Remember March 19th when it was ridiculously warm? My rowing dock had just been put in at the end of the Danvers River, three miles upstream from the Beverly Bridge. It was a Friday, and for me the end of a long week of grinding travel, committee meetings and all that goes with making a living at a non-profit in a bad economy. Captain Jack met me at his warehouse and sent me off with my Peinert Dolphin, a pat on the back and a case of beer -- for hotter days. But even at 70 degrees and not a cloud in the sky, I was plenty excited.
At waterside I did a very cursory examination of the shell, inserted two older Drescher oars into the oarlocks and pushed into the mild current. It was almost high tide -- just right for wide channels and staying close to shore. With the water temperature at 41 degrees, I was breaking the old and fast rule of rowing in water that is aat least 50, so I donned my inflatable life jacket and mumbled to myself to be careful. For a half mile I was. But five minutes into the row, I came to a place on the river I know well, where the ebb of the current snakes hard to the left and you have to cross the river to work the other side. It is the only difficult pass--a two hundred yard stretch of open water where falling in would put me at risk. The boat was feeling very solid and I was warmed up so decided to give it some gas for the crossing. Halfway, in the midst of a power pull, I heard the crackle of breaking carbon fiber and then a crisp snap as my blade broke from the shaft. I was at the apex of the stroke. The boat twisted, then flipped.
When I came to the surface, I grabbed the shell and eyed both shores to see which one was closer. It seemed dead even--about 80 or 90 yards. I recall the sensation of the stinging water and that I was already breathing hard. According to my watch, my heart rate was at 160, which I know from experience is near my red line. But I thought I could make it. With one broken oar drifting out to sea and the other still locked in, it took me five minutes to go forty yards, dragging the shell in the one knot current. The problem was that I still had another forty to go. My legs and arms had grown very heavy. My heart rate was still high and breathing was labored. I realized I couldn't last long enough to reach shore and with that strong sense of doom came a rush of other cognitions--some rational and some not -- about how much suffering my wife and kids would go through when this was over, and how unfortnate that my heart rate monitor might not work again after this, and how incredibly red my skin had become. Oddly, pulling the cord of my life jacket never came to me in my addled state. But for some reason it did occur to me to flip the boat over and try to climb on top of the rounded hull to get my torso out of the water. I had just enough strength to haul my ass across it. I paddled the boat to shore like a wounded surf board with an oar under water, hanging from its side, twisting us around and making progress slow. I'm not sure how long it took to get there. I know my hands and legs were completely numb and I didn't feel well. As i pulled the boat onto the bank, a news helicopter appeared and I summoned enough energy to wave and smile, too embarrassed by the circcumstances to show my fatigue and invite publicity. It left as the Harbor Master pulled up. He gave me a ride back with the shell slung across his stern. I always thought hypothermia ended when you got warm. It took me two days to normalize and the hacking cough to subside.
I regret not having attended Art Capshaw's cold water survival workshop. What would I have done differently? Do a thorough check of all equipment, including oars. Mentally rehearse emergency procedures -- like using my life jacket, and letting someone know where I was and what I was up to (Carmi was traveling). Or rowing with a buddy. As seassoned cold water rowers, we assume our skill and ability will get us out of most fixes, and they will. But not all. Equipment failure does happen. Imagine training for the Blackburn, being a mile out in your own boat in 58 degree water with a strong southwest wind when your oarlock breaks. You have no way to get back. If you are in an Echo, you can probably stay aboard with one oar, although this would be questionable in waves. Do you have a radio? Phone? Is it secured? You have 45 minutes or an hour in the water before hypothermia wins out.
The lesson, I believe, is about planning for the worst case scenario and inspecting what you expect of your equipment, regularly and with diligence. I went rowing reasonably fit and knew the waters intimately, yet I still almost lost it.
Post Script: Facing the ici blue was only slightly harder than facing my more cautious wife to tell the tale, for those of you who know her. What she concluded after I did an awful lot of genuflecting and seeking absolution was that a large hammerhead shark must have worked its way out of the Bahamas and into the Danvers River. Desperate for food, it grabbed my oar and snapped it in two so quickly that I never even got to see it. Only by the grace of God was I not eaten, too. Carmi has now added a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson to my safety kit with waterproof bullets. So, the last and most important lesson is --Remember Sharks!
I guess you could say that Stephannie, Beaulieu and myself shared a very different experience on the water the same weekend that Jay broke an oar.
