I stopped blogging earlier this year when I figured that I’d said everything my estranged kids should know about the father they cast out years ago when they were children. Since then I have posted on facebook, although it is so much less satisfying than blogging.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
I stopped blogging earlier this year when I figured that I’d said everything my estranged kids should know about the father they cast out years ago when they were children. Since then I have posted on facebook, although it is so much less satisfying than blogging.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
His lower hand reached out and touched the mud at the bottom. It was time to go to the surface now but he didn't want to suddenly thrust up in the water and get his feet mired in the muck.
He rolled over and tried to orientate himself so that he could propel himself upwards without having to kick out behind him. Although he was relaxed, it was definitely time to get to the surface.
But the coldness of the water and the slow turning of his body had disoriented him and he was suddenly acutely aware that he had only a single breath of air. An urgent note of finality characterized his actions.
He felt that he had only one chance to attain the surface now. He hoped that he was pointed upwards because he didn't want to dive headfirst into the bottom mud and have to wrestle around down there getting reoriented while his single breath waned.
He pushed off and his eyes opened to light and he sucked in a breath. The dim luminescence of dawn was filling his bedroom.
He lay under the sheet considering. He'd been dreaming, and perhaps a little bit of acute sleep apnea was involved.
His dream sequence was eerily similar to being trapped under the boat in the rapids last month. He remembered that when he'd described his near-death experience then to his sister afterwards, she'd used the word reborn to characterize his escape.
He thought about the dark, lonely place under the boat, with nothing but fluid surrounding him in his confined space. Then he had pushed off downwards to launch his journey into the unknown, which he feared might lead to him being pinned by the current against the rock that the capsized raft was wrapped around.
But there had been no other choice then because it was time to leave, and he had traveled under the stern of the boat and come out into light and air, before being plunged down the rapids in a wild ride where he had to fight for his life. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Personally, it just means that I actively stay out of the District on Saturdays. I reckon that attitude represnts a loss to the city in the form of potential lost sales tax revenue.
The city is very efficient at dispensing parking tickets, having its uniformed meter-maids zip up and down the sidewalks trolling for expired meters on Segways. With a couple of taps on his or her hand-held computer, the officer prints out a $60 ticket, slaps it on the windshield and is speedily off looking for other miscreants.
Going to lunch the other day, I observed one of these hard working parking enforcement officials during a few seconds of downtime from revenue enhancement. He was cruising hands-free on his two-wheeled vehicle in the middle of the street alongside a slow moving Metropolitan Police patrol car with its driver's window rolled down, engaged in a discussion with the pretty officer inside while he smoked a cigarette with one hand and held a cell phone to his ear with the other hand, conducting yet another conversation.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Ghana's second goal was a wicked shot, the best I've seen in the tourney so far. Beautiful kicks like that are few and far between because scoring in soccer is so hard, especially with defenders hanging on you every step.
It's almost impossible to get "space" in the box. The scorer in overtime created a tiny bit of space and made a superb shot.
If you get a step on the defenders, they'll take you down. And half the strikers cowardly take a dive in traffic trying to get a free kick.
Soccer needs scoring. It needs fixing.
The Americans could help out here. FIFA should borrow rules and procedures from the NHL, NBA and NFL.
Every goal in soccer is suspect because of the archaic, stifling offsides rule. Make offsides only be dependent upon no one being offsides when the ball first crosses midfield (the blue line in hockey).
Then strikers could spread out and get open. Teams would have to make choices in defending their end.
To ensure that two strikers don't hang out bracketing the goalie, have a three second rule in the box like in the NBA. We love those riveting nil-nil games after all.
Soccer is so boring because of all that backwards passing, often all the way back to the goalie. The rest of the world slowly passes the ball back 75 yards to try to advance it 90 yards into the scoring zone.
This is trying to get a head start, I guess. You know, like a quarterback taking a snap at midfield and running back to the 10 to try to throw a bomb.
To keep movement mostly being progressive, institute the backcourt and icing rules from basketball and hockey. No passes backwards past midfield once the ball on offense has entered the box unless it has been lost in the interim, or else the other team gets a free kick at the spot the ball was touched by the offending team (always at least 10 yards outside the penalty area regardless). No backwards passing series past two lines anyways, to eliminate all that boring back-to-the-goalie stuff.
When a player gets fouled, give a free kick from there but tack on 15 yards (move the ball closer). Why let the defense use fouling, and the resultant free kicks from the point of the foul, as a chance for the defense to catch up and reset.
Keep the game time on the scoreboard clock, and have it stop during all that "stoppage" time when players are writhing on the ground after receiving phantom hits. When the period is over, that's it.
This will give sponsors the ability to have TV timeouts. There is no 45-minute-long continuous flow to soccer, that's a ridiculous notion.
Change the asinine rule (which is hard to determine) that the ball is scored, or dead, only when it completely crosses the line. Adopt the NFL's break-the-plane rule.
And for sure, have the FIFA commish assess fines each week after reviewing game tapes for flopping, unseemly unwarranted writhing, peacock strutting after gooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaals, clothes-grabbing and bad fouling. Soccer sucks the way it is now.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
After ordering cable TV over the winter and having the novelty of channel-surfing 500 vacuous channels wear off, I looked around my house and noticed all the neglected tasks. In the basement are about a dozen boxes I packed a few years ago, labeled with the initials of my three sons.
Since none of my now-adult children has responded to any of my entreaties for years, on trash day this week I brought one of the boxes, labeled "JBL-bed buddies," to the curb and left it for the garbage truck to haul away to the dump. First, I looked inside and said goodbye to the box's contents of the Hulk Hogan wrestling buddy, the Cabbage Patch kid Melvin Dean clutching his "birth certificate," the Wild Thing that made my oldest child shiver when he opened it one Christmas, and the Daffy Duck doll which my mother sent him two decades ago.
The box was gone when I came home from work. I'm moving on, and will throw out another box each week until they're all cleared out.
Monday, June 21, 2010
I sat still for ninety minutes of non-riveting action. Two beers helped me get through this.
Twenty players on the "pitch" using only half their bodies for play (if you ignore all the handballs) while two athletes get to use their finely tuned hands and arms. Is it only America that knows about opposable thumbs?
The goalies made the only exciting plays in this hour-and-a-half stinker, a coupla outstretched overhead catches of high balls sailing across the goal mouth, the type of plays that T.O. makes in the first quarter of an NFL game.
Yawn. Before you start thinking I'm just an ugly American who doesn't understand this "beautiful" game, I'm a certified soccer coach.
Tonight I was watching Chile beat Switzerland One Nil. At least there was a score in the interminable ninety minutes, because the referee had sent off a Swiss player on a questionable foul and thus pre-determined the contest.
This red card led to a Chile Goaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal! The Chilean peacocks in their little short pants went whipping around the pitch clawing at their shirts in their frenzy, sliding on their knees and backs to signal to the world, Look-At-Me!
There's more flopping in elite soccer than in the NBA, and these lithe international athletes regularly lie writhing on the ground for minutes after each close non-contact, holding their faces in their supposed agony at receiving a phantom elbow. World Cup soccer is a phoney.
I switched to a mid-season baseball game after awhile, a 2-1 contest. It was so much more satisfying, real and action-packed.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I salute you as the father of six, husband to one, son, brother, combat marine, attorney, intellectual, liberal, volunteer, difference maker, fearless example and principled person.
In times of trouble I think of you, Dad, and ask myself what you would have done. I love you.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
It is an excellent movie, with wonderful writing and a complex plot. I was glad it was a 3-D film and I was wearing dark glasses because when Andy gave away the toys he'd outgrown to the little girl who would give them a welcoming home, the tears just rolled out of my eyes.
Both eyes. They just silently spilled out during the movie's heart-rending final scene, a denouement that imparted so much promise and goodwill for everyone and everything.
I usually don't cry, although some tears did spill out a couple of years ago after we lost a Bucket Trip companion to a heart attack in the Grand Canyon. I don't think the movie audience today noticed my water-stained cheeks because I craftily didn't wipe my face.
You see, this morning when I was pulling up weeds in a corner of my yard, I came across a plastic green army man buried in the dirt, lost during some long-forgotten battle a long time ago. It was the type of toy soldier that my middle son always used to play with, sometimes in the yard.
Finding this weather beaten little trooper reminded me of Johnny, and also my two other estranged sons, all of whom are adults now. I just hate it when the good-bad memories get stirred up.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
They all walked out of my life permanently in a show of support for their Mother when she actively made them her close allies in our interminable nuclear divorce litigation. It's called Parental Alienation Syndrome ("PAS"), it's a form of child abuse, it's devastating to everyone involved and it happens when the alienating parent, usually the primary caregiver, instills an us-against-him feeling in the immature minor children.
I think my middle child graduated from college in Richmond this month, because the annual summary I get from the Virginia pre-paid tuition plan that I own for their benefit showed that on January 1st he had used up 3 1/2 years of his four years of eligibility. As with his high school graduation, I wasn't invited to this ceremony.
Why would you inform the person who purchased the plan that paid for 100% of your college tuition and fees (no college loans, yay!) of your graduation? This is a special graduate; I am imagining him now, walking across the stage, receiving his degree, flipping the tassel, tossing his mortar board into the air . . . .
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
It was an enormous, complex enterprise involving hundreds of thousands of men. Allied airborne troops preceded the troops splashing ashore at daybreak by several hours.
Ever heard of Sergeant M.C. Thornton of the British Sixth Airborne Division? This one man might have changed the course of history that night.
The German plan to throw the invaders back into the sea depended upon Panzer units counterattacking the left flank of the landings while the Allies were still on the beaches. To do this, their tanks had to cross the Orne River and the adjacent Caen Canal in order to get at the British.
Ever heard of Sergeant M.C. Thornton of the British Sixth Airborne Division? The road to modern history might have flowed through his foxhole early that morning.
Maybe you've heard of Omaha Beach, where the Americans almost came to grief; probably you haven't heard of Pegasus Bridge, where the British almost came to grief. Historian Stephen E. Ambrose wrote a book about the Sixth Airborne's early morning battle at the bridge over the canal, seeking to deny the Germans the only road their Panzers could take across the water barrier blocking their armor from the Allied beaches.
The Allies didn't simply blow these bridges six miles off the beaches because they wanted them so their troops could use them to break out of Normandy and head east towards Germany. Just after midnight British paratroopers captured the bridges, but their thin ranks had to hold them until troops landing later that day could come to their aid or else the intact bridges could turn into an avenue for furious Axis armored counterattacks.
In the early morning of June 6th, the Germans knew something was up. Glider troops had landed and heavy firing was going on.
The local German commander sent his tanks along with some infantry in the dark to investigate the confused situation at the bridges. As they approached the Pegasus (Benouville) Bridge, a single company of British troops who had landed practically on top of the bridges in gliders just after midnight waited with no antitank weapons save one Piat gun, the British equivalent of the American bazooka.
The noisy German tanks were moving slowly and cautiously towards the bridge, with the foot soldiers following. Sgt. Thornton was in a fire pit with his Piat gun 30 yards off the bridge entrance way, near the end of the weapon's effective range.
All other weapons the lightly armed British paratroopers had with them were useless against buttoned down tanks. The German troops should have preceded the tanks, but the German response was hesitant and uncertain that first night.
"The Piat actually is a load of rubbish, really." Thornton said years later. "Even fifty yards is stretching its range."
"Another thing is, you must never, never miss." It was too time-consuming to reload and the gunner would be killed by counter fire if he missed.
The British held their fire as the tanks approached. Shaking like a leaf, Thornton took aim and fired at the lead tank as it turned towards the bridge.
In typical British understatement, Thornton described what happened. "I hit him right right bang in the middle."
The round penetrated and the tank went up, and burned slowly for the rest of the night, cooking off rounds occasionally. The rest of the tanks retreated, not to return that night.
A British paratrooper colonel came up later towards the burning tank with a few additional troopers as reinforcements. "What the bloody hell's going on up there," he asked Thornton.
"It's only a bloody old tank going off," Thornton replied, "but it's making an awful racket."
With the bridges leading directly to the Normandy Coastal Road in Allied hands, German armored counterattacks were forced to divert far inland around Caen and they were committed piecemeal, with ineffectual results. Eastern Front veteran Colonel Hans A. Von Luck, commanding the elite 125th Panzer Grenadier Regiment of the 21st Panzer Division which was east of Caen at the time, "contends that if those bridges had been available to him, he could have crossed the Orne waterways and thrown his regiment into the late-afternoon D-Day counterattack. The attack, by the 192d Regiment of 21st Panzer, almost reached the beaches. Von Luck feels that had his regiment also been in that attack, 21st Panzer would surely have driven to the beaches. A panzer division loose on the beaches..." Pegasus Bridge, p. 125.
Put yourself in Sgt. Thornton's foxhole at 2 a.m. on June 6th in Normandy in 1944, staring at a German tank 90 feet away that hasn't spotted you in the dark. One shot is all you will get, and if you shoot and miss, the tank will kill you. Even if you shoot and hit the tank, it or the second tank might kill you anyway. The small detachment of British troopers nearby cannot help you in this solitary duel. The British troops who will pour ashore hours later on Sword Beach are depending upon you to do your duty, to keep these tanks off their flank. Your trembling finger slowly tightens on the Piat gun trigger as the iron monster noses forward, its cannon swiveling looking for a target.
When interviewed decades later by Stephen Ambrose for Pegasus Bridge, Thornton told him, "Whatever you do in this book, don't go making me a bloody hero."
Ambrose replied, "Sergeant Thornton, I don't make heroes. I only write about them."
Saturday, June 5, 2010
What, half a dozen or so posts concerning a single minute on (in?) the river is going on too long? Well, maybe.
But since I returned, I have related the story of my minute underneath the overturned boat to a few select friends, and have had the good fortune of receiving in return two excellent commentaries about travails on the river. The first one is from J, a running buddy of mine.
J was tubing on the Snake River many years ago, and because he was much younger and less wise, he wasn't wearing a life jacket. He can't say for sure, but he might have had one or two.
The rushing river took him straight into a large rock, where the current swirled around and around in front of the standing impediment creating a fierce mini-maelstrom. Perhaps you have never truly been on (in?) a river; but I can say from close experience that the incredible power of the water is both unrelenting and unforgiving. It can kill you like that.
The whirling well of water drove J down and he could feel the inner tube he was gripping being torn from his hands. An inner tube has buoyancy and is likely to return to the surface at some point whereas a human body might stay submerged within the center of a deep, rotating pool of water for a long time.
J held on for dear life as he was swallowed up. A few seconds later the inner tube was ejected from the whirlpool and discharged downstream, with J still clinging to it.
To this day J credits his death grip on the inner tube's handles with saving his life. In a subsequent post I'll relate what I learned from a river guide friend of mine.
Incidentally, J was practically the only person who gave me unbridled support after I ascended to the presidency (short lived) of my former running club last year and vicious board infighting broke out. He watched my back when I stood up after my last board meeting and I was, um, closely confronted by four belligerent young alpha male board members who had been disruptive throughout the meeting.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Friday, May 7th was the last day of our rafting trip in Colorado and Utah, an uneventful day spent gliding down the Dolores River (which means river of sorrow) past its confluence with the Colorado River a short ways, which brought the third annual Bucket Trip to a close. On this trip I had undergone the most incredible day of my life on May 5th when two of our three boats got trapped in a rapids, with one overturning with almost deadly results. (Above: We're all still here. Trip's end. Photo by B.)
We had all survived, and become stronger for it. I brought home from the trip a gimcrack I picked up at the Denver airport, a magnet that has a Native-American saying on it.
The courage inside us is the strength that guides us. I put it on my refrigerator with magnet momentos from other trips because it reminds me of the minute that I spent underwater trying to escape from underneath the capsized boat.
The first BT was the trip of a lifetime, rafting on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. The second BT was a wonderful sailing trip through the Florida Keys, gliding through the Everglades some and venturing out into the Atlantic a short way.
The trip on the Dolores River was unbelievable, an adventure that I will never, ever forget. My heartfelt thanks and admiration go to Guy and Joe Vinyard of Colorado for keeping us all alive, and to my other Sewell Hall friends, Amy, Barry, Carolyn, Harrie, Jimmy, Julia and Todd, with whom I shared this difficult and very intense personal experience.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
J used a sewing needle, floss, rubber patches and cement to repair the holes he found whereas G just smeared shoe glue over several suspect points. Both approaches seemed to work just fine.
Finally, an idyllic day on the Dolores River! We all just floated downstream in the brilliant sunshine with an occasional pull or push on the oars.
I took a turn for an hour on the oars and it was quite strenuous work as well as being nerve wracking as we bounced and scraped over rocks in the river while I tried to get the hang of pushing oars to propel a boat in a strong current. There was one more rapids to pass through and I relinquished the helm to G when we approached it.
Slider Rapids looked formidable enough, a solid class III, but after scouting it out from shore and endlessly palavering about possible routes through it, we all made it down just fine. We were all veterans by now, combat-tested.
We pulled into camp early that evening, about seven miles from Dewey Bridge in Utah, the end point of our third annual Bucket Trip. That night we enjoyed sumptuous beef burritos and had a sing-along around a campfire, with the best rendition being performed by J as he sang the title song to the old fifties TV series Maverick. (Right: Row, row, row your boat...)
Ridin' the trail to who knows where,
Luck is his companion.
Monday, May 24, 2010
G and J fell to intense bickering like brothers do even as they performed incredible physical feats and at one point I had to tell them to quit arguing as we attended to the boat recovery. We went by the hung-up boat once and missed it in the strong current and had to be hauled upriver by everyone on shore pulling on our tow line for another attempt at beaching on the mid-stream rock with our oar boat.
On the second pass J grabbed the capsized boat's floating bowline as we went by and somehow. by holding onto it, pulled our heavily-laden boat into the lee of the current behind the large boulder. G scrambled onto the rock then and started working on freeing the stuck overturned boat.
At one point our boat started floating away and G, standing on the steep rock, held our towline in one hand and the other boat's bowline in his other hand and I couldn't believe the strength, or will, he displayed in not letting go. He freed his boat alright, but let go of our towline in the process and we drifted away and his boat started floating away too.
The first rule on the river is to stay with the boat and J shouted to him as we floated off, "Jump in and grab your boat!" Which is what G did, executing a prodigious leap into the river for the second time within the hour, this time all the way to his escaping boat, which he grabbed onto.
We oared over to him, took the bowline and pulled the upside down craft to shore. Then, after securing the large boat to the bank, the three of us got in the shallow water and tipped the overturned boat right side up. (Right: Drying our stuff at camp that evening.)
Dress to swim and rig to flip. Incredibly, all the baggage and equipment, except for the oar which A had already retrieved, was still with the boat. (Left: We had a lot of stuff.)
Water had invaded all our dry bags though, and our sleeping bags were wet. It meant for an uncomfortable night for G, Jy and I when the nighttime chill settled in but hey, we were alive and our third day on the river, the most incredible day of my life, finally drew to a close.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
So what is the most incredible hour of your life? Coming out of the womb?
I feel close to Jy because he went down the same rapids I did, and had to work hard to survive his passage. Meanwhile, G leaped astonishingly to safety.
G is an American hero of mine, an amazing mountain man. You would want this man in your foxhole! His late father went on combat patrols in Normandy in 1944 and walked by German patrols in the dark.
Yeah, not much matters to me anymore. So how was your summer vacation?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
On the afternoon of the third day of our trip down the Dolores River in Utah on three rafts with 10 persons, Jy had skippered our boat into a huge standing rock in the middle of a rapids and it had flipped over. After a harrowing escape from underneath the boat, I had gone on a wild ride down the rapids to the bottom.
After I shakily pulled myself out of the river, I had gone back upriver to see if I could help out with our capsized boat. I hadn't seen Jy or G, the other man in our boat, since I had been dumped unceremoniously into the frigid water.
I hoped they were both alright.
Well, they were, more or less, at least for now. When I arrived on the bank across twenty feet of torrential rapids from where the rock was, the scene was shocking.
The overturned raft was being held fast by the current against the rock we had crashed into. Jy and G were out of the water pressed against the rock themselves, standing atop the higher pontoon of the boat, shoving against it with their legs trying to get it to move off the rock.
Forty feet behind them was our largest boat, tilted precariously in the river, hung up on rocks in the rapids while its three occupants scrambled about the boat deck and stepped into the seething water which was pouring over the barely submerged river rocks in their attempts to free it. Just like our capsized boat, it was stuck tight.
On the bank with me were the last four members of our trip, both couples that had been in the 4-person paddle boat. When its captain, T, had heard the approaching rapids, he had judiciously put in on shore to scout it on foot before embarking down it.
We watched helplessly while the five persons in the river worked frenetically to free their boats. There was no getting out to them, the river was too deep and the current too strong.
The two women on shore, Ju and A, accompanied by B, went downriver on foot to try to collect anything that might break free from the boats. This is called recovery, not rescue.
We all hoped it wouldn't be bodies.
After many long minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour, G and Jy had made some progress in shifting the position of their boat. It moved downstream ever so slightly while they shoved against it while keeping their backs pressed against the vertical wall face of the standing rock they were leaning against.
Suddenly the current caught the boat and it broke free of the rock. With a shout, Jy and G scampered about trying to scramble onto the raft before it left them on the rock in the middle of the rapids.
This proved to be impossible because it was still upside down. Down the rapids it went, sunny side down, sucked down the same vortex that I had been sucked into when I got out from under the boat.
It left its crew behind as it disappeared from sight.
G, being an experienced river man, crawled higher on the tall rock where its angle was less severe and gained his feet. He climbed to the top of the twenty-foot rock and looked off downstream at his disappearing boat.
Jy, not being used to such things, was clinging to the rock face with his river shoes barely out of the water. He pressed his belly against the smooth granite, his fingers dug into a couple of slight crevices.
"G, help me, I can't get up the rock!" he called out. G kept watching his boat. Behind them, the crew of the other stuck boat were oblivious to the drama on the rock as they frantically worked in their own little island of chaos to free their boat.
Down river, A was having her own adventures, which involved going into the river to its midway point. Her status as a Boston Marathon Qualifier enabled her to save our trip from further, possibly irreparable, disaster.
Jy was aware of my presence on the bank opposite him. He had been visibly relieved, as had G, when I had showed up, because it meant that I hadn't been killed or severely injured. Jy also now had proof that a passage down the rapids was survivable.
"G, I can't climb this cliff! I'm going to swim down the rapids. Do you think I should?" Jy had a life jacket on, as did we all.
G grunted. Life on the river is tough.
He was clearly worried about the boat, which was his possession and contained all our stuff. Jy slid backwards into the raging river and was gone down the rapids in a flash!
Jy was on his own now. There were persons down below who could possibly help him if and when he emerged from the rapids.
Did I already say that life on the river is tough? (Left: Jy disappears down the rapids on a lonely ride. Good luck, buddy!)
I hadn't read the trip brochure closely enough before I came on this trip. At the last second, I almost gave in to my vague unease about it and went off to Custer's Battlefield instead. Talk about last stands. Look at them all! Don't let any escape!
Jy had vanished down the rapids. G was atop a standing rock in the rapids, twenty feet from safety across a rampaging channel of churning, frothy water.
J and his crew were caught in the rapids in the middle of the river. They had already lost their spare oar the day before when their boat got stuck at Stateline Rapids, the supposed "tough" rapids on this trip.
Unbeknownst to me, A was diving into the river at about that moment down below after a long run in pursuit of one of the paddles from G's boat. This trip was five days on a remote section of river, devoid of serviceable roads nearby and without cell phone service, and every oar was precious.
My boat, with all of its baggage, had floated away downriver upside down and was out of sight. The only possessions I had left were the soaked clothes I had on.
I had almost been drowned under the boat and then killed in the rapids.
There was the paddle boat upstream, our smallest boat, which still had to make it past the rapids.
Night would come soon enough, with its 40 degree chill.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
When I came up, I greedily sucked in a mouthful of air just as a cascading wall of foaming water poured over my head and drove me below the surface again. I was swept away down a long rocky chute by this torrential deluge of water rushing past the boulder which the capsized boat was pinned against. When my life jacket brought me to the surface again everything was a blur as, engulfed in tumbling, crashing water, I flashed by partially submerged boulders on both sides.
When I was underneath the boat I thought I was going to die, now that I was back on the surface I thought I might live. Although I was in desperate straits as the rushing current propelled me down the rapids at a reckless speed, at least I could breathe again so long as I didn’t get hung up on a rock and become trapped underwater again.
I plunged downstream past impediments marked by water boiling over their surfaces. I recall thinking that I had to save myself now, because my surviving this solo trip down the rapids was the best thing I could do now to help the two crew members I was leaving behind.
I know what you are supposed to do if you get thrown into a rapids. Get on your back, point your legs downstream and use your feet to fend off any rocks that you encounter. You have to trust your life jacket to save you and watch out that you don’t smash your head on any rocks.
I fought to bring my feet underneath me and point them downstream as I rolled over onto my back. I had never been in an element with this kind of power and omnipotent force before.
I was too upright in the roiling water and fighting the current too hard with my arms and this caused me to suck in water and start to cough. I forced myself to relax and lay back fully as I hurtled downstream. Clasping my hands across my vest and tucking my arms in tightly, I raised my head slightly and focused on looking down the length of my body to watch for approaching hazards.
Below me, water gushed around an obstacle just below the surface and I used my feet to skip over a submerged rock as I roared over it. Ahead of me, the current was taking me directly into a huge boulder standing upright in the river just like the rock which our boat had crashed into. I kicked mightily the instant I struck this towering edifice and careened off of it down river again.
Down I sped amidst the swollen eddies and crashing pinwheels of water for maybe a quarter of a mile. Suddenly I was discharged from this rockbound channel into calmer waters below.
As the gentler current of the river took over for the congested, frenetic rush of the rapids, I rolled over and did a slow sidestroke to the left bank. Grabbing at willow saplings on the shore as I passed by them, my quaking muscles barely allowed me to hoist myself onto dry land. I had survived.
I stood up and checked myself over while my chest heaved from exhaustion. Although wet, cold and bedraggled, I was uninjured.
I was by myself, almost half a mile below where I’d gone into the river. I hurried upstream along the bank to alert my other crew members that I was okay.
Above me were a capsized boat and two persons probably in need of assistance. It turned out that their situation was indeed desperate. (Right: My overturned boat trapped against the rock by the current. After being dumped into the water by the boat's sudden capsizing, I "came up" underneath the boat in the passenger well just past where the end of the red-tipped oar is barely sticking out from under the boat. There was no "air pocket" down there. After two futile attempts to get out from under the boat on the "upriver" side, I dove down below the boat in desperation and the strong current swept me out behind the back of the boat, where the lashed luggage is visible in the water, and sucked me down the rapids. Notice the other stuck boat behind our boat.)
I didn’t know that a second boat was caught in the middle of the rapids as well.
Monday, May 17, 2010
We were ready for a little relaxation. The hump past the impassable diversion dam the first day of the river trip and the drama that consumed the second day and the morning of the third day at the diabolical rapids had sapped our spirit of adventure and we were all looking forward to smooth, unruffled sailing down a gentle, sun-dappled river in the last half of the trip.
The weather was cooperating as the sky continued to be brilliantly blue and cloud-free, promising us no rain. The days were sunny and warm and the nights were cold but clear, affording anyone who looked up a spectacular display of stars.
We sipped an occasional beer and lounged on the boats as they moved lazily downriver at a leisurely pace. We reminesced about the good old times when we were freshmen and oh-so young in coed Sewell Hall at the University of Colorado in Boulder forty years ago.
Jy, who knew as little about oaring a boat down the remote, fast-moving Dolores River as I did, took over the helm from G, to give him a much appreciated break. We bounced our way down one small rapids with Jy at the oars, a fun little escapade of the boat first being pushed (better visibility) and then pulled (more power and control but you're going backwards) by Jy's oars as the current caught us and spun us around, We all laughed and carefully pointed out hidden rocks to the busy driver.
After a lunch of sandwiches on the bank of the river, Jy continued to row and we heard the increasing noise of another approaching rapids. Its entrance looked all right, with not too much water in turmoil down there, so we sailed on into it without scouting it out first.
We immediately got into trouble. Once we were sucked into the vortex of the thing, the inexperienced Jy pretty much lost control of the boat. Looming in our path was a big standing rock in the river which Jy narrowly missed crashing into as G yelled directions at him. The current spun us around backwards and we traversed alongside a line of barely submerged rocks across the stream while approaching another tall, broad free standing rock behind us.
G screamed, "Jy, don't hit that rock!" Easier said than done in the powerful rushing water. Now we were right next to the towering rock going backwards and the current pushed us right into it broadside.
Things happened in the blink of an eye next. The wall of water seeking a way downstream slammed us sideways into the rock. I was on the upstream side of the boat with G on the seat next to me and Jy behind me. The downstream side of the boat rode slightly up the broad face of the rock as the current tried to shove us downstream. This caused a torrent of water to immediately start flooding into my side of the boat which had been lowered ever so slightly by the dynamics of being pinned against the rock. The frigid river water cascaded into the raft with shocking swiftness.
In these circumstances everyone should climb onto the high (rising) side of the boat so that the added weight will bring that side back down and raise the lowered side. It was a maneuver we had never practised and for which there was absolutely no time now.
I thought, "Hey, the river is pouring in... ." In a flash the boat flipped over.
I was in the water fighting against the terrific current to rise to the surface. I had my life jacket on, which gave me buoyancy.
I rose in the water but never made it to the surface. I "came up" in a cold, dark watery place, underneath the overturned boat.
It was quiet under there but there was definitely no air pocket down there. I could feel the fury of the current all around my body, driving me back towards the rock face behind me.
I remember thinking that I had about one minute to get out from under this boat or I was going to die. I could feel the clock ticking.
The very death I had feared most, death by drowning, which was the very reason for my unease over this Bucket Trip in the first place, the overwhelming fear I thought I had defeated by travelling down Stateline Rapids, was confronting me. My 58 years had brought me to this one spot under the boat on this "insignificant" rapids in Utah and now I thought I was going to die alone, right here and right now.
I was determined to try to live though. I grabbed onto some rigging and clawed my way across the underside of the boat against the current to try to emerge from under the boat on the upstream side. I didn't want to be pushed back against the rock face behind me and get pinned there by the mighty water flow.
When I got to the air-filled bulbous rubber pontoon which encircles the boat, there was nothing to grab onto and the rushing current pushed me back. I tried again with the same result.
I was acutely aware of my single lungful of air. I figured that having failed twice at my efforts to escape, I had time for one more attempt at salvation before I blacked out. I felt myself weakening.
A rule on the river for anyone in the water is to stay with the boat. Besides the obvious risk of drowning, the water is dangerous because you can crash into all kinds of things while being propelled by the current.
It was time to leave the boat if I could, despite my fear of getting pinned underwater against the rock behind me. Holding fast to the rigging under the boat, I pushed off downwards and backwards into the current.
A moment later I popped out to the surface behind the boat, into light and air but in the midst of a raging torrent of cascading water. I grabbed a mouthful of air and was immediately thrust under the surface again by the force of the water. Now thoughts of death were replaced in my mind by thoughts of survival as I hurtled down a very powerful, rock-strewn quarter mile of rapids at warp speed.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The 2 boatmen and T and B took the paddle boat down the lower Stateline Rapids with no problems. The 2 women on that boat walked.
C, always game, wanted to ride an oar boat down the lower rapids. The boatmen, returning from downriver to take their oar boats the rest of the way down Stateline Rapids, wanted only men for crew, because men are stronger and unafraid to act.
That's just the way it is in remote Utah (we'd crossed the stateline) where miscues on the river can cost you your life. The two boatmen, having faced danger in the middle of the rapids the day before, could assert their will. (Jy and G bring our boat through the lower Stateline Rapids. Photo by B.)
My boat left under G's guidance with G oaring and Jy paddling. G chose a good line down the lower rapids and made it through without incident.
J allowed C to ride with us through the dangerous rapids, although only I had a paddle to help him as he oared. It's the strength thing, although C apparently has no fear of danger. And there was a woman walking down the rapids from T's boat who would put all us manly men to shame in a pinch, as you'll see. Did I already tell you that A qualified for Boston?
I'm glad C was in the boat because it was a rough ride through the lower rapids and at one point, as I bounced around the boat as we jostled over rocks and spun around In the current, I was knocked into her and she righted me so I could stick my paddle into the water again and help J out some more.
So now the Stateline Rapids was (were?) behind us. We were home free! (Left: Home Free! Oh really? Photo by B.)
Really? Four hours later I was alone in a cold, dark place contemplating my maker.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
T pressed the contrary point, suggesting that we camp right there and tackle the lower rapids on the morrow, after bringing the third boat down to this beach, of course. J acquiesced to this and J, G and I trudged upriver to the third boat to bring it down.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The guide book said it was a mandatory scout location, walking the river from both banks. After we navigated Stateline, the book said, the rest of our 37-mile trip would be easy, with only a couple of Class II rapids downstream from there. (Left: The Southwest desert was starting to bloom. Photo by B.)
That was reassuring because everyone was nervous about Stateline. Us greenhorns were afraid the water would be too tall and fast and we might not make it, and the river men were afraid the water would be too shallow and slow and we might not make it.
It was assumed the women would walk down Stateline on the shore. The men were quietly querying each other as to what we would do.
It was known that J and G, our two expert river men, were intending to take each of the three boats down the long rapids, in turn. Would any of the other five men accompany them?
I have already stated that I had felt an unease about this Bucket Trip from the start, fearing that the Dolores river trip might be a wee bit unsafe. My disquietude, especially in light of the somber, serious discussion of Stateline Rapids in the guidebook, had been occupying my mind and I had put my finger on what was bothering me.
I had decided that the worst fear I had in this life was of dying by drowning, and I was facing my fears now. Actually, unbeknownst to me, I was a full day away from confronting this fear head-on.
Towering cliffs closed in upon the river on both sides as we made our way down stream. By mid-afternoon, we heard the roar of Stateline Rapids and could see the agitated water ahead. (Left: High cliffs crowded in upon us on the river. Photo by B.)
We put in on the west bank and walked down a dirt road that allowed us a view of the long expanse of rapids. The upper rapids were especially ferocious, and since from the left bank we couldn’t see the entire length of the preferred passageway down the right-hand side of the river, we rowed across the river and repeated our scout on foot on the other side.
The cautious captain of the 4-person boat decided to portage. Three-quarters of a mile is a long way to portage.
The long boiling rapid, with equally forbidding looking upper and lower parts, had gotten the attention of all of us. One of my trip mates said he wasn’t going down that tumultuous rock-strewn chute on the raft and that I shouldn't think that I had to, either.
That sounded comforting. Let G and J take the boats down the rapids, and we’d watch from the bank and help out somehow if they got into trouble.
But I couldn’t do that. I offered to crew with G and J as they prepared to shove off, and the three of us put the smallest boat, the 4-person paddle boat, into the river so we could paddle it partway down the rapids to a portage point mostly through the upper rapids. (Right: Wrestling a boat down the upper Stateline Rapids. Photo by B.)
Everyone watched from shore as G and I, following J’s commands, tore frantically into the river with our paddles as the boat spun round in the wild current and bounced off rocks like we were in a pinball arcade. My heart was in my throat as we hurtled down the rapids and then safely made calmer water in a diversion channel and paddled to the shore at a portage point.
The two bigger, less maneuverable oar boats waited upstream. Jy took his turn at crewing alongside G, and under J’s command, the largest boat put into the river and came down the rapids while we all watched from shore.
We had thought our problems at the diversion dam the evening before had been tough. The trip’s troubles were about to begin.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
It took forever to get organized at J’s house in Montrose, to gather all the equipment and drive to the put-in place on the Dolores River at Gateway in Colorado. The day before, our hosts had ferried cars around so that there were vehicles were waiting for us at the take-out spot in Utah, four hours away by road. (Right: The Dolores River in Colorado.)
Everyone had a lot of stuff, packed into waterproof bags. I had two duffel-bag sized drybags myself.
Lashed into the boats were three 70-pound metal bins of refrigerated food, dry foodstuffs and liquids, plus four 20-gallon jerrycans of potable water weighing about 80 pounds each. There also were several large metal boxes containing kitchen items, a fold-up table, chairs, propane tanks, stoves, charcoal, tarps, the latrine and various other sundry stuff.
Everything had to be rigged onto the boat so it would stay no matter what. There is a saying on the river that came to be proven absolutely true on our trip: Dress to swim and rig to flip.
(Left: The boat I rode in with Jy, middle, captained by G, who oared from the back. The life vest I was wearing absolutely saved my life. Photo by B.) There are some descriptive terms on the river that also came to be proven true. The way was "bony" which meant there were a lot of the rocks exposed above the surface which made for a difficult passage, and the water was "skinny," meaning it was shallow and likely to hang up a boat.
There is a dam upriver of our put-in spot, and our two river men were dissatisfied with its release, reckoning the purposeful discharge from the dam was barely sufficient for us to progress downstream. The river flow was 1200 cfs, or cubic feet per second, and they wished it had been 2,000 cfs at least.
More water means less danger, apparently, because less rocks are exposed. This was all pretty esoteric to me.
Down river we went in the late afternoon, the leaky rubber pontoon boats taking on water constantly and losing air continuously. The boats were so laden, overladen, with all the gear and everyone’s stuff that they rode low in the water.
For an hour the trip was idyllic. The three boats paddled and oared on a broad calm river through a wide canyon with high hills and towering cliffs defining the nearby horizons.
Then we approached what the guidebook said was a difficult Class III rapids at a diversion dam. I didn’t know what a diversion dam was but a far off din of roaring water down river that steadily grew to thundering definition garnered my attention.
The river was calm though, because we were in the pooled up backwater of the diversion dam. Finally we could see a tiny line of leaping foam running across the broad water horizon, signifying the trouble spot.
We put in to shore and got out of boats to take a look. The sight was astonishing. (Left: The Diversion Dam. Photo by B.)
In Colorado, ranchers own the bottom of the rivers which run through their property and hence, they can indiscriminately disrupt the water flow of the river. Here the rancher had bulldozed huge boulders across the river during the summer, when the river flow is minimal, and created a diversion wall for the water so that it would flow into an artificial channel the rancher cut into one bank leading into his fields.
The two Coloradans explained that by partially diverting the river, the rancher thus saved the cost of electricity that running a pump from the river would entail. The problem was that the diversion dam made the river impassable at that point for our three small boats.
From the bank beside the artificial dam, we watched the water pouring over the obstacle in a tremendous torrent, hence the roar, and falling three feet or more into a series of holes in the water below the dam. There were jagged rocks strewn about everywhere on any potential landing points amidst the tortured water underneath the dam.
The two river men, who had never been on this stretch of river before, saw the obstacle as a problem to be solved, getting the boats over that dam. They discussed using this or that tongue of water flowing over and past the dam to shoot over the barrier rocks, and then the quick actions that would be necessary upon hitting the boiling water in the boulder field below the dam.
The leader of the paddle boat, T, nixed that talk entirely. "Portage," he said simply.
It was 7 o’clock and we needed to set up camp soon. If disaster overtook a boat at the dam site, it could be dark before we could effect a rescue for the boat and its occupants.
The vote was to unload the boats above the dam, cart (portage) the contents and the boats below the obstacle, and re-enter the water after rigging the boats again.
This is humping! It’s a lot of work, especially with a full load of crap such as we had.
The beauty in T’s suggestion was that we would have to unload the boats anyway, to make camp. Why not do it there, camp, and proceed below the hindrance on the morrow.
The two river men took it as a bit of a defeat, I think, saying they had never portaged before, but they bowed to the popular will. The banks were steep and also muddy and sucked at our shoes and caused us to slip and slide as we unloaded the three boats.
We cooked a dinner of bratwurst sausages in the dark and slept under the stars beside the deafening diversion dam on a ranch road running alongside the man-made water-bearing channel. We didn’t know if the land was public or private, but I suspect we were trespassing. (Left: Looking back at the diversion dam as we left the next day. Photo by B.)
The night was very clear and very cold, just at the freezing point. We had gone just three miles and I was worn out already.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
I met a wonderful group of matriculating students there who became lifelong friends. We spent many hours riding Enduro motorcycles through the canyons surrounding Boulder and hiking in the nearby foothills.
During the day we attended some classes on campus and at night we imbibed 3.2 Coors beer at the Sink or saw performers like Country Joe McDonald and Leon Russell at Tulagis on the Hill.
Country Joe McDonald - I Feel Like Im Fixin To Die
Rab MySpace Video
Two years ago the Bucket Trips got started when Swell Hall alumni C organized a reunion for ten of us on a week-long professional rafting trip of two boats and twenty-eight persons down the Grand Canyon. Tragically, one person who wasn’t part of our group died during that trip of a heart attack.
Last year we sailed for a week in the Florida Keys. This year J and G, brothers who live in Colorado, organized a rafting trip in Gateway Canyon on the Dolores River for ten persons on two 3-person oar boats and one 4-person paddle boat.
In the run-up leading to the early-May trip, a sense of uneasiness developed among some trip members, myself included. It was going to be a grueling trip in a wilderness area with some significant rapids.
I called up one of the organizers and asked, only half-jokingly, if anyone was going to die on this trip. My friend laughed and said no, but added that we all better be in shape for it.
C wasn’t going on this trip but he loaned J and G some river equipment and one of the boats. He told G, in all seriousness, not to get anyone killed on the trip because he would regret it for the rest of his life.
The Gateway Canyon stretch of the Dolores River starts at Gateway, Colorado, on the western slope about 45 miles west of Grand Junction. It is 37 river miles from the put-in at Gateway to the take-out at Dewey Bridge on the Colorado River in Utah. (Right: The Dolores River is, well, beautiful.)
There are no roads near the river for most of the way except for dirt trails that service ranch vehicles. There’s no cell phone service either, and we didn’t encounter any other boats.
It’s remote. We were on our own with no ability to call 911.
I flew out to Denver on Saturday, May 1st and drove to Durango that night to visit my octogenarian uncle who lives there with his daughter, my cousin. I visit him once a year as he is the only relative I have left who is of the World War II generation as all of the rest have passed on.
Since I was too cheap to pay $25 to check a bag on the airlines, I went to Walmart when I arrived and bought a sleeping bag for $9, good down to 45 degrees, and a sleeping mat for camping out under the stars for four nights. I brought along a tarp and some rope with which to fashion a tent in case it rained.
My visit with my uncle went well and then on Sunday I drove through a snowstorm to Montrose where J lives. We were leaving from there to go to the river to put in the next day.
Everyone else was already at J’s house, six other men, B, G, H, J, Jy, T, all Swell Hall residents in the seventies, and three women. A was T’s wife and a Boston Qualifier, Ju was B’s S.O. and C was the sister of both H and Jy.
Everyone except for C, who was in her sixties, was in their fifties. G and J were veteran river men and would oar two boats and T would direct the paddle boat with the two couples in it.
Except for G and J, and maybe T, who is generally an excellent waterman, we were all inexperienced, if not novices, at river rafting. Except for the Grand Canyon trip, where we went through several Class V rapids in a motorized boat, I have been along as a paying, paddling passenger on at least a dozen day rafting trips through some Class II and III rapids.
I have been instructed several times on what to do if you fall into a rapids. To the best of my memory, I have never been told what to do if you get trapped under a capsized boat in a rapids.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
I told V I was going to Brooklyn and 20th, the site of the razed stadium, to walk around the footprint of the old structure. He grew concerned and claimed, correctly, that it is in an economically depressed area. That was his euphemism for-It’s in a black neighborhood.
He asked me who I would tour the site with. Just me, I replied.
I did it in many cities, I said. For instance, last summer when I was visiting both major league ballparks in Texas, in Houston I walked around the perimeter of the abandoned Astrodome, the home of the Astros before they moved to Minute Maid Park in 1999. I also perambulated one corner of the parking lot where I supposed the old Colt Stadium used to be, a temporary wooden structure which housed the team, then known as the Houston Colt 45s, before the Astrodome was completed in 1964. (Right: Colt Stadium with the Astrodome being built next door.)
Claiming I wouldn’t be safe at that location, V made me swear that I would stay in my car when I toured the area. I lied when I made the promise, and the next day I spent a lovely two hours tramping around that neighborhood, now a single-family housing development on a little level plateau in the hilly part of Kansas City. The people I encountered were hospitable and accommodating, and frequently inquired in response to my questions whether I was from Minnesota. You see, the Royals were playing the Twins that weekend, and everyone had me pegged for an out-of-towner.
After I completed my walkabout in the area of the old ballpark, I went to Kauffman Stadium to watch the Royals beat the Twins in 12 innings in a pelting rain. It was a cold and miserable four and a half hours, but the Field of Dreams quest is not all open air and sunshine.
I didn’t care too much for Kauffman Stadium, plunked down as it is next to Interstate 70, miles from downtown. As I huddled under the eaves of the stadium trying to stay dry, I found myself fascinated by the juxtaposition of the glacially-paced baseball game unfolding in the foreground at three innings per hour while a never ending stream of whining vehicles raced by in the background at a mile a minute.
Before I left town, I sampled burnt-end barbecue sandwiches at both Arthur Bryant’s and Gates’, two famous local culinary establishments. The fare at Gates' was hotter and caused my face to stream with perspiration, while that at Arthur Bryant’s was sweeter and less sweat-inducing. Both meals were very different from each other and very delicious.
Next up for me was the third annual Bucket Trip in a week’s time with my old college buddies. This year we were rafting down the Dolores River in Colorado, and I was inexplicably experiencing unease about the impending trip.