3 men in a baidarka
In the year two triple naught Chris Howard, Scott Geyer and I ( HarrySpitz) Circumnavigated the isle of Manhattan in Richard Nonas' three man baidarka. We left the Downtown Boat House on Saturday Sept 16 at 7:15am.
O the Ere-I- EE was a risen and the Gin was a getten low.
We embarked on an adventure that will go into the annals of Hudson River history . Almost 800 pounds of man paddling into the unknown. After a week of practice and experimentation we determined that the ideal seating arrangement put Scott in the bow so that we could follow his steady inspiring cadence and to muffle his griping obscenities. Chris steadied the boat by acting as ballast in the center of the boat. While I controlled the rudder from the stern where I could scare Scott and Chris by steering the boat towards every obstacle I could find. The main advantage of this ingenious set up was that Chris and I could both fakeout Scott. We laid back and tanned while Scott paddled us around the island. Every once in a while we would splash the water just to sustain the illusion. After making it up the East River pushed by a steady current that sped us by the joggers on the running path we came to the Harlem River where the current ran against us. The motor boaters were few and far between and those that we came across slowed as they came near us. We slogged on against our foe (the current) looking for refuge behind every bridge and bend. At last we came to my accustomed rest spot The Suffering Duck, but alas Chris and Scott would have none of it. They were determined to reach the Hudson by 11 am. It was at this point that we all had a simultaneous epiphany. The cane seats and the lashed coamings in the baidarka were excruciatingly painful. Our asses hurt!
What a terrible storm we had one night on the Ere-I-EECanal
At last we came to our first refuge The Columbia Boat House. We hauled out onto the goose crap strewn docks and stumbled to the boat house for lunch and rest. Well the Captain came upon the deck with a spy glass in has hand.The fog it was so gosh darn thick that he couldn't spy the landOnward to the Hudson. The chop, waves and wind convinced us to paddle on the Jersey side to avoid the Westerly wind in the shadow of the Palisades. We headed South below the George Washington Bridge.The cook she was a grand old gal she wore a ragged dress. So we hoisted her upon the pole as a signal of distress.It happened opposite the Intrepid. The motor boat slowly passed beside us. The small bow-wave came towards our port beam. "Its nothing keep paddling", I thought, "no need to brace we've handled many bigger waves.No problem."We went right over, 90 degrees to the water. We all agreed that we all simultaneously hip snapped and that the boat slowly righted itself, but after careful reevaluation I have arrived at the only possible explanation. Telekinesis!
The captain he got married. The cook she went to jail. I'm the only son of a gun that’s left to tell the tale.
Back to our home turf. The North Annex of the Downtown Boathouse. Chelsea piers. I aimed the boat right for some pilings "Harry turn right we're heading for those pilings". Ah Scott and Chris what back seat drivers they are. Oh well I guess I was in the back seat.
The Ere-I-EE was a risen and the gin was a getten low. What a terrible storm we had one night on the Ere-I-EE Canal.
O the Ere-I- EE was a risen and the Gin was a getten low.
We embarked on an adventure that will go into the annals of Hudson River history . Almost 800 pounds of man paddling into the unknown. After a week of practice and experimentation we determined that the ideal seating arrangement put Scott in the bow so that we could follow his steady inspiring cadence and to muffle his griping obscenities. Chris steadied the boat by acting as ballast in the center of the boat. While I controlled the rudder from the stern where I could scare Scott and Chris by steering the boat towards every obstacle I could find. The main advantage of this ingenious set up was that Chris and I could both fakeout Scott. We laid back and tanned while Scott paddled us around the island. Every once in a while we would splash the water just to sustain the illusion. After making it up the East River pushed by a steady current that sped us by the joggers on the running path we came to the Harlem River where the current ran against us. The motor boaters were few and far between and those that we came across slowed as they came near us. We slogged on against our foe (the current) looking for refuge behind every bridge and bend. At last we came to my accustomed rest spot The Suffering Duck, but alas Chris and Scott would have none of it. They were determined to reach the Hudson by 11 am. It was at this point that we all had a simultaneous epiphany. The cane seats and the lashed coamings in the baidarka were excruciatingly painful. Our asses hurt!
What a terrible storm we had one night on the Ere-I-EECanal
At last we came to our first refuge The Columbia Boat House. We hauled out onto the goose crap strewn docks and stumbled to the boat house for lunch and rest. Well the Captain came upon the deck with a spy glass in has hand.The fog it was so gosh darn thick that he couldn't spy the landOnward to the Hudson. The chop, waves and wind convinced us to paddle on the Jersey side to avoid the Westerly wind in the shadow of the Palisades. We headed South below the George Washington Bridge.The cook she was a grand old gal she wore a ragged dress. So we hoisted her upon the pole as a signal of distress.It happened opposite the Intrepid. The motor boat slowly passed beside us. The small bow-wave came towards our port beam. "Its nothing keep paddling", I thought, "no need to brace we've handled many bigger waves.No problem."We went right over, 90 degrees to the water. We all agreed that we all simultaneously hip snapped and that the boat slowly righted itself, but after careful reevaluation I have arrived at the only possible explanation. Telekinesis!
The captain he got married. The cook she went to jail. I'm the only son of a gun that’s left to tell the tale.
Back to our home turf. The North Annex of the Downtown Boathouse. Chelsea piers. I aimed the boat right for some pilings "Harry turn right we're heading for those pilings". Ah Scott and Chris what back seat drivers they are. Oh well I guess I was in the back seat.
The Ere-I-EE was a risen and the gin was a getten low. What a terrible storm we had one night on the Ere-I-EE Canal.
posted by Harry Spitz at 10:46 AM
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