River Music Of The Night By Bob Cork Copyright 1999, Bob Cork One Copy May Be Printed For Personal Use Only Publication without permission is prohibited . If you are interested in publishing this article, write to Bob Cork, 5804 22nd Street West, Bradenton FL 34207 e-mail bob@cactus48.com

The temperature was 55 degrees, cool for the 8th of August, 1992. I launched my slender flatwater kayak on the Housatonic River at twenty minutes before three o'clock in the morning. I zippered a small flashlight into the pouch of my yellow nylon pull-over. I paddled downstream, cruising at forty double strokes a minute, with a steady breeze behind me. There were lights at Indian Well State Park and at nearby cottages. A car by the other bank flashed beams across the water. Then it was dark. Clouds covered the moon. A white sign barely visible on the shore would be my starting beacon, and a post across from the Yale boathouse would be my finish line. My plan was to paddle on my river in Connecticut at the same time Greg Barton and Norm Bellingham would be racing in the Olympics near Barcelona, Spain. Obviously, it was a strange thing I was compelled to do, paddling alone in the dark for two hours, visualizing competition I could not see, offering cheers that could not be heard. Even my son Jason, my partner in canoe racing, doubted my sanity. But Jason also understood that I wanted more than for Greg and Norm to win, that my purpose was to somehow touch the fragments of a tragically broken dream that was shared by another paddling father and son, Ray and Donald Dodge. Their dream was spawned on the St. Joseph River in lower Michigan, where marathon canoe racing, up to three hours and 20 miles of short power strokes, has long been an alternative to California surfing and skinny Ivy League rowboats. Architectural engineer Ray Dodge believed marathon paddlers could beat East Europeans in Olympic canoe and kayak sprints. To help the sport grow, Dodge started a boat and paddle business in 1958. High school senior Donald Dodge, a serious musician, was smitten in his father's garage by a mahogany veneer masterpiece imported from Denmark. It weighed only 26 pounds and looked as musical as a bass violin, but the only strings were cables to the rudder. In the narrow kayak Donald Dodge discovered a silent antithesis to his bass trombone. As tone, timing and feeling are important to music, Don learned that technique, strength and stamina win kayak races. Don also found drawbacks. He once told his father, "kayaking is a lonely sport. If you really get a good work-out, you always end up alone on the water. Fortunately for Don, training partners were on the way. University of Michigan swimmers Marcia and Sperry Jones, their dreams beached at the Olympic Trials, came curiously to Buchanan. Under Don's tutelage, the sisters were soon comfortable in kayaks. In 1961 Donald Dodge won National and North American K-1 titles at 1000 meters. Then he returned to the University of Rochester's Eastman School of Music, a junior majoring in public school music. His best friend, Tom Mowrey, doubted Don would ever lead a high school band. "He liked music, and he was a good trombone player," Mowrey said, "but his passion was paddling." Eastman students aim more for Broadway than for Yankee stadium, but they applauded their gregarious friend and embraced his Olympic dream. Trombone department head Emory Remington, known as "The Chief," dubbed Donald "The Champ" and all of Eastman cheered. The next spring Donald paddled up to 30 miles a day, training for the World Championships in Europe. Thursday morning, May 24, he went to the school nurse for typhoid and tetanus shots required for his passport. Later the junior class took a break from studying for a picnic by Lake Ontario. After lunch, Tom Mowrey played for a few minutes in Don's delicate kayak. Then Don decided to paddle three miles across the bay. Don was one of the few flatwater paddlers who was able to execute an Eskimo roll, so he was not concerned that the water surface was rolling. Besides, the bay was protected by breakwaters. No thought was given to the shots that morning that might effect his equilibrium, or to the water temperature of 38 degrees. Tom Mowrey drove three miles to the Charlotte Pier, and waited for the chip-toothed smile that he would never see again. The empty kayak was located later in the afternoon, and Don's body was recovered three weeks later. The paddle, which perhaps had broken in the wind or on a swell, was never found. Tom drove Don's little white pickup truck, with a piggyback boat, to the Michigan home of Ray and Mavis Dodge. Ray Dodge wrestled painfully with his decision to import kayaks and introduce his son to the sport. He would say that "My first reaction was wanting to burn all the boats, but I knew Don would not have wanted that." Marcia Jones was stunned by Don's death, but not distracted from her goal. By 1963 she was national champion, a title she would hold for nine years. At Tokyo in 1964 Marcia broke the medal barrier for American women with a bronze in K-1 500 meters. At Mexico City in 1968 she was 4th in K-1 and 7th in K-2, with sister Sperry as partner. At Munich in 1972 Marcia was 9th in K-1. Ray Dodge was a stand-in father in 1965 when Marcia married Bill Smoke, also a kayak Olympian. Bill and Marcia built a home on the river in Buchanan. Susan Dodge, Don's youngest sister, brought friends to Marcia, and the Niles-Buchanan Kayak Club was born. Several years earlier Ray Dodge sold paddles to Mike and Kathy Barton, marathon racers who raised pigs near Homer, 90 miles upriver. In 1970 the Barton's brought their kids, Bruce, Connie and Greg, to Marcia, who sent them out to run, for conditioning. "I noticed that Greg, the youngest, ran slower, but he did run, without complaining," Marcia would recall. "Three days later Kathy told me that Greg was born with club feet, a condition that put his feet in plaster casts when he was a baby, and under a surgical knife three times before he was a teenager." Despite an ankle that would not turn, Greg played baseball, wrestled and ran cross-country in high school. But from the time he was ten years old, Greg was serious about paddling. Marcia remembers that he was also very coachable, "doing everything that I asked him to do." Bruce was a K-2 and K-4 Olympic paddler in 1976, and both boys made the team in 1980, then stayed home because of the boycott. At Los Angeles in 1984, by then an engineering graduate of the University of Michigan, Greg won a bronze in the K-1 1000 meters. It felt good, but it was not gold. At the 1985 World Championships, Greg first teamed up in K-2 with Norm Bellingham, a former whitewater paddler. They "pushed each other beyond pain" in K-1 workouts, then went to Seoul in 1988 as allies. On the last day of competition they came to the 1000 meter finals, as ready as dream-chasers could ever be. In the K-1 final, Grant Davies of Australia crossed the finish line with Greg and was initially declared the winner. Examination of magnified photographs gave Greg the gold, officially by one hundredth of a second. Just 90 minutes later, in an incredible achievement, Barton and Bellingham surged past New Zealand and Australian boats to win the K-2 final by less than a meter. After 52 years without gold for Americans in kayaks, there were two glittering races back-to-back. Ray Dodge, watching on television, found peace that was a long time coming. The gold of the quest was won by a marathon paddler from the St. Joseph River. For Ray the national anthem was a ballad for bass trombone. Four years later I passed my white marker at three o'clock. Hearing a starting gun in my head, I increased my stroke rate, paddling hard while Greg was racing in Barcelona. It would take me six minutes to paddle 1000 meters, partly because I was 49 years old and overweight, with a slower, heavier boat and a conventional wood paddle. Greg would cover the same distance in just over 3 1/2 minutes, with a wing design paddle, a carbon fiber kayak, and a superbly conditioned 32-year-old body. But I did not care that I was slow. Downstream I could see the outline of the Derby dam, and I paddled with a vertical plant, a steady pull, a quick lift of the blade and a smooth rotation. In my mind's eye my form was perfect in the dark. Then I saw the white post, so I turned my kayak in a wide circle. I was pleased to learn later that Greg won a bronze medal in K-1, seven tenths of a second from another gold. At the time it was happening across the ocean I had a gut feeling he had done well. I sang my old high school fight song as I looked upriver. Usually, when I push it, I can paddle the 4 1/2 miles upriver to the Indian head rock in 50 minutes, but in the dark I was cautious as I cruised into a slight headwind, looking out for swans and logs, hoping for occasional lights from shore. Past Indian Well the river was wide. I listened to river music of the night. One blade plunged into water as the other scattered droplets, the nylon shell of my life jacket swished against itself, the bow of my kayak gently furrowed the surface. I remembered an experience when Jason was ten. There was a low dam, the water rushing over an 18-inch drop. We portaged our canoe around the dam going upstream. I suggested we stay in the boat and shoot the dam on the way back. Jason agreed. I knew about undercurrents at dams, but I thought the water was deep enough on top that we would sail over it safely. As we approached, when it was too late to turn back, I asked Jason if he was sure he wanted to do it. His question seared my soul. "We won't die, will we?" he asked. "No...of course not," I said, but I was frightened as we slid over the dam. Later my heartbeat returned to normal. I wondered if I had endangered Jason, when all I wanted was a good time together. That's all Ray Dodge wanted, when he imported kayaks from Denmark, just good times on rivers with his son. The Housatonic was wider then, the water shallow and grassy. A pizza restaurant on the bank had many yellow lights, left on all night, illuminating the river. It looked like the jungle village by torchlight in the movie "Apocalypse Now." Then it was dark again. I paddled past permanent homes on the right and summer cottages on the left. Residents were sleeping, their lights turned off. I could not see the painted Indian head rock, but I heard the gurgling water behind it. I turned in a tighter circle, then paddled downriver. Soon I was out of the dark, past the jungle village,then into the darkness of the last mile before Indian Well. I thought about Greg and Norm Bellingham, ready near Barcelona for the K-2 final. I heard another starting gun, and I picked up the tempo of my strokes, entering the race with Greg and Norm. I cheered them on as I paddled hard. I still could see very little, but I had been on the water for an hour and a half, and I felt comfortable, so I stopped worrying about swans. Again I heard river music. Suddenly I was in Rochester, witnessing the friendship of two young men who were roommates at Eastman. I could smell pizza they shared, and see them studying. Lights went out. They talked about girls and dreams. Then I saw them laughing on an afternoon in May. I was with Tom Mowrey as he drove the pickup down a lakeshore road, catching glimpses of Don paddling. Then trees blocked the view as the road left the shore. At the Charlotte Pier Tom was bothered by waves that were crashing into the pilings. Conditions at the mouth of the Genesee River were severe. "I warned him about Lake Ontario," his father would say, "but Don was like a mountain-climber believing that a fall would never happen to him." Tom went to the Coast Guard. They had a higher priority, a cabin cruiser taking on water seven miles out on suddenly stormy Lake Ontario. Tom drove to the airport, rented a private plane to fly him over the bay, and there he spotted the empty kayak. Students left open books on their desks and searched for Don. Members of the Phi Mu Alpha fraternity searched beaches all night. After breakfast they went to tell Dean Flora Burton they would continue to search. "Tom," she asked, "don't you realize Don is dead?" Acceptance of death brought an explosion of grief, a jolt I felt in 1992, where I had no answer to the question that Tom Mowrey had recently told me still tortured him. Which one of the boys had suggested that Don paddle across the bay? My thoughts went back to Barcelona. I pulled my boat quickly past my launch point, moving smoothly along the shore at Indian Well State Park, until I reached the swimming area. I stopped paddling, and I collected my emotions while the boat was gliding. I kept thinking "I'm proud of you guys." Later I watched on television as Greg and Norm finished fourth, half a second from bronze, and I really was proud of all they had done together, for themselves and for a sport that few people in America know or care about. I remembered that ABC filmed Marcia Smoke's 1972 final, the last Olympic race for a woman who was national champion nine years, a bronze medalist once, an Olympic finalist each time she competed. The film stayed in the can. "If you won a gold medal, we would have aired it," said Jim McKay. "If you showed more minor sports," Marcia replied, "kids might become interested and someday win more medals." Then Marcia went back to Michigan, to continue coaching a boy from a pig farm upriver, a boy who could hardly walk, but dared to run. Twenty years later I sat in my kayak, with a blade in the water for balance. The breeze was gone, the water was flat. There were no car horns or dogs barking or train whistles, not even a ripple caressing the sandy beach. It was incredibly quiet, this river music of the night, the silence of a God who gave no answers to the father and friends of a boy who loved to paddle his kayak and play his bass trombone. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Update to 2004 Olympic Games Bill and Marcia Smoke's son, Jeff, competed in the K-2 1,000 meter race in Athens. Here is an excerpt from his final report to the South Bend Tribune ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ After my second day of racing, my kayaking partner Andrew Bussey and I finished seventh in the semifinal. Only the top three advanced to the final. We did our best time and were only 2.8 seconds away from making the finals. We raced well and, while we would have liked to make it into the final race (today), we are happy with the way we raced and realistic about our chances after only training together for six weeks. In our first race on Monday, we got off to a rough start and never settled into our race rhythm. We were not really nervous; I was much more nervous qualifying for the Olympics in the Continental Qualifier in Brazil than I was here....... .....The first day we moved into our villas the men's rowing eight had just won a gold medal and they were all back celebrating at our place wearing their medals, drinking beers and swimming in the pool. It was a position I wanted to be in after my races were finished, but I knew it would be four more years until I was there wearing a medal. It's a weird feeling being done. For the last 2 1/2 years, everything I have done has been with an aim and intent to qualify for and do my best at the Olympics. Now that I have attained my goal, I have time to sit back, relax and just enjoy myself for a few days. I don't have to worry about staying out too late or the type of food I eat and how it will affect my racing..... .....While I would have liked to make the finals, I'm realistic about what was possible for us and satisfied being 13th overall in my event at the Olympics. When we crossed the line, I was content with my performance, knowing that I had given it my all and walked away leaving everything on the water." Jeff Smoke

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