Cuts You Up

It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I simply had three options. I could have waited out the tide, sitting on a beach nearby until the water had returned or I could have gone back around Spruce Head Island, braving a few swells along the way.

The other choice was to just up and get out of my kayak, walk across the mud flats and get to the water on the other side and continue on under the bridge at Spruce Head and paddle back home.
As I said, I thought it was a pretty good solution at the moment, especially for someone as impatient as I.
A few hours later while having a phone conversation, I acknowledged that maybe it wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
While on the phone, I explained that I needed a little nursing. “What did you do?” she asked. “Something stupid,” was my response.
Now I like to make cracks about me doing dumb things and showing a distinct lack of judgment. I’m actually the opposite. I like to think of myself as a fairly rational, sensible and calculating person that typically makes sound judgments and decisions. And yes, I’m sure there are numerous friends out there that would start a list and offer examples that prove otherwise.
That’s because I do tend do things once in a while that ultimately are laced with some regret afterwards, even if they typically make for a good story anyway. My feet bare the scars of that regret this week.
The other morning I had chosen to take my kayak out. I had a beautiful day with bright sunshine and warm temperatures. No, really, I wasn’t imagining it. There was sun, no fog, no rain. It was a miracle.
Anyway, I also had a low tide approaching. I shoved off about 8:30 a.m., proving that I am up at that hour on occasion. Low tide was at 10:30 a.m. I wasn’t sure how much water I’d have in the cove at dead low tide and I didn’t really feel like trudging through the mud and shells if I didn’t have enough water to get in. How ironic that is!
So, I started out paddling fully intending to take my sweet old time and time it just about right that I might come paddling back home by 11:30 or so, after the cove had begun to fill back up a bit.
I was initially planning on paddling straight across toward the Eastern side of Spruce Head and paddle that shoreline back toward the mainland. Seeing as it was fairly calm and I had a good as any opportunity to paddle out around the tip of Spruce Head, and had time to kill, I decide to do just that.
That tactical decision seemed to work just fine, even with a few large swells that made me sweat a little out in the open ocean. I navigated through Spruce Head Harbor and headed over toward the bridge that connects the island to the mainland. The water had emptied out, but I had thought that there was enough for me and my kayak to get through. As Fonzie used to say “I was wrrrrrrrrr”
Any approach to the bridge was blocked off by a ridge of mud and mussel shells. There was hardly any water. I really didn’t want to go back around Spruce Head again. I thought I might paddle over to Norton Island and take a siesta on the beach while the tide came back. Then I learned it was already 10:15. It was almost low tide. I figured I’d paddle around a bit and the water would come rushing back to provide me a quick and easy access to the bridge. Wrrrrrrrrr again.

I paddled around a small island. Beached the kayak for a bit and watched the osprey and noticed that periwinkles will peak out at you if you hold them in the water. Then I shoved off and went around part of Rackliff Island and into what we (meaning my Dad and I) call Baum’s Cove. After killing what I figured was a good hour or so, I made my way back toward the bridge, fully expecting there to be enough water. As I approached I realized it was as dry as it was before, if not more so.
That meant Mr. Rational and Sound Judgment had a choice to make. I went with instant gratification. I climbed out of my kayak with the full intent of walking through the mud flats and dragging it to water. Isn’t there a saying that says “You can lead a kayak to water but you may not survive with your feet and legs unscathed.”
It only took one step to tell me what I was in for. When I set foot into the mud and took that first legitimate step, I sank up to my knees. “This can’t be good” I thought to myself. Of course, I didn’t alter my plan, proving that when you mix my impatience with my stubbornness, it can be a bad combination.
I kept trudging along through the knee-deep mud. It was a struggle and exhausting, but I quickly realized that while I was breathing heavy and might be inviting a heart attack, I couldn’t take a break. If I stopped, I’d be stuck - for good (or at least until high tide floated my carcass out to sea).
Keep in mind, I’ve walked through the mud in my cove tons of times. I pushed my brother’s motor boat halfway out of the cove at low tide trying to get a jumpstart to North Haven one year. I had just plopped through the mud just a week before when a quick trip was cut short because of rapidly decreasing tide.
I finally reached a spot in the mussel ridge that seemed to have some sand in it and made it more stable. The crushed shells beneath my feet hurt a bit but it was still better than sinking up to my thighs and then trying to suck them back out of the muck. I reached the point where I could see the water but there will still a patch of mud and shells that I needed to get through. I hoped it wouldn’t be too treacherous. It was very treacherous. I sank three feet in with one step. With an abundance of shells mixed in with this mud, I was getting sliced and diced with each step.
I was providing ample entertainment for those on shore that was watching this adventure. Even the clammers busy at work nearby took a moment to gaze over at the damn fool trying to walk through the mud. Oh, and did I mention that I was barefoot? Had I been wearing any kind of footwear, it would have been lost in the mud.
I would pull my kayak ahead of me and push off it as I slogged through the final 10 yards or so. I finally got to water and settled back down into my kayak. My legs were covered in mud but I could still see scars and streams of blood trickling down my leg. The sting of the cold salt water on my wounds also announced that I had been hacked pretty good. For the first few minutes of kayaking back, I could feel that intense sting up and down my feet and legs. I started to wonder how much blood I was losing, since I could feel it on my foot peddle inside my kayak. I almost stopped to soak my legs in the water and wash them off along the way home but just kept paddling away.
I finally hit my beach a little after noon and washed off all the mud. Then I hobbled up to the house and showered them off. For the next 24 hours, it felt like my feet had been sunburned badly. It hurt to walk or simply wiggle my toes. The day after, it all looked even worse as all the little nicks and scars that I hadn’t noticed the day before appeared as they began to heal over.

I kind of figure that for all the clams and mussels I've eaten in my lifetime, a few of their distant cousins reaped a little retribution that day.

But don't worry. My annual trip on the Victory Chimes is in September. That features dinner out with my sailing friends the night we board, and it typically features fried clams for me. So, the scars may be healed by then, but I won't have forgotten. And I just may have an appetite for revenge that night.

A Matter Of Trust

When the coverage began Friday night about the death of newscaster Walter Cronkite, one of the first things I heard was how he was considered the "most trusted journalist".

It immediately dawned on me that if I were to be described as a journalist, trusted would be the word I'd want.

That's what has always been my goal as a reporter. I wanted people to pick up the paper or magazine and see my name and immediately associate it with credibility. They'd read the story with full knowledge that they not only believed in my work but trusted it.

That's how I view other reporters. I see who the story is written by. If it is work by a journalist I respect, I'll likely read it and believe what I find in the story. If it is written by a reporter that I don't trust, I might bypass it completely or solely read it because I'm sure they'll have screwed up something so badly in the piece that I'll likely get a good laugh out of it.

I do the same for TV journalists. If Tim Russert reported something, I'd trust it. Same goes currently for someone like Chuck Todd or Andrea Mitchell. If it's one of those Fox nitwits, I won't even take it seriously. Most of the local sports talking heads are laughable. They try to be funny, when they're not and obviously lack knowledge of what they're covering. One TV journalist had to be rescued last week by their photographer - oh, sorry - their photo journalist - because when a golf ball was flying towards them and people yelled "Fore" they just stood there and nearly got hit.

Now, I know some people don't look at news the same way I do. It doesn't matter to them who is delivering the news. They don't care whose by-line is on the story. I've had people approach me to commend me for a story that they really liked - the only problem would be that I didn't write it.

Then there are others that when they hear my name, they'll be like "Oh yeah, I read your stuff all the time" or maybe they just remember my mug from the football picks we used to make.

It really doesn't matter to me whether they remember my name or not. I'm not in the business to literally make a name for myself. What I do care about is that if they do bother to remember my name that they associate that with quality work and trust.

I've been fortunate. I think I've been able to do that. I often show up at various sporting events and am told by coaches and athletic staff that they're glad to see me there - as opposed to other reporters that they can't stand or can't trust. Granted, sometimes they're happy to see me just so they don't have to report the score later.

I've had some tell me things off the record and beg me not to print it - citing the fact that another reporter they know would likely do just that, despite being told not to. That's a good way to give journalists a bad reputation.

When I was recognized by the Maine Interscholastic Athletic Administrator's Association last spring, one athletic director gave me one of the greatest compliments anyone had ever given me. He told me that people trusted me. And as if that weren't enough , he told me that I was one of the few that people could.

I work for a paper that could care less about the work I do or the credibility I've established. I can't remember the last time one of the powers that be commended me for a job well done and told me I was appreciated. Heck, when I was given the media award by the MIAAA last spring, the SJ made no mention of it in the paper or to me. I guess I can't complain. At least they gave me the night off, which is more than they were going to do for my father's funeral.

But, I'm not out to impress them. I'm not out to make a star out of myself like some reporters. I'm there to be a journalist. I want to to do quality work, treat the job and the people I deal with with respect and understanding. In turn, I want respect and trust.

I think I've not only been able to establish that but have also earned it. Coaches, players, fans and readers have come to understand, and hopefully appreciate, that.

The problem some newspapers have now is that they're losing that trust with readers and the people they're reporting on. I see many reporters that are just plain lazy and lacking knowledge about the event they're covering. Doing a half-assed job is just as good to them. There are others whose ego's are so big that they get in the way of their work and credibility. They like to brag about how much they do and how good they are - when they're not all that good at all.

I don't know how much time I've got left in this business. I've had one foot out the door numerous times. It is still a job I can enjoy and feel like I make a difference in.

Who knows where the newspaper business is going. The media is evolving into a faster-paced environment where the foundations of who, what, where, when and why are being replaced by sound bites, tweets and web posts. Journalists are trying to be media stars as opposed to doing their job credibly. It can be rather disgusting to watch because the job and its role is being diminished. I still think there is a place for trust in the media, but I fear that it is losing its place as journalism becomes more about entertainment and egos than it is about information and serving the public's interests.

I'm sure there will be a lot of talk about Cronkite's death and acknowledgement that he's of a by-gone era and that there won't be many like him anymore. That's kind of a scary thought.

I Kneeded That

There are not many dates that linger in my crowded mind of trivial details – but July 5th is one of them.

There are only a handful of such dates that stir my emotions and spark my memory. Some are good recollections. Some are memories I’d just as well forget.

There’s April 27 – the day I was born. Guess I have to remember that one – as much as I try to forget it each year. But that was also the day I first saw the Smithereens play live. It was probably one of my best birthday’s ever.
There’s February 4 – that was the day I found the greatest girl in the world.

There’s September 11 – which I remember for obvious reasons – and some not so obvious.
There’s December 24 – that’s the day my father died. I can still hear the phone ring at 7:45 that morning – and I knew exactly what the call was about.

July 5 actually wasn’t a good day, but it turned out to be one of the best days of my life because of what it prompted.

That Friday morning was the day I blew out my knee, badly. I snapped my patella tendon – the one that keeps your kneecap in place. My doctor said it was one of the worst he’d seen. Having my kneecap sliding a quarter of the way up my thigh gave me a pretty good indication of that.

I violated just about every maritime superstition I knew of that day. I was going to sea on a Friday. The rowboat I was going to go out in had blue on it. I was probably whistling and ignoring the red sky in the morning just to completely tempt maritime fate.

The plan was to take two boats over to Port Clyde for the day. While my brother readied to depart in his, I was pulling up our rowboat – the Goomer Too – to ferry out to my Dad’s boat. Because of a severe thunderstorm the night before – which had me delirious with fright while at the fireworks in Thomaston (cause lightning freaks me out like nothing else) - the rowboat was full of water. I had to drag the boat up above the tide line to tip it over and dump it. Frustrated and impatient, I reached down and grabbed the bow of the aluminum boat, lifted it with one might heave and began dragging it up the beach. With the bow lifted, I stepped backward, needing only to go five feet or so. However, the storm the night before didn’t just bring rain, the riled seas brought lots of washed up seaweed, and as I stepped backward, my foot landed on seaweed.

Now, for you landlubbers out there, seaweed doesn’t really need a sign on it that says slippery when wet. That’s pretty much understood, and if you don’t know that , you should stay of the beach and rocks. Of course, even a know-it-all like me can get distracted enough to forget that.

When my foot hit the slippery seaweed, my leg went out from under me. With all my weight leaning backward, I fell right on my leg, popping my patella tendon with one giant severe snap.
I won’t even get into the whole drama of getting me off the beach. It wasn’t easy. A few hours later, I was in the hospital room. My knee had been surgically repaired. I was facing a long rehabilitation. My summer vacation was ruined, and I wouldn’t be able to drive for three months. For a brief few minutes, I felt pretty sorry for myself. I was lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut, so to speak.

But, it didn’t take long for me to snap out of it. I was helped by an eight-year old girl, my niece Caitlynne. She had been diagnosed with bone cancer that spring and had gone through drastic surgery just weeks before to save her life. I had actually seen her the week before my knee injury and was inspired by her strength and courage.

So, I sat in that hospital room determined not to let a little eight-year old girl show more guts than me. Right then and there, I put my game-face on. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself anymore. I had the eye of the tiger. I was going to make this injury one of the best things that had ever happened to me.

I set goals for myself that day. While embarking on my rehab, I was going to get myself in shape. The recovery time was estimated to be about three months or more. I was determined to trim that. I was going to take on this challenge with a positive attitude and kick its ass.

I later took a Sports Psychology class that talked about dealing with adversity. We were shown a clock and it was divided into sections. The top of the clock, 11 to 12, was where your goals were, what your dreams are. The previous half or quarters were what you had to do to get there.

Around the 3 o’clock mark, however, was an obstacle. The prof said that quite often people encounter adversity on the way to that goal. If they don’t deal with it or overcome it, they remain stuck, living that never-ending cycle between 1 and 3. If you can endure that challenge and get over that adversity, you’re on the road toward your goal.

I related completely to that scenario. I've seen people get stuck in one bad moment and never get passed it. I didn't let that happen. From the first few moments of coherence after my surgery, I was determined to take something bad and make it good. I didn’t really know how I was going to do that. I had meager goals – eat right, lose weight, get in shape and rehab my knee with persistence. I did all that with an attitude that was determined and unrelenting. It taught me that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I just needed the right attitude and to channel my stubbornness (which I have an abundance of). I didn’t just hobble past that hurdle. I took my crutches and beat it to smithereens. Then, I tossed the crutches away and limped off – glaring at anything else in my way with a “you wanna a piece this?” attitude, or something like it.
And, it paid off. I was driving almost two months to the day of my injury – without doctor’s permission of course. I returned home and began work a few weeks later. When the three-month recovery time estimate had elapsed, I’d been back at work for weeks and driving regularly. I was still building the strength in my knee but the daily walks and exercises had paid off. As if that weren’t enough, I lost about 30 pounds during that summer and would later drop about 40 more.

The benefits didn’t end there. Because of my lost vacation time and some awards I had won, I had extra time and prize money to spend. This was in the day when the paper actually rewarded us with cash bonuses for awards. Now, we might get a mention in the paper or ignored altogether.

I decided to use that time and money for something special. I decided to go on a schooner trip. The next July I sailed on the Victory Chimes. The following year I returned to the Chimes for a sail in September. It has become a yearly tradition, a week I anxiously await each year and has provided me a group of friends that are near and dear to my heart.

I think back to that July 5th now. I don’t really dwell too much on that morning and how my journey began. I still have the scar and my knee gets cranky once in a while – just like the rest of me.

It’s where I’ve gone and what I learned from that experience. It made me a better person. It taught me to be determined and committed to my cause and my goals. And I remain unrelenting in my pursuit of those dreams. I did turn a pretty bad morning into something special. The pain and misery I felt on the beach that day has been surpassed greatly by the resolve I’ve found inside and the benefits that came with it.

July 5 now reminds of the song “Beautiful Day”. It was one of the Leveller’s biggest hits in England. It goes “What a beautiful day, I’m the king of all time. And nothing is impossible in my all and powerful mind.”

How true. So, happy July 5, my independence day.