A Summer Row, Remembered

This piece was written for a middle school group in Fayetteville, New York, for a project on maritime observations and activities...   --jps, February 2003

       A Summer Row, Remembered, up to Essex from Old Lyme
                                                                                by John Stratton

Here at the mouth of the Connecticut River there are hundreds of acres of salt marshes and twisting estuaries — shallow creeks and small rivers through which the tidewaters run rich in fish and crabs. The broad, low  marshes have many birds...big ospreys, egrets, herons, cormorants, swans, geese, ducks and clouds of gulls and other shore birds. The tides of the river extend about fifty miles up to Hartford, and the whole river, of course, goes all the way up to Canada, about four hundred miles.

Because the river is wide in  the five miles or so near the mouth where its meets Long Island Sound, and it is fairly shallow, it's very good for small boats.  

And so I explore, starting on the Old Lyme side of the river where I live, often putting in at the landing where the Roger Tory Peterson nature preserve at Great Island is located.  The big island is low,  mostly marsh grass with a few clumps of trees on rocks.  Some rocks have initials carved in them more than a hundred years ago, when fishermen were waiting for the tide to turn...or for fish to be caught in their nets.  Shad-fishing is still important to people, and there are lots of shad-festivals when it's the right season. Shad tastes good if you watch out for the bones.

So my small rowboat — usually my 16-foot, double-ended Appledore Pod — can poke around the estuaries, and zip out into the rougher water of the Sound. I often bring a camera along, and often stop and get my feet muddy as I rescue someone-unknown's life preserver, boat fender, or even canoe paddle from the tangled riverbanks.  These come home with me to fill up my garage.

Once you get started by taking your boat out of the yard or garage (if there is room) or wherever you keep it, and put it on the car — it's nice to have help — you drive down to the landing, take it off and place it at the water's edge.  Then you put in the oars, the life jacket (called a PFD, or "Personal Flotation Device" in Coast Guard-talk) and park the car and walk back. 

Then you check to see that you have included a water bottle or two, a bailer (a plastic soap or bleach or milk bottle with its bottom cut out does fine), and then slide the boat in the water trying not to scrape it too badly, and at last, finally, get in carefully (this can be the most tippy part of your day!), put the oars in, and pull off shore with a couple of short strokes. Then look around.  

Look again to see that you have not forgotten anything (insect repellent? sandals?), and then pull off in earnest, going wherever you want to go. Rowing is nice because you do not need much water depth —  in boat talk, you do not "draw much water." And if you do run aground, you are going slowly. And if you do get stuck, well, you can just push yourself off with an oar...or even just get out (hoping it's not too muddy!) and shove off again.  Anyway, off you go up the estuaries, twisting and turning and steering carefully as you look over your shoulder every few strokes to not end up stuck in the grass or reeds or mud. 

When you row, you are looking "backward," where the boat has been:  backwards at your life, in fact, so there seems to be time to think a lot of thoughts -- usually good ones. There is time to remember things, memorize things, or make up new things.* Because you are so quiet, you can sneak up on various little creatures and look at their little lives as they eat or avoid (usually) being eaten. This is nature, not TV.

It is surprising how fast, though, a good boat and a good pair of oars can go. The oars are important: the longer and lighter the better — that's about nine feet, nine inches for my Appledore with its special rowing setup, and about eight feet for many other good boats whose oars rest in oarlocks on the gunwales (the pieces of wood that run along the top edges of the hull). Good oars, with practice, can make you a very good rower who can travel many miles in a day without getting too tired out.  It's something like having good jogging or running or basketball shoes; you can go further, in more comfort, with less effort.

Well, let's back to the water, and where we are on it. I first like to go southward out the estuary, inside a long strip of beach called Griswold Point (which was given to the Griswold family by the King of England in the early-1600's) and then out into the Sound.  If it's a little rough it can be fun. If it's too rough (and my precious camera, and unprecious clothes, might get wet), I will turn back to the north and head upstream, way upstream, in the calm water, toward the town of Essex. 

Once in a while I will pass someone who is in another boat who has stopped to fish or go crabbing. Once in a while I will see a train, silvery, crossing the railroad bridge; always I can see the big Route 95 bridge in the distance with its tiny cars and trucks going over it, up one side and down the other. 

To get under the railroad and car bridges I have to leave the calm estuary and poke out into the main river, where it's narrow for a half-mile or so. It's fairly calm there most of the time because it's about three miles from the river mouth. And if I stay on the shallow Old Lyme side of the river there are not too many boats going to and fro making big waves (called wakes), which can slop aboard my little boat, and not tip me over (I hope).

But between and under the bridges the current is strong, especially when the tide is going out and it merges with the normal river current.  I have to pay attention to rowing with a strong and steady pace — you can't stop to rest, or the current will pull you right back to where you've been.  The river is telling you that you can sightsee later; just keep rowing. 

At last, just north of the bridges the river widens again and there are more estuaries and places to see. One of these is the small town of Essex, about four more miles, so you just point that way and maybe go around in back of a few islands, or stay off to one side of the river's  deep channel and look around at boats and birds and waves and houses as you go.

Back in 1814, on a cold night in early April, the British took this trip in several big rowing boats, in order to surprise the people at Essex and burn their ships.  It was the War of 1812.. They burned 27 ships, and mostly got away without injury to themselves — one of the biggest raids in the war (the raid on Washington, D.C., is another story!).

So here we are following the British course, but in daylight and warmth.  It's just something to think about: What if the Americans had been warned, and they had set up cannons where the bridges are now?  Bad news for the King.

But now it is peaceful here. In fact, the river is one of the most beautiful and peaceful places you can find, with its water coming all the way from Canada, and passing all those cities and towns in Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and upstate Connecticut.  Once the river was used like a highway, with steamboats and barges loaded with tobacco and lumber and Colts and onions, and sandstone and granite that built cities.  

You think about that too.  

And soon you are at Essex, a bit hot and sweaty, and take another nice long drink of water, and deserve a little stretch on the Town Dock. While you are there, before letting the current and your oars zoom you back down to Old Lyme,  you take a look into the Connecticut  River Museum, and say hi to a few people looking at the river, and maybe look through their binoculars at birds...or whatever there is to see that day.  

Maybe they are looking at the nice sandy beach on Notts Island across the river, where it's fun to swim in the summer, which I for one am thinking about on this cold January day.

--j.p.s., January 2003

Picture From A Snowy Row On New Years

New Year's Day Row, 2006

-

Crossing The Sound

     It was always there: Long Island. On clear days the low profile of sand and trees could be seen like a mirage at the horizons' edge; the main island stretching until it disappeared from sight, punctuated at the east end by little Plum Island, with the Gut between, At night the lights would hint of life, of some race of sentient beings going about daily routines of work and play. Perhaps, from time to time, they would pause to gaze across the water, at us, and wonder whose lights, whose trees, whose hills those were, over there, in the place called: Connecticut. 

     Of course, we had sailed up close to the shores of Long Island, close as we dared, and too many times to be counted. There were beaches, we knew; and low bluffs, and houses, and people with their children splashing in the cold waters of the Sound. We knew this much. Some of us had motored over there in unremarkable motorboats on unremarkable passages. There is even a ferry service, large steel vessels engaged in the practical commerce of moving people and their cars from here to there, there to here, to the entry points of this place and that. Some of us, most of us, even, had crossed the Sound by ferry, a slightly extraordinary passage on a conveniently reliable schedule.  

     We had never rowed across the Sound. 


     This was a topic of frequent discussion, and for numerous years. It is, after all, right: there! ten, perhaps nine, miles away. Not a feat of Atlantic proportions, no epic test of strength and endurance. Just a pick-your-weather, keep a good lookout, bring water, don't be foolish, kind of feat. A fresh Sou'westerly would blow us back to somewhere along the Connecticut coast. A strong Nor'westerly  might push us on our way to Portugal (everyone always says Portugal; the Canary Islands are more likely). A compass was added to our club gig Current for the crossing.


     The Current is a warhorse of a boat. Launched in 1990, she was tried and tested on the Connecticut River, a not entirely protected stretch of water, and was familiar to us by the summer of '92,  when the plan at last took form. Current is a tack and tape plywood boat, 22'6" by 4', V-bottomed and rock stable. Set up to row with four plus cox'n, using rather simple 11' oars, Current will barrel and bull her way through surprisingly rough conditions with surprisingly little fuss. Wind is always the concern when rowing, though.

     There were but three of us signed on for the great crossing, meaning we would row as a cox'd double, which we had done many times before; Geoff, John, and myself would make the crossing by default, as no others stepped forward to join us. We decided a practice run was in order, a test more of ourselves than of the boat. This we did on a Saturday afternoon, starting in Essex on the Connecticut River, rowing down river and out to the Sound, rounding Bell 8 some two miles off shore before returning up river. It was a warm summer day, and the heat proved to be the biggest obstacle; and I, sufferer of heat exhaustion from early childhood, was compelled to bail out at Old Saybrook, some two miles short of our intended finish point. This gave pause at least to myself; heat sickness at mid-Sound would be a high obstacle to overcome.


     We nearly postponed the crossing when the scheduled day arrived. We actually decided against attempting it that day,  the weather-window being exactly wrong for our purpose. There was a strong breeze from the South East, which would fight us going over, and a strong Nor'wester forecast for the afternoon to fight us on the way back. Portugal seemed a likely possibility. We decided to just go for a row, to further test ourselves and the Current in real world, open water conditions.


     We launched from a beach club in Old Lyme where John is a member. The Current was trailered over from Old Saybrook, then down the long unpaved and private road to the club, and finally down the beach to a sandy, open launch site. Long Island Sound was shoal-water choppy, the wind demanded respect; with the waves breaking onto the beach, launching, boarding, getting oars out and rudder on was a scramble and a fight. Getting turned broadside to the waves would leave us swamped before we even got underway, but our departure was smooth enough to see us safely on our way. 


     Out on open water the waves were confused, steep, and frequent; and large, knocking us around, making it difficult to maintain a rowing rhythm. Current dropped behind the waves, then rose to their crests, boat and land alternately appearing and disappearing to each other. We pressed on, venturing a little further out on the open waters, testing, finding our stroke in the disparate seas; short strokes with the oars, timed at the wave tops, catching solid water with a quick motion before the solid water fell away to leave oars swinging aimlessly at the open air. We were making progress, further from one shore, closer to the other, though this was no longer our intent.

     Off in the distance, west of our position, we spotted a small sail, on a course to overtake and intercept us. It was the Monomoy surfboat Burnt Island, sailing out of the mouth of the Connecticut River.

     There had been talk of our two boats joining up for this passage, including comments about our fragile craft being tossed and wrecked by the seas of Long Island Sound. The Burnt Island, Current. We steadily put water between us, until they tried a new tack towards more fruitful grounds.


    As we worked our way further from Connecticut's familiar shore, the wind began to ease, the waves became noticeably less formidable. There was no discussion, no decision, just a change in our focus of attention; a course, compensating for tide, a bit west of the Gut, someplace we might beach and go ashore. We were perhaps three of nine miles across, rowing with more clarity of purpose than before. The decision had been made.

     Geoff cox'd all the way across; the plan had been to switch off, but this seemed unwise once we were underway. I rowed at stroke, John had the forward position. Current was slightly out of trim, but not unmanageably so. We rowed with a steady rhythm, growing accustomed to the waves, keeping our pace while avoiding the caught oar ("catching a crab") that would be, not dangerous, but disruptive. Our efforts began to have their effect, in a way that only human-powered travelers can truly ever experience: muscle, strain, sweat, fatigue, but then; results. Miles peel away slowly under the oars, exasperation and satisfaction residing one by one on the stroke and catch of the venturous oarsman. Long Island began to loom closer, and we approached the mysterious coast with justified caution. Here the waves breaking on the beach called for a quick landing, leaping out (we are not of leaping stock, though), hauling up the boat, away from the swamping waves. There were rock outcroppings to avoid as well; we zeroed in on a reasonable stretch of beachfront.


     There is a moment when beaching in surf or breaking waves calls for an abandonment of caution and a decisiveness of action. We rowed in swiftly, shipped oars, stumbled out of the boat, only to discover that the beach was not the pristine sand of our imaginings but rather, well-polished stones, stones worn smooth and rounded by centuries of pounding surf, stones slightly bigger than walnuts, stones remarkably fluid in the crashing breakers. Our feet sank into these stones up to our ankles, and our shoes filled with the hard little stones, adding to the struggle of dragging the Current to safety beyond the waves. We sat to rest a spell, emptying our shoes of their unexpected cargo, and somewhere in the ensuing moments I claimed a polished white Long Island beach stone as a souvenir of the day.


     So now Connecticut was over there, at the edge of a new horizon. We scouted this new land, so different from our own (our beaches have sand! our rocks are much bigger, and covered in seaweed moss). Here the beach ended with an impassible row of scrub brush and trees. Some native beach peoples approached at one point, warily keeping their distance, their wariness masked by faux aloofness and the pointing out of beach features to their young children, who obligingly acted intrigued by what must have been the everyday sights of their everyday beach world. They seemed strangely disinterested in our boat, or in where we had come from. We attempted no contact, we were there just to observe. 

     When it was time to leave, we repeated the quick launch, board, and deploy routine, this time with reassuring ease, and pushed out onto the choppy waters of Long Island Sound for the long haul to home. Returning home always seems to take less time than venturing out, especially to unfamiliar places. With the incoming tide moving us westward, we compensated and crabbed our way hopefully towards Old Lyme. John cox'd for the first half of this crossing, and I for the final stretch. Along the way a large tug and barge with a massive backhoe-on-treads rig crossed our bow; when we finally crossed well astern of him we saw he had changed course to give us an extremely and unnecessarily wide berth (we were taking pains not to come anywhere near to him anyway). Later, a friend in a commercial towboat pulled alongside to inform us that the tugboat had radioed a warning about a rowboat on the Sound presenting "no electronic signature" (i.e., his radar did not see us). Paul, the towboat captain, subsequently presented us with three photographs of three tired looking rowers who, by their appearance, would certainly present no electronic signature.

     Our course needed correcting to the east, the landing was a bit rough but not disastrous. We hauled out, left the Current to rest a few days at the beach club, and departed with the knowledge that from this day forward all our talk of rowing across the Sound would center on the day we did just that.