CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

I just finished my birthday ice cream, Cherry Garcia, and realized that I will not be blogging for another week. I know you all have busy lives and will not mind having a hiatus from reading me, especially when I’m in rant mode. And there’s so much to rant about right now. Are you listening, tyrannical minority in the House? So much for majority rule – all you need is a super tanned Speaker without a backbone to agree never to bring anything to the floor for a vote – God forbid that both Democrats and Republicans should work together on passing legislation – unless a majority of the members of His party permit Him to do that. If this madness has previously infected any House Speaker, let me know. I don’t remember any of my U.S. Government courses or Political Science courses talking about Minority Rule.

It’s time for another adventure on land. I’m heading to New York City by train tomorrow to meet Barbara and Sondra for three days of taking bites out of the Big Apple. How trite is that phrasing? I’m excited. I don’t think I have ever been to a Broadway show, and I’m going to Betrayal on Tuesday night. I’ll review it for you, in case any of you are fortunate enough to visit NYC within the next few months. I’d love to see Dee Dee Bridgewater as Lady Day – I’d love to see just about any musical. We’ll see what tickets we can get at the last minute. Barbara is a wiz at scoring tickets – that and finding parking spaces right next to the place we’re visiting.

I would love to write about historic Cold Spring Village right outside Cape May or about the frenzy of bird watchers at the Cape May Point State Park, but I’m still recovering from sitting at the keyboard too many hours to the point of limiting the motion in my arms and shoulders. (Little violin playing a soulful tune nearby, appropriate for a pity party.) However, to pique your curiosity and send you to the history books, Harriet Tubman has a connection with Cape May. What is it?

Until we meet again at Harper Canyon Runaway, Happy Birthday to all September children!

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR: ROLL ON, HUDSON RIVER MEMORIES

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR: ROLL ON, HUDSON RIVER MEMORIES

I know. I know. You haven’t read a new Blog since September 15, and here it is, September 23. What gives? Were the intervening 8 days so dull after the Manasquan Experience that there was nothing to write about? Not exactly. I got my first case of Blogger’s cramps – in the muscles of my fingers, wrists, forearms, upper arms, shoulders and neck. Washing all the isinglass and windows on Slow Motion several days ago helped me stretch out all these muscles in a different way. So then I had window washer’s aches and pains. Yes, I do windows. Most of the aches and pains are still with me – growing old pains, most likely. But shhh, there’s a 12 year old’s mind inside this body which does not like to be reminded of the A word – aging. And as another birthday approaches at the end of this week – well, we’re starting to count backwards this year, so not to worry. With my new subtraction theory of birthdays, next year I will no longer be eligible for Social Security and in two years, bye bye Medicare. In five years, no more Senior discounts. And in 16 short years, no more daily emails from AARP. It’s going to be great! Care to join me in going back to our youth? But this time we’ll have all the wisdom we need to enjoy it fully. I can already feel those years melting away. And with one good deep tissue massage, my muscles will be young again too.

In the meantime, my Kingston New York massage therapist told me to take lots of breaks and do lots of stretching in doorways, so I can Blog on. So here goes. I am so glad we toured the Hudson River Valley and went through the first six locks of the Erie Canal this summer. Sure, it would have been great to get to the Great Lakes and/or the St. Lawrence Seaway, but those adventures still await us. Just taking in the beauty of the Hudson River Valley has made this a memorable year – that and my friend Cathy’s visit to Harper Canyon in June, which was another high point of 2013. Cathy deserves a full Blog at some point. But I promised to write about Olana in this Blog and I’m going to keep that promise. Frederic Edwin Church and his wife, Isabel Carnes, built a Persian style castle overlooking the Hudson River after their marriage in 1860, and they called it “Olana”. Any castle deserves a name, and this name “Olana” was taken by Church from a Persian fortress treasure-house (source: Allison West, who grew up 5 miles from Olana and wrote a piece for the Web). According to Ms. West the word “Olana” is from the Arabic word for “our place on high”. West states: “The name “Olana” was very symbolic to Church; he viewed his family as his greatest treasure, and envisioned his home as a strong fortress to keep them safe from harm.” (August 11, 2007 article “In the Shadow of Olana”). In 1865, after Church had bought the 250 acres below the top of the hill where Olana is perched, his first two children died of diphtheria. He and Isabel had four more children, and ostensibly as part of their grieving process they began to roam the globe, traveling to the Middle East and staying there for an extensive period of time.

When they returned they began to design Olana, with the help of British architect Calvert Vaux, the co-designer of Central Park (with better known Frederick Law Olmsted). Vaux (pronounced like “hawks”) was part of Church’s inner circle, in that he had married Mary McEntee of Kingston, New York, the sister of Jervis McEntee, perhaps the most famous of Church’s students, who painted with him at Olana and was an integral part of the Hudson River School of landscape painting. Olana – you have to see it – I can’t describe all the artwork that is inside this structure. The building itself has beautiful tile work and mosaics. Then in every room open to the public there are Hudson River School paintings, many by Church himself. But he was a collector, so there are paintings by his mentor, Thomas Cole, whose more modest home is just across the river from Olana, and by his student, McEntee. There is also a bizarre collection of fake Italian masterpieces that fills the walls in the formal dining area. Church’s friends called them monstrosities, but he loved them. There are a number of paintings which he had given to his father and mother in their lifetimes and which he inherited upon their death – smart man. Thanks to one David C. Huntington, a Yale professor and Hudson River School devotee, Olana and all of Church’s household possessions were saved from sale to developers by a nephew, who inherited it upon the death of Church’s daughter in law in 1964. Governor Rockefeller had the State of New York chip in to buy the entire 250 plus acres for less than $500,000, and it became a public gem in 1966. When I say all of Church’s possessions, I mean ALL. When you walk into his studio, completed in 1888, his brushes and paints are sitting there, as though he had just finished for the day. The docent who showed a group of us around was top notch, her head just crammed with information about the structure, the possessions, Frederic and Isabel and Frederic’s works of art.

The Hudson River School painters were the first internationally recognized group of American painters in art circles. America in the mid 1800’s was still considered a wild, uncultured country with no fine arts worth viewing, let alone collecting. Church and his fellow artists changed that snobby bias. It’s interesting that many of Church’s most prominent works were not even Hudson River Valley landscapes. His “Heart of the Andes” (1859), which hangs in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, was one of his most successful landscapes. It sold for a record $10,000, the highest price ever paid for a painting by a living American artist (at the time). Church had made several journeys to South America. He was a great fan of Alexander von Humboldt, who had explored South America and who had exhorted artists to try to paint the “physiognomy” of the Andes. Church was clearly up to the task. He had already painted an incredible “Niagara” in 1857 (from the Canadian shore, of course). That painting is owned by the Corcoran Gallery. By the way, Church was one of the founders of the Metropolitan Museum in NYC. He was one of first American artists to prosper in his lifetime from his art. He was a very good marketer, and he had regular folks lined up around the block in New York City, paying fifty cents a person, to view his “Heart of the Andes”, when he first displayed it with dramatic lighting in a setting that was designed to look like a window on the Andes. He was a showman, no doubt.

What draws me most to his paintings and the paintings of the other Hudson River School artists is the light that seems to come from within the painting itself. This inner light is something I have always admired in every JMW Turner painting, but I wasn’t aware that Thomas Cole and his followers like Church had been able to capture light inside their landscapes just as beautifully. I guess that’s why their style is often referred to as “luminism”. The canvases of their landscapes are definitely luminescent. If you’re ever in the Hartford Connecticut area (where Church was born – Dad worked for Aetna), it would be well worth your time to visit the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, opened by Daniel Wadsworth in 1842 as the first public art museum in the United States. The Atheneum now has more than 50,000 works of art, but it started with 65 landscapes from the Hudson River School artists. Daniel Wadsworth himself both  collected and commissioned works from Thomas Cole, Frederic Church and Albert Bierstadt. I haven’t been there, and when I think of all the days I spent in Hartford when I was E.D. of CWEALF in the 1970’s – however, my focus at that time was gender equality, not the Hudson River School of artists. Fortunately, Daniel Wadsworth had the time, the money and the interest to foster the art careers of Thomas Cole and Fredric Church. He bankrolled Thomas Cole for a number of years, and then he introduced Hartford native, Frederic Church, to Cole and convinced him to take on Church as his student.

A word or two about Thomas Cole: Although he was born in England, he was perhaps the first American conservationist. He fell in love with the wild mountain and river landscapes of New York, Vermont and New Hampshire, and did everything in his power to preserve their natural beauty and fight any efforts to destroy this pristine wilderness. His landscape style was “romantic sublime”, and according to Elizabeth Kornhauser, who wrote about Daniel Wadsworth and the Hudson River School for the Hog River Journal, Cole broke from the European tradition of painting pastoral scenes to paint the wilderness he encountered in his new land. He also used his art “as a means of upholding traditional beliefs as he warned Americans against the dangers of material progress, unlimited democracy, and expansionism, which he believed were rampant in the Jacksonian era.” Cole died in 1848, the same year as Wadsworth. Church, his disciple, lived until April 7, 1900. Cole’s home, Cedar Grove, while not nearly as grand as Church’s castle, is well worth a visit – I went on a Tuesday, and it is open Wednesday through Sunday. My loss. His home is pretty much in the center of Catskill, New York, not high atop a mountain aerie, but it’s just a five minute drive across the Rip Van Winkle Bridge up the hill to Church’s Olana. Cole had introduced Church to the land he bought for Olana many years later (after Cole’s death), as they traipsed the countryside near Hudson, New York looking for landscapes to paint. This is still a very romantic, even sublime, place to visit.

Before we leave the Hudson River Valley, let’s talk a little bit about the mighty Hudson River. Some call it America’s East Coast fjord, which is defined as a long, narrow inlet with steep sides or cliffs, created by glacial erosion (Wikipedia). It has fjord-like features, but it is definitely a river, called “Muhheakantuck” by the Algonquians, “the river that runs both ways”. I can attest to it running two ways. And if you’re planning to cruise on the Hudson, know your current charts well. Plan your voyages around them. Going with the current is so much smoother, and it saves a lot on fuel. There is a lot of commercial traffic on the Hudson, particularly between NYC and Albany. Those commercial captains go with the flow all the time. They’re not dummies. Commercial traffic has been traveling up and down the Hudson River for centuries. The first traders on the Hudson River were the Algonquians, who used dug-out canoes and bark canoes to transport their goods. The Englishman, Henry Hudson, showed up in his schooner “Half Moon” in 1609, working for the Dutch East India Company and looking for a trade route to Asia. What he found instead was “as pleasant a land as one need tread upon. The land is the finest for cultivation that I ever in my life set foot upon.” (Hudson River Maritime Museum display, Kingston, New York).

When vast amounts of anthracite coal were found in 1825 in eastern Pennsylvania, the enterprising Wurts brothers (street in Kingston NY named for them), coal mine owners, were determined to find a way to get the coal to New York City. This led to the building of the Delaware and Hudson Canal, 108 miles long with 108 locks to negotiate. The canal started in Honesdale, Pennsylvania and ended at Rondout Creek in Eddyville, New York. Rondout Creek is the longest navigable creek which flows into the Hudson River. That’s where the Admiral and I spent several weeks (Rondout Yacht Basin), as I made my land excursions to Woodstock, Bethel, Yasgur’s Farm, Catskill, Hudson, and Hyde Park. Here’s a shout out to Cheryl and Jeff for making our stay at your marina so pleasant. The weekends are bearable; the quiet weeks are divine. At any rate, the Delaware and Hudson Canal opened in 1828 and turned the town of Rondout into a booming port. Millions of tons of coal passed through it for seven decades from 1828 until 1898. Then the railroad came along, the D & H Railroad in this instance, and took over the transportation of coal through New Jersey to New York. The D & H Canal became obsolete. At the end of the 1898 season the D & H Company opened all the overflow dams called waste weirs and drained the canal. One part remained in use, thanks to Samuel Coykendall (son-in-law of Thomas Cornell), who bought the canal and used the section from Rondout to Kingston to transport cement and other materials to the Hudson River. He stopped doing that in 1904.

The Hudson River Maritime Museum, which is right along Rondout Creek, provides a thorough history of commerce on the Hudson River. That’s where I got most of this information. One of the key players around the Civil War was Thomas Cornell, who put his money in steamboats which plied the Hudson River trade routes, and it paid off royally for him. He and his son-in-law, the aforementioned Coykendall, had a fleet of large steamboats which were used to transport food products down river to New York City. And they used their smaller steamboats and tugboats to move large barges lashed together down river to the City. The barges carried coal, bricks, ice, bluestone, cement, grain, hay, and crushed stone. Cornell and Coykendall took advantage of lax (or no) controls on business growth and their Cornell Steamboat Company gained a virtual monopoly over the towing business on the Hudson River in the years after the Civil War. This company owned more than 60 towing boats and was the largest towing company in the nation in its prime. Today there are tugboats pushing huge barges up and down the Hudson River at all hours of the day, but the peak hours are when the currents are favorable. It was pretty cool standing in the swimming pool at Shady Harbor Marina in New Baltimore, New York, watching the parade of tugs and barges – all color coded – chug up and down the Hudson. By “color coded” I mean that literally, if the barge was red and caramel colored, so was the tugboat. If the barge was teal, black and white (go Sharks!), so was the tugboat.

Now we can leave the Hudson River, also an estuary because it flows to the ocean. And we did in fact take our leave on September 14 with a marathon cruise from Half Moon Bay to Manasquan. Going through the New York Harbor at around 9:30 a.m., we were greeted by Miss Liberty, sailed past the Staten Island Ferry and shared the Verrazano Narrows Bridge with a gargantuan container ship. There was no Coast Guard boarding on the trip south, and I am happy to report there was no thunder and lightning. The day was perfect. At 12:45 p.m. on that day swimmers were entering the Hudson River at Liberty Island and swimming to the new Freedom Tower three miles away in Manhattan. We left Half Moon Bay at 6 knowing that we had to get through the Harbor before it was closed to boats for safe passage for the swimmers. I am still amazed that we had such relatively easy passage through one of the busiest harbors in the world – twice. The Admiral noted that the harbor in Hong Kong is so much busier all the time. That is not a place we would want to cruise. There are a lot of high speed ferries and commuter boats in NYC Harbor, as well as tourist boats, but it’s not a hectic place to be. You can still stand in awe looking at the Statue of Liberty from all sides as you glide by and snap your photos of the skyscrapers of Manhattan in virtually tranquil waters. We were lucky with both trips through the Harbor. The waters were especially calm on our southerly course. Thank you, New York, for your warm sendoff. And thank you over and over again, Mighty Hudson River, for letting us float with your currents to the Erie Canal and back again. Unforgettable.

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE: OH, THE SIGHTS WE SEE (AND THE SOUNDS WE HEAR)!

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE: OH, THE SIGHTS WE SEE (AND THE SOUNDS WE HEAR)!

It’s Sunday, September 15, 2013 and the Admiral is resting – a well-deserved rest after an 87 mile ocean voyage from Manasquan, leaving at 5:58 a.m., to Cape May, New Jersey, arriving at 3 p.m.—two hours ahead of schedule. The Atlantic Ocean was just the right mix of calm and mildly choppy (1 to 2 foot waves) all the way. Aside from the usual Sunday boat crazies, mostly fishing boats, our cruise was peaceful. We went past Seaside Heights and saw the blackened boardwalk. We even smelled a very strong odor of smoke at our location three miles off shore. Arson is suspected. Unfortunately restaurant and other retail business owners in dire straits have been known to resort to store immolation. Was Kohr’s running out of frozen custard? Check out who was recently insured – heavily – and you find the motive for arson. It’s not fail proof, but it’s a place to begin the investigation, after sifting through the ashes looking for the fire starter. The businesses that were burned had been knocked down by Sandy less than a year ago. They were all re-constructed, but all suffered losses while waiting to re-open. Arson is often a desperate act of a desperately unsuccessful businessperson. When I practiced with a private law firm in Carmel, certain restaurants that were known to be in financial trouble had a tendency toward “kitchen fires” after hours when no one was likely to be harmed. The restaurants burned down, but with the help of the insurance money, the eateries were back slinging hash (or something more upscale – after all, it’s Carmel) as quickly as they could be re-built.  

Every day as we cruise along a waterway, be it Rondout Creek (crick), the Hudson River, the Manasquan River or the Atlantic Ocean, stories jump out at us from the shorelines. Sometimes it’s a magnificent piece of architecture that sits atop a high rise on the west shoreline of the Hudson. Like just yesterday, or actually the day before (the days are blurry right now), as we were cruising from Half Moon Bay at Croton on Hudson to Hoffman’s West on the Manasquan River, we looked up to the west and saw a Gothic tower, which was attached to a huge complex of stone buildings. This was near Esopus, New York. Turns out it WAS the Mount St. Alphonsus Retreat Center, which closed in early 2012, after “26 years of retreat ministry and more than 75 years as a major seminary” for, are you ready? – Redemptorists. I know – who are these people? Their primary ministry is to “the poor and most spiritually abandoned.” Sounds like they would be kept pretty busy serving that population. But they have been aging – not too many young folks are apparently interested in ministering to the poor and most spiritually abandoned. Perhaps they are too busy looking for jobs for themselves, alongside the spiritually challenged and abandoned workers on Wall Street. At any rate, after more than 100 years spent atop Mounty St. Alphonsus, the Redemptorists had to throw in the towel. They were down to five priests living in their “retreat house” which has 92 bedrooms, meeting and conference rooms, a library, and other facilities on 400 acres of land. I guess 6 priests really filled up the place, but when they got down to five, with 87 empty bedrooms (assuming no priests slept together), it became difficult to justify paying the heating and A/C bill for the entire “house”. Excuse me, but this is a mansion, not a house.

Most of the United States Redemptorists are living and ministering in the Baltimore area, where they still have a seminary. There are about 300 of them and they operate 17 parishes and three retreat houses from Maine to Maryland. Anyone know a Redemptorist? If you’re poor and/or spiritually abandoned, they’re looking for you. They have spread out over the world and number about 5,300 in all. They are an order of priests and brothers founded by St. Alphonsus Liguori in 1732 in Naples, Italy, to “serve the spiritual and material needs of the faithful”, especially the aforementioned poor and spiritually abandoned. What they are supposed to do best is preach. How that puts food on the table of a poor person is not clear, unless the preaching involves a collection plate and the collection money goes to the poor. This information is taken from an article by Mary Ann Poust in the Catholic New York newspaper, “America’s largest Catholic newspaper". Ms. Poust does not mention anything about nuns at Mount St. Alphonsus, but a later article about the sale of the estate revealed that nuns also inhabited the retreat, in a separate building of course, probably a barn or a dormitory or some sort. And good news, the nuns (called "Redemptoristines" -- I kid you not) were able to stay put – at least for the moment. But a later article reported that the 9 nuns were booted out, forced to move in temporarily with the Cabrini sisters – hope that’s working out for them. And lo and behold, the 3 remaining Redemptorist priests are still living high on the Mount – in the gatehouse – no doubt ministering to the poor who climb the mountain for their assistance.

Or maybe not. You see, the Redemptorists sold all 411 acres, including all the facilities except the gatehouse and the cemetery, to the Bruderhof, also known as the Church Communities Foundation, based in Rifton, New York -- oh sure, we’ve all heard of them, right? Probably not. They’re a closed community, compared to the Amish in that they live in the world, but apart from all the evil influences which could break up their community. They paid $21.5 million for Mount St. Alphonsus so that they could build their own high school for 140 of their own children. According to the Daily Freeman newspaper account on June 21, 2012 of the sale, the Bruderhof’s kids had been attending public schools, but their spokesperson, Ian Winter said: “We worked hard with the school(s)…but we felt the morals were slipping”. So they decided to start their own high school with no moral slippage. I wonder how that’s working out for them. There are no known newspaper articles about the new Bruderhof school – as far as I know from a quick search on the Web. The Bruderhof was formed in post-World War 1 Germany – for what purposes I don’t know, except to be separate from everyone else. They must be doing something right, because they had the money to purchase one of the most strikingly beautiful set of buildings and acreage along the Hudson River. Their view from above must be awesome. You don’t think they’re looking down their noses at us, do you? I hope their kids get a great education, although they won’t be using it to help the poor and spiritually abandoned, unless the Bruderhof itself has such an underclass in need of salvation.

If you were wondering how the Admiral and I spend our hours cruising, this narrative about the Mount St. Alphonsus property and the two religious orders involved with it gives you an idea about what piques our interest and sends us to our research aids to learn about the people and places who live along the waterways we traverse. Don’t get me started on what appears to be totally inequitable treatment of the nuns and priests by the Redemptorists. They found themselves in need of selling off this fine retreat because fewer and fewer men wanted to become priests. Duh! Did they even consider opening up the priesthood to women, maybe starting with the 9 loyal nuns they just kicked out of their home? How about this new Pope, Francis (number unknown)? I think he’s all about ministering to the poor and spiritually abandoned. He’s moving off the celibacy requirement, in the hopes that father priests may produce son priests in training, I guess. Wake up, Francis! You’ve got a whole bunch of nuns around the world who could start filling the priesthood gap immediately. You wouldn’t have to wait for priests to reproduce (legitimately). Bring on the nuns! What a concept! Some day this will happen. Why not make history now, when the church desperately needs more priests? All right, just give it some thought and get back to me – in your lifetime.

I started researching the subject of Mount St. Alphonsus, because I looked up and said: “Whoa! What’s that building?” This is a statement the Admiral and I found ourselves repeating throughout our journey up and down the Hudson River. There are more castles per square mile along this waterway than any place we have traveled. Each one has its own lengthy history. Most of them are well worth the time it takes to visit them and take a tour through the mansions and around the grounds. I just got to a few of these gems in our short visit. In the next Blog, I’ll tell you about Olana, the Persian style castle built by Frederic Edwin Church, one of the most successful artists in the Hudson River Valley School of artists, and his diminutive wife, Isabel Carnes Church.

However, in case you think this trip is all about beauty and enlightenment, let me bring you back to earth for a moment. We were back in the land of the F word, Northern New Jersey – the shore area around Manasquan to be exact. And the local boaters were still crazy as ever – and rude, foul-mouthed, and narcissistic. Let’s start with Ba Ba Buoy, a small fishing boat that sat RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the channel, as we tried to enter the Manasquan River yesterday afternoon. The people on the boat had no radio apparently. An angry boater hailed them on Channel 16 to advise them that they were RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the channel, and that it is against every law and rule of boating to park your boat RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the channel. This advice was going out over the radio as we passed Ba Ba Buoy. The guys on the boat just smiled and waved at us, as we tried to avoid hitting them, and they stayed RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the channel. The Admiral told the boater who had sent out the admonition that it fell on deaf ears. After we had passed Ba Ba Buoy, however, they finally left the MIDDLE of the channel and roared past us in the “no wake” zone. Clueless. This morning as we were heading out the Manasquan River on to the Atlantic, a whole fleet of small fishing boats were flying around behind us, beside us, in front of us. After we had been on the Atlantic for a few minutes, we heard this on the radio: “Hey, you motherf—er. You think you’re funny? You got the whole f-king ocean to go fishing. But you’re right up my a-s! What gives, Motherf-er?”  Rude, foul-mouthed and narcissistic. At this point, the Admiral shook his head and stated: “There is something seriously wrong with Northern New Jersey fishing boaters.” And soon thereafter, I believe a Coast Guard rep came on the radio to note that Channel 16, which had carried the expletive laced tirade, was an emergency channel for emergencies only. Or maybe it wasn’t a Coast Guard rep. We saw a very large Coast Guard station as we left Manasquan, and we still can’t figure out how this place has become so lawless right under the noses of those sworn to enforce the boating laws.

As my brother has said, this is not the Manasquan we knew as kids, when our parents took us there for some idyllic summer vacations of fishing from piers with bamboo poles for bluefish, swimming in the ocean and going to Asbury Park for the rides. I don’t remember one F word. I’m sure there is another Manasquan which does not pride itself in its boorishness. But the Manasquan that greets the transient boater these days really needs to clean up its act. It might be time for a regime change, both in the mayor’s office and at the local Coast Guard outpost. Bring courtesy, decency and generosity back to Manasquan! And your tourist dollars will multiply. Give it a try.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO: THE ADMIRAL COOKS AND BASEBALL RULES

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO: THE ADMIRAL COOKS AND BASEBALL RULES

We’re waiting out another cold front and thunderstorm later this week at Rondout Yacht Basin. This place is packed on the weekends with city folk coming to visit their 25 to 30 foot boats. Some take them out on the “crick” and even to the Hudson River. But most seem to enjoy “sterngating” and using the grills on land. Come Sunday around 5 p.m. the parking lot of 50 to 60 cars is almost cleared out. And when I went to take a shower this morning, it was empty. The weeks here are idyllic. There are still a few diehard mosquitos hanging around the sundeck and one nasty no-see-um hovering in the salon, but the bugs are ending their short life cycles, and most of my welts from a week ago are history. Two days ago the Admiral exercised his cooking muscles. We had a fresh yellow squash from the garden of Lyn and Michael Berkley. The Admiral bought a sweet onion, and voila! Ratatouille. Naturally there were some embellishments – like green pepper, which really added to the flavor. And seeing the opportunity to do something really special, the next day the Admiral added Snow’s clams and Del Monte diced potatoes for an incredibly tasty clam chowder ratatouille. It’s a treat to watch the Admiral’s eyes roll toward the back of his head, as he achieves gustatory ecstasy with each spoonful of his original dish.

The Erie locks were clearly the highlight of this cruising season so far. But even before we entered Lock E-2, I had realized one of my dreams. I drove from Waterford to Cooperstown, New York to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. It is wonderful. I joined the BHOF and now I get my HOF weekly newsletter and will forever be linked to my baseball heroes through this membership. For me the visit to the BHOF was a return to my childhood, but also a chance to bask in the recent glory of the San Francisco Giants, two time World Champions in the last three years. Don’t ask about this year’s record, please. The bronze plaques of the players inducted into the Hall are chock full of the exploits that earned the player Hall of Fame status. Check out Lawrence Peter Berra’s plaque: “Yogi” New York, A.L. 1946-1965; New York, N.L., 1965; Played on more pennant-winners (14) than any player in history. Had 358 home runs and lifetime .285 batting average. Set many records for catchers, including 148 consecutive games without an error. Voted A.L. most valuable player 1951-54-55. Managed Yankees to pennant in 1964.” It doesn’t even have room to say that he was an all-star 18 times and won 13 World Series. Nor does it say that he is one of only 4 players to be named MVP in the AL three times and that he is one of only 7 managers to lead both American League and National League teams to the World Series. One of his best quotes: “I really didn’t say everything I said.” But he did everything he did.

Bear with me as I share some plaques of other Hall of Famers dear to my heart. For example, "Leroy Robert Paige: “Satchel”. Negro Leagues 1926-1947; Cleveland A. L. 1948-49; St. Louis A.L. 1951-1953; Kansas City A.L. 1965. Paige was one of the greatest stars to play in the Negro Baseball Leagues. He thrilled millions of people and won hundreds of games, struck out 21 major leaguers in an exhibition game. He led the Cleveland Indians to the 1948 AL pennant in his first Big League year. At the age of 42, his pitching was a legend among major league hitters.” He played pro ball at the highest level available to him for forty years (1926-1965). He was forty two when he joined the Indians July 9, 1948 and helped them win the World Series. In 21 games he played in that year, his record was 6 wins, one loss, with an ERA of 2.48 over 72 innings. Twice in was an All Star for the AL (1952, 1953), and before that, he was a Negro Leagues All Star five times. He had a little bit of flair; when he toured the towns where the Negro League teams were allowed to play, he invited his infielders to sit down, then he proceeded to strike out the side. He started out throwing fastballs and a few curveballs, then added the changeup to his repertoire. He invented the “hesitation pitch” in 1947 and by the 1950’s he had added the screwball, the knuckleball and the eephus pitch to his armory. I knew you were going to ask, so I looked it up. The Eephus pitch was a very slow “junk” pitch with a very high trajectory. The origin of the word “Eephus” is up for debate, but one source says it may come from the Hebrew “efes”, which means nothing. You could look it up.

The plaques I copied are heavy on the SF Giants, but so are the plaques in the Hall of Fame. Check out Monford (Monte) Irvin (another Negro Leagues standout who became a Giant in 1949): He won the 1946 Negro League batting title. Then in 1951 he led the National League in RBIs and sparked the “Miracle” Giants with his hitting to win the pennant. That wasn’t enough. He batted .458 and stole home in the 1951 World Series. The Yankees won that World Series in 6 games. Both the Giants and the Yankees featured some pretty good rookies in Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle in the Series. Willie Mays – the best play in baseball. Any questions? I thought not. His plaque reads: “The Say Hey Kid”. New York N.L., San Francisco N.L., New York N.L., 1951 – 1973. One of baseball’s most colorful and exciting stars. Excelled in all phases of the game. Third in homers (660), runs (2,062) and total bases (6,066); seventh in hits (3,283) and RBIs (1,903); first in putouts by outfielder (7,095); first to top both 300 homers and 300 steals; led league in batting once, slugging five times, home runs and steals four seasons. Voted N.L. MVP in 1954 and 1965. Played in 24 All-Star games – a record.” I rest my case. You can’t argue it was Babe Ruth, because he never played against the likes of Satchel Paige in his prime, or all the other great Negro Leagues pitchers. The Mick was great, but didn’t have the longevity of the Say Hey Kid. Here’s Mickey’s plaque: “New York A.L.: 1951-1968; Hit 536 home runs. Won League homer title and slugging crown four times. Made 2415 hits. Batted .300 or over in each of ten years with top of .365 in 1957. Topped A.L. in walks five years and in runs scored six seasons. Voted most valuable player 1956-56-62. Named on 20 A.L. All-Star teams. Set World Series records for homers, 18; runs, 42; runs batted in, 40; total bases, 123; and bases on balls, 43.” So he was a hitting and scoring machine on the team with the biggest payroll and best players. But did he ever make a basket catch?

And before I get back to my Giants, here’s a plaque for one of my childhood heroes, Don Richard Ashburn (Richie): “Philadelphia. N.L. 1948-1959; Chicago, N.L. 1960-1961; New York, N.L. 1962. Durable, hustling lead-off hitter and clutch performer with superb knowledge of strike zone. Batted .308 lifetime with nine .300 seasons and 2574 hits in 2189 games, winning batting championships in 1955 and 1958. As a center fielder, established Major League records for most years leading League in chances (9), most years 500 or more putouts (4) and most seasons 400 or more putouts (9).” Now there’s a guy with great offensive AND defensive stats. Plus, who else in the Hall is credited with “superb knowledge of the strike zone”?

Here they are – two more HOF Giants: Willie Lee McCovey (“Stretch”) and Melvin T. (Mel) Ott, two players from completely different generations. I saw Willie Mac play at Candlestick, and I had the pleasure of having him start me off on my Run to Home Plate, a 5 k race that the Giants put on every year, where you actually finished by crossing home plate inside the ball park. Of course, before you entered Candlestick, you had to run through poverty-stricken Hunter’s Point, as the residents looked at you like you were nuts. But Willie shot the starting pistol, and we were off! I’m sure Willie Mac has done more important things since his retirement, but it was a thrill for me. He earned his place in the BHOF because he became the top left-handed home run hitter in the National League (521), and he was second only to Lou Gehrig with 18 career grand slam home runs. He was a Giant from 1959 to 1973 and 1977 to 1980. He wore other uniforms from 1974 to 1976. He led the National League three times in homers and two times in RBIs. He was Rookie of the Year in 1959, MVP in 1969, and Comeback Player in 1977. That’s when I saw him. If you never saw him stretch out at first base to catch a throw from third, you missed some poetry in motion. Mel Ott was before my time, but he was with the New York Giants from 1926 to 1948. He went straight from high school to the Bigs. He played both the outfield and third base, and he managed the Giants from 1941 to 1948. He hit 511 home runs, a National League record when he retired. He also led the National League in most runs scored, most runs batted in, total bases, bases on balls and extra base hits. He had a .304 lifetime batting average, played in 11 All-Star games and in 3 World Series. Go Giants!

Before I sound totally provincial, here’s a nod to Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron and Cal Ripken, three of the greatest players in the history of baseball. Jackie’s plaque starts out with this praise: “A player of extraordinary ability renowned for his electrifying style of play.” Then the numbers show that he was indeed extraordinary: .311 batting average over 10 seasons; scored more than 100 runs six times; named to 6 All-Star teams; led Brooklyn to 6 pennants and its only World Series title, in 1955. He was the N.L. MVP in 1949 with a batting average of .342 and 37 steals. On the field he was no slouch, as he led second basemen in double plays 4 times. By the way, he stole home 19 times. This is the ending on his plaque: “Displayed tremendous courage and poise in 1947 when he integrated the modern Major Leagues in the face if intense adversity.” Amen. Go see the film “42”, if you haven’t already.

Hank Aaron hit 755 home runs in his 23 year career, most of which was with the Braves (Milwaukee, then Atlanta). That meant he hit 20 or more home runs for 20 consecutive years, at least 30 in 15 seasons and 40 or better in 8 seasons. This guy had longevity, as shown by these records: games played (3298); at-bats (12,364); long hits (1,477); total bases (6856); and runs batted in (2297). Along the way he became MVP in 1957 for the N.L., and he led the League in slugging percentage, RBI’s and homers 4 times.

Some folks said Cal Ripken (1981-2001) didn’t have the offensive stats to enter the BHOF. Well, golly, he played shortstop, and as we all know, the “Iron Man”, played and played and played -- 2,632 consecutive games from May 30, 1982 through September 19, 1998, all for the Baltimore Orioles. There’s a good intro on his plaque: “Arrived at the ballpark every day with a burning desire to perform at his highest level.” About those offensive stats, try this on for size: 3,184 hits and 431 home runs – a shortstop! He was named to 19 consecutive All-Star teams. He was Rookie of the Year and won the MVP title for two years. He was a pretty good defensive player, having won 2 Gold Gloves for his position. He hit well where it counted, with a lifetime average of .336 in 28 postseason games.

It’s not all about the statistics at the BHOF. Well, yes it is. That’s why such human failings as Ty Cobb were inducted. Here are some excerpts from a Web encyclopedia entry on Mr. Cobb: “Cobb's racism attracted regular, if unwanted, public attention. He instigated nasty fights with blacks. In 1907, for example, he started a slapping match with a black groundskeeper, and then choked the man's wife when she shouted at Cobb to stop. Not long after the Philadelphia incidents, Cobb got into a fight with a black night watchman at a hotel in Cleveland, trying to stab the man with his knife. A warrant was sworn out for Cobb's arrest in Cleveland, and the rest of the season, Cobb had to travel apart from the rest of the Tigers whenever they passed through the city.

Cobb's most infamous instance of ruffianism, one also tinged by his racist prejudice, occurred on May 15, 1912 in New York. Claude Lucker, a spectator behind the Tiger bench, targeted a stream of abuse at Cobb that lasted most of the game. Cobb requested that the man be removed from the park, in vain. When Lucker directed at Cobb a racial epithet normally reserved for blacks, Cobb lost control, charged up into the stands, and commenced to kicking and stomping Lucker, who was little able to defend himself, having lost a hand and three fingers in an industrial accident. The resulting publicity was highly critical of Cobb and the American League suspended him for ten games. Surprisingly, the Tiger players forgot their past animosities with Cobb and supported him, staging a strike that forced the Tiger management to field a team of semi-pros for one game.”

These paragraphs do not include that fact that he always carried a loaded pistol with him, that he drank excessively and that he abused his wives. Three ex-ball players and one HOF rep were present at his funeral.

Does alcohol enhance a ball player’s performance? One would think not. But Johnny Damon said that all the Red Sox players drank whiskey before taking the field and winning their first World Series in decades. He said it “calmed” them. So does that mean it enhanced their performances? How about all the players in the HOF who used uppers, downers, pep pills, cocaine, whatever they felt would give them the competitive edge? Oh, Cobb was accused in 1926 of game-fixing and betting on baseball games. But he was the first person inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Go figure. Some current baseball writers need to review the histories of the men elected to the Hall of Fame before they cast their holier-than-thou votes against Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. The best players want to be recognized as the best, and they have always done whatever they needed to do to excel. So when B grade players like Sosa and McGuire tried to enhance their limited skills with PEDs that were not banned by baseball, it was far too much to ask Bonds and Clemens to watch these guys break records and set records, when they knew they could attain even more with PEDs. And the fans loved this Era of the Long Ball and the Very Fast Ball. Bud Selig and all the owners and managers reveled in it. The writers had a heyday. Shame on you, now, for ignoring the history of baseball and acting like non-banned substances have had no place before in the Majors. Sure, Babe Ruth was a lush. Whitey Ford and The Mick too. But the writers just say: “Ha-ha. Boys will be boys.” They don’t factor in that alcohol fueled these players and enhanced their play. Yes, I’m comparing alcohol to PEDs, although alcohol was in fact banned during some of the playing years of the Greats. Right now hypocrisy rules the Hall of Fame vote. Some day I will happily return to Cooperstown when my Barry has been inducted. For now, it was great to see his name atop the list of “500 or more home runs” with his 762, right above Hammerin’ Hank, with his 755. It was also gratifying to see his photo with a display that recognized him for “Most Home Runs in a Season: 73.” That’s a good start. Now put all of his stats together in a plaque – his steals, his Gold Gloves, his MVPs, -- he deserves it.

Oh my, another rant. Sorry to those of you who are totally bored with the slow pace of a baseball game and could care less about the Boys of Summer. I would like it to be the Boys and Girls of Summer. But that will take more than the next decade to be realized. However, I still remember fondly that my sister, Sue, was playing hardball in a girls’ league in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania when she was 13 or 14 years old, at the same time my brother was playing in Little League a few blocks away. His field was immaculate. My father mowed it regularly. Hers had no grass to speak of and had huge gouges in the dirt in the infield, so that every infield grounder was an adventure. No, the playing conditions were no equal. But at least Sue and a lot of other young girls in Bethlehem in the 1950’s got to play hardball. It was very cool to go to her games. She was so athletic and so determined to play well for her team. I was, and still am, very proud of my big sister for being a baseball pioneer.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE: WOODSTOCK AND THE PRESIDENCY ON MY MIND

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE: WOODSTOCK AND THE PRESIDENCY ON MY MIND

It’s Saturday, September 7, and we’re tied up at the Rondout Yacht Basin in Connelly, New York. That’s right next to Kingston. And about an hour and a half’s drive from Max Yasgur’s farm. I know. I drove there on Thursday to visit my past. It was 1969 and I had just had my wisdom teeth pulled in Bethlehem, when my former husband asked: “Are you ready to go to Woodstock?” We knew that was the weekend for the 3 day concert. Many of our friends from law school had run away with the Hog Farm Commune to serve as “security” for the several thousand concertgoers who were expected. But as we watched and listened, we learned that everyone under 25 had pretty much dropped what they were doing and started driving to Bethel, New York for a long weekend. We also watched as the rain drenched the growing crowd and Richie Havens tried to keep them entertained for three hours, as other groups arrived. So who was I to say “no” to this once in a lifetime experience? What’s the worst that could happen? Oh yeah --I could get an infection where the teeth had been pulled. We stayed in Bethlehem until either the pain pills kicked in or the pain subsided. And then we wended our way up north to Bethel. When we got within about 10 miles of Yasgur’s farm, we saw thousands of cars, trucks and buses lining both sides of the two lane country roads in this rural neighborhood. We decided to drive as far as we could. By this time on Saturday, it was sunny, hot and muggy. And I was still recovering and not ready to take a 10 mile hike, no matter how historic the occasion.

As we slowly moved down the center of the road, we saw a truck coming in the opposite direction. And you’re not going to believe this. But it was a Hog Farm Commune truck on a milk run. Inside that truck was Mark Kierstead, one of our law school buddies, who had decided to join the Hog Farm. We spotted each other at the same time. He told us they were headed to get milk, and suggested we just follow them, first to get the milk, then to get back into the concert venue. At that moment I knew we were supposed to be there. Of the 400,000 people amassed at Yasgur’s Farm for Woodstock, we came upon Mark Kierstead, the one person who knew us and who could get us past the 10 miles of parked cars into the concert. Pain? What pain? Goodbye, dentist. Hello, Janis. We followed Mark’s truck to a wooded area and he told us to park anywhere. We parked high atop a flat hilltop. It turned out to be the place where all the helicopters landed with the musical groups. That’s how our electric blue Peugeot ended up in a lot of shots in Woodstock: The Movie.

There was plenty of work to do. The Hog Farm was dishing out food and drink to long lines of soggy members of the “audience.” It’s hard to call this tribal gathering an audience, because each person was so fully engaged in the music and the surroundings that they became part of the concert themselves. We helped with the food preparation, but there were so many volunteers that we weren’t needed. Mark sent us on our way to go find the main stage and enjoy the show. We went through some woods, where all kinds of drug and crafts people had set up tables to sell every manner of psychedelic pill, tie-dyed clothing, beads – nothing sensible like umbrellas or tarps or sunscreen. Just the stuff you would find in a head shop in the late ‘60’s or in Timothy Leary’s lab. I didn’t use psychedelic drugs, although they were certainly available. I remember one guy in Washington, D. C., 1966, summer internship, who told me about his bad acid trip while we were having hamburgers at a White Tower. And then he said he had a tab of acid – did I want to share it? Are you kidding me? He had just told me the most hair-raising tale of being totally out of control, acting like a complete jerk, fearing the loss of his sanity – oh yeah, sounds like fun. When you’re a Type A like me, you need to be in control of your senses. So, except for a few tokes on a joint, and being in places with a lot of secondhand marijuana smoke (Madison Square Garden Forum, The Band concert – totally fogged in), I did not use illegal, “recreational”, drugs – no acid, no cocaine, no heroin, no meth, no PCP, no Ecstasy, no nothing.

There were apparently not a lot of Type A’s at Woodstock, or the Type A’s were legally medicated like me, or better yet, everyone was just naturally high. And this is very possible, because the atmosphere was giddy. That’s not an adequate description, nor is “electric”, “stimulating”, “groovy”, “charged”. It’s just this: Everyone was happy to be there. We all smiled at each other and shared warm greetings, complete strangers enjoying each other’s company amid a crowd of half a million. It was not a religious experience, per se, but very spiritual. It was the flower child generation in full bloom. Joni Mitchell captured the essence of the love and harmony in her paean to Woodstock.
“We are stardust. We are golden. And we got to get ourselves back to the garden…. We’ve got to get ourselves back to the semblance of a garden.” It marked the birth of the environmental movement for me, not just the living off the land part which was so evident on a farm, but also the conservation part, which required big changes at our homes in the cities. I didn’t make a major life change at Woodstock. I didn’t become a vegan. I didn’t run away with the Hog Farm Commune. But for me, all things became possible. And for the rest of my law school years I fought for women’s equality fearlessly, first with Women vs. Connecticut (known in court as Abele v. Markle and then Roe v. Maher), then with the organization of the Connecticut Women’s Educational and Legal Fund (CWEALF) soon after graduation. The Women’s Movement gave me a purpose, but Woodstock gave me the energy to achieve our lofty goals. I knew that our generation was destined to change the world.

Crash. Thud. That was the sound of our generation falling back to earth. Was Donald Rumsfeld really part of our generation? No, he was born in 1932, one of THEM. However, Bushie was for sure a part of our generation (birth year: 1946) – ouch. And he came after Clinton, our generation’s non-inhaling President with the loose zipper. Now, see, if Cathy Miller Berkley and I had fulfilled our promise to run against each other for President in 1984 – avoiding the Animal Farm future predicted for all of us – we would have indeed changed the world. The only things we were lacking were name recognition and money – and a country’s desire to have a woman in the Presidency. We had all the skills and talent needed for the job, plus more common sense than anyone who had ever been POTUS (save, perhaps, Abe Lincoln). You think the New Deal was something? You should have seen what we had planned for the country. If we were President (whoever got defeated would have still been in a position of power), by now we would have a wonderful railway system, both commuter and transcontinental, run with regenerating energy sources (wind, solar); we would have electric cars running everywhere (not hidden in the desert); we would have a “peace dividend” from years without draining wars in third world countries; we would have affordable health care for everyone; we would have a burgeoning middle class filled with wage earners with good-paying jobs; we would have big box stores and fast stop restaurants paying living wages and good benefits; we would have the best educational system in the world, training people for jobs now and in the future, while maintaining a robust liberal arts curriculum to create well-rounded graduates; we would have a balanced budget, a progressive tax structure, no loopholes, a cap on executive salaries and benefits. We would have a cabinet and a Supreme Court filled with men and women equally and a Congress equal parts men and women (maybe just a few more women to be representative of the population). Just think about the society you would have wanted to live in – that would have been possible with Cathy or me, or both of us, as President. Now it’s not too late, and if a certain Wellesley grad decides not to run in 2016, you can start a grass roots campaign for Cathy and/or me. We will serve with distinction. If you want everything you have ever dreamed of in a government (even you, Libertarians!), vote for us. You will be very, very happy that you did.

Geez, that visit to Woodstock brought back a lot of memories. And I was just going to tell you about seeing and hearing Santana on the main stage and being caught up in their relentless conga beat. And about seeing Joan Baez on the small stage, and Richie Havens, after his three hour tour de force to start the concert on the main stage. You know, what actually happened during my stay those 2 days at Yasgur’s farm back in August, 1969. But I have been drawn by what could have been, what could still be. In our lifetimes. We’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden. Vote for me or Cathy for President. We’ll get you there.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED (PART 2): WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED (PART 2): WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN

With gravity and with the Erie Locks, what goes up must eventually come down, hopefully in a slow, gentle way – not like a kite crashing into the sand or a pelican dive bombing headfirst into the water. We kept our date with dawn at the Schenectady Downhome Yacht Club, and we motored away toward Lock E-7 shortly after 6 a.m. The Admiral had already warned me that we were not going to be able to use the vertical cables on our descent. They were not going to be within my reach, as they started below the level line, and when we entered each lock, Slow Motion was considerably above that line. This meant we were left with the dreaded slimy lines hanging vertically from the top of the lock to the bottom dregs more than 30 feet below. And who knew what lurked at the ends of those lines? A recent headline reported that, while in one of the Champlain Canal locks, a trawler damaged its propeller on a refrigerator that had been lying around on the bottom of the lock. Who’s to say there isn’t some antediluvian living creature in the primordial slime below? Something like a “Lock” Ness monster – only not as sweet looking as the depictions of Nessie. See, I would grab the slimy line and hold on for dear life until Slow Motion neared the bottom of the Lock chamber. Then as I neared the end of my line, literally and figuratively, something with some very sharp teeth, maybe even breathing fire, would rise up as I tugged on the line – and it’s not just the propeller that would get damaged. It’s ME that would get entirely gobbled up.

These are just a few of the thoughts I entertained as we approached Lock E-7. That’s the lock with Anthony, the most accommodating Lock Master, who was true to his word and had arrived at the Lock before 7, so that we could pass through – OR NOT – when he opened the gates at 7 a.m. I know I should have asked Anthony about what was lying on the bottom of E-7, but I didn’t want to sound paranoid, especially since Anthony seemed to have a good opinion of the Admiral and me, based on our solid performance rising in the lock just the day before. I looked longingly at the vertical cables as we entered, knowing I could snag one from the stern. But that’s not where you need to be to snag the cable – you need to be mid-ship. I was assigned to the stern by the Admiral to grab a slimy line to pull the stern of Slow Motion close to the wall. Then the Admiral was going to hop down from the flying bridge and run to the bow to grab a line near the bow of Slo Mo. This procedure actually worked like a charm in E-7. I had no trouble getting my stern line, if by no trouble you mean, when I grabbed the line, Slow Motion’s pull nearly yanked my shoulder out of its socket. Needless to say, I was wearing my Ace Hardware gloves with the rough textured palms (as recommended by Cindy P), so that the slime line would not just slip out of my hands. As I approached the end of the line, I knew I was about to find out what lay at the bottom of E-7. But no, the line ended right at the water line. Nothing grabbed on to it from beneath. The Admiral said the magic words: “Let go!” And I released that line faster than you can say “hot potato” – a lot faster. Slow Motion lurched forward from the wall, and with a merry wave to Tony, we were on our way to the 5 locks of the Waterford Flight.

Before we got to E-6, there was this little thing called “Guard Gate 2” which totally blocked our way. The Erie Canal folks provide a number to call the Gate master beforehand. We must have called that number four times between us, and there was no answer. The Admiral tried to hail the master on Channel 13 on the radio – still no answer. It was already 8 a.m., the time when the locks on the Flight opened for business. So where was the Gate master? The Admiral called Lock E-6 – we had a phone number for every lock. Someone answered, and guess who it was? It was the Guard Gate 2 guy, who was hanging out at Lock 6. He said he had heard some radio calls, but they were broken up and he couldn’t make them out. Normally our radio has a good range, but we had to take the antenna down to get under the low bridges, so apparently we couldn’t even reach a mile. Anyway, the Gate master apologized and said he would be right up to open the huge iron gate that keeps debris from floating into the locks – supposedly – maybe refrigerators are exempt. He drove up in a few minutes, the Guard Gate rose up, and we were on our way to the murky depths of Lock E-6.

Did I mention that we were the only boat heading west in the locks at that time of the morning? We were all alone. No boat was heading east in the locks either. It must have been a lot of fun for the lock masters to show up for work on Sunday just to let Slow Motion run down the same locks we had just run up the day before. Wheee! Well, at least Tony was very cheerful, the Lock E-6 guy not so much. Still, he was darned nice to rush up to the gate to open it for us, then to rush back to E-6 to let us into the chamber. He told us that the red light was on, which means “Stay out of the chamber!” But he said to come on in anyway, because his green light wasn’t working. Good to know. At the last minute his light turned from red to green, and we entered Lock E-6. You’ve read it all before – maneuvering Slow Motion close to The Wall, grabbing the slimy lines and holding on while “falling” 33.25 feet to the bottom of the chamber, releasing the lines before being pulled out of the boat, and being disgorged from the chamber. Routine stuff, right? Wait until Lock E-5.

Just as I was getting a little, okay, complacent about the rigors of going through the locks, I met with near disaster in Lock E-5. Yes, I grabbed the slimy line, and the Admiral grabbed his slimy line at the bow. We both held on for the ride to the bottom. By this time, I had sucked in more diesel engine fumes than I had ever ingested before. Maybe that’s my excuse, if I need one. I was loopy on the engine fumes. At any rate, we got to the end of the line, and as I released the line and removed my right hand glove, the line took on a life of its own, grabbing and ensnaring the portside stern fender in a death grip. This was not going to end well. The line was going to have to give – not likely after all these years of battling big boats. Or the fender and at least the cleat it was attached to were going to be broken away from Slow Motion. I sprang to action, grabbing the line with my bare hand – germs galore! – and yanked it with all my strength to disentangle it from the fender. I finally – after a second or two which seemed like an hour – freed the line up from the fender, but too late realized that it was ripping my right ring finger raw. I saved my mother’s diamond ring and somewhat belatedly let go of the slime line. Meanwhile, the Admiral had released his line without incident and asked if we were clear on the stern. “All clear” I yelled, trying to sound normal. Then I ran up the steps on to the sundeck and down the steps into the salon, headed straight for the galley sink, and smothered my right hand and ring finger in soap that is supposed to destroy bacteria. It was then that I noticed blood coming from three slits on my ring finger. OMG – I kept washing and washing, more soap, more soap. And then I applied a paper towel to the finger to try to stop the blood. Within seconds I was back at my station, as we were heading to Lock E-4. I was way too embarrassed to report my injury immediately to the Admiral. And there wasn’t any time. I just kept thinking of the article about the guy who nearly lost his thumb when polluted water from the Caloosahatchee River got into a cut made by a fish hook. I love my ring finger, my whole right hand in fact, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing it.

The Locks wait for no man or woman. We pushed on through Locks E-4, E-3 and E-2. Whenever I had a chance, usually as we were pulling away from the way and leaving the chamber, I ran back to the sink and used more anti-bacterial soap and applied a new tourniquet. The bleeding stopped in the next lock. I carefully put on my gloves to keep the paper towel in place. I switched to clean new gloves for the next lock. I did everything I could think of to prevent infection. I also used my left hand and arm a lot more than the right hand to manage the slime line in the last three locks. That’s why my left shoulder is still achy, I guess. By this time the locks had lost just a little bit of their luster for me. The locks give and the locks take away. You can never, never let your guard down. The worst thing I had imagined had not happened – there was no Lock Monster sighting. However, when that E-5 slime line finally gave up its death grip on the rear fender, it sent all kinds of small rocks, mud and dirty water flying all over the place. The swim board and the transom were covered with debris. I also cleaned that stuff up as quickly as possible to prevent it from sticking indelibly to Slow Motion for the rest of time.

Once we were safely down the Waterford Flight, I mentioned my mishap to the Admiral and showed him the finger, so to speak. We game planned on how to avoid such a re-occurrence in the Troy Federal Lock, which was coming up in a few miles. And fortunately, with the rise and fall of only 14 feet in that lock, I was able to use the vertical cable, so there was no repeat performance of the wildly dancing line. At the end of the morning of the Seven Locks, I had a healthy respect for both the locks and for the boaters that go through them on a regular basis. They don’t all have 38,000 pound boats, but still, they have to be prepared for anything to happen, and they usually have to share the chamber with a lot of other boats. We were alone in all the Erie Canal locks on the way down to Waterford. We followed a very small boat into the Troy Federal Lock. It looked like the boater was going to tie up as soon as he got inside the gate, leaving us no room to enter. We shouted at him to please move forward. And the Lock master shouted at us that the boater was deaf. Great. The boater ended up going forward because he was having a hard time getting to one of the vertical cables. So it all worked out. But a deaf boater? What about radio transmissions that are essential to safe boating? What about contacting lock masters and bridge masters to get them to open their locks and bridges? “It must be very challenging,” she understated.

I hope that you have felt some of the same thrills and chills that I felt as the Admiral and I traveled through the locks on the Erie Canal. It was an experience of a lifetime. The history of the building of the original locks and the history of the building of the replacement locks are both fascinating. If you ever plan to visit the Erie Canal, by car or boat, I recommend reading up on this history before and during your visit. This is a Wonder of the Western World, a testament to what can be done to advance commerce and stimulate the economy. Imagine the pride of the engineers, who were able to write on their resumes that they helped design and build the Erie Canal locks. Sure, the suspension bridges in this country are amazing feats of engineering. But these locks – in their sheer number, their size, their construction, their constant use – are mind-boggling. That’s why it was so unusual when most of them were closed for several weeks this past June because of damage from severe flooding and hundreds of boaters were lined up in Waterford and marinas farther south waiting to go through. This was big news – the locks are NEVER closed, well, hardly ever, and never for three weeks. Somehow the work crews got them all working again, and they were in fine shape at the end of August, 2013. Thank you, Erie Canal maintenance crews. You made our trip up the Hudson River and up and down Locks E-2 through E-7 as memorable as the SF Giants winning 2 World Championships in three years. And you helped me forget for a few days the Giants’ 2013 record. For that I am eternally grateful. One final note: There is no Lock E-1, in case you were wondering. The first lock in the Waterford Flight is E-2.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED (PART 1): GETTING A RISE OUT OF LOCKS

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED (PART 1): GETTING A RISE OUT OF LOCKS

In the last two days we went through Locks E-2, E-3, E-4, E-5, E-6 and E-7 of the Erie Canal – twice! It was just about a thrill a minute in each of them. And it was a lot of work. My arm muscles are sore, but I’m working on developing “Michelle Obama” upper arms, so all the physical activity grabbing cables and lines with my hands and holding on to them for dear life, while the waters rose (or fell) 30 plus feet in each lock, was worth it. There were no mules named Sal, dear Cathy, no mules at all in fact, so the Admiral and I had to do the heavy “lifting”. And just like the famous song about the Erie Canal, there was a really low bridge. We put our antenna down and made it under, just barely. The lock masters who open and close the lock gates and run the millions of gallons of water in and out of the chamber were really helpful. They were all men of varying ages; wonder if there are female lock masters. Let’s check into this.

But I want to begin at the beginning of this awesome, terrific, extraordinary experience. On Saturday, August 31, we approached E-2 from our place on the seawall at the Waterford Welcome Center. There was one boat in front of us, called “Sweet Time”. The name was perfect, in that the couple aboard this trawler took their own “sweet time” doing everything, from entering the lock, to snubbing their boat inside the chamber, to getting a pass to travel through the locks, and to traveling from one lock to the other. Thank God they were the only other boaters in the six locks, as we passed through them. There was nothing like the traffic jam in E-2 the day before. And with a boat named Slow Motion, we know what it means to take your time. However, is it too much to ask that you purchase your pass the day before you enter the lock? They sell them everywhere. If you do that, the other boaters don’t have to wait inside the chamber holding on to their line attached to the snub cable – forever – while you get out of your boat and walk with the lock master to his office to fill out a lengthy form and pay for the pass. Really! Is this a buzz kill or what? We were in the first lock; four more locks awaited us in the Waterford Flight, and after that, there was E-7, our last lock of the day. I am not a patient person, nor is the Admiral, to say the least. Nevertheless, we tried to enjoy our unnecessary wait inside E-2 by holding on to the rush of adrenalin caused by being raised in a 38,000 pound vessel for 33.55 feet over a period of just minutes, with water pouring in from below at an unbelievable speed. And we did pretty much. Nothing, and no one, was going to spoil our Erie Canal Lock Extravaganza. Here ends any further description of the actions of “Sweet Time”, except to say that this boat meandered all over the Mohawk between E-6 and E-7, often heading straight for a shoreline, then turning sharply to run over a buoy. Fun to watch – not!

The key to success in a lock chamber is to grab the vertical cable or the vertical line as quickly as possible, once you are situated well away from the closing gates. At the first lock, we didn’t have much room between our stern and the closing gates, because, well, you know, Sweet Time, acted like it was the only boat in the lock and just stopped less than halfway into it. That’s all I’m going to say. The lock master asked us if we felt we were out of the way of the gate – he had a good view from outside the chamber looking down. We said we were comfortable where we were, and we did not intend to back up. He said: “Okay. I just didn’t want you to get freaked out, when I close the gates.” Well, the closing of the gigantic, powerful gates is pretty exciting, but no “freaking out” occurred aboard Slow Motion. I held my line firmly around the cable. In each lock, as in Lock E-2, you had a choice of wrapping a line around a fixed vertical cable – fixed at both ends – or grabbing two slimy, age old lines that hang down from the top of the chamber. I opted for the fixed cable as we headed east through the locks. The cable was slimy enough, and thanks to Cindy, I was wearing my Ace gloves to avoid contact with this ancient, filthy metal cable. I needed to wrap the line around it as quickly as possible and bring the line back to the boat to snug it down on a cleat, so that Slow Motion didn’t bob and weave all over the chamber, or crash into the concrete wall of the chamber (equally slimy and filthy).  

Are you getting the picture? We were holding Slow Motion, a behemoth in her own right, next to a concrete wall with one slim line wrapped around a cable and snugged down to a cleat on Slo Mo. Yep, that was our “lifeline” which kept us from lurching backward to crash into the gates or careening forward to sink “Sweet Time”, or bouncing sideways to hit the concrete wall on the west side of the chamber. This is my idea of fun. Really. It’s quite a challenge, and you have to concentrate fully to make sure that neither the bow nor the stern of your boat is scraping against the concrete wall. You have to hold your line tight, but not too tight, or “scccrrrrape” – and the Admiral is not happy. The Admiral had purchased two new round red fenders – beach balls – for the very purpose of keeping Slow Motion intact in the lock chambers. And they worked well. They are wider than our other fenders, so they kept Slo Mo a little farther away from the concrete boat-eating monster – The Wall.   

And we had to repeat this harrowing procedure 6 times as we headed through the five locks of the Waterford Flight (E-2 through E-6) and E-7. The first five locks in the Flight come in rapid succession. It would have been even faster, had we not been behind Sweet Time through all the locks. But at least they heard me shouting “Move farther ahead” as they entered Lock E-3, and they did just that, so we were not dangerously close to the gates. Once we entered Lock E-3, the Admiral moved closer to The Wall, so I could throw the line around the fixed cable. The difficulty for the Admiral was that he could not see the location of any of the fixed cables, so I had to shout up from the deck to the flying bridge: “Twenty more feet!” to get him near the cable. And he had to slow down the forward motion of Slo Mo as we approached the cable, so that I had time to reach out and around it with the line and pull the line back to the cleat to snug it up. Again, Slow Motion has no brakes, so the Admiral had to use the forward and reverse gears imaginatively to get us anywhere near the cable. People with bow thrusters on their boats can move sideways. Slow Motion has no bow thruster, and therefore, no sideways movement. It’s only the boat handling of the Admiral that got us close enough to The Wall and to the cable to allow me to encircle the cable with our line. Ah, the great feeling of stopping 38,000 pounds with a single line. This could explain why my shoulders are a little bit sore. Once I had the line secured around the cleat, almost immediately water started rushing in from below in an eddying pattern that pushed Slow Motion toward the Wall. This made my job a lot easier, except that I had to switch gears from pulling the line tighter to loosening it up and pushing against The Wall to prevent Lock Scrape.

I’m here to tell you that Slow Motion escaped damage in E-3, as well as in E-4, E-5, E-6 and E-7, as we headed west to Schenectady. The fenders got pretty dirty. The beach ball red ones no longer looked new when we finished “locking” for the day. They had been slimed by The Wall in each lock. But they were not badly scraped. The gloves I wore were really slimy by the time we got through E-7, and the line was filthy in the area that rubbed against the cable as we rose to the top of each lock. No lock was a cinch, but as we progressed through each one, I felt more confident about getting the line around the cable without falling off the boat. And the Admiral became more adept at getting close enough to The Wall in each lock, so that I did not even have to stretch out fully to get the line around the cable. In one lock, the line got hung up in the housing at the top of the lock, and I thought we were going to either rip out the cable (not likely) or rip off Slow Motion’s cleat (also not likely). But something had to give, and fortunately, it was the line, which finally came out of the cable housing as we lurched away. From this near disaster I learned to loosen the line before it reached the housing and never to let it get caught up inside the housing again. I keep asking myself: “What good was law school? It never taught me about the hazards of going through locks.” Actually, it didn’t teach me much about the practice of law either, but at this time in my life I could have used a much stronger foundation in mastering locks. I had the best law professors on the planet: Fritz Kessler on Contracts, J. Willie Moore, who wrote the book on Civil Procedure, Fleming James (Mr. Tort) and Lou Pollack – well, three out of four was not bad. Where was the Professor of Lock Law? Maybe that useless third year of law school can be used to teach courses for life, such as negotiating locks. Just a thought.

Lock E-7 stands alone, and right next to it is a magnificent dam, which had a powerful flow of water heading downstream. We had already risen nearly 170 feet going through the Waterford Flight. The exact “rise” for each lock is:

E-2: 33.55 feet

E-3: 34.6 feet

E-4: 34.5 feet

E-5: 33.25 feet

E-6: 33 feet.

The “rise” in E-7 is not shabby; it’s 27 feet. It takes about an hour to get from E-6 to E-7, especially when you’re traveling behind a slow, erratic boat. So the anticipation was building, as we passed some incredibly lovely scenery along the Mohawk between E-6 and E-7. We knew we were also battling time because of a predicted thunderstorm in the afternoon. The thunderstorm appeared sometimes on the radar, sometimes not, but with our luck we knew the rolling claps of thunder were just around the corner. And we wanted to be tied up at the Schenectady Yacht Club in Rexford New York before we saw the lightning bolts. It was close, really close, but we got out of the chamber of E-7 without incident, thanks to Tony, a really great lock master, and we made it to the Schenectady Yacht Club a full hour before the lightning shot through the sky and the thunder shook the earth. This marina is so down to earth. Both owners met us at the dock. We had told them of our intent to get diesel fuel, always a money maker for the marina. So they were happy to see us. Although it was Saturday of the three day Labor Day weekend, there was not a lot of boat traffic at their place. The “party place”, Crescent Harbor Marina, was chock full of weekenders out for a rollicking loud time. We passed them and silently thanked God for not choosing that marina.

But the Schenectady Yacht Club was downright homey. When we told the owners that their marina was our destination, that we were going no further west on the canal, they were flattered. They said we were the first boaters who chose their marina as the final destination along the Erie Canal. Then they spent the next hour helping us fuel, then moving Slow Motion back from the fuel dock, then moving Slow Motion back to the fuel dock to get more fuel, then moving Slow Motion around to tie up on the starboard side. We fueled a second time, because the first time we had taken on only 28 gallons, but we had intended to take on 60 gallons per tank. Once the mistake was discovered, we pushed and pulled Slow Motion back to get more fuel, then the Admiral did a 180, and the marina owners helped us tie up again. All through these maneuvers they were cheerful and helpful and very competent with the lines. You cannot ask for more from marina personnel. The price was right too -- $75 for the overnight dockage. Did I mention that they also helped us pump out the waste? And that was a mere $5. When you see or hear the phrase, “yacht club”, probably a hoity toity place comes to mind where people where navy blue blazers and white captain’s hats, while puffing on vintage briar pipes. The Schenectady Yacht Club is just the opposite – no airs whatsoever, just good people running a small business helping boaters come in to a safe haven for a night or two. They keep their bathrooms clean, their office (in a tiny a frame) air-conditioned, and they even offer a well-kept pool to their customers. The thunder storm kept me out of the pool, but thank you, dear folks, for being so user friendly. Your Wi-Fi worked too! Miracles never cease.

By the time we hit the sack on Saturday, we were already excited about the prospect of returning through the locks on Sunday. Lock E-7 opens at 7 a.m., and the Admiral had told Tony that we would be back for the 7 am opening. Tony told us he would be ready for us by coming a few minutes ahead of time. This meant that we had to leave the marina no later than 6:00 a.m. to be on time for our date with Tony. It was another night of getting to bed by 9 p.m., but lying awake for another hour because we just couldn’t stop the adrenalin from flowing through our bodies after our first day ever of  climbing the Waterford Flight and beyond. I still get excited as I write about it. Ready for the “fall” of the locks? Read on in Part 2 of Chapter 100 about our return to Waterford – first I have to write it down. But now, it’s 9:20 p.m. on Labor Day, and I’m beat. Thanks for coming on this adventure with us. Next time, we want you there in person. You’ll love it!

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED (PART 1): GETTING A RISE OUT OF LOCKS

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED (PART 1): GETTING A RISE OUT OF LOCKS

In the last two days we went through Locks E-2, E-3, E-4, E-5, E-6 and E-7 of the Erie Canal – twice! It was just about a thrill a minute in each of them. And it was a lot of work. My arm muscles are sore, but I’m working on developing “Michelle Obama” upper arms, so all the physical activity grabbing cables and lines with my hands and holding on to them for dear life, while the waters rose (or fell) 30 plus feet in each lock, was worth it. There were no mules named Sal, dear Cathy, no mules at all in fact, so the Admiral and I had to do the heavy “lifting”. And just like the famous song about the Erie Canal, there was a really low bridge. We put our antenna down and made it under, just barely. The lock masters who open and close the lock gates and run the millions of gallons of water in and out of the chamber were really helpful. They were all men of varying ages; wonder if there are female lock masters. Let’s check into this.

But I want to begin at the beginning of this awesome, terrific, extraordinary experience. On Saturday, August 31, we approached E-2 from our place on the seawall at the Waterford Welcome Center. There was one boat in front of us, called “Sweet Time”. The name was perfect, in that the couple aboard this trawler took their own “sweet time” doing everything, from entering the lock, to snubbing their boat inside the chamber, to getting a pass to travel through the locks, and to traveling from one lock to the other. Thank God they were the only other boaters in the six locks, as we passed through them. There was nothing like the traffic jam in E-2 the day before. And with a boat named Slow Motion, we know what it means to take your time. However, is it too much to ask that you purchase your pass the day before you enter the lock? They sell them everywhere. If you do that, the other boaters don’t have to wait inside the chamber holding on to their line attached to the snub cable – forever – while you get out of your boat and walk with the lock master to his office to fill out a lengthy form and pay for the pass. Really! Is this a buzz kill or what? We were in the first lock; four more locks awaited us in the Waterford Flight, and after that, there was E-7, our last lock of the day. I am not a patient person, nor is the Admiral, to say the least. Nevertheless, we tried to enjoy our unnecessary wait inside E-2 by holding on to the rush of adrenalin caused by being raised in a 38,000 pound vessel for 33.55 feet over a period of just minutes, with water pouring in from below at an unbelievable speed. And we did pretty much. Nothing, and no one, was going to spoil our Erie Canal Lock Extravaganza. Here ends any further description of the actions of “Sweet Time”, except to say that this boat meandered all over the Mohawk between E-6 and E-7, often heading straight for a shoreline, then turning sharply to run over a buoy. Fun to watch – not!

The key to success in a lock chamber is to grab the cable or the line as quickly as possible, once you are situated well away from the closing gates. At the first lock, we didn’t have much room between our stern and the closing gates, because, well, you know, Sweet Time, acted like it was the only boat in the lock and just stopped less than halfway into it. That’s all I’m going to say. The lock master asked us if we felt we were out of the way of the gate – he had a good view from outside the chamber looking down. We said we were comfortable where we were, and we did not intend to back up. He said: “Okay. I just didn’t want you to get freaked out, when I close the gates.” Well, the closing of the gigantic, powerful gates is pretty exciting, but no “freaking out” occurred aboard Slow Motion. I held my line firmly around the cable. In each lock, as in Lock E-2, you had a choice of wrapping a line around a fixed cable – fixed at both ends – or grabbing two slimy, age old lines that hang down from the top of the chamber. I opted for the fixed cable as we headed east through the locks. The cable was slimy enough, and thanks to Cindy, I was wearing my Ace gloves to avoid contact with this ancient, filthy metal cable. I needed to wrap the line around it as quickly as possible and bring the line back to the boat to snug it down on a cleat, so that Slow Motion didn’t bob and weave all over the chamber, or crash into the concrete wall of the chamber (equally slimy and filthy).  

Are you getting the picture? We were holding Slow Motion, a behemoth in her own right, next to a concrete wall with one slim line wrapped around a cable and snugged down to a cleat on Slo Mo. Yep, that was our “lifeline” which kept us from lurching backward to crash into the gates or careening forward to sink “Sweet Time”, or bouncing sideways to hit the concrete wall on the west side of the chamber. This is my idea of fun. Really. It’s quite a challenge, and you have to concentrate fully to make sure that neither the bow nor the stern of your boat is scraping against the concrete wall. You have to hold your line tight, but not too tight, or “scccrrrrape” – and the Admiral is not happy. The Admiral had purchased two new round red fenders – beach balls – for the very purpose of keeping Slow Motion intact in the lock chambers. And they worked well. They are wider than our other fenders, so they kept Slo Mo a little farther away from the concrete boat-eating monster – The Wall.   

And we had to repeat this harrowing procedure 6 times as we headed through the five locks of the Waterford Flight (E-2 through E-6) and E-7. The first five locks in the Flight come in rapid succession. It would have been even faster, had we not been behind Sweet Time through all the locks. But at least they heard me shouting “Move farther ahead” as they entered Lock E-3, and they did just that, so we were not dangerously close to the gates. Once we entered Lock E-3, the Admiral moved closer to The Wall, so I could throw the line around the fixed cable. The difficulty for the Admiral was that he could not see the location of any of the fixed cables, so I had to shout up from the deck to the flying bridge: “Twenty more feet!” to get him near the cable. And he had to slow down the forward motion of Slo Mo as we approached the cable, so that I had time to reach out and around it with the line and pull the line back to the cleat to snug it up. Again, Slow Motion has no brakes, so the Admiral had to use the forward and reverse gears imaginatively to get us anywhere near the cable. People with bow thrusters on their boats can move sideways. Slow Motion has no bow thruster, and therefore, no sideways movement. It’s only the boat handling of the Admiral that got us close enough to The Wall and to the cable to allow me to encircle the cable with our line. Ah, the great feeling of stopping 38,000 pounds with a single line. This could explain why my shoulders are a little bit sore. Once I had the line secured around the cleat, almost immediately water started rushing in from below in an eddying pattern that pushed Slow Motion toward the Wall. This made my job a lot easier, except that I had to switch gears from pulling the line tighter to loosening it up and pushing against The Wall to prevent Lock Scrape.

I’m here to tell you that Slow Motion escaped damage in E-3, as well as in E-4, E-5, E-6 and E-7, as we headed west to Schenectady. The fenders got pretty dirty. The beach ball red ones no longer looked new when we finished “locking” for the day. They had been slimed by The Wall in each lock. But they were not badly scraped. The gloves I wore were really slimy by the time we got through E-7, and the line was filthy in the area that rubbed against the cable as we rose to the top of each lock. No lock was a cinch, but as we progressed through each one, I felt more confident about getting the line around the cable without falling off the boat. And the Admiral became more adept at getting close enough to The Wall in each lock, so that I did not even have to stretch out fully to get the line around the cable. In one lock, the line got hung up in the housing at the top of the lock, and I thought we were going to either rip out the cable (not likely) or rip off Slow Motion’s cleat (also not likely). But something had to give, and fortunately, it was the line, which finally came out of the cable housing as we lurched away. From this near disaster I learned to loosen the line before it reached the housing and never to let it get caught up inside the housing again. I keep asking myself: “What good was law school? It never taught me about the hazards of going through locks.” Actually, it didn’t teach me much about the practice of law either, but at this time in my life I could have used a much stronger foundation in mastering locks. I had the best law professors on the planet: Fritz Kessler on Contracts, J. Willie Moore, who wrote the book on Civil Procedure, Fleming James (Mr. Tort) and Lou Pollack – well, three out of four was not bad. Where was the Professor of Lock Law? Maybe that useless third year of law school can be used to teach courses for life, such as negotiating locks. Just a thought.

Lock E-7 stands alone, and right next to it is a magnificent dam, which had a powerful flow of water heading downstream. We had already risen nearly 170 feet going through the Waterford Flight. The exact “rise” for each lock is:

E-2: 33.55 feet

E-3: 34.6 feet

E-4: 34.5 feet

E-5: 33.25 feet

E-6: 33 feet.

The “rise” in E-7 is not shabby; it’s 27 feet. It takes about an hour to get from E-6 to E-7, especially when you’re traveling behind a slow, erratic boat. So the anticipation was building, as we passed some incredibly lovely scenery along the Mohawk between E-6 and E-7. We knew we were also battling time because of a predicted thunderstorm in the afternoon. The thunderstorm appeared sometimes on the radar, sometimes not, but with our luck we knew the rolling claps of thunder were just around the corner. And we wanted to be tied up at the Schenectady Yacht Club in Rexford New York before we saw the lightning bolts. It was close, really close, but we got out of the chamber of E-7 without incident, thanks to Tony, a really great lock master, and we made it to the Schenectady Yacht Club a full hour before the lightning shot through the sky and the thunder shook the earth. This marina is so down to earth. Both owners met us at the dock. We had told them of our intent to get diesel fuel, always a money maker for the marina. So they were happy to see us. Although it was Saturday of the three day Labor Day weekend, there was not a lot of boat traffic at their place. The “party place”, Crescent Harbor Marina, was chock full of weekenders out for a rollicking loud time. We passed them and silently thanked God for not choosing that marina.

But the Schenectady Yacht Club was downright homey. When we told the owners that their marina was our destination, that we were going no further west on the canal, they were flattered. They said we were the first boaters who chose their marina as the final destination along the Erie Canal. Then they spent the next hour helping us fuel, then moving Slow Motion back from the fuel dock, then moving Slow Motion back to the fuel dock to get more fuel, then moving Slow Motion around to tie up on the starboard side. We fueled a second time, because the first time we had taken on only 28 gallons, but we had intended to take on 60 gallons per tank. Once the mistake was discovered, we pushed and pulled Slow Motion back to get more fuel, then the Admiral did a 180, and the marina owners helped us tie up again. All through these maneuvers they were cheerful and helpful and very competent with the lines. You cannot ask for more from marina personnel. The price was right too -- $75 for the overnight dockage. Did I mention that they also helped us pump out the waste? And that was a mere $5. When you see or hear the phrase, “yacht club”, probably a hoity toity place comes to mind where people where navy blue blazers and white captain’s hats, while puffing on vintage briar pipes. The Schenectady Yacht Club is just the opposite – no airs whatsoever, just good people running a small business helping boaters come in to a safe haven for a night or two. They keep their bathrooms clean, their office (in a tiny a frame) air-conditioned, and they even offer a well-kept pool to their customers. The thunder storm kept me out of the pool, but thank you, dear folks, for being so user friendly. Your Wi-Fi worked too! Miracles never cease.

By the time we hit the sack on Saturday, we were already excited about the prospect of returning through the locks on Sunday. Lock E-7 opens at 7 a.m., and the Admiral had told Tony that we would be back for the 7 am opening. Tony told us he would be ready for us by coming a few minutes ahead of time. This meant that we had to leave the marina no later than 6:00 a.m. to be on time for our date with Tony. It was another night of getting to bed by 9 p.m., but lying awake for another hour because we just couldn’t stop the adrenalin from flowing through our bodies after our first day ever of  climbing the Waterford Flight and beyond. I still get excited as I write about it. Ready for the “fall” of the locks? Read on in Part 2 of Chapter 100 about our return to Waterford – first I have to write it down. But now, it’s 9:20 p.m. on Labor Day, and I’m beat. Thanks for coming on this adventure with us. Next time, we want you there in person. You’ll love it!