreciated their encouragement. Bill was up a 5:45 the next morning to roust me out and see me off and, after packing the boat with the two days of provisions I thought I would need on the Delaware, I bid him a thankful adieu. Two hours later I remembered that I'd forgotten to pack the enormous roast beef sandwich that was to have been the core of my evening meal. It was still on the top shelf of his 'fridge...but there was no turning back. The tide, especially around Cape May, waits for no man...nor for any Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich, even though, truth be told, it should.

I rowed on, lamenting my haste and wondering how to re-manage my meager stores. More than three hours into my day I picked up a shout in the distance, over my shoulder. (Yes, Gentle Reader, when you're rowing, everything important is over your shoulder. It's a very painful fact of life.) Ahead of me, standing on the wharf of a fish processing plant, of all places, Bill was waving a Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich in the air like a game show contestant. He had driven from Ocean City to Cape May, sandwich in a cooler bag, and he had patiently waited for me to show. Did I already mention unconditional acts of kindness? Bill, how can I thank you? Later you will learn how, like the fabled Powdermilk Biscuits, that sandwich gave me the strength to do what had to be done on the Delaware at a time of peril.

Or, in closing, might I mention Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends in Chesapeake City, MD? Chesapeake City is as charming as it is devoid of any place to buy portable bottled refreshments. No Wa-Wa, no 7-11, no retail food establishments at all...just a charming community of shops and boutiques...a veritable artists' colony and retreat that had shooed the neon out of town.

I was desperate for provisions. I asked a passer-by where I might find some Gatorade or such, and he said, "Go to Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends; they'll have what you need. "

Gentle Reader, I went. I stood at the door and looked in. It was a charming gift shop / hair salon combo place...delightful for what it was, but not a place in which you or I would order up a Gatorade. I turned around, crestfallen. I couldn't hit the Chesapeake with an empty boat. I stopped a kid.

"Young man, when you're thirsty and in need of refreshment, where do you go?"

"Go see Cheryl and Cheryl, mister. They've got what you need."

I was desperate. I returned to the storefront and again peered in the window, hesitating. Now I ask you, Gentle Reader, how comfortable would you be walking into a car dealership and asking which aisle might hold the pasta sauce? A pet store...to find metric drill bits? A Starbuck's...to order stuffed-crust pizza? I mean, come on. It's a gift shop hair salon. Drifters Cove and Cheryl's Split Ends is a gift shop hair salon. A curious combo, I grant you, and Cheryl and Cheryl pull it off suprisingly well, but nothing about it promised yet another miracle in the back room.

To make a long story short, the kid was right. They had what I needed, and I said I'd put them in the blog, so Cheryl and Cheryl, Angels of Chesapeake City and Augmentors of The Big Row, I thank you for your grace at my incredulity. You girls have got it goin' on. In retrospect I suspect that had I asked for pasta sauce, metric drill bits, or stuffed-crust pizza, Cheryl and Cheryl might have cocked their eyebrows at one another, nodded imperceptibly, and taken me to yet another back room. If you're ever in Chesapeake City, go vist them. And don't be afraid to ask.

Let's wrap it up for tonight, yes? Your future blog visits will suggest whether my recounting of this adventure in episodic installments is of any interest...but I'll probably keep writing them come what may; it'll keep a wonderful life experience from fading too quickly.

And...if you are a reader and a pledger, I plead with you to either get your address to me right away, or at least let me know that you are licking a stamp without the need for further provocation. It will sure help with the bookkeeping if you will do so. My bookkeeping is just so-so...but that's another story...for another blog.

452 miles.
3.898 mph.
Sitting.

xxoo, 'till later. Tomorrow, probably.

Mr. Frei

P.S. Left click (twice) with mouse on title to see full route!

Aug 17 - 9:30 PM Baltimore, MD

2006-08-17T20:45:00.000-05:00

In case Mr. Frei has crashed and won't be able to make an update until tomorrow, I just want to tell everyone that he made a spectacular entrance to Baltimore's Inner Harbor. In fact, it was so beautiful that Fox 45 news had him re-enact it. Al insists the cheers for the television cameras were far louder than the ones when he actually arrived, but I don't think so...

He was first spotted by his mother and Jane who were atop Federal Hill with a pair of binoculars. They called us down on the Rusty Scupper Pier and we knew just when he would come around the point. A few people actually shed tears at the sight of him (no naming of names here).

The festive welcoming party moved into the bar area at the Rusty Scupper where we heard some tales of the row. I am hoping that Mr. Frei will continue to post to this blog for a while, as I think everyone has become addicted to his writing and would love to hear a lot of the details!

Thanks to everyone who showed up to welcome him! His mother traveled all the way from Lake George, NJ and several friends drove all the way from Princeton, NJ.

I will post photos and some video tomorrow...

I'm Back!

2006-08-17T20:34:00.000-05:00

Yes, Gentle Reader, I made it. Or, I should say, we made it.

But this moment's overriding fact is that, as I write this, I'm fatigued beyond belief. I want my initial post-return blog post to be worthy of your loyal readership and interest in this adventure, so I beg your forgiveness in asking that you allow me to hit the hay for the evening and let me pick it up tomorrow: some key trip stats, some highlight stories and, without getting preachy, maybe some lessons learned.

Right now...must...sleep. To those of you who met me at the Rusty Scupper at 2:52 PM (making it a 2-way tie for guessing the arrival day and time...Evan Obligin and Doc McCarty were each off by only seven and one half minutes on a trip lasting thirteen days...go figure...), many thanks for the rousing arrival celebration. To Peg, Kathy, and Mom...and the many others I'll applaud tomorrow, a special thanks.

The Sun was there, and Fox News, too. Clearly, I timed my arrival for a slow news day.

Wish I could stay up to watch it.

Must sleep.

See you tomorrow.

xxoo

zzzzzz, too.

Mr. Frei

Aug 17 - 9AM - Mr. Frei's Current Location

2006-08-17T08:23:00.000-05:00

The journey is almost over. Click on the link above to see the route for the last day.

Make sure to comb your hair, etc. because there may be some media coverage of his arrival around 3PM. The excitement is building...

Aug 16 - 10:45 PM - Chesapeake at Middle River

2006-08-16T21:56:00.000-05:00

Since he was rowing in the dark, he is not sure, but thinks that he is on a beach near Middle River. He sees two smokestacks...
At least we know he is safe for the night.

Total mileage for today was 27 miles.

It is still looking like 3PM in the Inner Harbor!

Further details in the morning...

Aug 16 - 9:21 PM - near Aberdeen

2006-08-16T20:26:00.000-05:00

Al is still rowing, so can't give you his resting place yet. Apparently, he was going by Aberdeen Proving Ground, and there were a lot of signs that made it seem a little tad (that's for you Al) unfriendly. So, he is moving on until he finds a safe spot.

The comments are great! Glad to see we finally got one from Michigan. Still waiting for the one from Minnesota! Al will have a lot of fun reading them.

Will create a final post tonight when I hear that he is safely bedded down for the night.

Double_Click Here to See Photos of the launch

2006-08-16T18:13:00.000-05:00

The link takes you to flikr.com and then you can click on "View as slideshow" to see them automatically.

These photos were taken by Emmy Lou Kelly, one of Al's cousins. Thanks Emmy Lou. Hope you don't mind the captions!

Al does the Hudson by Peter Thomson

2006-08-16T13:46:00.000-05:00

Aug 16 - AM - C & D Canal -

2006-08-16T13:05:00.000-05:00

Chesapeake Inn

No, Mr. Frei is not going backwards! I misunderstood the message last night and thought that he was 5 miles south of the canal in the Chesapeake, but he was still on the Delaware, just 5 mile south there!

I spoke with him this morning after he had had his first solid food in a day and a half, and between the groans caused by a full stomach he told me that he was 10 miles through the C & D Canal at the Chesapeake Inn and Marina.

Everyone who knows Al will shake their head when they hear the following piece of news. At midnight last night he decided that he didn't feel comfortable where he was and rowed north to the C & D canal and began making his way through it. He actually made it 2/3 of the way though the canal. Therefore, his total for yesterday was actually 62 miles!

He is pretty sure that he will hit (not literally) the water taxi dock at the Rusty Scupper on the south side of the inner harbor at 3PM tomorrow, so make your plans!

Will post some pics from his days on the Hudson from his friend Peter later today.

Aug 15 - On the Chesapeake!

2006-08-15T20:56:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei had his toughest row yet today. His boat was swamped twice, causing him to have to go to shore to bail out, and little fish were jumping in the boat.

He crossed the Delaware where it was 7 miles wide against a strong wind, but achieved a total mileage today of 39 miles in 10 hours and 44 minutes. The plan is to sleep on a beach about 5 miles south of the C & D canal.

He also said that the row today would have been impossible at the beginning of the journey, but his strength and endurance have greatly improved.

I encourage everyone who has been reading this blog to put an entry in the guest book. The only required field is the name field, and if you enter your email address, it will remain private. I would like to make a book for Al, which include photos, blog entries and all of your comments.

Finally, the prediction is now that he may arrive in Baltimore as early as Thursday afternoon! Looks like I will be taking time off from work...

P.S. Double-click the Title to see probable sleeping location

Aug 15th - Morning - Delaware River

2006-08-15T15:15:00.000-05:00

From Peg: Al called at 7 this morning and I think he actually had an OK night. He said he's facing a stiffer wind (so probably bigger waves) today.

Please sign the guest book. I will present it to him when he returns to Baltimore. Humor is appreciated. You don't have to enter your email address unless you want to.

Thanks!

Aug 14 - Camping 33 miles up the Delaware River

2006-08-14T19:34:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei only knows that he traveled 33 miles up from Cape May along the right bank of the Delaware River. He is hanging out on a mud flat with 6 horseshoe crabs, so thinks that he will sleep in the boat tonight. Also, the tide might come in on him, so it is a practical idea in 2 ways.

His total mileage from Stone Harbor to the mud flats was 48 miles in 13 hours. He has now covered almost half his distance on the Delaware.

Two people increased their pledges today because they are so impressed with his performance, so it looks as though I will have to do something about the pledge paddle!

Aug 14 - Stone Harbor to Delaware Bay

2006-08-14T12:20:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei called with the good news that he had already made it through the Cape May canal and was just getting into the Delaware Bay. He said the winds were with him and there were gently rolling waves. He has to do 70 miles on the Delaware before hitting the Chesapeake Canal.

Thanks to Bill Flammer's generosity in Stone Harbor, he is refreshed and feeling strong!

More later today.

Aug 9 - Video - Staten Island - Part 3 (dbl click)

2006-08-13T17:11:00.000-05:00

Aug 9 - Video - Staten Island - Part 2 (dbl click)

2006-08-13T17:07:00.000-05:00

Aug 9 - Video - Staten Island - Part I (dbl click)

2006-08-13T17:01:00.000-05:00

Aug 13 - 3:30 PM - Stone Harbor, NJ

2006-08-13T14:38:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei had an easy day (by his standards) today with a 22 mile row of 6 and one half hours of flat water. Progress was a little slow as he was fighting the tides.

Sighting of the day was a fox stalking a duck (duck got away).

He is probably enjoying his first vodka tonic at the home of his friend Bill Flammer, which just happens to be on the waterway in Stone Harbor. After a cold night on the City Dock in Ocean City last night, he will be "living large" tonight.

Aug 12 - 12:05 AM - Ocean City, NJ

2006-08-12T23:05:00.000-05:00

Sorry this is late tonight. The blogmeister attended a Peter, Paul and Mary concert tonight - it was great! I received the following from Peg:

Al called around 7:30. His cell phone is low and he hasn't tried the radio recharger yet, so he didn't talk too long.

He's in Ocean City (yeah!) at the public dock - 10 hours, 40 miles today. Didn't have his coordinates.

He doesn't want to leave his stuff unattended, so he'll be dining on 3 Slimfasts tonight.

Tomorrow he's headed to Stone Harbor and will be staying with Bill Flammer, a fellow Loomis board member. He's planning a short day and a long nap.

Aug 12 - 1:38 PM - Atlantic City, NJ

2006-08-12T11:08:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei just called from a casino in Atlantic City (actually still rowing in his boat) to say that he has covered 22 miles so far today, and has been beset by power boats with drivers who behave as though gasoline is still 39 cents a gallon! On a positive note, he has seen beautiful bird life in the grasslands today. (Double click on Title to see aerial view of where he is)

Earlier today there was an enormous shadow under the boat for about 5 minutes, which seemed quite ominous, but no fin broke the water. He did feel as though he was being trailed though.

He hopes to get to the south side of Ocean City today, and is highly motivated since his friend Bill Flammer will be meeting him when he gets to Stone Harbor (probably the next day) with a vodka tonic.

Final Results of original poll:
Nathan's Coney Island 29
Brian Rooney's Interview 13
Bob Ashton's Cooldown 1
Hurricane Peg 1
Complete works of Shakespeare 1

It looks as though everyone knows Mr. Frei pretty well.

Aug 12 - Today's Circuitous Route

2006-08-12T09:31:00.000-05:00

Aug 12 - Launched at Beach Haven, NJ - 6:47AM

2006-08-12T09:05:00.000-05:00

Update from Al's pal Andy Steginsky at 6:47 AM:

Getting ready to launch Al from beach haven yacht club. Beautiful day. Good
winds from the north.

Al was confused for a California guy in Wawa!

He had a great night's sleep and was well fed!

----------------

Thanks to Andy, Sandy, Gail, Skip and the person who thought Al was a California boy (good for the ego)!

Aug 11 - Beach Haven, NJ - Back in stride

2006-08-11T17:21:00.000-05:00

The winds turned around today so Mr. Frei was able to row 40 miles in 9 hours. It was a big wave day, like a "Nantucket sleigh ride", enormous surf with the boat taking on a lot of water. However, the weather was beautiful.

He is staying with his friends Andy and Sandy tonight on Long Beach Island, and feasting on spaghetti bolognaise. You can see information about the Barnegat Lighthouse, which he passed today by double clicking on the Title above.

Correction from Andy Steginsky:
39 miles! Really staying at Skip and Gail Cimino's house, Sandy's sister
and brother-in-law. (They live in Brant Beach, Long Beach Island.

Aug 10 - launch at Brielle Marina

2006-08-10T22:26:00.000-05:00

I have put another short video of Mr. Frei starting his day during The Big Row.

Double-click on the Title to view...

Aug 10 - Mantoloking - Know when to fold 'em

2006-08-10T21:26:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei's lonely guideboat awaiting tomorrow's row

Mantoloking Yacht Club (Not a bad place to stay!)

Mr. Frei had a slight setback today after fighting a 20 knot headwind for 3 hours. He had to call it quits in the waterway next to Mantoloking, NJ, which turned out to be a beautiful place to stop. If he had been heading north, he could have easily gone all the way back to Staten Island, but alas...he was heading south. Therefore, the total for today was 7.5 miles, although he had to back-track about half a mile to get back to the yacht club when he realized he was fighting a losing battle.

Thank you to the Mantoloking Yacht Club (another MYC) for providing him with a safe place to sleep and access to the men's room!

Aug 9th - launch at Liberty Park Marina

2006-08-09T21:17:00.000-05:00

A short video of Al launching this morning in Jersey City can be seen if you double-click on the TITLE here.

Enjoy!

Aug 9 - West Long Branch, NJ -This will be short...

2006-08-09T20:00:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

This is my first blog from the road...and it will be necessarily short: I'm pretty bushed, and today was a killer. I left Jersey City this AM and battled headwinds, water taxis, freighters bringing Chinese goods to Wal-Mart, emerging blisters, the shadows of fins, and my own fertile imagination for 9 hours and thirty two minutes to get to Sandy Hook...over a serpentine distance of 30.2 miles. Not a blazing speed, but it was a day that saw waves that blocked a view of the shore.

The boat is performing beautifully, but we were close to the limit today while 6 miles from the nearest shore...and (to my relief, frankly) the Coast Guard will not permit a beach launch from Sandy Hook, so a trip modification is in order. I'll be car-topping the boat 12 miles south to Manasquan Inlet, avoiding water that the locals tell me (and that I saw today) is simply too dangerous: the combination of the full moon (enhances tidal effect) and the recent southerly winds make things rough even for the power boaters who approach to ask if I need rescuing!

So...I will make up the 12 miles by doing circles in the Inner Harbor should I get home...but, tomorrow, "going outside" promises to be beyond my limits...and I hope you will understand.

As of today, I'm at 185 miles in 43:45 of "seat time." I'm taking waterstained notes of impressions that I'll write up when I can keep my eyes open, but I'll just say that the folks along the way have been great, I'm keeping my sanity, and I am enormously appreciative of the work Kathy and Peg have done to keep this thing updated...and thanks to Peter for his great "wingman" help over the first three days.

Happy 29th again, Peg!

Gentle Reader...I must sleep. Must...sleep.....

xx00......to zzzzzzz's..........

Mr. Frei

August 8th - Jersey City, NJ - Liberty State Park

2006-08-08T22:09:00.000-05:00

I am sorry to be filing so late (Brian), but we have just gotten to the hotel after driving about 400 miles, meeting up with Al, having dinner and going through a maze to find this hotel near the Newark Airport.

Al had his best day yet (40 miles in 7 1/2 hours), and said he was quite thrilled going through New York Harbor. Only near miss was a water taxi. I was hoping that he could update the blog tonight, but he is whipped. This will be the first night that he has slept in a bed for a while.

Going under the Tappan Zee Bridge was the only really difficult part of the row today. The currents are definitely stronger under a bridge.

He will launch at 7:30 tomorrow and hopes to reach Sandy Point, NJ.

More news tomorrow!

August 7th - 31 miles to Haverstraw Yacht Club

2006-08-07T20:23:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei traveled 31 miles against a strong headwind to reach Haverstraw Yacht Club in Haverstraw, NY. He actually did his fastest time yet though, traveling at 7.4 miles/hr as he went past West Point Military Academy. We suspect that he was noticed at West Point, and that his good friend Peter filled people in about his journey since there were some views to the blog from West Point Military Academy this afternoon.

Peter Thompson has been a great help to Mr. Frei during the last few days. He provided good advice, boosted his morale and provided some equipment that made the trip more comfortable. Since Peter has now departed for his home in Vermont, Mr. Frei asked me to send his thanks!

The goal for tomorrow is to reach Liberty Marina in Jersey City, NJ, where there will be a nice view of the Statue of Liberty.

Peg and I plan to meet him in Jersey City with a big bottle of his favorite blueberry milk from Sherman's Farm stand here in NH.

There was a nice comment from the Arakelians on the blog site today, which we will read to Mr. Frei tomorrow. Feel free to add any comments to the site, and we will read them to him. Your good wishes energize him!

Kathy

August 6th - 34 miles to Marlboro, NY

2006-08-06T21:17:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei and his friend Peter are camping in the clubhouse of the Marlboro Yacht Club in Marlboro, NY tonight. They also were invited to a big cookout there, so are eating well! It's a good thing they can stay on the grounds there because otherwise they would be listening to freight trains going by every 10 minutes.

He did 34 miles today against the wind in 9 1/2 hours. He and Peter lunched at Hyde Park, the former home of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Mr. Frei says that the Hudson River is looking very clean, a few dead fish, but no real trash.

A BIG THANK YOU to the Marlboro Yacht Club for their hospitality!

August 5th - Passing Through Albany

2006-08-06T18:56:00.000-05:00

Double-click on the subject line to go to the set of photos that Mark McCarty took as Mr. Frei passed through Albany around 9:30 AM on August 5th.

Preparations for The Big Row - August 4th

2006-08-06T15:54:00.000-05:00

AN ESSENTIAL ITEM

Pruning out the non-essentials

Mr. Frei with some of his many admirers

Captain Al, Commodore Peg, and Chief Petty Officer Matt

Day 1 - Troy, NY - Saugerties, NY (click here video)

2006-08-05T21:27:00.000-05:00

Mr. Frei rowed a total of 50.5 miles today aided by current and wind, in 10 and a half hours. Some sights that he saw were a dead pig, 3 bald eagles, and lots of jumping fish.

His friend Peter met him at noon and stole half his lunch! However, he made up for it by providing a ride to a gourmet restaurant called Miss Lucy's Kitchen (Zagat rated), and half of a tent for sleeping.

The plan for tomorrow is to reunite with Peter for lunch at Hyde Park...

That's it for plans for now...more to come...

He had a great sendoff at the Troy City Dock this morning around 7:30 (contest entries will be adjusted for the extra 1 1/2 hours). Many friends and relatives were there to cheer him on. He was surprised to see some friends that had told him that they couldn't make it - the Ashtons and the Rooneys.

Check out the launch video by double-clicking on the subject line above. You will only have to turn your head sideways for several seconds (conklincam error).

T-Minus....

2006-08-03T21:10:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

We (you!) have pushed the Pledge Paddle to over $11,000! In about 32 hours I'll be pushing away from the Troy dock, and at this point each mile- should I make it all the way - will yield about $24 for the fellows at Boys' Latin. At 4 mph, that's about $96 per hour...almost a professional-grade salary. To say the least, I'm motivated...and tremendously grateful to all of you who have taken an interest in this venture. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

If my training over the last ten days has illminated anything (other than the myriad weak points of this aging body), it has demonstrated the sheer magnitude of how far 450 miles is in a row boat. As I've suggested before, this trip will need to be attempted as a series of 32- mile day trips if I am to make it all the way; 450 miles seems dauntingly far, but 32 miles each day seems plausible, dontcha' think?

Starting on Saturday, Peg and Kathy will be updating the blog each day as best they can, and while their accounts of my adventure will be in third person and necessarily abridged, you'll at least not be kept in suspense as to the size of the check you will be writing. Tonight I saw Brian's dog attired in the "I'm Waiting for Mr. Frei" T-shirt...and aside from the questionable ethic of contributing to the doggie garnment industry, I have to admit that it was darned cute and placed some money in the till.

I visited the Troy Dockmaster for a second time this week, and the City of Troy has bequeathed a Key to the Dock to me so that I might get a very early start on Saturday. Not exactly a key to the city, but more useful.

Tomorrow, the day before I start, is my 55th birthday. Family and friends will be gathering for pizza and creme brulee by the lake- the final Training Meal of Choice- and I suspect I'll start the day with a final short row to say goodbys to my favorite summer places. Lake George has been a great - if an unrealistic - environment in which to prepare. Last night was spent on an island about 15 miles up the lake with Peg, Kathy, & friends. I know I'm only deluding myself if I think that this counted as "preparation" for my future overnights at docks and campsites along the way. We enjoyed all the comforts of home and a perfect evening punctuated by a tremendous thunderstorm that dropped virtually no rain. Certainly, once I start, I will not be so lucky. The Weather Channel promises a pretty good day on Saturday: cooler, with a light wind from the NNE, which is perfect for my purposes.

In these final hours before my departure I'm receiving all sorts of advice about items to bring along. This well-intentioned counsel is bumping into my determination to keep the boat as light as possible. Tonight's suggestions included a flare gun ( I will only shoot a hole in the boat, or myself), a 20-foot telescoping flagpole with distress flags, wing mirrors so I won't have to keep turning around, and a wheeled dolly to portage the boat if necessary. I would note that none of these suggestions convey a sense confidence, nor do any of them include items that might facilitate celebration in Baltimore should I make it. Sigh. (It's Shark Week on "The Discovery Channel," and I'm suprised no none has offered ideas for protection on that score as well.)

Gentle Reader, unless I can haul my aching carcass into a marina that has an internet connection, this may well be my last comunication until I get to Baltimore. If I can locate such a resource, you'll be hearing from me. If you hear from me in this way, however, it will be an at opportunity cost of $96/ hour...or it might mean that I still have retained sense enough to wait out bad weather or to listen to my body. Either way, stay in touch through my able surrogates, and know that your interest and support have made this adventure much more than I ever hoped it could have been, even without having yet pulled a stroke south.

Thanks for joining me. I'll not be rowing alone.Kathy asks me to remind you that merchandise is still available" "The mall is still open!" Sheesh.

Blisters are calluses...I'm as ready as I can be.

Latah!

Mr. Frei

Training on Lake George - This is The Life!

2006-07-29T09:36:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader. Please accept my heartfelt apologies for my apparent sloth as a correspondent. Let me explain.

I’m in training. And, I’ve been off the grid.

I am at my Mom’s place at Lake George, NY. As I sit at her writing table on the porch, I am looking north through a series of rain showers which presently shroud the mountains that majestically flank this 32 mile lake. For those of you not familiar with Lake George…my “training ground” of the last six days…let me just say that twenty strides bring me to her dock. A large tumbler lowered into the water offers the most clear, delicious, truly ‘natural’ beverage imaginable. The largest predator in the lake is most likely the pike which, I am told, is more scared of us than we are of him. While, in my case, I doubt it, it’s nice to know that a capsize does not put one on the menu. The lake is roughly three miles wide at its broadest point, offering a quick sheltering lee in the event of a storm. Additionally, I know lots of people on the lake; a cup of coffee or a restorative vodka tonic are never far from hand. I sleep in a comfy bed each night, and my own caring, gracious mom sets a groaning table for my ‘training‘ each day. I am not going hungry. If I get thirsty, I lower my head over the side of the boat and drink deeply. If I get hot, I take a dip in the same fresh water that perked my coffee in the morning, free of worry of toxic hazards or marine predators.

Gentle Reader, what I am trying to say is that even though I am training every day, I am working up to my row in a halcyon environment that bears little resemblance to what I will be facing staring a week from tomorrow. Nightly shelter, fresh water, friendly fish, ready rescue…these will be but fond memories once I shove off from the Troy Dock at 7AM next Saturday. But then, the adventure has been the allure. Really, it has.

“Then is this indeed ‘training,’ Al?” you are no doubt asking. “After all, Rocky went to frigging Siberia to prepare for his epic battle with Drago. You, on the other hand, nestle into warm blankets each night, full of steak and creamed potatoes. What’s with that?”

A good question. A fair question. And yet I would submit that if Rocky had had my mom with him, it wouldn’t have gone two rounds.

Truth be told, I’ve been doing a lot of rowing. I’ve had three 17 mile days and a 35 mile day interspersed with several shorter “sprint” days. I made the mistake of waterskiing yesterday, an activity that awakens 54 year-old muscles that are best left sleeping. Happily, the blisters on my hands have gone to calluses. My lower back and derriere are developing greater tolerances for the seat. My arms, shoulders, and legs have not complained. In short, I’m getting ready.

My 17 mile-days are instructive. I typically finish by noon. I’m tired, but not exhausted. The prospect of getting back in the boat at, say, 2 PM and doing it again before dark is not daunting. Since I’ll have to average about 32 miles each day to get to Baltimore in time for school, this 17 mile “leg” thing seems to be a sensible practice for this, my first week of on-the-water training.

A highlight each day is always my first stop at Brian Rooney’s house, two miles up the lake. He and Cecile always have the (very) early morning coffee ready to go, and Brian then offers to be my “wing man” for the next few miles of my training in his own pristine wooden guide boat. Watching him pull that baby through the water is downright motivational: cherry oars piercing glass, the cedar cutwater raising a feather of transparency with each stroke…if I look half as competent (and elegant) as he does, my arrival at the Inner Harbor in a few weeks might be worthy of a photo. Hey, it could happen.

Peg has had to remain in Baltimore this week. Somebody has to keep the wheels of industry spinning, and I’m grateful beyond measure for her moral support and care. She arrives here tomorrow night to “supervise” my second week of training; I suspect my productivity will go down, but the fun quotient will skyrocket. I’m ready for the tradeoff.

Cosmic Riff: It’s surreal to be in this perfect place and to be reading the news. My own good fortune in family, friends, hearth, and health seem unbounded; in relief against the travails of current events, my blessings sometimes seem less a cause for thanks and celebration than a cosmic question of fate, equity, our shared humanity, and how to do good. It’s simply a difficult time, it seems, to revel in bliss when so much needs to be righted.

On a happier note…and germane, I hope, to the notion of doing some good…let me thank you all for pushing the Pledge Paddle over $10k. In supporting this venture, you will collectively make a material difference for families who are investing in their own - and our - futures, and your engagement has made this initially selfish adventure a morally worthwhile one. Thank you!!

I will get at least one more blog out before I depart on August 5; after that, Peg and Kathy will be offering frequent updates on my progress. Kathy, in particular, has been masterful in her administration of this blog, and I can’t thank her enough. But I’ll keep trying.

So, net net, Gentle Reader, I’ll be ready to go. Thanks for pushing me with your interest, support, and checks that clear.

Blisters to calluses is a good thing.

Latah!!Mr. Frei

Training....really!!

2006-07-24T08:40:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader. If this entry carries a different graphic style than previous submissions, it is because I am sitting at my mother's machine, outside of the supervision of a responsible, technically competent adult (a.k.a. Peg), and I cannot find a way to smooth the typographical edges. As you have undoubtedly already noticed, I can't go to a new paragraph. Neither can I figure out how to change the font which, to my eyes, seems too big and bold. Nor am I certain that I might not erase this entire thing at any moment with an errant keystroke. I am, in a word, a Techno-Peasant. But if you believe, as I do, that it's the words that matter, not merely the style, then you'll bear with me. You have so far. (NEW PARAGRAPH) {Sorry, it's the only way....} Not only am I employing my mother's alien machine...I am sitting at her writing table on her porch at Lake George, facing my Training Ground for the row: Lake George... 32 miles of crystal-clear water, surounded by majestic (and,at this moment, fog-shrouded) mountains. I have 12 days to prepare for my start on the 5th. I've been here for two days already. "You have??"you ask. "You've been there for two days? You must already be in the rhythm of your training,"you are thinking. Sort of. Let me explain. (NEW PARAGRAPH) {This paragrahp thing is lame. I've got to figure it out; I can harldy expect my faithful readers to limp along through a block of prose such as this. Hemingway didn't ask you to....nor should I.} I arrived at Lake George on Friday night. I was watered and fed, lolled around on the porch catching up on familial things and local current events- deep sea divers have to re-acclimate themselves gradually to ambiant air pressure...time on the porch at Lake George is my favorite depressurization capsule (Peg is, lamentably, still in Baltimore greasing the wheels of industry; she arrives on Friday). When I hit the hay on Friday night it was my full and enthusiastic expectation to be on the water at 6AM, pulling hard for On-The-Water-Training: Day One. I'd positioned the boat on the dock, weighted and ballasted to simulate my load, packed some food and drink, and laid out the incidentals that a day on the water command. I was ready to go. (Next Paragraph) I heard the driving rain before I opened my eyes. The wind whipped the curtains inches from my face. I could hear the waves lashing over the dock. Moral Dilemma: I will indeed face inclement weather on my trip. Shoud not Day One of Training also be a test of my will, my resolve, my perseverence in the face of discomfort? It should have been, and I confess, Gentle Reader, that by this criteria I failed Day One of Training miserably. I....(sigh)...rolled over. In fact, I rolled over until 10, curled up at 10:30 with a hot cup of coffee and my latest Ian McEwan novel (I am lately reading everything he has written; his prose is divine), and there I stayed until dusk, when I ventured out into the whitecaps in my sister's kayak for an hour of surfing and splashing. Hardly a Day One of Training for The Big Row. I toyed with the notion that Day One was A Success in Exercising Good Judgement..but we both know that I simply wussed out. (NEW PARAGRAPH) Yesterday, Day Two of Training, was a different story entirely. I was up at 6:30, on the water by 7, and slogged upwind 14 miles...probably a good deal more because of all the detours I made to stay within the lea of land that would shelter me from a strong north wind. On the way up I was bouyed by the prospect of the huge push the gale would give me when I finally turned for home. Predictably, within five minutes of turning for home, the Unseen Hand pulled the plug on the Great Fan, and within twenty minutes a light headwind developed for the trip home. Punishment, no doubt, for the sloth of the previous day. I crawled into bed last night at 9...fed and watered and a little bit sore after what I believe was a 35 mile-day, somewhat anxious to know how I would be feeling this morning. Could I get up and do it again, as I will have to for 15 days in a row starting August 5? (NEW PRAGRAPH) So here I sit on a perfect day at 10:34 on on Monday morning. The boat is tethered to the dock, the lake is like glass and, truth be told, I feel great. The blisters that I have to work into callouses have started, and the rest of the body parts have raised their collective hands, stating, "All present and accounted for, sir, and reporting for duty." Today, Day Three, will be a shorter day...I'm anticipating 15-20 miles, my strategy being to alternate shorter with longer efforts to "do no harm" to this frail flesh. (NEW PARAGRAPH) On my way to the lake on Friday I stopped in Troy. I wanted to see what the logistics would beat the Troy Dock for launching early on the morning of the 5th. I met the Dockmaster. He would give me no name...just "Dockmaster"...and, truth be told, a title like that might make any of us reticent to lean back on our given names, yes? Some titles say it all in a breath, and "Dockmaster" is one of them. Happily, behind the gruff seems a heart of gold. I asked him how I might launch a small boat at 6:30 on August 5 when he doesn't open the gate until 8. He asked me what it was all about, and when he learned I was embarking for Baltimore, he asked if he might talk me out of it. Ha ha. Line forms at the right, Dockmaster. Anyway, he gave me his number and he'll be there to open the gate and release me like a farm-fed fish to the sea. Like I said...a heart of gold. (NEW PARAGRAPH) So there you have it, Gentle Reader. My serious training has begun, and I am blessed to be able to work out in a place and among family and friends that mean everything to me. The audacious scale and scope of "rowing to Baltimore" is revealing itself a bit more to me each day. I will have no "roll over" time...and I'll be sleeping in places (mostly on docks) that will not especially lend themselves to thumbing another few chapters on a rainy day anyway. I will not have mom along to set my training table (mostly baked beans, corn, steak, and vodka tonics...probably a good thing that this pattern will be broken...). I will not be able to enjoy Peg's calming, supportive presence, nor will I have instant access to the technology to commune with you, my unseen but ever-present companions. But in 12 days I'll be off, because the Dockmaster is coming in early. (NEW PARAGRAPH) Of course, I can't close this entry without thanking you for pushing the Pledge Paddle over the magcal $10,000 mark. To be sure, this is another reason I'll be pushing off, rain or shine. You've helped a lot of kids, and I couldn't be more grateful. More on this later; I've gotta get on the water. Blisters to callouses! Mr. Frei.

Bonjour!!

2006-07-18T12:43:00.000-05:00

Bonjour, Gentle Readers!

Peg and I returned from France last night, and what a vacation it was. We spent a week in southern France and a second week in Paris, neither of which did much for my conditioning for the row. Actually, I lost a pound, which I attribute to both the healthy food one eats in France, as well as to Peg's penchant for delightful, energetic marches through the city. She thinks nothing of walking six to seven hours a day and, truth be told, six hours is five minutes in Paris. It is a city that incites sensory overload and a provokes a sense of history like nothing else I have experienced. Doesn't hurt the waistline, either.

Other highlights:

1. The World Cup soccer final. We joined 10,000 + others around an enormous outdoor screen in the town square of Albi, in southwestern France, screaming in a language we didn't know and sharing their incredulity at Zidane's now world-famous (except in the U.S.) head-butt of an Italian defender in the final minutes of regulation time. The partisan crowd was stunned, and so was I. They were stunned at what was on the screen: a seemingly unprovoked vilolent act by their national icon in his announced Final Game...his immediate ejection from the game...the suddenly diminished prospects of France's success because of his departure. I, on the other hand, was captivated by their reaction: no chest-thumping, no NBA/NFL home-town testosterone-driven attaboys or high-fives...just palpable confusion and disappointment at an act that tarnished the game and a legend's sterling reputation.

These are classy people. It made me proud, at that moment, to be a Frenchman.

After the loss, they went about consoling themselves largely through the copious consumption of the grape juice for which their country is justifiably famous, as well as by igniting the fireworks they had brought along to celebrate the anticipated victory. I'll just say that a bottle rocket, when lit on the ground in a horizontal position, incites the best (and worst) of disco moves from the 70's.

All in all, a great night.

2. Pasta on the Seine. When, on the way home, I asked Peg what her favorite meal might have been, she won my heart (sigh, yet again) when she said, "Pasta on the Seine." Yes, in a country revered for its cusine, I won her Best-of-Show with a tupperware melange of my very own "secret sauce" over pasta, taken with a mellow Burgundy on the banks of the Seine watching a late sunset framing Notre Dame.

Sigh. I'll remember it well.

3. The People. Sounds corny, but the people we met couldn't have been nicer. Neither Peg nor I speak the language (she knows enough to at least keep entrails off the dinner plate), but the fact is that if you just try the language, however ham-handedly, the French are delighted that you are making the effort, and they get you through. They like Americans; they just aren't too keen on our present leadership or certain foreign policies.

Show of hands, anyone?

"This is all very interesting, Al...so riviting, in fact, that we'd like to hear about your last trip to Cleveland when you have a chance, but isn't this blog site supposed to be about your "big row?"

You're right, Gentle Reader. My apologies. But look, when you're fresh off the plane from the land of wine, bread, cheese, and Jerry Lewis, it's impossible to just let it go. While I perhaps looked odd this morning at the 7-11 in my beret, scarf, and pointy shoes, I'll be back to my old self soon enough. Let's keep the glow alive just a little linger, nes pah?

I'll be training on the water starting a week from today, and rowing hard every day until my departure on August 5, giving me exactly 14 days to get my hands, wrists, and buns conditioned to the rigors of the voyage. Bean and Bob Tarrant, sages of rowing and trainers/coaches extraordinairre, have counseled me that I can lift, run, and stretch, but the only thing that truly prepares one for rowing is rowing...so the meat of my physical preparation will take place starting next Saturday. I'll be at Lake George, a pristine and protected body of water which will hardly replicate the kinds of conditions I am likely to experience and one which affords a rower, when he is thirsty, the luxury of just plunging his head into the water for a hearty drink of the best water on this planet, or any other- hardly an act I'll contemplate under the Tappan Zee.

So, gentle reader, please expect future blog entries from my Training Site next week. And, to those of you who have grabbed on to the 'ole Pledge paddle since my last enrty, Thank You! We're only a short stroke or two from $10 grand, and pushing off from the dock with a $10k objective would sure be sweet. To those of you who have pledged, please pass the word along. And to those of you who continue to steal the services of this tome without even the most modest of pledges - and you know who you are, Bob - let me just say that I hope that's a steady hand on that razor each morning.

Talk to you soon!

Bon Voyage!

Mr. Frei

On (and Over) the Water!

2006-07-02T22:02:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

"OK, so what's with that cryptic title?" you ask.

Tomorrow, Peg and I leave for France. That's the 'over the water' reference, and as I write this Peg is filling her "water bottle" with some liquid courage. My 1,000 hours of piloting time (mostly aerobatics) do little to assuage her angst of flying, perhaps because she knows I live for the PA anouncement, "Does anyone here know how to fly a plane?" She knows that Evil Twin Skippy would love to try the elegant eight-point roll just before squeeking it on; yes, she's right to pour the Grey Goose.

So...expect two-weeks of down-time on the blog, unless she can help me work some magic from abroad. As you might imagine, two weeks in France will do little to foster serious training for the row; I'll "curl" the croissant to my mouth, and of course "press" the soft creamery butter onto the baguette...but other than that, and a lot of walking, I may be starting from scratch when I get home. I did row Peg in a boat at the Palace of Versailles, but that was then and this is now. We just need to get over the Big Pond safely tomorrow. I have little interest in paddling a life raft in the middle of the Atlantic.

As for "on the water," I was at Lake George this weekend, and today rowed 26.8 miles in 6:32 through all kinds of conditions: a glorious tailwind with Big Waves (saw close to 7 mph for a while on the GPS!), a stiff crosswind (maintained 4.5 mph), and a long pull home against the same wind (3 - 3.4 mph). All of this is a stark reminder of the enormous role that weather will play on my trip. I feel that I'll need to average 3.8 - 4.2 mph if I am to complete this trip in the time available, and the fact is that 4.2 is quite sustainable under tail / crosswind conditions; I know it isn't sustainable over an 8-10 hour day with the kind of headwind I faced today.

But I did make two breakthrough discoveries. First, the aforementioned foam padding for my seat is indeed a miracle material. After more than six hours, it did not break down or loose its cushioning properties under the stress of my somewhat Super-Sized derriere, and as I write this (even after a 6 hour drive back to Baltimore), the buns feel like they could get up and do it again. The question remains, of course, could they do it again after that, and again, and again, etc. Don't know, of course, but this is the best stuff I've found yet, and hope springs eternal. Also, the efficacy of my gym training is, I think, validated: arms, legs, and shoulders could definitely get up and do it again...and, I think, again and again.

All in all, I'm feeling bullish about the trip; today was a vigorous on-the-water workout, and I feel good.

Secondly, remember the electrolyte globules? Fabulous!! They're called "Sharkies," available at REI, and they are quite restorative, easy to eat while underway, do not cause thirst, and - while this may be a backhanded compliment - they don't taste lousy. Of course, popping a little shark in your mouth each hour is a too-frequent reminder of the peril that lurks below. It may be that they were intended for hikers, not rowers.

The Pledge Paddle continues to creep towards $9k; thank you, new crew members! We're on our way to helping some great kids, and I couldn't be more grateful for your largesse. I worry a bit that a two-week hiatus from the blog might slow down this Freight Train of Fun, but that worry presumes that these weekly ramblings have an iota to do with pledges. I think not. But it is fun.

My morning row through one of the world's most scenic and pristine bodies of water reminded me of the awe and the heartbreak I will undoubtedly feel during this venture. I expect that I will see shoreline and waters that will rival Lake George...waterways and shoreline that will appear to have been untouched by our consumptive ways. I also know that I will see the effects of our lifestyles and the economy that supports us at most every turn as well. The foil wrapper on the Rice Krispie Treat I ate on the way home will outlive me - and perhaps my children; the packaging of our lives is ubquitous in nature. Reading about the ecologocal trajectory of the Chesapeake Bay is depressing indeed, and even my beloved Lake George is under unprecedented stress. These things weigh heavily now, and seeing them unfold at 4.2 mph might be daunting indeed.

So...for now...off to France. I look forward to finding a local dive during France's next World Cup game and cheering with the crowd; do we raise a saucy Merlot instead of a Sam Adams? I hope they will cheer as loudly for George Hincappie (sp?), the Yank leading the Tour as of tonight.

Stay well, Gentle Readers, and I'll look forward to re-engaging wth you on July 18th.

Here's to Foam and Globules!

Mr. Frei

Shopping Spree!

2006-06-28T20:48:00.000-05:00

Today I visited REI, a fabulous "Outdoor Adventure" supply store in Towson. I had a $100 gift certificate in my pocket...and "Evil Twin Skippy" egging me on at every turn.

Total tab? $420.

For those of you not familiar with REI, it's the type of store that incites needs where, before, there wasn't even an awareness. For example, yes, I knew I would need a good Dry Bag...but I didn't know that shopping for a Dry Bag would be like shopping for sneakers: myriad shapes, sizes, colors, materials and finishes, alternative closing mechanisms, sub-pockets, strap placements, transparent windows (or not)....so, of course, I bought two. And so it went.

Actually, my final haul pretty much mirrors (and almost completes) the supply list of the previous blog entry, even though I got a bit carried away on some unanticipated, irresistable do-dads: the cutest little collapsable anchor you ever saw, for example, and experimental food (globules of electrolytes? Gotta try 'em!), some robust, resilient looking space-age foam for the sliding seat (the package's photo of a car driving over it was compelling, if not alluring), and a pillow. Yes, a pillow, which of course rolls up into its own 'lil nylon bag. Cute.

$420 aside, I should perhaps congratulate myself on some of the things that I didn't buy. I didn't buy, for example, the most comfortable folding chair I have ever been in. It, too, came in its own cute 'lil nylon bag, and I actually had the thing in my cart for about 20 minutes. I had visions of curling up in it after a 40+ mile day, Ian McKewan & a saucy Merlot in hand, the sun still a few fingers above the horizon casting an amber glow across a deserted beach...

"No, Skippy, no. Gotta travel light. Too much clutter in the boat." Out it went.

Mark Twain said, "Confession is good for the soul but bad for the reputation," and I hereby confess that I almost bought an $8.50 clothesline: 15' of line with hearty clothespins attached at regular intervals, residing, of course, in its own cute 'lil nylon bag. It, too, took a turn around the store with me until I came to my senses and considered what a few clothespins (already on the balance sheet) could do on the nylon line I will have with me anyway. Close call.

"Down, Skippy, down."

But I did buy - are you ready? - a cute 'lil nylon bag (blue, with integral cinch-string). Nothing in it...just the bag. I suppose that I had denied myself so many nylon-bagged goodies that a bag, alone, would have to do. $5.99 made the itch go away.

I've been hitting the gym pretty hard this week, making muscles ache that ache when I actually row. I know they can't be exactly the same muscles, but they're in the vicinity, and if their torture serves to wake up their slothful neighbors, so be it. I'll get some rowing in this weekend - I'm anxious to try out the foam and the electrolyte gobules - and I hope to see some fruits from my gym time.

I'll let you know.

Globules. Yum.

Mr. Frei

Pledge Paddle Plaudits

2006-06-22T13:43:00.000-05:00

Gentle Readers, we've (you've) paddled past the $8,000 mark ($8213.40, to be exact), and your generosity and and ludicrous confidence in me incite this premature blog entry.

First, for you newbies, some catch-up: the money we raise on this venture goes to the Financial Aid budget of The Boys' Latin School where I teach; many parents make extraordinary familial sacrifices to send their sons to my school, and for those 'on the bubble' of support for their sons' education, this money will come as welcome and much-needed relief. So, thank you! I, of course, have the distinct motivational advantage of having some of these fine fellows in my own classroom; I see their faces, I hear their voices, and I see their commitment (and gratitude for the opportunity). Trust me when I tell you that augmenting the financial aid budget of this (or, frankly, any!) school impacts real people in an enormously tangible way.

Sure, I'd like to get it to the magical $10k - or beyond - and there's still enough time between today and August 5 for that to be a reasonable goal. I must say that while I didn't initially plan this trip to be a fundraising initiative, it sure feels good to see it unfolding. To those of you who are making it happen, again, many thanks!

In my idle time I've been making a provisions / supply / equipment list for the row...and I'm beginning to have concerns about both the space I have available and the unforseen needs that might not be met. I court the prospect of my guideboat looking like a bad out-take from The Beverly Hillbillies but, hey, Jethro Clampett had the mansion...my boat will be my mansion for about two weeks. Here's what's aboard my imagination so far (working from the stern to the bow):

A Dry Bag (a bag that keeps things dry that ought not to get wet) will fit, I hope, under the very small deck over the stern of the boat, out of the sun and water. Contents: a wallet purged of all unnecessary filler, spare batteries, an "In Case I'm Found" letter, spare glasses, a picture of Peg(sigh), essential toiletries, a log/journal book, reserve charts, and an Imaginary Letter of Commendation and Support from the Mayor of Troy to the Mayor of Baltimore.

Moving forward, there's about two feet of easy-access clear space in front of my feet. Here I will tie down a cooler containing the day's primary provisions: ice, a lot of water (maybe a Yoo Hoo or two), and food representing a high protien, high carb diet, (the guys training for an across-the-Atlantic row plan to consume (and burn) better than 10,000 calories each day. I note this with caution, because I'd hate to arive in Baltimore having gained 25 pounds. I could easily do that if left to my own juvenile culinary tendencies.)

On either side of the cooler I will secure other items and devices that will meet my immediate "needs" while underway. I'll want to position my Taskmaster GPS unit within easy sight so I can sustain my desired pace (3.8-4.5 mph). I'll be bringing some sort of radio with which to gather the local flavor of the ports I pass. I'll have a floatable "crash bag" containing flares, a whistle, a navy-surplus signal mirror...probably tied to me during the harriest portions (of the trip, for God's sake. Come on, Gentle Reader. Sheesh.). Bug stuff, sun stuff, and your good will will also be at hand under the gunwales amidship, probably in mesh hanging bags, along with a small "sneak" paddle.

Now, moving towards the bow, you get to me, the propulsion unit. A silly wide-brimmed hat is a mandatory; frankly, sun exposure is a real danger during two weeks on the water, and the hat will be augmented by long-sleeved UV resistant shirts and neck protection. I'll be covered in goop if I'm responsible, and I'll be alternating gloves because the blisters will come regardless of how much preliminary callouse material I'll be able to build up. I'll alternate lightweight running pants with shorts for additional sun protection and, of course, socks with footgear (perhaps) yet-to-be-determined. Say what you will about my boat, I'm not looking too much like Jethro at this point, eh? Sea Urchin comes to mind.

When conditions call for it, I do plan to wear a lightweight CO-2 activated life vest. I'll have to ensure that whetever I wear does not restrict my motion in the act of rowing; 10 (maybe more) hours a day will turn a minor chafe into a real problem.

Continuing towards the bow, past me and the rails of my sliding seat, I will have to contend with a PVC pipe that is strung between the forward set of oarlocks. This pipe supports a lightweight 'pusher' sail that I plan to use to take advantage of quartering or direct tail winds. To be sure, the very act of bringing this will ensure headwinds all the way, but I've been good and I will trust to fate.

Ed Note - A Moral Dilemma: Some, like my very own brother, have opined that bringing this "sail" may compromise the "purity" of "rowing to Baltimore." My only response is that when I see the waterways crowded with other past-middle-age, slightly overweight former sales/marketing types-turned-teachers undertaking this same 450 mile madness without a pusher, I'll relent. In the meantime, paaaleeease, give me a break. It in no way converts my boat into a "sail" boat (no keel, no rudder, no centerboard); and conditions have to be just right for deployment to make sense.

Under this PVC pipe will rest a waterproof "stores" bag containing (only a few) additional items of clothing, a lightweight sleeping bag, spares for the oarlocks and mechanicals (sliding seat and such), lubricant, rain gear, non-perishable food (lotsa beef jerkey), basic meds (a.k.a. Absorbine Junior), duct tape, reading material (ahh...lots of reading material!) and other items commonly associated with a camping experience, like Charmin.

Finally, fully forward at the bow, I'll secure a rolled-up sleeping pad and some netting.

Balancing the boat fore-and-aft is vital for maximum efficiency - and, let's face it, the marginal "propulsive unit" powering this vessel is mindful of the importance of efficiency. For this I plan to utilize several plastic gallon jugs. Filling these jugs with water as necessary and moving them fore and aft will materially effect the trim of the boat, and they are easy to crush and store when not needed.

So that's the plan. I'll take feedback greatfully on what might be obviously left out, and I do plan to weigh the load and, obviously, simulate it when I get into serious water training in July.

My concession to technology and communications will be my cell phone. Peg, Chief Safety Officer, insists upon it, and I can't hope to be able to coordinate a possible mid-journey liason without it. The phone will also enable me to contact her and Kathy for daily updates and highlights which they will enter on this blog in an almost-real-time fashion.

I'm off to the gym now, lest today's Row Preparation be only a cerebral exercise.

Thanks for moving that Pledge Paddle; tell your friends!!

Floating forward,

Mr. Frei

Reunited!!

2006-06-20T19:18:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader. It's been too long.

Peg and I were at Lake George over the last two days, attending a memorial service for my Aunt Carol who passed away last week. Cousin Chris's eulogy said it perfectly: "a glamourous, generous lady who never asked for anything for herself." Her battle - and the Herculean efforts and love of her care-givers - make my "big row"(and most everything else on our respective to-do lists) trivial affairs indeed, but the silver lining was the gathering of friends and family who had not seen one another in ages... another gift from Carol.

The visit put me on the water today....this morning...in my guideboat, on my favorite "training" ground (Lake George), enabling me to identify the myriad muscles (such as they are) that will have to be isolated and overhauled before August 5. I can feel them as I sit here, whispering, "Al, you rowed only a few miles today...and we're here. We need more."

"Shhsh," I say. "I'll get to you. I have to write first."

"But Al, this is a rowing adventure, not a literary exercise. We'll get you for this. We really will. You'll roll out of the boat in Kingston (50 miles) like a whipped Pillsbury Dough-Boy."

"Shhsh," I say. "No more talk like that. No more, I say. I've got to finish the blog."

And I do. But as I do, they wait, and tomorrow morning when I shuffle down the hall for my shower, their petulent voices will be raised, and I will have to listen.

So...on with the blog.

Rebellious musculature aside, it was a glorious day. I sprayed a little WD 40 on the sliding seat, cleaned the bird ka-ka out of the boat, lubed the oarlocks, and within minutes I was rewarded by the snap of the cherry oars against the supple resistance of the lake water. A word about the cherry oars: most of you who have rowed - as I had prior to my cherry oars - most likely recall the physics of rowing as the isometric exercise of pulling a stiff object through a liquid. A cherry oar, particularly a slender, nine-foot cherry oar, provides a truly organic experience on the power stroke. It flexes under load...more load, a little more flex...and at the end of the pull it returns to its original shape with the hint of a whip...even a snap, if you're pulling hard enough. It's like getting a nice reward, a kind of extra-propulsive "attaboy," at the end of the stroke, and it's simply delightful. That little extra 'snap' on each pull, multiplied by the number of pulls over 450 miles, has got to be good for a few extra miles. I'll certainly have time to create and contemplate the equation during the trip.

I did experience a pang of indecision for a few minutes this morning, however, when my sister invited me to try out her new kayak- one of those long, high-prowed, authentic Eskimos jobs. I was stunned at its speed and comfort and at the way it could track a straight line in a crosswind with the help a a nifty retractable mini-keel. An amazing vessel...but one not in keeping with my journey. It can't haul prodigious quantities of Yoo Hoo, I'd look silly sleeping under it, and it too closely evokes the shape of a seal from below... a major consideration off the coast of New Jersey.

Speaking of sharks, the photo introduced by my former student (see last entry) was, I am sure, submitted in good humor, if not altogether in good taste. He is actually a very fine lad, one who helped me divine the mysteries of grammar in my first year of teaching with a modest shrug or a laconic, dismissive wave, and I am hopeful that the fins spawned from his inventive imagination do not express a lingering animas towards his former student....err, wait.... teacher.

So by 4:00 PM, Peg and I were back on the plane from Albany to Baltimore, sliding down the Hudson at 7 miles per minute. Yes, each of those minutes will be the better part of two hours for me - my lower back and pecs, tonight, say, "Easily, Gentle reader, easily" - and as we banked over NYC to head down the Jersey Shore, Peg leaned across to the window and said, "Hey, isn't that Sandy Hook?" ( Parenthetically, Peg has declared herself "Chief Safety Officer" for this expedition - she'll be the "Houston" to my "We have a problem" - and she has taken a keen interest in learning about the 'points of greatest peril' on my voyage. Sandy Hook is one of them. If there are to be fins, that is where they will be.)

And yes, by golly, it was Sandy Hook; from 26,000 feet, it radiated as a bucolic golden strand lapped by the ruffles of a mill-pond. I patted her hand, we ordered some vodka tonics, and flew on. She's my kind of Chief Safety Officer.

Mom, thanks for the week's rest in a day. Aunt Carol, we'll miss you.

More later this week, Gentle Reader, I promise.

'Snap' those oars!

Mr. Frei

UH-OH (This comment deserved its own entry!)

2006-06-15T21:31:00.000-05:00

O Captain! My Captain!

I attached an interpetational photo for you to ponder.... An old Steven Spielberg film inspired me (not E.T).I'm back in Ballmer - doin' the whole job-hunting thing and trying to get settled in. I just read your lastest blog entry, and I have to say, it was both flattering and unsettling to see my name in such a world-famous publication. Name a time and place and I'll cruise on up in my dad's ornithologically-tattooed Camry. ... I must go; the dinner bell beckons.
Sincerely,
A Gentle Reader (a.k.a Steve Sclar, a former student of Mr. Frei's)

P.S. Captain, I do not recommend that you explore Canto 193 of Walt's Leaves of Grass

The Big Muddy

2006-06-14T20:07:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

If Kathy can work her Blogmistress Magic, you will (soon) see photos attached to this entry of our recent visit to Cape May, NJ. I stood on the beach looking across the Delaware "River" towards Delaware...and no Delaware. It's a big river. The waves lapping the beach had a certain "Yoo Hoo" patina, and the confluence of the Delaware and the Atlantic is roiling water indeed. Roiling Yoo Hoo; an eighth grader's dream, a rowers nightmare.

I walked up the beach (upstream) about a mile to the jetty at the end of the canal from which I will be emerging as I make my turn for home, and conditions looked a bit better. Had I been rowing that day, I would have had a two foot chop and a quartering tailwind...manageable, I think, and of course I will be aided - should I make it that far - by 300 miles of judgement and experience under my (hopefully shrinking) belt.

This will be a learning experience.

Cape May is a cute - albeit expensive - little town. Parking meters line every street and spin like slot machines. The hospitality industry is manned by high-cheekboned eastern European servers with lilting accents and enchanting interpretations of the specials of the day. The town is bisected by a canal that was intended to shield shipping from marauding U-boats during WW II, and there are prominent artifacts from this conflict on the beach; an impressive concrete gun emplacement breaks the waves just off the town, and the skyline further upstream is dominated by a futuristic concrete spotting tower ( a "fire control" outpost) that would make a killer condo. It will be a nice place for a rest-day, and I know people there with showers.

Seeing the Delaware River has sobered me to the challenge that it will represent. It's about a seventy mile pull upstream to the C&D Canal, and I think my primary incentive at the poignant moment when I clear the jetty will be the fact that I will have come so far...and only 1/3 of the journey will remain.

Gentle Readers, I'm stunned by how few of you have entered the sweepstakes for guessing the moment of my arrival. I mean, four entrants? Come on. Really. Is it possible that only four of you believe that I will indeed nudge something in the Inner Harbor? Happily, no one has entered the sweeps with the canny judgement that I'll pull up in Ossning, NY, wimpering, "No mas." C'mon, put in a guess...even if it's Kingston...Ossning...Cape May...or even Charm City itself. "Four entrants" suggests a 25% chance regardless of judgement...and I'd like to get a thermometer test of the public sentiment of my prospects. Take a shot, will you?

We are officially over the $7,000 with Trish's gracious lump-sum payment. If this keeps up, the Delaware will look a little less fearsome in August. I, and the boys, thank you!!!

More later.

Something Different

2006-06-09T21:49:00.000-05:00

Forgive me tonight, Gentle Reader.

Sure, I know, this is supposed to be a blog about the mental, physical, and emotional trevails of a slightly overweight, past-middle-age, former marketing-type-turned-English-teacher as he prepares for a ludicrously long row from Troy, NY, to Baltimore over a two-to-three week period and finds that he is now additionally incented by the prospect of raising money -possibly a lot of money- for financial aid at his school.

(And that, dear students, is an unwieldy - but nonetheless workable - run-on sentence. If I had the loathesome red pen in my hand, I'd mark it so.)

But not tonight. No, tonight I'd like to wax nostalgic for a bit. You see, today we graduated said students - all sixty six of them - and even though this is my fourth graduation ceremony and I kind of knew what was coming, I'm struck by the wave of emotion(s) I felt as I saw those young men walk out for the last time.

Sure, they're "only" eighth graders, but eighth graders present themselves in ways that are, I think, unique. They are, in many ways, still kids. This is part of the charm of working with them, and the most exciting aspect of the challenge. They're wrestling with ideas like accountability and responsibility, they feel the tugs between adolesence and emerging adulthood, they have to consciously address what is truly right and what's just "acceptable" (or at least not "wrong"), and they are still in the process of learning how to be kind to one another without 'conditions' or 'cool-ness' muddying things up.

But the fact is that over these past few months where current events and the contemporary culture give me little grounds for optimism, I see in these kids a real sense of renewal and hope. The other side of the "kids" I said goodbye to today is their capacity to be accountable and responsible...to know "right" in a secular or spiritual way, and to be kind to one another because of an emerging intuition that communities just work better for all of us when we are.

Today I had the good fortune of being able to address them and their parents as we sent them off. I employed some lame metaphor about snowflakes and snowballs (text available upon request...but really, why would you?)...and since this is a rowing blog and I'm on a metaphorical roll, another comes to mind. These guys are in the relatively early days of their own "big row." While they have a sense of the progress that they can make and maybe even an idea of a (however temporarily identified) destination, the early days of their row are teaching them that it doesn't come effortlessly, or without some discomfort, or even without real risk. They're also discovering that it's something they have to do on their own, even if they do have a support team, and yet the journey can have its magical moments every bit as fulfillng as the prospect of arriving at a destination.

So we rowed out of the gym today together, me looking back at how much I enjoyed my year with them, already missing them and the delightfully unpredictable and varigated routine they presented to me each day, and they looking forward to summer and beyond.

Sheeesh. I'm welling up - I really kinda am - but it's a gratifying kind of welling up. More like a good meat loaf than take-out Chinese.

Ready to get back to The Big Row? I bet you are. Just be grateful that you didn't have to sit through snowflakes and snowballs this morning.

Tomorrow Peg and I begin a weekend at Cape May, NJ., a strategically important
port-of-call on my trip, should I get that far. It's at the extreme southern end of the Jersey Shore, better than 2/3 of the way home. I know people there. They have showers and soft beds and maybe the addresses of legitimate massage parlours. Cape May is also at the mouth of the Delaware River, 70 mile south of (and usually downwind and definitely downstream from) the C&D Canal, my portal to the Upper Chesapeake and home. I'll be needing the curative effects of sleep, food, a soak, and maybe a rub if I'm to make the turn. In no small measure, Cape May represents the beginning of the end of my voyage. It will be an interesting reconnaisance.

Let's move that Pledge Paddle to $10k, 'K?

Latah!!

Mr. Frei

Two months from tonight....

2006-06-04T20:49:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

Yes, two months from tonight I will have gorged on birthday cake - and, God willing and the creek don't rise, creamed potatos - in my final 'training meal' before my August 5 AM departure. It's not exactly the picture of Rocky downing the blended raw eggs, but it's my picture, and I'm going with it.

Before we start tonight's blog, let's attend to a few housekeeping duties, shan't we?

First, I see that Blogmistress Kathy, after extensive and arcane consultation with my beloved Peg, has offered a medium by which those of you whose "screens don't look right" may attend to them via a double click. Let's be clear...she's the Webmistress, I'm the hapless rower. I have no idea what could be wrong with your screen - if anything - except that if you don't get the natty pictures, the fascinating links, the motivational Pledge Paddle Meter and such at the top of your screen, apparently something is "wrong" with your screen, and it can be "adjusted." Give it a shot. As Nerissa says in The Merchant of Venice, "It will be worth the pains." I, for one, still count the garage door opener as the leading edge of technology, so I simply wish you luck.

Second, my sense is that newer subscribers to the blog might not have the time or appetite to scroll back to the genesis of this adventure....so here is a clarification: this "pledge" thing is about raising money for financial aid for deserving young men at Boys' Latin, where I teach. It strikes me as a most worthy cause - these are great kids, and their parents make significant sacrifices to place them in my and my colleagues' classrooms - so that's what the fundraising is about, 'K?

Third, a philosophical question: What if you tune in to the Blog regularly and have not yet pledged? Are you morally compromised?

I, for one, send NPR a little bit each year because they periodically remind me, in a graceful way, that I'm essentially stealing services if I don't. Far be it from me to equate this tome with the national forum that is NPR, and I'm the last one to suggest that you are being entertained for free if you have not yet pledged. Frankly, it would be madness to suggest that any of this is entertaining in the least. And, yes, I have said (often) that the genesis of this venture was the journey, not the fundraising. But, philosophically speaking, you know who you are. :)

OK, enough housekeeping. Here's the sad confession: Tonight's epiphany is sparked by tonight's edition of Spike TV's "Most Amazing Videos."

I was catching up on the paper while it was on in the background...and I ashamed to say that I was sucked in. (A raised copy of The New York Times can well mask alternative banal persuits.) Mostly, I was sucked in by the delightful and breathtaking stupidity of it all. To wit: A guy tried to do a "loop" off a ramp on his motorcycle, came off the bike at the top of the loop, fell fairly gracefully to the gound...only to be crushed by the bike falling out of the sky. Another fellow on a bicycle was towed down a street at breakneck speed with the intention of letting go of the rope, hitting an enormous ramp, and landing on the roof of a three-story building. (The answer is "no.") The creme de la creme of this series were the four "rodeo clowns" sitting at a table playing poker in a bull ring; the bull was released into the ring, it charged the clowns with not a jot of hesitation, and several were badly injured. Were they suprised that this would happen? I don't get it. I mean, I thought the rodeo clown's stock-in-trade was his mobility, his cunning, his intimate, practiced knowlege of his adversary's tendencies. It seems to me that a rodeo clown gives these assets away when he's sitting in a plastic chair at a plastic table playing poker - or even pretending to play poker - with three other rodeo clowns.

Some have opined that my row is not unlike these kinds of courtships with danger...albeit mine will take place in very, very slow motion and will lack Spike's cinematic appeal. Other, kinder people have encouraged me in a reasonable and responsible way. To quote Mel Brooks as "The Two Thousand Year Old Man, "I don't want to get in the middle of that one." Suffice to say that considered risks for ambitious ends are the spice of life, nes pah?

Otherwise, the weekend has been nice. Baltimore was simply beautiful this weekend, I got a haircut, I've started to grade my students' Final Exams (another slowly unfolding tragedy, or the confirmation of blossoming minds? Too soon to tell...), perused my charts for several hours, etc. etc. All in all, a nice weekend.

Gentle Reader, I find myself tempted to riff on current and cosmic affairs in this blog; Iraq, Iran, teaching and learning, civility, Regi's Tater Tots (their newest appetizer, dappled with a delicate cheese, resting amid hearty nuggets of maple smoked bacon, all sailing in a secret sauce), but I will await the response of my readers to see if they would prefer that I largly stick to my knitting which, for this blog, is the row.

Let me know, will you?

Row your boat well this week,

Mr. Frei

(And, Steve, if you don't come to visit after you get back from school, I'll be very unhappy.)

At the Ocean

2006-05-31T20:38:00.000-05:00

Gentle Reader,

Yes, it's been a while, and the fiendish "countdown meter" that Kathy has installed on the site is spinning as ominously as the National Debt whirlygig in New York. Countdowns often seem to have an ominous cast to them, yes? Countdowns to launch (the device is usually built by an aggregate of low bidders), countdowns to "milestone" birthdays (gleefully anticipated by everyone except the birthday person), countdowns to weddings (no comment) and, in my case, countdowns to dental and colonoscopy appointments (again, no comment). So the row's start date, set in ink at August 5, approacheth. But ominously? I think not. And, I have evidence!

Last weekend we were able to spend the weekend on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and as we drove there (along with everyone else on the planet), I was mindful that this would afford me an excellent opportunity to survey a beach not unlike the one I will be skirting in New Jersey. My date of August 5 is set in stone. I will leave, rain or shine, and the whims of the atmosphere are still framing what the weather will (randomly) be on that day. As we drove south, I played the game of "what if." What if I were to be along the stretch of beach we would be visiting during my row? What would the winds and surf be like? Could I picture myself effortlessly coasting along the beach at my steady 4+ mph, assisted by a slight tailwind, just outside of the surf line yet within a short swim to shore should disaster (a.k.a. shark attack) strike? We'd be at a beach-front condo (borrowed) for three days, so it was a hypothesis I intended to test often...like every five minutes. Gentle Reader, I can be tedious in that way

I'm happy to report that over the three days, two would have been excellent for rowing. Day One, Saturday, dawned clear and calm, and the prospects of a 32 mile day in such conditions would seem excellent. The surf was steady, predictable, and shallow; pulling the boat up for a periodic stretch and swim would definitely be in the cards; getting the boat off the beach and beyond the surf line would have been within even my modest abilities. Frankly, getting back into the boat after a stretch and a swim would have been the motivational challenge.

Day Two presented somewhat more robust wave action - attentive rowing to get the best lines along the beach would have been mandatory, but achievable - and there was a fine 8-10 knot breeze from the north, one that would have been a nice boost from behind. A 32-mile day would have also been a good bet, even if without the ease of entry/exit off the beach.

But Day 3, Monday, was a different matter. Strong rollers were hitting the beach hard from the north-northeast (a good thing; anything from a northern quadrant is good), and I would have had to be many hundreds of yards offshore to be able to make steady headway....farther from shore than I would feel comfortable on such a day.

A three-day sample, hundreds of miles south of my intended route and 65 days before my launch is hardly relevant to my prospects, yet it was good to feel the surf, watch the water, and dream. No, my goal will not be met with a series of 32 mile "average" days with two on, one off...but I don't suspect that I will be able to force an "average" series. Day by day, day by day...we'll see what comes.

It was no small irony that during our visit we walked the spaces between the stones that mark the Wright brothers' flights at Kitty Hawk. The first flight of 104' or so seems ludicrously short when you walk it in 2006, but heavier-than-air flight over level ground was the magic of that moment and, as the tour guide sagely pointed out, it led to (among other things) the very possibility of the cell phones we were carrying. I thought it a most unfortunate corellation, but even more strained "Big Row" analogies are at this moment leaping to my fingertips. I won't give vent to them. You can thank me later.

I did get to test my GPS gizmo during a walk on the beach on Sunday. Here's how it worked: I placed a footprint in the sand discreetly above the high tide mark, pressed "start," walked exactly 3.5 miles up the beach, did a precise Forest Gump-like about-face, and when I returned to my footprint...voila, 7 miles on the nub at an average of 3.52 mph. This wristwatch will be teriffic for tracking pace and distance covered during the row. I guess I have the Wright brothers to thank for this service, too.

In the meantime, today I put a new head on my toothbrush, talked Shakespeare with my eighth graders, played a blues harp at a school talent show, ate a baked potato slathered with chili and cheese, serenaded car pool with my mandolin, saw Peg fete friends she has known here in Baltimore for more than thirty years, and watched her turn on the AC tonight for the first time this summer. Life is good.

Blog you this weekend. And I like what you continue to do to the Pledge Paddle.

Pulling towards August,

Mr. Frei

May Madness

2006-05-23T20:09:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

It's been a long time since the last entry, and I have no excuse other than the nature of May in the life of a teacher. We do pay our dues for the halcyon summer days ahead, and May is uphill in many ways. Sure, there is the euphoria that students and teachers alike feel as we anticipate summer, but end-of-year stuff (exams for students, everything else for teachers) has a way of making one gasp for the finish line.

And while we're on the topic of gasping, because of the aforementioned, my training routine has not been established. I'm kind of resigned to the fact that I really won't be training in earnest...or with intensity...until June. So for those of you good-naturedly asking me, "How's the training going?" even as you observe no apparent change in my physical appearance, back off for a while, OK? I'll be good to go. How far is the question.

I've gotten some great training tips from you, my readers. For example, Kate recommends yoga. I know nothing about yoga, but it is clear that if I followed some of her suggestions, I would come to know a lot more about myself. And at last weekend's Yale graduation, Mark said that Jorge Posada urinates on his hands during the pre-season to toughen them up more quickly....which begs the question, if this is true, of how might I induce Jorge to urinate on my hands? I'm attentive to all of your helpful tips. Keep them coming.

My only relevant training yesterday involved resetting a portion of an obstacle course we set up for our students. One of the tasks was to carry a cinder block about 30 yards, and I volunteered to "reset" the blocks after each pair of contestants passed through. Good arm and back work, I thought. We have about 178 kids in our school; they all ran the course in pairs, and I will only report that brushing my teeth last night was a kind of mechanical affair.

And the pressure to perform on the water builds as well. If you run the numbers on tonight's Pledge Paddle, I'd be raising $12.65 with each mile rowed to Baltimore. At 4 mph, that's over $50. per hour....$400. per diem (8 hrs, of course, unless I start the yoga and urinating program right away)...so clearly, even at this point, the incentive to pull is significant. Thanks, folks, for making it happen.

It seems that each time I read a little bit in depth about waypoints on my trip, I find my eyes resting on copy which, before, would not have drawn much attention. Tonight I was reading about Cape May, NJ, my turning point into Delaware Bay presaging my final sprint (yoga, urinate!) to Baltimore. The Chamber describes the rip currents through their canal (built to shelter ships from marauding U boats during WW2) and celebrates their shark tournaments. Clearly, this was not written to entice the Adirondack Guideboat community. Upstream from Cape May, the C&D canal offers a 6 knot current as the tide goes out...and the promise of either a Nantucket Sleigh Ride-like launch into the top of the Chesepeake or the embarassment of a majestic -2 knot reentry into the Delaware, depending on how I time it. Metaphoric, yes? I'd hate to see that Pledge Paddle meter running backwards.

More soon, Gentle Reader. Thanks for being aboard.

Time and Distance

2006-05-13T20:33:00.000-05:00

To those of you who anxiously await the next entry on this blog, my apologies for the lag since my last missive....and, please, see someone soon for counseling.

I'm astounded - and to some degree daunted - by the recent surge in pledges. My early fear of having each mile represent such a material increment to a good cause (thus compelling me to pull harder and longer than might be good for this aging frame)is materializing...yet I'm delighted at the spirit of support behind this endeavour. To be honest, the seminal motive for this trip was not to raise money, but I couldn't be happier at the notion that what will be good for me will bring some good to someone else as well. To those of you making Kathy fret about having to recalibrate the scale of that thermometer-oar thing, thank you. Way cool. Groovy, even.

While I'd like to report that the training program is well underway, I'm woefully behind in my prep. Other than cavorting each day with my 8th grade lacrosse team - an activity that gives me much joy but little tangible benefit - my only preparation last week was the acquisition of an $89 GPS unit that will enable me to track my location, speed over the ground (or bottom), average speed enroute...all the time/distance stuff that a GPS magically does. The device is the size of a large wristwatch, and I've played with it in calibrating the distances I walk to the usual places around the neighborhood: the 7-11, the dry cleaners, the liquor store, Regi's, Cross Street Market, Peg's office. This captivating tool will enable me to track my pace and give me a sense of what I'll need to do to complete this trip in the 14-16 days I'm allocating to it, yet I can see that it will also be the equivalent of having a barking coxswain in the stern of the boat. I'll need to average 30 mile days to bring it on home in time for school in August, and this electronic Jiminey Cricket will be a relentless taskmaster indeed.

On the training front, I got some sage advice from my good friend Peter, a Dartmouth colleague and former competitive rower. His counsel is that there are two bodily elements that I'll need to bring up to speed before departure: my hands and my derriere. This advice corresponds to my experience at long distance days on the water last summer. I think I can handle the hand thing; there are all kinds of ways to build up hand strength and tissue resliance...but the endurance of one's backside for a venture like this is probably only augmented by the doing of it...and in-the-boat training will be scarce until July. Some have opined that if you drive a Mini (a stiff suspension) within the Baltimore City limits (a lunar-esque landscape) as I do, one's posterior is already pretty resilient. But I suspect that I'll need to better simulate the experience...soon...and often. Informed advice in the "comments" column will be welcomed and appreciated; just keep it PG, OK?

Peter's other observation was that I'll be wise to discipline myself to the "30 mile day" objective and not get too carried away by favorable weather or the vodka tonic just around the next bend. He suggests that I get out of the boat whenever I get to 30 miles, even if it's well before dusk...the epiphany being that having adequate recuperative time OUT of the boat will be as important in sustaining the pace on the water.

Now I ask you, is that good advice or what? Peter, you get a pledge pin even though you haven't yet answered the bell on the fundraising.

So the net of it all is that the time and distance so coldly and accurately calculated my my new GPS doodad will need to be complemented by my own sense of "time until" the trip starts and my "distance to" fitness...and while I know I'm behind the curve, it's not as if I'm starting from a point of complete physical degradation. I'll be good to go. You can count on it.

Kathy, as always, thanks for your electronic stewardship of this gig in my absence this week and Peg, just, as always,...thanks. :)

And to you, Gentle Reader, stay aboard. This trip is already more fun with you in the boat.

Latah!

Mr. Frei

A Message from Ms. Webmaster

2006-05-10T11:30:00.000-05:00

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Pattern Interrupt

2006-05-02T19:49:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

I'm interrupting my typical pattern of Sunday evening blogs for no particular reason, yet it is worth noting that we have cleared the $3,000 mark in pledges which, you will remember, go to the Financial Aid budget of The Boys' Latin School. This is an extraordinary sum, considering that we have not made it especially easy for you to pledge. Many of you have emailed your pledges directly to Kathy, some have intercepted Peg or me in person, and still others have emailed me at alfrei@earthlink.net. If you choose to employ any of these resourceful mediums, please make sure that I get your home address so that I can expedite the shipment of your "I'm Pulling for Mr. Frei" button. They're hot. I draw blood each morning putting mine on, but don't let that deter you. I'm not a morning person.

I do hope that you will take advantage of the "Notify" list (look to the left: there it is!) so that you can get a heads up whenever I update this tome. Just follow the simple directions - as I have not yet been able to do successfully - and you will automatically be kept abreast of The Plan. You are certainly not going to be sitting on the edge of your seat while the launch date is still three months away and, frankly, once I push off, it is not as if I will be heading to Baltimore at breakneck speed. But just knowing you are interested is an incentive of sorts. So sign up.

My journey was almost cut tragically short today, three months before it will begin.

One of my duties as an eighth grade English teacher (under the "other duties as assigned" fine print of my contract) is to help with the end-of-day car pool at school. Picture, Gentle Reader, a phalanx of autos (a high proportion of them SUV's)heading up the hill to our school, driven by anxious moms and dads on tight schedules, many with the ubitiquous cell phone affixed to their ears, jockeying for an advantageous position from which to snatch their sons from our care. It's great fun, actually, and I'm always amazed at the grace and consideration which most of the contestants show for one another and for the the hapless faculty members who masquerade as traffic directors. It imbues in us a false sense of vehicular authority, dressed as we are in our natty end-of-day athletic garb and wielding pedagogical responsibilities for their sons.

Today I made the nearly-fatal mistake of assuming that the halo effect of successful carpool management at school could translate to the mini-mall at the bottom of our hill where I often pick up an early evening latte (a.k.a., a seditive). As I was approaching my car which was parked on the far side of the parking lot, an imposing SUV (Lincoln Navigator? Ford Expedition? Escalade? Whatever. The ground shook.) It headed for me at a pretty good clip. Trapped awkwardly in the middle of the thoroughfare, I casually raised my hand in a smilingly submissive request for a stay of execution - a gesture that works magic in the BL carpool - only to discover that my appeal had a Bizzaro World effect. The SUV charged on, accelerating, it seemed, and I stepped briskly out of the way, safe by scant inches. The SUV shot past me, the faceless drone offering me her own winsome "gesticulation" as she rumbled by.

I'm being overly-dranatic, to be sure, but crimminey, this thing could be over in a heartbeat. So keep the pledges coming and, considering incidents such as these, maybe pre-payment is a good idea?

As Kay, my mentor and friend, sagely displays on her bumper: "Put the cell phone away. You're not that cool."

Latah!

Mr. Frei

Gotta Start....

2006-04-30T21:20:00.000-05:00

It's Sunday night, Gentle Reader...and tomorrow is May 1. It's time I started to get into training.

Sure, up to now I've talked a good game, but the truth is that by the time I get home after my day with my students, I'm pretty bushed. I almost always find something less intense than training to see my way to bedtime; grading papers, rearranging the sock drawer, reading, waiting for Brian's next snow report from Mamouth... May 5th marks three months until the launch and, frankly, I've been tempted to buy into the notion that some supporters have offered - that I will get in shape 'on the way' to Baltimore. Now. I'm a glass-is-half-full kind of guy, but even I can see the fallacy of this notion. It's akin to training for a Tyson fight thinking that if you make it to the third round, you'll find your rhythm.

Mike wouldn't wait that long, nor will my itinerary. So "starting tomorrow...."

My students and I are currently reading "The Merchant of Venice," and I am reminded of Portia's lament to her maidservant, Nerissa, as she says, "If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels would be churches, and poor mens' cottages princes' palaces." Of course, the eighth grade translation is, "Easier said than done." I know I have to start; it's just hard getting started.

On a more upbeat note, tonight I took delivery of the "I'm Pulling With Mr. Frei" buttons, and tomorrow begins the distribution to those who have already pledged. Be patient, Generous Donors. To use another MOV quote (this time Jessica to her fiance, Lorenzo), "It will be worth the pains." The buttons, pictured elsewhere on this site, show a silhouette of yours truly against an ethereal backdrop under the "I'm Pulling for Mr. Frei" copy, which is rendered in a pudgy typeface evocative of my present physical condition. Nonetheless, for a few pennies per mile, you're in. If you'd like to confirm your pledge and can't see another means of doing so on the site, just email me at alfrei@earthlink.net and I'll log you into my "book."

Today I drove over the Severn River bridge on my way to/from Annapolis. While the Severn is south of my intended route (unless I'm feeling saucy on August 25 or so, and want to keep going), I'm struck by how I now look at bodies of water with the question, "How's the water for rowing?" As I slowed on the bridge, I saw that it was perfect: a gentle northerly breeze, a very moderate chop, brilliant sunshine. It was so nice, in fact, that I only returned from my reverie when jarred by the horn, flashing lights, and massive grill of the Lincoln Navigator seemingly in the back seat of my Mini. Sheesh. It's not like I was on a cell phone or something, or practicing the mandolin. But that's another story.

For another time.

Tomorrow, I train. Honest.

Charts & Maps

2006-04-23T17:34:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader.

To paraphrase MC Hammer, "It's Blog-entry Time."

Yes, as you can see, the "I'm Pulling With Mr. Frei" buttons are in. Good news indeed...yet perhaps not as exciting as the fact that without much of a push (or buttons of gratitude), generous donors have already pledged enough for a $2,015 donation to the Boys' Latin Financial Aid bucket - provided, of course, that I make it to Baltimore. Thank you, one and all! You will be receiving your natty buttons in a couple of weeks. Can tote bags be far behind?

It occurs to me that even though raising money was truly an afterthought in the conception of this trip, I nevertheless could have "The Big One" right off the Troy dock, ride the eddies of the Hudson, and hit Ellis Island 155 miles - if many days - later, thereby raising funds posthumously. Cool.

This was a momentous week for planning. I set out to procure charts adequate for the task of strategizing the trip. The Lil' Magellan in me had thought that if I just kept the ocean to my right and land to my left after I hit New York City (remember, I'm rowing, facing backwards), all would be well; I would then simply have to stay vigilant after two weeks or so to the approching Charm City skyline, then, badda bing badda boom, champagne.

Not so. My initial planning has been done using a Best Western Road Atlas and a ruler...fine for rough distances and dreaming, not helpful for reality checks. An initial perusal of my new nautical charts reveals two particularly challenging stretches. First, after getting past NY Harbor, there's a 30 mile-or-so unprotected stretch of Jersey Shore to contend with before I can get "inside" on the Intercoastal Waterway. With calm, or pushed by a gentle NE breeze, it might be a cakewalk. Any other conditions will present challenges that will likely compel me to wait it out. In Jersey.

The other daunting body of water looks to be the Delaware Bay; it took up the whole kitchen table, so imagine how big it will look in real life. I've got a 70 mile up-current pull from Cape May to the Chesapeake Canal. The weather will be a real driver on this leg as well, and a delay will camp me out amid Jersey's storied chemical plants, a bucolic nuclear facility, and a paucity of options. Hey, it's for the kids.

Yet by the time I get to the Delaware Bay, my guess is that the callouses will be cauterized, my posterior anesthetized, my brain deep fried...and the pull of being so close to home will be strong.

So I've rolled the charts up for now, or at least until my workout regimen gives me more cause for confidence. Laying them all out at once is a sobering vision, and I may well be psychologically better off if I approach this thing, for now, as a series of delightful, sun-drenched day-trips.

Right.

Thanks to those of you who have pledged. Your pins will be on the way soon (as soon as I can get to Kathy's, in Virginia, to pick them up). To those of you who are signing on late and wonder what the sam hill this is about, scroll down to the first blog and catch up.

Ketchup. Yes. It's dinner time.

Latah!

Mr. Frei

The buttons are in!

2006-04-22T12:23:00.000-05:00

It Begins

2006-04-17T19:41:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

When I hit "send" on my first blog, the image of Rocky knocking back his blended raw eggs on his first frigid morning of training might have subliminally flashed through my head. Nevertheless, 'it' has begun, and the day after my birthday I'll have to start something...to somewhere.

But first, Gentle Reader, an apology.

My Techno-Maven, Kathy, the most kind and capable lady who created - and yes, who frigging controls - my site, has put up some links to greater, more ambitious rows. It immediately got me to thinking, what's with this blog title, "The Big Row," anyway? A bit pretentious, I think...and so, I fear, might you.

I mean, next to the voyages of these intrepid women, my row is like a walk down to the 7-11 for a Yoo Hoo (a practice, incidentally, that will have to stop soon. After all, Rockey drank eggs, not nutritious Yoo Hoo). So please understand, no hubris here. This blog title is only appropriate when one considers the marginal capabilities of the oarsman; for me, this is indeed a big row, and I do not mean to pillory, usurp, or malign the more prodigious efforts of others. (I also cannot find the spell check function in this electronic puzzle, so let me apologize in advance for my gaffes.)

I just finished reading "Rowing to Latitude' by Jill Fredston. Jill, a (much younger) Dartmouth grad, writes of her and her husband's adventures while rowing the coastlines of virtually every land mass north of 50* latitude. To continue my lame simile, her adventures make my "big row" look like calling out for pizza. For example, I angst about wind...she worried about bear attacks. I'll try to avoid river and harbor traffic...she dodged icebergs and orcas. So enough said about the "big" in my trip. My only defense for Kathy's endearing girlish enthusiasm is that if you pulled any other slightly overweight former-bakery-executive-food-guy-now-8th-grade-English-teacher off the street and compelled him to do this, he'll likely tell you, "Why, that's a big row." That's all I'm saying. Sheeesh.

(Kathy, let's keep the blog title. We might inspire others who also sorely need the exercise.)

I did start training more earnestly last week. The fitness center around the corner has equipment which seems to pretty well stimulate the muscles I'll be destroying during my trip. Sadly, the devices are usually manned by statuesque young people who operate them effortlessly, hour after hour. I'll start going late, and I promise I'll walk by the 7-11 with resolve.

From here on out, I'll try weekly entries unless something REALLY big happens. For those of you that have signed on for an immediate kick-back on these entries, let me know if they're worthwhile.

And to those of you who have already pledged, my heartfelt thanks!!! Your "I'm Pulling With Mr. Frei" buttons should be here in 10 days; try to contain yourselves until then.

Yer fren'

Mr. Frei

Here's The Plan

2006-04-12T08:14:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

This is my first attempt at entering and engaging my own Blog site. Or, just "Blog"? To paraphrase Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire, "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers" and the kindness, in this case, is offered by Kathy, who has set me up in cyber-space in a fashion beyond my understanding. To coin another classic, I once attended a wedding where the best man's toast was a succinct, "I hope it works out." It didn't...but I have confidence in Kathy's cyber accumen. So bear with me while I get my electronic bearings.

Yes, Gentle Reader, I'm going for a long row. 450 miles, more or less, to be exact. The why and how of it will, I suspect, reveal themselves as I engage in this journal. And yes, I hope to raise some money in doing it, even though that's not the reason for this escapade, but more on that later.

No, wait.

Let's get the money thing behind us right now, shall we?

Here's how it goes: I'll be asking for pledges...pennies (or dollars, if you're feeling particularly flush) per mile. Tumble the numbers and you will find that a penny a mile adds up to $4.50 in the event that I make it all the way. Two pennies, $9.00, three, $13.50...you get the idea.

And where will these derriere-killing proceeds go? Boys' Latin, where I teach and learn, faces the challenge - as do so many independent schools - of running out of financial aid resources before it runs out of committed, qualified, and needy candidates. The kids I teach are terrific, and financial aid is the magic that places and retains many of them in my classroom. I want to keep them there and, through attempting this journey, foster in them an interest in giving to others...others that they do not yet know, or may never know. So...the long and short of it is that I can think of no better cause to motivate me to row that extra mile than to help these fine fellows persue the best education that they can find and afford. That's the deal, OK? I row, you help a great kid that you may never know...but in helping him, we all are helped. Cosmic.

And...( commercial pause) all pledges will be acknowleged by your receipt of a coveted and stylish, "I'm Pulling With Mr. Frei" button. Peg and Kathy have been working on it...we're stamping metal and headed to the presses next week, and my only concern is the haunting image on the button which has me rowing - ominously? prophetically? hopefully? - to what appears to be the proverbial "Better Place." Pledge, receive the button, and you be the judge.

Making this row has been a burr under my saddle for some time now. Born in Troy, working in Baltimore...sort of a "Birthplace to Workplace" thing, even though that doesn't really sing, it's a trip that screams to be made. My vessel of choice is my Adirondack Guideboat. It's a sweetheart: stable under load, easy to sustain a 4 knot pace, a natural tent when inverted, you can read about it on the attached link that Kathy has set up. More on the boat and planned modfications later.

Without question, I'm the weak link in the plan. I'll be 55 plus a day when I depart, and I'll need to be in a state of fitness materially better than that manifested by the too-sedentary lump which faces the screen this evening. A painful future topic for the Journal, perhaps. While I've begun to address "tuning the engine," at this moment it's feeling more like a major overhaul will be in the works. It's like when the mechanic looks at you and says, "We may have to keep it here overnight." Sigh.

Yes, more on physical preparation in a future journal entries. It won't be pretty, but I promise not to include pictures...unless you pledge the big bucks, or bark like a dog.

Strangely, or perhaps delusionally, the mental prep seems to be going well. I'm not a huge believer in the "paint a positive mental image and it will happen" school of thought...if, indeed, that is "thought" at all. Yet in my mind's eye I've already rowed each leg of this trip many times, with boyish enthusiasm and a plucky spirit that bodes well for success. I don't think that at this point I'm naively enthusiastic; my longest single-day row to-date is a 58 mile day, a day which, I confess, left my posterior in a state of paralysis. A calculus of distance and time suggests that I'll have to string fifteen 30-mile days together to finish this trip in about two weeks. That's fifteen days, day after day, with no hot showers, no deep fat, no hot fudge. Nonetheless, with proper prep and training, patience, a recognition that I will most likely have some 15 mile days when the wind and/or current are on the nose and maybe some 40 + mile days when everything is jake, a dollop of luck and a bucket of Absorbine Junior, it just might be possible.

Plus, the kids. It will help some kids, remember? That'll be good for a few extra pulls each evening.

So...soon we (Kathy) will be setting up the site so that should you wish to pledge, you can. Or, you can always write to me c/o The Boys' Latin School, 822 West Lake Ave., Baltimore, MD 21210...and I'll take it from there. As I understand it, there is already a way for you to offer words of encouragement, caution, or counsel on the site..and I would love to hear from you, whoever you are.

I hope you will pop on the site periodically to see what's going on in my head. Above all, I expect this trip to be as cerebral as it will be physical, and that's the point of the journal...and maybe even the catalyst for the trip itself. After all, rowing 450 miles gives one a chance for...um...how you say....quiet time? Yes. Quiet contemplation.

So to Peg & Kathy, thanks for your help... and for your grace in keeping what must be "You're nuts!!" out of earshot.

More next week.

Love, and row....

Getting Ready

2006-04-08T15:05:00.000-05:00