Me vs. Magellan

I have led paddling trips for many years but it wasn’t until about five years ago that I really started pushing the envelope. That is, going where relatively most fear to tread. Or, it’s just too much trouble.

At any rate, I’m on the verge of such a trip, kayaking through a chain of islands on northern Lake Huron. I’ve been planning it for many months but, as the launch draws near, find myself checking and cross-checking details and beating back the creeping apprehension. The Great Lakes eat titanic ore ships for breakfast. This is no bunny trip.

I’m reading a novel and came across a reference to Magellan. Suddenly, I’m resonating with the mariners of old, sailing off into that great and perilous unknown.

Okay, that may be stretching the comparison. Or is it? Let’s see.

Ships: The fabled explorers sailed wooden ships that were probably smaller than you imagine. We paddle state-of-the-art kayaks.

Advantage: Me. While the kayaks are smaller, they are less subject to the stress and damage of wind and wave.

Navigation: The ancient explorers used compasses, sextants and charts of dubious accuracy (or had none at all). We have good maps and a GPS.

Advantage: Me. Ever try to use a sextant on a rolling sea? Not easy by a long shot. On the other hand, GPS programs aren’t always the best and let’s not even bring up operator error. Nonetheless, I’ll take the edge here.

Information: Magellan and his kin had spotty reports from their antecedents and superstitious lore. I have guide books, trip reports posted on the web and the advice of kayakers through the internet.

Advantage: Magellan. At least the promulgators of legend fabricated stuff that made sense. I’ve sifted through about twenty thousand words of dubious, contradictory, and nebulous input wondering who had firsthand knowledge and who just wanted to be seen as an oracle. I have found everything from references to “relatively calm water” to “waves of 3-4 meters are not unusual.”

Crew: Who could the ancient explorers recruit to risk life and limb in a possibly futile or fatal venture? Those with nothing to lose or who had reason to want to get beyond the reach of the law. I know my kayaking comrades and their skills.

Advantage: Magellan. Like I said, I know the capacity of my paddlers. They follow direction like deaf cats and are almost as intelligent. (Yes, I do anticipate they’re reading this, at least the smaller words.) Their consumption of grog will triple that of their forebearers and you won’t want to find yourself downwind of them.

Native population: The explorers encountered savages, not always welcoming of intruders. We will interface with local officials, outfitters and Canadians who benefit from our patronage.

Advantage: Magellan. Give me a hungry cannibal over an irritable ranger who thinks all kayakers underestimate his backyard any day of the week. Outfitters make their living leading tours and aren’t real warm to the self-guided. I was in Canada last month and it took an average of about four seconds into a conversation before one of the good citizens would bring up how the U.S. screwed up the world economy.

I’m willing to call it a draw. The biggest difference is that many wrote about Magellan’s adventure and no one will write about mine. Hopefully.

We've come a long way

We were discussing issues in the Middle East. “One problem,” said Tim, “is that the populations there are largely ignorant and don’t understand each other’s religion.” That would be, as opposed to us?

I recall being astounded by someone I met in college who had graduated with honors from a parochial school in Cincinnati. It was the time of the Six Day War. He opined that of course Jews would side with Israel. They’re all from there.

What? Where did they come from for the 50 or so centuries prior to the founding of Israel? I asked him if his entire family came from Rome (he had a German surname). His face went blank and said it was a stupid question. Catholics come from all over. I take no comfort in knowing he’s now highly placed in the administration of his alma mater.

Of course, that took place a long time ago. Last week, the doorbell rang. Outside of Girl Scout Cookie season, this is a rare occurrence. There were two young men in white shirts and black ties. Uh oh. They were wearing name tags indicating they were with a church headquartered in Utah. Yeah, I’m a good candidate for that.

The alpha dog asked me if I was devoutly religious. Let’s see, which answer would be most discouraging? I decided that a zealot would not appear to be a good prospect. “Yes, very much so.” The sound you hear is commandments breaking.

“And what church do you attend?”

The catcher is signaling for a curve ball. “Synagogue.”

“I’m not familiar with that. What branch of Christianity would that be?”

“That would be Judaism.”

“I’ve heard of it.” Heard of it? It predates your religion by over 5,500 years. I wondered if book, newspaper or similar noun would ring a bell with him. “I’m always interested in learning about other religions.” Apparently not. “Could you relate its theology to me?”

Right here, while we’re standing on a doorstep with 96-degree air temperature? “Think Old Testament.”

“Then you believe in the (didn’t catch this first word) of Moses.”

“He got a lot of ink.”

“Pardon?”

“Moses had a starring role in the Old Testament. Parting the Red Sea, Mount Sinai, burning bush; a lot of the major scenes.”

“Your congregation no longer practices sacrifices or do they?”

I hadn’t noticed any the last time I drove through Amberley Village. “No, we haven’t had a good one in years.”

“And what is your perception of Jesus Christ?”

“Nice Jewish boy. Good with woodworking but could’ve been more selective with his friends.”

“Could we come in and discuss our belief with you?”

“Not a good time. I have a goat staked out in the backyard.”

We’ve come a long way in forty years.

Dumb question of the week

A high school classmate emailed me some photos. She and some others had stopped by the old neighborhood to see what's changed. She also related that they ran into Cha Cha Moretti, who still lived there and asked if I remembered him.

HTF could you forget someone named Cha Cha Moretti?

From good to amazing

That’s how a kayaker described the path her life took over this past weekend. It was her first whitewater run and she did fantastic. She credits me for providing the path and positive reinforcement for her metamorphosis (the “endorfman effect”), as well as for others. No, it is she and the others who inspire me.

Setting the example, she came to our group and paddling a couple years ago at about the age of 60. (If you think I’m guessing age and divulging a name, think again.) She struck me as someone who was already well on the way to reinventing herself in a number of ways. I give her a lot of credit and respect for that. It isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.

That’s essentially what we asked people to do when I ran a mental health and drug & alcohol clinic. Take a realistic look at where you are, envision where you need to be, and take the positive steps to get there, avoiding the toxic influences and triggers that tend to keep you where you are now. It’s quite a challenge for the defective and the spotty results were frustrating. Not much easier for anyone else.

So, when I see someone blossom like this, it’s gratifying, even if it was largely her own efforts and quality of character. Good to amazing is more than can be expected.

Live, learn, pack

I’m done packing for the Hiwassee River trip this weekend. It took almost five minutes and the better part of a small messenger bag.

In the 70s, an idea cropped up one night of our monthly poker game. Let’s rent a sailboat in the Caribbean and spend a week bumming around the islands in the “un-touristy” areas. The motion passed unanimously. It was then moved and seconded that I organize the trip. The vote was 5-1 in favor.

I scheduled the trip for February but began packing before Halloween. By the time the event rolled around, I had a duffel bag that about matched me in size and weight. It was an ordeal to wrestle through airports and down to the end of the dock.

The trip came off so well we just had to make it an annual event. The second year I packed two bathing suits and two t-shirts. What else did I need? I was either on deck (bathing suit), in the water (ditto) or at some native bar at night (add t-shirt).

By the end of the next decade, I was divorced and spending significant time astride a Harley. There was a big annual bike rally near Chillicothe sponsored by “Easy Rider” magazine. Photos from previous editions made Woodstock look like a church picnic so I just had to go.

I confined myself to strapping a tent, sleeping bag and backpack to the bike, but it still felt loaded. At least I didn’t have to repack for the ride home. I had never unpacked. You party till you drop (hopefully, leaned up against something in a sitting position). That’s really just for a cat nap. Your eyes flutter open, you pop a tab and dive back into the fray. The second year, I packed nothing but a toothbrush.

The first year we did the Hiwassee, I had a truck full of stuff, prepared for every eventuality. Now, almost nothing. I’ll either be on the river (bathing suit and neoprene top) or back at the cabin in the hot tub (lose the top and substitute bottle opener).

Live, learn, pack.

Hot pots

I was at a party last night and someone brought up a mutual acquaintance of the group who recently repeated a mistake for the umpteenth time. The phrase that occurs to me in these situations is, “Even my cat knows that if he gets burned by a hot pot, he doesn’t sniff it again.” I didn’t vocalize it because the person needs sympathy more than criticism.

Last night, Robyn popped up on a site maintained for chat among our high school class. I think I stopped breathing. Then she contacted me through the site to say hi. I know I stopped breathing.

Throughout junior high, we circled each other like two panthers, trading quips. Her keen wit was certainly an attraction but I’m not discounting the doe eyes and athletic figure. I’m not sure what the attraction was on her part. She was one of the class brains and I’d guess that I was the “bad boy” her mother warned her about, making me the forbidden fruit.

Her class schedule was the high academic track so we didn’t intersect much there and she didn’t hang out at any of the dances around town. It didn’t seem like it was written in the book that we would get close enough to close the deal.

But then destiny took a hand. The summer of my sophomore year, I took a job in a day camp. I showed up for the counselor orientation and who was sitting on a bench two rows ahead of me but Robyn. Jackpot! I don’t think I heard a word of the lecture. My mind was reeling with the possibilities. Thank you, God! I immediately retracted the sentiment since what I had in mind had little to do with religious canon.

After the meeting, we picked up right where we left off the last time we saw each other at school, trading flirts and double entendres. Oh yes, this would be the summer to end all summers.

But destiny wasn’t done with me. The second week of camp, Robyn didn’t show up at the mess hall and word was that she had doubled over and they took her to the hospital. The next day we were told she had had an appendectomy. I asked around and found that recovery was usually fairly quick for that. But, the following week we were informed she wouldn’t be returning because her parents wanted her to take it easy for the rest of the summer. That’ll teach me to invoke the name of the big guy.

I was crushed, disconsolate, and frustrated beyond redemption. However, I did manage to take up with another counselor the following week. Teenage boys are resilient. And, there was always the chance of hooking up with Robyn once the school year commenced.

But fate is fickle. The girl I dated through the camp was a year or two older than I and it became apparent this was a summer fling. However, she had a sister my age who was even more appealing and I managed to pull off the impossible; the transition.

The sister became my girlfriend through much of high school. We parted ways at graduation, something I blogged about previously. The subject of that was tracking down the old girlfriend after decades of a void, which is what I did on a whim. Faithful readers will recall that she was beautiful and smart and I was anxious to learn how she had leveraged her assets. They will also remember that I was crushed to discover that she had done virtually nothing and squandered her gifts. Nothing at all like I had imagined and I regretted the reunion. I would’ve been much better off remembering her as she was.

I also lost track of Robyn. From high school, she went to one of the Ivy League colleges on a full scholarship. Upon graduation, she went to Oxford (England) for a graduate degree and the trail went cold after that.

This morning we were trading emails and she hinted at getting together. My pulse quickened but I recalled the experience with my high school sweetheart. Still, I don’t think I can resist.

“Even my cat knows that if he gets burned by a hot pot, he doesn’t sniff it again.”

The Busted Paddle

The annual Hiwassee Posse trip is just days away and the emails are flying back and forth among our group in giddy anticipation. While the Hiwassee isn’t the most challenging whitewater we’ll kayak this year, this trip has taken its place as the most fun and always has “can’t wait” status.

Part of it is the exquisite cabin we have, nestled on a remote mountaintop. Another factor is the fun group it always attracts. It’s a party atmosphere throughout the long weekend.

An element of that is the Busted Paddle Award. Yes, there is a method to the madness.

The honor is presented for the most spectacular wipeout. In reality, the description would more accurately be the funniest. But, accuracy has little to do with it. It’s just fun.

The underlying element is the message it sends. Novices have some apprehension approaching this river. They’re afraid of messing up. The award tells them it’s not only acceptable, it’s expected. Relax, try playing the variety of features, go for it! You will wipe out. We will wipe out. It’s okay.

It’s part of the fun.

Don

Throughout my life’s path, I’ve encountered presidents of the United States and other highly placed officials, captains of industry, professional entertainers and athletes and others of notoriety. For the most part, I judged them to be just people. People with exceptional drive and/or gifts, but just people.

Seldom have I felt that I stood in the presence of greatness. An exception to that would be ninth grade.

Entering that year, we were assigned to “sections” that mapped your curriculum and teachers. You were in 9A, 9B, 9C, etc., but were told the allocation was random and meant nothing. Bull. The serious scholars were in 9A-C, average students followed that and so on, down to 9H which were the future criminals.

The last section was 9I which appeared to be a diverse collection of nonconformists they had no idea what to do with. I was in 9I.

This was nohingt new. The Philadelphia public school system had never seemed to know what to do with me. I had forever been diverted, accelerated or whatever. So, I greeted this latest device with no high expectations.

It was through 9I I encountered Don, our algebra teacher. Like the members of our class, he was an anomaly among the teachers who all tended to be pretty mundane and resigned to their fate of coping with the grist of our school system until they could locate better positions elsewhere. Don squealed into the parking lot every morning in his Chucks and a red Sunbeam Alpine, loaded for bear. Worst of all, in the minds of the establishment, he took an individual interest in his charges and even visited their homes. I thought he was progressive and motivated. The administration thought he was nuts.

Whereas the school system had labored to bump our divergent thinking processes back onto the defined and confined track, Don encouraged us to recognize and go with our strengths and helped us harness them in productive ways. The class was more about life than algebra.

At the end of the year, he called me aside and gave me a talk about what my talents were and how he was confident I would leverage them in my future. I was moved and inspired. From the many references to him I’ve come across over the years, I’m sure he had the same talk with hundreds of others. Doesn’t matter. It looks like we all benefitted.

I moved on and so did Don. He landed at a small state university and quickly installed innovative programs, becoming the youngest tenured professor in state history. He also started an outside business which went international and became exceedingly successful.

Don and I kept in touch over the years. No matter how busy he was with his teaching and business, he made the time for his people, or anyone else who wanted his counsel. I would venture to say that not everyone did. He was unpretentious and didn’t tolerate those who weren’t (hence the “Don” and not Dr. Donald…). He was incredibly astute and would have nothing to do with pseudo-intellectuals who did little more than parrot the works of others. An interchange with Don wasn’t a stroke session. His son-in-law was quoted in an article as saying:

"It was almost intimidating when I’d come visit the house when I first started dating (Don's daughter, Cathy) because you knew you had to be on the top of your game whenever you were around him. He just had an air about him that made you want to be your best."

That was Don. Come hard or go home. Be real or get out. If you’re weak of character and need the soft-soap, get a puppy. If you’re a square shooter, you couldn’t ask for a better friend. Just give him your honest effort and he’d fall on a grenade for you.

Our relationship wasn’t all sweetness and light. He didn’t hesitate to lambast me when he thought I wasn’t living up to my potential. But, he was also there for me when I hit the bumps in the road.

I’m thinking of Don because I tried to contact him today and his daughter informed me he died. A part of me died as well.

Paddlers

“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat, and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together; and a little child shall lead them.”

We had a large kayak outing today, a joint event with another group. It was a blast. Afterwards a few members of that group approached me. They offered an apology because they had received some inaccurate information about our group and had unwittingly fostered the impression.

One piece of the fallacious characterization was that we were all hardcore who wanted nothing to do with casual paddlers. While it was true that today we had two people good enough to earn factory sponsorship and some other very skilled paddlers, the combined group was essentially seamless in its interaction and having fun with each other. That’s one aspect of paddling I relish.

It goes beyond skill level. I know a lot of the people in the groups personally. Today, there were machinists, lawyers, administrative assistants, nurses, mechanics, and a variety of other vocations and social strata represented. Outside of me, I doubt if many were aware of who was who in that regard. The cufflinks and the wrenches are left behind when you go out on the river. And, I know few other activities that cut across age, gender and other demographics like this sport. Paddlers are just paddlers; people having a good time.

The same is true with backpackers, cyclists, runners and other groups I’ve been in. On the other hand, I’ve been involved in other activities where that wasn’t so.

And, I can’t say I haven’t encountered exceptions. Even in the world of paddling, there are snobs. But they are relatively rare and not well regarded.

The women who approached me hoped I’d forgive them and that we’d all get together again soon. Of course. We’re paddlers.

Epiphany

The “ah-hah moment.” The light goes on. I got it.

It’s a good feeling. I had one today and what makes it especially sweet is that it was in something that doesn’t come naturally to me.

Last week, I was teaching some people how to roll a kayak. Some pick that up in a matter of minutes. They were among the few way back in gym class who watched a quick demo of the parallel bars dismount and then stuck a perfect one on the first try. I was in the other minority – the ones who wound up painfully straddling a rail. So, kayak rolling did not come easily to me.

But it eventually did. Through arduous efforts and determination, I worked my way up through the ranks: onside roll, offside roll, combat roll, rodeo roll, handpaddle roll and – drum roll, please – hand roll.

In the upper echelons, my batting percentage wasn’t a thousand and it still felt like I was walking through the steps. But, I do know the steps and can roll, so I teach.

In that process last week, I rattled off the essentials of success, just as they had been told to me dozens of times and I had repeated a hundredfold. The two critical success factors are don’t pick up your head and don’t yank on your paddle.

Not as easy as it seems. When you’re dangling upside down in an oxygen-free environment, every instinct you have screams at you to pick up your head. And, when you have a paddle in your hands with a dire need to change your inverted position, you feel compelled to use it.

There are a few other keys and I was relating one to a student. I received a mental cuff across the back of my head, and not for the first time. I don’t really follow that instruction. I have passed that along more times than I can count, but I don’t practice it.

I’ve had this thought a number of times but seldom get beyond pondering that point. For some reason it stayed with me on the drive home. Why don’t I do that? I concluded that when I first started to effect a roll, after laborious if not skillful efforts, I was still relying on effort as opposed to technique. It wasn’t entirely correct, but it worked. Most of the time. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Enter Jonathan Livingston Seagull. What if I took my own advice? Would I approach effortless perfection? Would I become one with the kayak? More importantly, would I reduce the percentage of times I left shin skin on boulders?

What do I have to lose by going down that road? Well, I did harbor the fear that I could mess up whatever technique I had that was working. Heck with that, let’s go for the gold.

Today I trucked my kayak up to the lake and paddled over to my favorite practice cove. I silently repeated the mantra of what I had to do. I imagined a fearful explosion if I failed to execute it. Not great imagery but it would have to do for the spur of the moment.

I flipped the kayak over, froze the paddle in space and snapped my hips, applying the technique. Bingo. Sunlight and warmth. Holy crap! It works! Could this be why every instructor on earth has been telling this to me for decades? Nah.

Too good to be true. Maybe it was a fluke. I dove beneath the waves once again. With almost no effort, I was back up with a fluid motion that was alien to me. Better yet, I could feel the process and its rightness. It was no longer blindly walking through the steps. I joyously repeated the process numerous times.

At my age, I don’t have a lot of skill breakthroughs. Epiphanies are a good thing.