Bob's Paddle Blog . Link to new Frog Creek page Link to new Hillsborough River page Link to new Rainbow River page Blog temporarily suspended March 2007...no time   Bob's Paddle Blog -- Started July 6, 2005. -- rambling unedited memories from a lifetime of paddling... new stuff is added and dated when I feel like it... the most recent entry is first. Send me an e-mail with any comments you have. Thanks....... .................Bob Cork ........................... e-mail to Bob Cork

September 29, 2006 Back in the saddle with new computer set-up. Haven't worked on the EM White for a while, even thought I now have a new orbital sander. Tloo busy working, paddling and writing I guess. Also, have a knee problem/ The main paddle page is temporarily too big to open for working on it, (long story about a program that doesn't fit with OSX) so I added links to three new pages above. Weather in Florida starting to cool down, which is a good thing. Red Tide still stinks up the beaches, so I mostly paddle freshwater until it clears up.   June 24, 2006 No paddling for a while...working on the E.M. White canoe...almost done with the fiberglass over wood...this time will be much better skin that first I applied in Connecticut 8 or 9 years ago because then I used glass cloth with regular hardware store resin. This time I used marine resin and lose fibre mat...much harder to put on but the adhesion, I can tell, is far superior. While sanding it down I hit bare wood a few times so I covered those spots with glass filled Bondo. After I sand those I'll probably apply three strips of cloth to cover the bond, then finish sanding,then start on the wood trim.   May 20, 2006 Perico Bayou Tailwind Saltwater only for the next six weeks due to alligator mating season. This afternoon Josh and I took the canoe to the west end of Palma Sola Bay. paddled around the mangroves and under SR 64 bridge into Perico Bayou, then paddled about 2 1/2 miles North to the mouth of the Manatee River into the Gulf of Mexico. We had a strong headwind and we paddled hard, struggling because the bayou is shallow. Coming back we naturally had a strong tailwind. Josh continued paddling hard, but most of the time all I did was steer. He didn't realize I was just enjoying the ride. I called side switches and he did it without looking back. Eventually I told him and he laughed.   May 18, 2006 Back in the saddle Day off today, so I decided to vsit Terra Ceia Bay, where my friend Bob Aiosa and I have paddled often when our work schedules and family commitments made that possible. This morning I launched at 8 a.m. at the 59th Street Boat Ramp on the Manatee River. I put plenty of sunblock on my peeling arms and legs that look like leprosy. The river is about 3/4 of a mile wide here, and the ramp is about two miles from the open Gulf. There was a strong wind going upriver from the West/Northwest, so I angled across the river, piercing the wind as much as possible, which is easier in my kayak than taking a steady crosswind. I ended up at Snead Island Boatworks, which is about a third of a mile West of the cut into Terra Ceia Bay, so I had to paddle the shoreline to get to the cut. The wind was still strong on the Bay, so I hugged the Western shore for protection by developments and mangroves. I got to the open channel from the Gulf, where the wind picked up again, and decided not to go across the channel to the Wildlife Preserve mangrove island where there are many manatees. Bob will vouch for that. I came back along the calm shoreline, then explored smaller bays, then spent quite a bit of time in Champlain Bayou, which led me to exploration of some mangrove trails. I saw two large rays, many fish, and many birds, including herons, egrets, ibis and coromants. I didn't see one manatee or doplhin, and that was disappointing. I found one pretty shell, but there was a critter still inside it, so I put it back. It made me realize that before all the souvineer shops loaded their shelves with polished and varnished shells there were many critters killed that were probably not eaten. When I paddled back through the Snead Island cut I noticed a big rain cloud overhead, it was strarting to sprinkle, and the wind from the West was even stronger than it had been earlier. It was quite a struggle to get back across the river, again going at an angle. What made it more interesting on the return trip was that half a dozen large boats were on their way up the middle of the river, probably from a St. Pete broker for the boat show this weekend at one of the marinas in downtown Bradenton. The first boat started to slow down to minimize his wake, but I waved him on. Like many boaters he didn't realize that slowing down often makes it worse for little paddleboats. Each of the boats put up a pretty good wake. I found myself going across half a dozen waves after each boat. The swells were three to four feet in spots. My bow was 30 to 35 degrees up in the air on every wave. I never felt like I was in danger. The water was warm, I had my life jacket on, and my tippy kayak was really riding the waves well. It was actually quite fun. Not as fun as it would have been if I were not just finishing a three-hour paddle, but fun nonetheless. When I loaded up my boat on the car it was heavy enough for me to realize the seams are leaking and there is water inside. I took out the plugs so the water will evaporate while it is on my car, and pour out when I put it back on the rack. Terra Ceia Bay is more fun when my buddy Bob is paddling with me, but it was really an envigorating paddle today, especially the waves that gave me a feel for whitewater would be like, without any rocks under the waves. After paddling I got a haircut at Captin Kirks' Barber Shop. (honest) and then I came home to a very welcome shower. I'm a little stiff, little sore, but feeling great. The sun and water do that.   May 10, 2006 Upper Manatee surprise One of the good things about my new job is that I get a day off in the middle of the week. Today I re-visited the upper Manatee River in the Mohawk canoe. It was already on the car and I couldn't convince myself to unload it and put on the kayak. Besides, sometimes the canoe is more relaxing. First I stopped at Ray's Canoe Hideaway. They are closed on Wednesday, so I dropped a six pack of water bottles over the fence, along with a note of thanks for Mark's kindness when I was nearly dehydrated and he gave me water. As you all know, when you go solo in a two-seat canoe, even though you turn it around, you are still stern-heavy. The obly solutions are to kneel at the center thwart, which is not an option for an old man, and the second is to make a combination center seat/carrying yoke, which I did for my E.M. White. Unfortunately, the White is not finished yet with it's second rejuvenation. That is my fault too. I have the wood for the new keel, deckplaates and gunwales, but I need one more gallon of resin, pigment and necessary supplies. One of these days, soon I hope. Meanwhile, in the Mohawk, which isn't too bad when flipping it and paddling from the inverted bow seat. It was a beautiful, quiet day on the river. Two small gators, many birds, many fish and turtles, a few squirrels. There was one motorized fishing boat, but for most of the trip I was alone with nature, the way I like it. I though I was going to see a deer, as I heard footsteps in dry grass underfoot on top of the bank, but when the noise-maker appeared, it was a man as old as I am, carrying a camera. I told him I was disappointed, that I was hoping he was a deer. He laughed and said that last week he was in the woods across the river, and he heard a noise coming toward him, and he was anxious, especially when he realized it was disturbing low branches on trees, and his anxiety was relieved with laughter when a horse came into view.     May 6, 2006 Finally, the Hillsboro I have heard so much about the Hillsboro River since we moved to Bradenton that I have been hoping for a chance to paddle there. Today I got that chance. Josh and I took the Mohawk after church, drove about 50 miles North, then paddled 4 1/2 miles upstream from Morris Bridge Park to Sargent Park and back. The river is clear water with dark bottom due to leaves rotting. It has more cypress trees on the bank than I have seen since we left Ocala and the Silver River. It has just as many waterbirds as I had heard about, and I swear I even heard a peacock screaming in the woods. A ranger told me the water is very low now, and I believe it. There are so many deadfalls in the water, above and just under the surface, that we would have made better time wearing log-rolling boots. But the current is still strong in this magnificent twisting and turning stream in a thick and quiet woods and I can't wait to paddle it again when the water level is normal. There are many fish and turtles and gators, and many of the gators did not spook easily, which can be a dangerous thing if paddlers start feeling too secure. Fishermen were doing well, and paddlers who had rented poly kayaks were having fun, just as we were. Josh and I found it easier to maneuver going upstream than when coming back. I am glad we were in a fiberglasscanoe because we scraped several unseen logs that could have damaged an aluminum or wood-canvas craft.   May 1, 2006 Stupid, stupid, stupid old man! I remember watching Anthony Quinn or Spencer Tracy or Lee J. Cobb or somebody else like that, in a popular movie, hitting the side of his head with the heel of his hand and saying "Stupid, stupid, stupid old man." I feel like that after Monday on the Manatee River. I've paddled enough the last few years, and I've walked enough the last two months in my new job, that I am not concerned about cardio-vascular conditioning. However, I have not been paddling hard enough ot long enough to build up strength and muscular conditioning. Therefore, since I had Monday off, I decided to get a really good physical workout. I launched my kayak at 7:50 at the mouth of the Braden River and started up the Manatee, into a headwind from the East. I paddled to I-75, where the river is nearly a mile wide, then I paddled another hour to the Fort Hamer Road launch site. I kept going as the River narrowed down, and eventually I came to Rye Wilderness Park. I kept going until I reached the warning sign near the dam for Lake Manatee, where I had to turn around. I had paddled upriver for three hours and forty minutes, and was feeling pretty good, although, naturally, I was tired. During the last few miles, as the river narrowed to a stream 40 feet wide with lots of deadfalls, I had seen a young fox, about ten inches at the shoulder, searching the riverbank for food, then running away when he saw me. I had seen a hawk, many gators, many turtles, and many fish, including a gar nearly four feet long. There were also a number of spawning nests, scooped out of sand, nests about 24 to 36" in diameter and more than two feet deep. I sat in one of the emoty nests for a refreshing bath. I was tired, but still feeling pretty good, but I also drank the last of my iced tea. And I began to wonder if I made the right decision about my arms and legs before I left. Since they had accumulated a healthy tan, I had decided not to put slippery sun-block lotion on them. Three or four miles back downriver, after seeing an owl and another hawk, I stopped at Ray's Canoe Hideaway, a rental outfitter, and asked Mark if I could fill my water bottle. I had left my wallet in the car. When I told him how much farther I had to go , Mark gave me two more bottles of cold spring water, free. I was grateful. As the river got wider I ran into more of an incoming tide. Wind was also roughing up the surface. My speed was no longer impressive, even to turtles. I was flat out exhausted. I paddled steady but slowly. About two miles above I-75 there is a small pine forest, with flat sand, covered by pine needles, where I had stopped once with Josh to rest. This time I stopped by myself. A stylish woman was walking among the trees as if she were on Golden Pond, holding a book, looking up into the pine branches. We saw each other at the same time. I was still in water, among the mangroves that are near the shore. I apologized to her. I said I knew it was private property, but that I was really worn out, and was looking for a place to rest. She smiled and left, after telling me that I was welcome to rest in the shade for a while. So I dragged my boat ashore, sat with my back against a pine tree and felt like beating myself on the side of my head and saying "stupid, stupid, stupid old man." I don't remember the last time I paddled as slowly as I did the last three our four miles. My water supply was gone. My shins, knees, highs and my arms had become bright red. I was so tired that I ended up making the downstream trip in nearly 4 1/2 hours. According to my county map book, which is detailed and accurate, I had paddled 15 1/2 miles each way, for a total of 31 miles, in about eight hours. I remember paddling 19 miles in three hours, downstream on the Des Plaines River at flood stage. I was younger then, with a faster boat, and I had to stop three times because my legs were cramping and I had not yet learned that you need to push against foot rests to keep that from happening. When I got home Willie said she had begun to wonder if I got lost. When I sprayed the aloe vera spray on my legs and arms I suffered, but graduall;y it felt better. I went to bed. Twice more during the night I got up to spray my legs. About three a.m. I watched the last of a movie. Then I watched the Bancroft/Hoffman seduction scene from "The Graduate." It did not distract me from my pain. I did not laugh. I suffered through two more hours of sleep, and I was at work at 7:00 a.m., with more spray on my legs, more stiffness in my shoulders. Somehow I made it through the day. I was pleased to find out I was number one in sales in our department last week, but I did not dance for joy at the news. So here I sit, my shins still red and slightly sore, my shoulders still a little stiff as I look forward to sleep. Tomorrow the number two man in The Home Depot organization will visit our store. The number one man is a military career man who is trying to develop our nationwide team as if were a military force. I hope the number two man doesn't lead us in push-ups or a five mile run. Stupid, stupid, stupid old Bob. ( but not sorry I did it.)   April 1, 2006 Before today the only part of the Manatee River between the Lake Manatee Dam and the Gulf I had not paddled was a stretch of about five miles between the Fort Hamer Road Boat Launch and a mangrove island about a mile east of I-75. Josh and I tackled that stretch today, paddling against a headwind and incoming tide going downstream, riding the swells of the tide and speeding powerboats as we headed back to Fort Hammer Road. It was quite an exhausting challenge, but I learned quite a bit about Josh today. He is really getting better and tougher with the bent shaft paddle in the bow. I got mixed up with our starting and ending times, but we paddled steady the whole distance, and he was making a clean switch of sides too. I think we're ready to get into a race one of these days. March 25, 2006 Josh was with his mother today so I took the kayak up to the Rye Preserve on the Upper Manatee River. About a year ago I had paddled from Fort Hamer Road upriver utnil I got lost in a maze of grassy islands, to this time I wanted to go downstream, then back up. I paddled for about an hour. The river started out about 35 feet wide and was more than double that by the time I paddled nearly four miles. It twists and turns with sandbars on the inner banks, which help identify the current location on the opposite side. One place which was wider than normal looked like the sandbar was in the middle and that a minor channel was running next to the inner bank. I checked it out on the way back and I was right. I came to where the river splits,. and I could see how I made the navigational error a year ago. After I got into the merged channels it still looked like I had come from the wrong place, but I had not, obviously. Tidal rivers are confusing because it is often difficult to see the channel, especially when it is windy, and I was in a headwind all the way downriver today. I saw some young boys fishing and they said they had caught a nice snook. I saw three teens camping out on a sandbar. They told me the tide variation is about eight inches there, which is maybe 15 miles from the Gulf. I asked how much different that is from the mouth and they said it was the same. I guess only a guy from Indiana would ask such a stupid question. I saw a number of turtles and birds, including an osprey that stayed on his perch until I got about ten feet from him. On the way downriver I also scared a gator into the water. I didn't see him but I saw the splash, and realized whatever splashed had come from under a long, and it had to be a gator. In another month I think it will be really pretty on that stretch of river.       March 18, 2006 I gave Josh a choice. We could either go to shallow saltwater and look for shells, or we could go back to the Braden River and paddle further upstream than we did when we retrieved the big hunk of trash (Lost Creek) Josh chose saltwater, so we headed for Lido Key, right in the heart of Sarasota's uppermost crust. I've heard a great deal about the mangrove tunnels there, but I hadn't noticed any when I paddled the kayak off Lido Beach, so I was curious. Anyway, we took the Mohawk and found the parking lot at Lido Key, where there is a county-owned canoe and kayak launch, and a rental vendor for people who don't have their own boats. The best shell area is over white sand on the cut from the ICW into the Gulf. The two tunnels through mangroves are short and rather boring, compared to those North of the Skyway, but it was a pleaasurable paddle. We found several empty shells and a few with sponge-footed critters still inside them, and those I carefully returned to the bootom of the shallow sea. In shallow water I tried to pick up a live blue crab and it is probably best that I failed. We also found a variety of hermits in other shells. There was one interesting event that took place in very shallow, clear water, right next to the shore. I decided to jump out of thje canoe to grab a shell. My right leg caught on the lip, the canoe tipped, and suddenly we had six to eight inches of water in the canoe. It was both funny and embarassing. Josh laughed. He thought it weas a great experience. It was further prrof for my experience-based theory that most canoe dumpings happen when you are careless rather than when you are in hazardous water. A couple nearby who were on only their second outing in their new canoe found our accident extemely funny to watch. They were close to my age so I tolerated their elaughter. Actually, I shared it with them, and we had a brief visit after that. The sandwiches we had in our coolers were protected by plastic, but I did have one casualty. My cell phone, which I usually don't take with me, got just a little bit wet, but that was enough for it to be non-functional. Now I have to visit Verizon. I hope they are compassionate.   Feb 28...too much going on...no time, no fire, will get back one of these days I hope   January 28, 2006 After church Josh and I took the Mohawk to Weedon Island Preserve by the Gandy Bridge over Tampa Bay. Weedon has a four-mile caone and kayak trail through mangroves, some of the tunnels large enough for one boat at a time, and I don't know what someone would do with a kayak paddle except take it apart and use half.   January 22, 2006 Bob Aiosa and I met at 7:30 this morning at the 59th Street Warner's Bayou Boat ramp. The wind was strong out of the East, so we paddled across the river, through the cut, and into Terra Ceia Bay. We kept to the Eastern shore to stay out of the wind. It was a very calm morning, and the fog burned off to give us a clear blue sky over clear water, much of it shallow enough to see the sandy bottom. It was a refreshing two hour workout. No manatees or dolphins this trip, but many birds and small fish to see. We always enjoy encouraging each other about work frustrations, and catching up on family news. One of the more interesting events this morning was notcing, by the vapor trail, than an airliner first passed by the wun, due East, and just overus passed by the moon. Okay,.so it just looked that way! The true interesting event was watching a flock of 20 birds soaring and sailing and looking for fish in the water below. The event was interesting because 18 of the birds were seagulls and 2 of the birds were black vultures. No, we did not see a vulture dive into the water to gert a fish, but they sure looked to be ready. There was one annoying jets ki on the bay, but we survived that. Crossing the river again was really rough, with wakes combined with wind and currents, but we had no problems with that challenge either. It was another great day for paddling and for friendship. This evening I made telephone contact with Farnsley Peters, who was my boss in 1972 when I was coordinator for the flatwater canoing Olympic Trials. I hadn't talked to Pete for 30 years, and now he and his wife live just about 25 miles from us. Small world. January 21, 2006 8:30 p.m. Saturday   It has been a busy paddling weekend so far, with one more event yet to happen. Friday afternoon, before trombone choir and orchestra rehearsal, I took the kayak out for about 45 minutes on two canals off the Manatee River, right where Bob A. and I launch for Sunday morning workouts. The second canal, just 50 yards downstream from where we launch, is one I had not visited, and I was really impressed. It goes straight in for about 500 meters, at a consistent width of maybe 75 meters, then turns and goes another 500 meters or so. I did not feel any shallow spots. It would a great lagoon, for sprint races, except for one thing. The only spectators would be the residents in big and luxurious houses on both sides of the canal. After church this afternoon I took Josh to Clearwater for a demo session of some new Eddyline kayaks. I tried an 18' very slender model, 21" at the widest part, and Josh tried a slightly wider touring boat. We both enjoyed them, but the water was so shallow I couldn't tell how fast the skinny one was. I do know it is very stable. Very expensive too. The one I was in is $2100, the one Josh was in is $1800. Wow! After that Josh and I went back across the Skyway and went to Bishop's Harbor with the Mohawk Canoe. We had a good time among the mangroves, a good paddle in the bay, and a good talking time too. We got back to dock just at dark. Sunset was beautiful. No dolphins or manatees today, just mullet and ducks and vultures and egrets, but it was fun a peaceful and, I think, an important afternoon for Josh. At 7:30 tomorrow morning Bob Aiosa and I are paddling our kayaks together for the first time in about six weeks. I'm looking forward to it even though I am already tired. Then it is to the office for hard paperwork and CMA evaluations in preparation for what will either be a very encouraging or a very discouraging week. It is really crunch time in my new career and this coming week could very well tell the story. January 2, 2006 Another holiday of sorts, bercause the 1st was on Sunday. The office was officially closed, but I went in for a while anyway, then drove around Sarasota neighborhoods, just to get the feel of the places and the homes, loking for the right combination for a particular client. In the afternoon I decided I needed to be alone...really alone...so I went to Perico Bayou with my kayak. It is actually a narrow bay between the neck of Palma Sola Bay and the mouth of the Manatee, an isolated bay about two miles long, shallow water, surrounded by mangroves, dotted with a few mangrove islands, and not one single house. In order to get to Perico you either take the long route through Palma Sola, or you park on the grass at the side of Manatee Avenue and carry your boat 75 yards on a muddy trail through mangroves. I did that, despite the slippery footing. I saw two flats boats in the upper end briefly, but with low tide some of it was really shallow, so for the two hours before sunset I had the place to myself. Not quite to myself, There was one of the biggest great blue herons I have ever seen, standing sentinel. A young osprey sailed overhead for ten minutes, it seemed, looking for fish. A large osprey stayed in the high nest until I came too close and had been sitting there too long, and then it flew away. There were pelicans on a sand bar, sdathere was a duck scuttling across the water in preparation for take-off, there was a mullet leading me across the water by jumping out several times. There are several therories on why mullet jump. Nobody really knows. When I was paddling slowly I scanned the bottom, looking for shells for my wife. I saw several small green conch shells, but each time I picked one up it still had life inside it, which I was in no mood to destroy, so it went back in the water. The problem with paddling in shallow water is that when you put the power to the stroke it feels like you are pulling a wagon without wheels. So you look for areas where it is slightlydeeper, where you can get a full stroke without endangering your back of the tips of the paddle blades. But mostly in Perico, alone under blue sky, near to but just as far from civilization, you gently paddle and glide and look around you and relax and think. Then you hit a bit of water deep enough to exercise your body and inner pump and so you do that with vigor. Near the mouth of the Manatee and the Gulf I noticed a mangrove branch protruding about six inches from shallow water, trying to start a new island. I don't know why, but I picked it up, looked at its tangled bottom that was heavy, then put it back in the water. As I started to paddle away I noticed it was about four inches farther out of the watrer than it had been. I had moved it to a new place, where more of it was reaching for the clouds. I had changed the world, for the better of that mangrove I hoped. There are pictures from another trip to Perico at http://www.cactus48.com/perico.html New Year's Day 2006 Foggy at dawn. Bob A. was busy, so I took my kayak to Palma Sola Bay and paddled about five miles, some of it leisurely, some strenuously, some of it fighting a quartering tailwind on the way back to the car. Low tide today. Water very clear, but that is deceiving. Signs on shore tell the story. Stuff that enters from Bradenton does not leave the bay as it should because there is such a narrow opening into the Gulf. That will change, of course. More condos will rise on the shores. What a shame. And I really don't care that I'm in the real estate business. New Year's Eve 2005 Josh and I visited Rye Wilderness Preserve after church today. This time we paddled the Mohawk downstream, and the Manatee quickly gets wider. I couldn't figure out why there were mullet jumping, until I realized, and conirmed in a conversation with a fisherman, that this stretch is indeed tidal, and is dowsntream of Lake Manatee, not above it. We saw two big gators. I saw one sliding into the water, and Josh saw one submerging quite suddenly and dramatically right in front of him as we neared some brush along the bank.. As we paddled back to the launch site and dusk was nearing, we moved silently along the grassy shoreline. I was hoping to see deer coming to the river, but none appeared. Next time we'll go at dawn. December 28, 2005 Paddled my kayak about ten miles on the Braden River, upstream of the dam, launching at Jigg's Landing on the lake. I paddled past all the houses, under I-75, then past Linger Lodge and upstream another half mile. Actually, it doesn't become a river again until almost to I-75, because there is no current. The water on the inside of the bends, where there are lily pads, just as deep as the water on the other side...deeper than the length of my paddle, which is unusual for a river that is less than 75 feet wide in those locations. If the FCPA ever has a race there I'll have an advantage until the other paddlers figure that out, but that won't do me much good racing against those guys. Anyway, I put myself to the test today, paddling vigorously most of the time. I paid the price for that when both my calves cramped up severely, in deep water, where I couldn't get out and walk Christmas, 2005 My neglect of this space between the two holidays was not planned...it just happened that way. Lots of stuff going on. Two weeks ago my oldest son, Bill, who lives in Houston, and who was planning to be with us for part of his holiday week in Mickey's town, asked if I would be able to take him canoeing, along with his son., Andrew. I was delighted by the request and, before they came, I finished a paddle I had been working on for a while. It is made of pine instead of spruce, and it is heavy, and it has a slight split in the blade, which isn't really thin enough, but I decided to go ahead and finish sanding it, staining and varnshing it before they arrrived. Bill was always tall and thin, although he is not quite so thin now, and Andrew is thinner than Bill ever was. Andrew, at 16, is personable, and is musically and intellectually gifted. He is not, however, exceptionally gifted with athletic skills or muscular coordination. Christmas Eve afternoon, while Joy and Aimee stayed with Granma. I put Bill and Andrew in my car and we visited the upper narrow stretch of the Manatee River that flows through Rye Wilderness Preserve. Using the 16 ft Mohawk, we first had Andrew sit in the bottom of the canoe, with his legs under the center thwart, while Bill paddled from the bow as I sat in the stern, and we had an unventful trip upstream, successfully dodging brush and deadfall logs, observing birds and turtles. After turning around I sat with my legs under the center thwart, Bill sat in the stern, and we put Andrew in the bow. The next 30 minutes were exciting and challenging for all three of us, but occasionally Andrew got the hang of it and put together half a dozen consecutive acceptable strokes...strokes which included a relatively straight upper arm. The trip ended as a positive memory...we hope to do it again someday. When they left for Orlando, I gave Andrew the new paddle I made, as a Christmas present. It will add to the clutter in the car as they drive to Texas, but I believe he will enjoy having it.   Thanksgiving, 2005 When I was a boy the Thanksgiving traditions included the men going hunting for rabbits and quail while the women prepared the turkey and stuffing. When I was very young I carried a BB Gun...when I was older I carried a shotgun. My grandfather, my father and my brothers were the usual crowd. It was cold, it was fun, it gave me memories. I no longer have a gun. I have little boats for toys now. And I recently bought a small digital camera to use for my work. Thanksgiving morning I went to the Braden River, where it empties into the Manatee River, about seven miles from the Gulf of Mexico. I paddled the white Mohawk canoe about four miles upstream, then back. Since I don't have a solo seat, even when I reverse the canoe the bow is out of the water, so I put a cooler filled with three concrete patio stones in the bow so I could keep the boat level. I got a great picture of the sunrise. Also a self-portrait of me in my favorite hat, which my wife does not like one little bit. I bought it for a dollar in a thrift store in Owego, New York, soaked it and put it on a bowl to make it round on top, then put owl feathers into the band. I took a few other pictures not good enough to include with this. But let me tell you of the pictures I missed. A pod of dolphins was moving up the river in the half-light. With or without my glasses I could not see the frame in the back of my camera. As you may know, digital cameras, unless set differently, hesitate before clicking...in order to focus? I don't know. What I should have done was hold my camera up in the position I thought it needed to be, and just held the button down....instead I grew frustrated and got no pictures at all. There were seven or eight in the pod, large charcoal colored dolphins, smaller grey dolphins, and suddenly they were under the canoe and I could feel the turbulence. Then they surfaced, to or three within ten feet of my boat, gracefully leaving the water and diving in again...and they were so magnificent, and I was so close, and it was more thrilling than shooting a rabbit. Then they were gone, upriver, and later, in the light of full morning, I was able to figure out what I should have done with my camera. Such is life. Sometimes the most precious moments remain private. There is something very much okay about that.     November 18, 2005 I've been reading lots of stuff lately on the Florida Competition Paddlers Association group e-mails about competing . Today I read a compelling account of an evening at the jetty with Surf Skis. I think there is nothing wrong or right with any kind of engagement with water and wind....I think each searching soul finds a way to touchadventure, release the rush of uncertainty, relinquish control to whatever is natural and come out of it all exhausted, refreshed and encouraged. I lift a toast to that by sharing this. Sunday morning Bob Aiosa and I launched our yellow kayaks about 7:15 and paddled up the Manatee River from the 59th Street Boat Ramp. Usually we cross the river and paddle through the cut into Terra Ceia Bay. But Sunday morning the downriver headwind challenged us to paddle against it. We paddled nearly five miles, almost to the mouth of the Braden River. Then we turned around and paddled downstream, pushed by the wind behind us, tossed around by the waves that rolled underneath us, waves that dispatched our weekday worlds into eddies and massaged our desires to be free. We stopped at a sand bar east of the green bridge, dismounted our steeds and lay them on the shore while we stretched, and there we found a small football, one about nine inches long and five inches in diameter, and we tossed it one to another on the beach for five minutes, and we were relieved, I think, that we could still throw spiral passes, like we did long ago, one Bob near the Long Island Sound, the other near Lost Creek. Then we mounted our chargers and encountered again the windmills of downriver waves...each of us wandered his own way in the wind, at times five yards and at times fifty yards apart, and it was a sunny, quiet, inspiring journey, adapting to the surging waves rather than fighting them. Normally we talk while paddling...about grown and still growing sons...about jobs alternately challenging and maddening...and Sunday we just rhythmically rolled with whatever the wind and the water had to share with us... and still we paddled, knowing it was an active rather than passive adventure. And it really was. It was bright and warm and I believe the few powerboaters who passed us were envious of our yielding to the natural and dealing with it, expecting no ribbons or bragging rights but knowing we had won the morning. Just as anyone who paddles anywhere wins every time, regardless how hard the pull on the paddle or how much sweat mingles with the sea.   October 31, 2005 The Braden River The Braden River flows through mangroves, hardwoods and fir trees for five miles between State Road 70 and the Manatee River. Above 70 there is a dam that creates a great bass fishing lake, at an old camp called Jiggs Landing whiich will soon become a county park. Upstream beyond the lake the river flows by the famous Lingar Lodge restaurant and campground. At State Road 70 the river is abouit 75 feet wide and has a clear channel. As it flows into the mangroves it tries to follow an eastern tree line, bit it wanders and widens and confuses paddlers who are headed upriver from the Manatee. The first time I paddled this stretch was with Josh in the Mohawk. We started at SR 70 and paddled downstream, and it took us about two hours to get to the Manatee. Coming back we got lost in mangroves and confused by what two people on shore told us about finding the channel. I was worn out, a storm was brewing in the East, Josh became afraid, I was concerned, and we asked a resident to take us iun his pickup to SR 70, where I picked up my car and came back to his house to get the canoe. We had learned the hard way that when you come up the river you hug the Eastern shore, regardless of what looks like logical alternatives. The second time we tackled the Braden River was three weeks ago. I wanted to paddle the five miles up the river, then back, to see if I thought Josh and I should travel a few hours North for the up and down race on the Sana Fe River. It took us two hours and five minutes to make it upriver. We made two navigational mistakes and wasted about 20 minutes in a mangrove diversion. M y fault. Coming back downstream we ran into a strong incoming tide and it took us ten minutes longer to get back to the Manatee. The confluence is about six miles from the Gulf. The hurricane cancelled our planned trip to the Santa Fe. Yesterday, the 30th, Bob Aiosa wasn't able to make our Sunday rendezvous, so I took my kayak to the Braden River, hoping to cut in half the time that it took Josh and I to paddle the ten miles by canoe. I took me an hour and 15 minutes to get to SR70. I made a ten minute mistake on the same diversion that confused me when Josh and I were together, and five minutes on another. I also got into a section where the water amolng the mangroves was only about ten inches deep. Downstream, despite tidal influence, I made it back in an hour. Subtracting the 15 minutes, my actual paddling time for the round trip was one hour and 58 minutes, so I was satisfied, and also very tired. I really like my wood wing paddle...it is lightweight and quiet. But I'm not yet convinced that it is faster than my old traditional blades. The next time I go on the Braden I'm going to take the old, heavier paddle and compare the times. I did have an encounter on the Braden this time that was more important than blade style. I had a stare-down encounter with a raccoon in the mangroves. It was a brief escape from ordinary.   October 31, 2005 The Braden River The Braden River flows through mangroves, hardwoods and fir trees for five miles between State Road 70 and the Manatee River. Above 70 there is a dam that creates a great bass fishing lake, at an old camp called Jiggs Landing whiich will soon become a county park. Upstream beyond the lake the river flows by the famous Lingar Lodge restaurant and campground. At State Road 70 the river is abouit 75 feet wide and has a clear channel. As it flows into the mangroves it tries to follow an eastern tree line, bit it wanders and widens and confuses paddlers who are headed upriver from the Manatee. The first time I paddled this stretch was with Josh in the Mohawk. We started at SR 70 and paddled downstream, and it took us about two hours to get to the Manatee. Coming back we got lost in mangroves and confused by what two people on shore told us about finding the channel. I was worn out, a storm was brewing in the East, Josh became afraid, I was concerned, and we asked a resident to take us iun his pickup to SR 70, where I picked up my car and came back to his house to get the canoe. We had learned the hard way that when you come up the river you hug the Eastern shore, regardless of what looks like logical alternatives. The second time we tackled the Braden River was three weeks ago. I wanted to paddle the five miles up the river, then back, to see if I thought Josh and I should travel a few hours North for the up and down race on the Sana Fe River. It took us two hours and five minutes to make it upriver. We made two navigational mistakes and wasted about 20 minutes in a mangrove diversion. M y fault. Coming back downstream we ran into a strong incoming tide and it took us ten minutes longer to get back to the Manatee. The confluence is about six miles from the Gulf. The hurricane cancelled our planned trip to the Santa Fe. Yesterday, the 30th, Bob Aiosa wasn't able to make our Sunday rendezvous, so I took my kayak to the Braden River, hoping to cut in half the time that it took Josh and I to paddle the ten miles by canoe. I took me an hour and 15 minutes to get to SR70. I made a ten minute mistake on the same diversion that confused me when Josh and I were together, and five minutes on another. I also got into a section where the water amolng the mangroves was only about ten inches deep. Downstream, despite tidal influence, I made it back in an hour. Subtracting the 15 minutes, my actual paddling time for the round trip was one hour and 58 minutes, so I was satisfied, and also very tired. I really like my wood wing paddle...it is lightweight and quiet. But I'm not yet convinced that it is faster than my old traditional blades. The next time I go on the Braden I'm going to take the old, heavier paddle and compare the times. I did have an encounter on the Braden this time that was more important than blade style. I had a stare-down encounter with a raccoon in the mangroves. It was a brief escape from ordinary. October 15, 2005...contribution from my son Rob Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly so they lit a fire in the craft. Unsurprisingly it sank, proving once again that you can't have your kayak and heat it too. Saturday, September 10, 2005 First...I want you to know I've had short term memory problems, and I take medication for it, but I don't think this incident is connected to the memory problem that we still think may be connected to being mugged 4 years ago. If it is connected my condition may be worse than I thought. Anyway....today, with Willie out of town to Atlanta to visit grandson Liam, I skipped church and took Josh canoeing on the Peace River. The river was high from recent rain, and the current was very strong. We paddled upstream for three hours, including a 30 minute lunch stop, so we actually paddled only 2 1/2 hours. (While we were stopped for lunch Josh saw what he described as what I thought was a bobcat, but when I printed out pictures from the internet this evening I believe he actually saw a Florida Panther,.and now I am really jealous. I know they are around here, and I've been hoping to see one, and my litle brother beat me to it.) Normally I've learned that if you paddle in the middle of the river both ways you are generally okay, but when channels are well defined it is usually best, when going downstream, to go to the outside of a turn, where the bank is higher, to find the channel. The opposite side, where there is usually a sand bar, is the shallow, slower water. However, sometimes it is good, when going upstream, to take the inside part, in the eddies of shallow water, which I did today. Be that as it may it only took us an hour to get back downstream, in the channel all the way, and the current was really strong, so I think we paddled about 5 1/2 miles each way. It was a great day on the river...but the story does get better. I got home, exhausted, put the canoe away and put my kayak on the car for my Sunday morning paddle with my buddy Bob, planning to meet him at 7:30 in the morning. I lay on the couch, went to sleep and woke up at 7:20. I really thought I had slept all night and it was 7:20 in the morning and I had overslept because I didn't set the alarm. I fed the cats real quick, put my paddling shorts and shirt under my tee-shirt and walking shorts, grabbed my kayak paddle, threw it in the car, and took off in the hazy light. On the way to the river I didn't pay attention to the fact that there was more traffic than usual for Sunday morning early...I also heard "The Day The Music Died" on the radio and remembered that I also delivered newspapers that morning and will never forget the headline. Anyway, I also didn't pay attention to the fact that it was getting darker instead of lighter, and after I got there and Bob wasn't there I called him on my cell phone asking if he forgot...he said it was Saturday and I thought he meant it was Saturday morning and I said no, I paddled with Josh Saturday, it is now Sunday. I called him again a few minutes later. still arguing with him, and then I realized what was going on...no wonder it was getting darker instead of lighter....by then it was pitch dark...I hope, when I meet him tomorrow when it is really tomorrow morning, that he doesn't think I'm nuts. So the cats ate twice and I'm not sure whether to forget this as a normal oversight of being 62 or the fact that I was overtired and woke suddenly or worry about it being connected to my problem or just have a good time paddling tomorrow...if I wake up on time. p.s. we brought back from the river a rock about the size of a softball that is black and seems to have a few holes in it...I know there are prehistoric shark teeth in the Peace River sand so I thought this was maybe a fossil. Anyway, I went to wash it this evening and part of it crumbled away like dust...black as coal but not leaving smudges...but still it is hard when dry. Now I am really puzzled and will check it out. That is if I remember, when I get up in the real morning, where it came from. Labor Day Weekend, 2005 After church Saturday I took Josh, my "Little Brother," paddling in Doug Whitmore's 16 foot Mohawk canoe on the Little Manatee River in Ruskin. We launched at Camp Bayou, an easy-to-find launch site. Take exit 674, the Sun-City/Ruskin exit on I-75, go West on 654, then South (left) on 24th Street. The street dead-ends at the public launch site. On the way it crosses I-75, so all the paddling is East of the Interstate. It is a beautiful river, with just a few houses on it, lots of vegetation and old trees as it wanders toward Tampa Bay. We paddled about three miles upstream, almost to the Little Manatee River State Park. By then the river had narrowed down to 30 feet. We had to get back to Palmetto for my Brass Ensemble rehearsal. The water is clear, but there is so much rotting vegetation on the bottom it obscures the sand, so visibility in the river is poor for paddlers. There were a few fishing boats, but certainly not a crowd. There were also people swimming at the launch site, which is posted as a launch/swimming site. We saw just one gator, maybe seven feet long, and many turtles, and a few signs of fish rolling, but only one shore bird. a young grey heron. I was surprised we didn't see more birds. The river flows freely, with a healthy current. Josh is almost 13, nearly as tall as I am, and is doing very well with his canoe stroke, using my narrow "3 dollar" beavertail. One of these I'll make a bent shaft paddle for myself so Josh can use the one Doug gave me, but for now he is doing fine with the basics of a standard paddle and having a good time. August 22, 2005 Getting adjusted to a new career is stressful, and spending two weeks in France and Germany for the wedding of one of our sons and a visit with our daughter was an adventure in itself. Last Sunday morning my paddling buddy wasn't able to make it to the water, so I was alone on Palma Sola Bay in my kayak, and I really needed to get back to my kind of place. It was low tide, which didn't bother me as I paddled to the neck of Perico Bayou, but which did make it difficult going out inbto the bayou towards the mouth of the Manatee River. If you don't paddle you may not think that makes a difference...but I can feel the drag on my boat when it gets shallower than five feet, and when it gets less than three feet it really pulls on the hull and makes me work harder. Much of Perico is less than two feet at low tide so you can't even get a vertical pull for power. The water was clear. I think our recent rain really helped Palma Sola Bay, and the red tide seems to have finally gone away. Perico presented the usual collection of shorebirds and fish, but I also had a surprise that made me feel very much like the Boy Scout I was when I started paddling. I watched a young mother raccoon and two very young kittens walking along the shore of a mangrove island. She saw me and made her way inland, peering out at me a few times before disappearing with her babies. While paddling back I was close to another mangrove island and I saw another raccoon, by itself, and I stopped paddling and floated closer to shore. I think this one was a male. It was also young, probably from one of last year's litters. I watched him explore the muddy mangrove shore for food, and then he saw me, and he also retreated into the mangroves a few feet, but still I did not move. For 15 minutes I sat there, less than 20 feet from him, and he walked parallel to the shore, about five feet into the mangroves, and several times he also looked out at me, wearing a puzzled and curious mask. I realized that this kind of encounter is what draws me to paddling. Ralph Freeze of Chicagoland Canoe Base always said that canoeing is the only way you can make a trail in the natural places and never leave a trace that you have been there. I really needed my raccoon reminder of that. I paddled back to my launch site, pushing it the last mile in ten minutes, a slow time if I was still young and had a boat like the Hunter sprint kayak I had in 1972, but not bad, I thought, for a 62-year-old body in a heavier, slower boat on the low tide water of Palma Sola Bay. July 17, 2005 At a race on the Connecticut River I discovered a kayak with a "for sale" sign taped to it, and it had been several years since I cut my K-1 into pieces for another re-construction project, and it had failed, and I had to throw away the pieces. I wanted this kayak so much that I asked my neighbor to loan me $60 so I could buy it, and I was able to do just that. We were really struggling to get back on our feet financially, but I had to have the boat. It was a Kevlar downriver boat, 14'8 x 24 inch at the wings, much like the first "dart" design used in marathons but more of a whitewater boat because of the greater volume in the bow. The deck of the bow had really been beaten up and caved in and poorly patched, but the hull seemed to be in good shape. I filled in the top with Bondo and fiberglassed it and painted it yellow. I loved the boat from the first time I paddled it. It was about time that I got back into a kayak, because I was destined to meet a new friend, Blake Conant, a banker from Hawaii who had a very fast Surf Ski. I don't recall if I met him on the Milford Harbor or on the Housatonic by Indian Well State Park. I think it was on the Housy. Now I'm sure it was. I never imagined that I could ever paddle a boat as fast as Blake could. He was, after all, younger, more athletic, in better condition....all those little things, and he was also very tolerant of my not being able to beat him. Later he got a boat from Bushnell in Rochester. I don't remember his first name. All I do remember is that Blake was then even faster. Eventually we developed a routine in Milford Harbor, which was about 1,000 meters from ramp to the mouth into Long Island Sound, a straight shot where they enforced the no wake speed of 5 nauts. The good news was that I was fast enough to catch up with the boats that were legally cruising and climb their wakes. The bad news was that Blake said he needed a rabbit. So he would graciously give me a headstart, then without mercy he would catch me just before we got to the 1,000 meter post. I dreaded hearing his swiching blades as he came near. In 1987 or 1988 we moved to Hagerstown, Maryland, for what I thought was a career change I had long been dreaming about. It fizzled out, leaving me with another broken dream, but we were able to come back, to my same job as I had before in Connecticut, and to rent the house right next door to where we had lived before. In Hagerstown I had a few paddles on the Potomac River and on Antietam Creek, a beautiful stream with a strong current. When we got back to Connecticut, unfotunately, I had to sell both my home made cedar strip canoe and my kevlar kayak...by this time I had painted it red.. Realizing, without a boat again, the hole in in my life, Blake Conant invited me to go to Bantam Lake with him, where he would paddle his newer kayak and I would paddle his red Surf Ski. It was October and the water was starting to get cold. I could not stay on the ski, and it was getting increasingly difficult to get back on after falling off. I was very tempted to hang it up and tell him to paddle down to the ramp himself and bring the car back to pick up me and the ski. But I refused to do that. I was more mentally determined than physically able to handle the kayak, but I refused to give up, despite the cold water, and eventually I made it to the ramp. Later Blake encouraged me by telling me he really thought I was going to hang it up, and that he was proud of me for sticking with it. He used to lauigh with me about my being his rabbit when I had the other kayak, but he never belittled my efforts, and, after all, that's what friends are for. About 1993 I took my two youngest sons in my little Lynx wagon and we took a one-week whirlwind trip around the 4th of July. We went to Wisconsin and Northern Illinois, then Southern Illinois, then Tennessee, then to North Carolina, visiting friends and relatives. But first we stopped in Buchanan, Michigan, to see my friends Bill and Marcia Smoke. We went paddling, and it was great. Marcia helped me with my stroke...the vertical plant and power part...and Jason's effort pleased her too. I was in a Tracer, I think, and Jason was in something like a Slender. My son Dan just watched. While we were there Marcia told me about an old symmetrical hull 1960 era fiberglass Olympic K-1 that was lying in the grass, and was owned by Frank Dallos. We got Frank on the phone and when I asked about buying it, he gave it to me. True, it needed a lot of work, but it was a kayak again! Bill sold me a paddle, one fiberglass blade of it not yet glued on, to make for easy transportation. We found a way to tie the kayak to the roof of the little wagon, and I wrapped the loose blade in newspaper and taped it into a plastic garbage bag , and stuffed it into the hull of the kayak. We were able to squeeze the single-bladed shaft inmto the car. Somewhere between Northern Illinois and Tennessee, during a heavy rainstorm, the blade in a bag disappeared into the night. Odds are the trashman who picked up the bag never even looked inside to see what it was. So when I got back to Connecticut I had to make a blade to glue into the shaft with epoxy. Using the same blade-making technique, I made a blade out of cherry which had a 90 degree offset, great for wind resistance but evenually hard on the tendonitis that developed in my elbow. But I loved that cherry paddle, which I still have mounted over a door, the shaft no longer straight, because I adjusted the blade angle, and the glue I used started coming apart. Anyway, I made a new cockpit of fiberglass, and there was enough legroom under the deck for the kayak to look like it was pregnant. At first I fixed the rudder system, but eventually I decided I didn't need it, because I would not be seriously racing with it and I could it steer it well enough by leaning . Blake was glad I had a boat again. He welcomed the resumption of my rabbit role. By that time he was getting into OC-1, and soon into Outrigger Teams. I tried that a few times with him and his crew on Long Island Sound and it was a real kick...exhausting but fun. Blake also got out of the banking bnusiness. For a number years he was a re-seller of Mac Computers, which strengthened my bond with him, but then he jumped the Mac ship and now does something for one of the other computer manufacturers. Before I met him he had the good sense to marry Vicki, a Sikorksky Electrical Engineer, and now they have two great kids. As they go through teen years he will understand why I am nuts. Speaking of offspring. Jason, my youngest son, did more paddling with me than any of his four brothers, but eventually he had other priorities, like music and theater. I took him to Ithaca College for auditions at the school of music, and while he was doing his voice audition, I went upstairs and walked into the auditorium where a small performance class for bass trombones was in session. I played a standard trombone in high school...I have since picked it up again for our church orchestra here in Florida. But that was the first time I had heard a bass trombone. Naturally I thought about the tragic death of Donald Dodge, and the way it ripped his father's soul apart. I wrote a piece, which I was unable to place with a puiblisher, about the triumph that Greg Barton brought to the Dodge family. In case you aren't aware of the story, read River Music of the Night on my regular Paddling Page. http://www.cactus48.com/olympic.html. So the Ithaca trip was special to me, and it became even more special when Jason was accepted, and 4 1/2 years later graduated from Ithaca College with a double major in Vocal Performance and Music Education. It was also special to me that, after moving to Florida, Jason was a on a youth and young adult church outing at a camp and a young lady asked him to go canoeing with her and some friends. Apparently the skills I taught him about paddling paid off, because last year she became his wife. One time when I picked up Jason for the summer I took along my re-built old K-1 and my cherry paddle, and I stopped to paddle at one of the fishing rivers near Roscoe. I also worked out on the Cornell Crew course in Ithaca. It was fitting, since my usual paddling place in Connecticut for several years was where Yale crews work out on the Housatonic, and where all the old men in the Oxford Rowing Club used to taunt me, trying to get me to switch to rowing, and I always told them I preferred to go through life watching where I'm going instead of where I've been. I still feel that way. It also used to honk me off that they objected to my practice of going in opposite directions to the way they rowed. I thought it mader sense that at least one of us could see the other. Some of them never bought the common sense idea. Not even one morning when I yelled across the river and prevented two shells from having a head-on collission. And that morning there wasn't even any fog. One final note. For the last ten years I was in Connecticut, Mike Vespoli was one of my customers. We sold him carbide burrs and routers. Since he was a customer I didn't mind that all the boats he made were designed and destined to go through life backwards. By the way, I lied. I have a second final note. Maybe a third and fourth or fifth as well. I remember, years ago, where there was a cover photo of Mike Deitz on Life Magazine. I think itwas the year Jim Ryun ran the 1500 meters. Anyway, the foillow-up story said Mike Dietz was a failure because he did not win gold. I never bought that philosophy. Fourth in the world is failure? There is too much emphasis on the substance of medals and the color of ribbons when it comes to athletic competition. And nearly everybody fascinated by the yellow jersey in Europe nees to be reminded thaty cycling is a team sport. Do you remember what they used to do in canoe and kayak sprint races when paddlers got too close to the line and tried to ride the wake of their neighbor in order to save strength? They were disqualified. When Jason and I paddled our cedar strip canoe and finished 3rd in the Junior/Senior Division of the July 4th River Festival of 1984 on the Connecticut River, I didn't care that there were only three boats entered. I told him we beat everbody who didn't have the guts to come to the river and paddle hard that day. The glass mug I was proud to win with my son is still on my shelf. So is the Blue Ribbon I won in the woodworking competition at the Town of Orange Country Fair for my cherry kayak paddle.   July 12, 2005 I think it was 1981 when we sold nearly everything we had and moved to Connecticut, where we lived with my mother-in-law for a few months and I got a sales job for Zee Medical Service, selling industrial first aid supplies and cabinets and maintaining a service/refill route for same. Through one of mynew customers we found a house to rent in Orange, near New Haven. It was one those times in life when we had to do not our best, but what was necessary. Our daughter was married, our oldest son was in college, and our four younger boys were enrolled in the Orange school system. I did not have a canoe or a kayak. I did not even hava a paddle. But that would change. I called on a small lumber mill, trying to sell first aid supplies, and discovered they had a cedar log. I did not know the difference between Eastern Red Cedar and Western Red Cedar. This was Eastern, which is not as flexible, but I did not care. For ten years I had been carrying around the plans for an 18'6" competition cruiser, plans that I bought from Lynn Tuttle in Illinois. That was all I had. A blueprint. But it was enough to inspire me. Sunday mornings I was helping my neighbor, Rick Hine, milk his cows. Rick also had a table saw that I was able to use to cut my cedar boards into strips. My friend Ray Burelle, who I had known since 1963, when we sold shoes at a discount shoe store, had a real nice worskhop at his home in Cheshire. I cut thwarts and deckplates on his bandsaw. So I built my cedar strip in the basement of our home in Orange. I made one mistake, however. The instructions said you were supposed to put the first layer of fiberglass on while the canoe was on the forms. Unfortunately, I had created a modified version of building a boat and then not being able to get it out of the basement. I could get the canoe out, but not when it was on the forms. I did not think that would be a problem, but it was. When I fiberglassed the shell it twisted, and I had to reinforce the inside with three or four ribs in order to get it straight again. Then I added the thwarts, and the deck plates, and I used two plastic lawn tractor seats, which I mounted on thwarts. I made a center thwart carrying yoke. The canoe was heavy, but beautiful. I was back on the water. I also made some bent shaft paddles, cutting the wood to make the bend, rather than actually bending it. Ev Cassagneres, a friend from church, was a canoe purist. He had a 1943 Old Town that he restored in the traditional way, with canvas and with factory authentic hardware. Ev and I entered a race on the narrow and sometimes shallow Quinnipiac River. I was in the bow,. The water was high and muddy and I made one bad read of the river. We struck a slightly submerged stump, which popped out a small piece of planking in the hull. The canvas was okay, but this piece, about the size of a quarter, would have to be re-secured with glue. Ev was upset, understandably. He was an architectural draftsman, and a pilot, and was meticulous. His canoe was a work of art. He did not take it on the Quinniipiac again. My cedar strip canoe was not so precious. It was made for fun. The next year I entered the Qunnipiac Race with my son Dan. I think it was 1984, which would have made Dan 12 years old. The river was shallow that year. We hit several rocks, and punched some holes in the bottom of the canoe, so for a while we paddled, then stopped to dump the water, then paddled again. When we got home I slapped the botom of the hull with some resin and cloth and it was fixed. I was never an artist. My canoes and paddles were never works of art. The only thing I was ever meticulous in was when writing for publication. My strip canoe was for paddling and racing amd having fun with my sons. The only times we won trophies was when the father-son class was so small they had to give us a trophies or ribbons, but we had fun, and we beat everybody who didn't have the guts to show up. My daughter's husband, Eddie Lopez, agreed to enter a marathon race with me on the Connecticut River. It was hot, the water was cold, and a big barge swamped us. I thought I was having a heart attack after hitting the water. I had to get checked out at the hospital the next day. I entered a C-1 race on the upper Housatonic in Massachusetts and impressed everybody with my boat and paddle until the race started. I also tried high-kneel paddling in my canoe and discovered that I would never be a Roland Muhlen. One of the most profound paddling events I have experienced took place on a stretrch of the Housatonic just below New Milford. The River hasn't become big there yet, as it does behind the big hyrdo-electric dams down stream. But there was a low dam there, the type that creates an undertow and can be dangerous. Jason, my youngest son, who would end up doing more paddling with me than any of his brothers, was 11 or 12 when we paddled that section of the Housy. We had paddled uporiver to get there, and portaged around the dam. We pout thre canope down and I swam'waded out to the dam and determined that athe water was six or seven inches deep going over the dam. I thought it was deep enough for us to run the dam when coming back. So a little later we were coming downstream, and just before we got to the dam I asked Jason if he was sure he wanted to try to go over the dam instead of portaging. He asked a question that no father wants to hear from a son. "We won't die, will we?" "No, we won't die," I said, but I was suddenly scared, and it was too late to change our path. We were at the dam. We slid over it, bumping the stern, and I was really shook up as we paddled through the turbulentce below the dam and on downstream to the car. The question kept popping into my head and the horror would not go away.. "Had my search for adventure endangered my son?" July 8, 2005 On the Kishwaukee south of Rockford, in the middle of a County Forest Preserve,. there was a drop of about 12 inches, a row of rocks that acted like a small dam, and near the middle was a narrow clear area where the water poured over without obstruction, like a spillway. I used to enjoy going at it from downstream, hitting the middle of the spillway with the skinny bow of my flatwater K-1 and paddling hard to climb the trough. For a few seconds iit seemed I was going nowhere as I paddled against the current, my boat at a slight angle. But the feeling of breaking through the hold of the water, and gradually pulling away from the dam as I headed upriver, was incredible. There is a South Branch of the Kishwaukee that flows through farmland and woods. I had Pam, my daughter, drop me off one day in spring at a spot on the South Branch, and three hours later she would pick me up in the Forest Preserve, after the two branches merged. So I was on a strange river when it was high and the water was cold, and I sensed that could be hazardous, expecially in a very tippy kayak and without the ability or equipment to do an eskimo roll. I came upon on a sharp bend in the river to the right. I wanted to know what was around the bend before I went around it, so I decided to get out on the bank, walk to look around it, then come back. I drew up parallel to a grassy bank, flipped my paddle into the grass, put my hands in the grass, and lifted my butt out of the cockpit, so my weight was directly over my hands. I looked down my arm and there, less than half an inch from my right hand, was a common watersnake, about three feet long, coiled up. I knew from experiences, some of them with my friend Dudley Brown, that water snakes are ill-tempered. They are not poisonous but they love to bite, and the bites are scratches from multiple sudden strikes, strikes that hurt, and there I was, in suspended animation, half in a kayak, half looking down at this sleeping snake next to my hand. Somehow I was able to "dodge the bullet" so to speak, but that was 30 years ago and I don't clearly remember how. I think I was able to roll over onto my butt in the grass and pull my hands away, then get out of the boat and stand up and scare the snake away, into the water, by swishing the grass with my paddle. I got up and walked through the grass to get a view of the river beyond the bend, and it was a good thing I did. There were obstructions and a path I had to follow through the swift water that would have been tricky if I had come up on it blind. So it was a good thing that I got out of the boat ahead of time to look, and an experience to remember where I got, first-hand, the origin of the meaning of the phrase of looking out for snakes in the grass as we go through life. July 6 2005 It started on Lake Malone at Camp Krietenstein after the visitors' night program. My brother and other campers lined up on the dam with their shirts off. A flaming arrow shot through the sky, and a solo paddler came down the lake in Indian garb, with a feathered stroke, and he met the local chief, then signalled for the others to come, and they did, three white canoes, each with a paddler and a Chief. Incredible, these little quiet white canoes and their garbed occupants so solemnly passing on tradition and honor and all that stuff which is good, and I eventually became a member of the Order of the Arrow myself. But it was the magic of canoeing that I caught that night when I was ten years old. But what is the magic? Is it the boat or the movement? Is it the sweat or the water? Is it what we see or what we feel? Is it what we say or what we hear? Is it speed or resilience? Is it laughter or aching muscles. Does it have to be winning or can it be just racing? Is it adventure or escape? Is it danger or solitude? So what are the memories that stuck between the Order of the Arrow calling out ceremony in Indiana when I was ten and paddling my kayak on the ICW in Florida in my kayak on the 4th of July when I am 62? Do you want a top ten, David Letterman? Sorry...I can't pick ten, but these are some of the candidates. Gunwale pumping at Camp K...standing on the gunwales near the stern and flexing my knees, pumping to move the boat forward. Being ahead in the canoe in-and-out race until my partner, Larry Klein, and I, missed synchronization and swamped the boat. The rules were that you paddle hard, then the whistle blows, and each jumps into the water, one on either side, then you get back in and start paddling again. The first big event after Scout Camp? Three days and two nights on the Wabash with Bob Bondurant, Dudley Brown and Paul Von Leer...stealing catfish from hoop nets and putting them into coolers. Finding a body in the river...a farmer who had disappeared four months ago, 50 miles upriver. Worrying that the policemen hauling his body out of the river would discover the stolen catfish in our coolers. Cooking the catfish that night while camping but unable to eat them because of the experience with the body. My brother and I restoring the wood and then fibergalssing an old wood 16 ft canoe my Dad picked up for $30. Our trip down Otter Creek when we leaned the same way while passing under a tree and we fell out. Camping on Sugar Creek without a tent and nearly being washed away by the suddenly raising creek after a thunderstorm. Watching turkey buzzards up close on Big Raccoon Creek. Finding an Indian spear point on a sandbar in Little Rocky. Necking with a girl in the middle of Dietz Lake. Going fishing in my canoe with Mr. Wailly, my high school math teacher, not catching any fish, but getting a mess of bullfrogs, that we caught in our caps, that we took to his house and cooked their legs and ate them at two in the morning. Taking my oldest son canoeing on Otter Creek, leaning the same way just as my brother and I did under a tree, falling out the same way. The look on my ten-year-old son's face after we did that. I felt as stupid as he thought I was. Racing in a 1,000 meter sprint race against future Olympians in cruising canoes. Actually, Roland Muhlen was knocked out of his boat at the start, swam back to get it, borrowed my spare paddle to paddle his boat back to get his own paddle, and still almost won athe race...but I actually was ahead of him for fifty yards. The last 100 yards I smoked a cigaret and enjoyed the strength of the tailwind and went direclty to my car instead of to the finish line. What did they call that stroke? High kneel? Paddling in a marathon race in my 16 ft scow against 31 cruisers, eight boats starting at a time. Skip Williams and I were in the first batch of eight. Immediately we were in 8th place, then soon in 16th, then in 24th, then in 32nd...by the time we got to the finish line the awards ceremony was over, most boaters had left, and there weren't any free cokes left, but I still have the patch we earned. Selling the canoe for $50 to help pay the rent. Getting acquainted with Olympic boats and their paddlers as PR Director of the Rockford Area Chamber of Commerce and thereby primary local coodinator for the 1972 flatwater trials. Olympian Roland Muhlen laughed when I reminded him of our first encounter. Trying for the first time to paddle an Olympic flatwar K-1. Tipping it over ten times before moving it five feet. The next spring paddling 19 miles in the "high water" Des Plaines Marathon, not understanding why I kept losing circulation in my butt, forcing me to get out and walk around three or four times. I was told the foam square I was sitting on was not enough, I had to push against footrests isometrically to keep circulation going in my legs. The next week I paddled 20 miles in the same time as an aluminum canoe that the week before had won the Des Plaines Marathon in a time faster than the winning kayaks. That was because all the good paddlers were disqualified for not wearing life jackets in the high water. So if it had not been for my butt going to sleep I would have officially beaten Bruce Barton. The next year, after modifying my Olympic boat to downriver specs, I finished 14th out of 29 kayaks atr Des Plaines. Two years later, on my home course on the Kishwaukee River, I finished fourth out of 9 kayaks on the seven mile course. I would have done better except for one thing. Instead of getting out to portage where I was supposed to, I instinctively got where I always did when paddling alone, and therefore walked 100 feet farther than everybody else. Stupid me. Paddling in a marathon race in Wisconsin before I converted my Olympic K-1. The guy in front of me was in an Interceptor. He was older than me, he had a slower boat, he had a pony tail, and I was paddling more strokes per minute than he was, and he kept gradually pulling away. Technique, the difference in most races. Took me years to figure out how I could have beaten him. Had to learn it was not a push-pull effor that was required, but two-handed canoe type strokes on each side. Oversimpification? Probably. Whoops. I forgot. Eight months after Olympic Trials. Srint races on the lagoon at Lincoln Park in Chicago. 500 meter race in "Slenders" the training boats. I was up all night, sleeping in my car in Chicago, drinking beer to try to kill a terrible toothache. Six in one heat, five in the next, first three boats qualified for finals. . First heat I was in first place for 450 meters. Last 50 meters three hometown boats passed me as "their" fans cheered. Last one caught me at the wire when I "popped" a paddle stroke. My gut hurt so bad for an hour after the race I could not have paddled in the finals even if I qualified. Who said the 440 in track is tough? Blog temporarily suspended March 2007...no time