Sailing Enchantress

We still see our beloved Hunter 44 now with new name and owners.  When they call on the radio and I hear a confident captain at her helm,  I am filled with proud happiness.

Moving on to:   http://sailingenchantress.blogspot.com/

Falling into Autumn

I want to thank the readers for their comments and patience and invite you to enjoy some pictures of a spectacular day on the River this Saturday.  It was a watershed week in more ways than one.  The week started with my mother in the hospital in Washington DC to a major flood at my house with Surfpro professionals drying up the mess.  Despite all external and internal worries and concerns, a breezy day transports us, for a while, into an enchanted realm.


 I am surrounded by wonderful people, at work, at play, and at home.   I consider myself lucky and fortunate.  Song of the Wind has found new owners, and it was strangely exciting to see her on the water without us on her new maiden voyage.


When time permits, I will be moving soon  to sailingenchantress.blogspot.com.

As we travel the River and the Bay, I often wonder how we look to others on the water.  And so these images ....

Leaving Song of the Wind

She sits patiently waiting for us to return.    She does not groan querulously when we open her doors.   She does have stored aromatic memories of the weeks inactivity, but after some openings, she is again fresh.

Song of the Wind has been faithful and loyal and true to us for the last nine years. She houses indelible memories in her bones.   The kids have grown up in her berths, and I have become a white haired middle aged man.   She represents  promise of new and old adventures fulfilled.  And now, for a new family, more beginnings and memories to be cherished.

We are moving on to Enchantress, a larger vessel but perhaps with smaller dreams.   She still has many issues to resolve but in the solving of problems, she becomes our own.  Trials and tribulations strengthen character, and fractured bones are often stronger.

Yet we do not wish for hardship or broken bones but for fair weather.   We wish for a  strong breeze freshening over rippled waves with the sun behind us and  the promise of summer evenings.  In our memories,  Song of the Wind glistens in the soft glow and the waves darken with shadows but we glide over them with just a shudder.  

She is only fiberglass, wood, and canvas.   We have embedded her with meaning and thus she is alive for us.      I feel a little betrayed in courting Enchantress, but perhaps our hearts are capable of loving more than one vessel.   We will miss you Song of the Wind.   We only hope that you give others the same joy and freedom that you have given us.    Good Bye Song of the Wind.    Good Bye.

Passages

Noah leans over to gauge the distance that Song of the Wind must glide before she turns sharp into her slip.  It is a controlled movement.  His raised eyebrow coincides with a quick turn of the wheel.   Song of  the Wind moves gracefully at slightly over a knot with a foot under her keel.  She moves from the first piling and presents her hind quarters to the far post.  My job is to grab the line which is just within reach.  We pivot on the stern cleat, and we are back home.

He is a taller young man of fifteen now but the the boy still remains.  Noah was six when we first met Song of the Wind.  When she would heel, Noah would scream.  He sat at the head of the steps, wide eyed and looking astern, wishing for the end of this folly.  He sat patiently through all of the lessons, and made practical comments such as “why do you not tip over completely when we heel?”  Looking at the strong keels of boats on dry dock did not assuage his inner equilibrium when we went out in strong winds.

Noah is now the captain and has a better sense of the water than me.  He is comfortable and is at ease when encountering problems on the Bay.  Whereas I have to use my left brain to analyze and equate and muddle through, he seizes up the situation quickly with his right brain and thus has the use of his full faculties for other tasks.  So it seems to me, as I look over my glasses with my elongated eyeballs, graying hair cascading over wrinkled brow...

A few weeks ago, we ventured to the St Mary’s River during  Spring Break.  Last year, we had witnessed the ravages of a tornado in Deltaville and sailed with his friend Cameron.  Cameron lost his house but not his dog.  He  is a resilient waterman.  This year, we went forth man to man into heavy and sustained winds.  Small craft advisory for three days was mana for our souls.  We went North to the Potomac.

Flying our jib with a tiny main was our best strategy.  Song of the Wind seemed carefully tamed as she galloped over the wind capped waves.  Too much jib, she groaned, and too much main made a mess of the cabin.   She quickly came to when we depowered, and we felt safe in the cockpit with our foul gear and old life vests.

At night, we marveled that we can make Thai vegetables and watch the evening news.  Ben and Jerry’s were ours for taking as it was mano a mano.  The stark windy bay was just a memory when we went below like troglodytes.

I look at our old pictures and am reminded of the old woman in Fanny and Alexander.  In the long winter night,  during the rain, she is counting her children amongst the pictures that are spread on the kitchen table.  The table that gave sustenance and life now recounting her memories.  She is alone, it is a white light, and it is coming down in doves.

We pass though our time with a little wave and try not to make big wakes behind us. Our footprints are somewhat sustainable.  We want our lives to be meaningful but come to understand that only we can make sense of our lives.  Our treasures are with us in the here and now.   We look backwards with some longing but the future also beckons.  Sailing interweaves these desires and thoughts in the present.   We are loking backwards at our wakes but gazing ahead to the next mark.  We are living in the passage.

I think of Noah at six and now he is fifteen and a half.  Miju, Ben, Mark and Reuben are really out of the harbor and venturing into the world.  They are making their own passages.   We have a common bond as we all grew up together.  A small speck on the water we appear to the jet fighters above us near the waters off the Aberdeen Proving Grounds.  Together and alone we feel connected to each other even when apart.  These are the passages that Song of the Wind has given us.

The Morning After ...

The morning dawned clear and Joan and I woke up invigorated.   Downtown Richmond was like Oz glimmering with the sunrise.   We were able to secure the last parking spot at the James center.     Warm bathrooms rather than portable potties!

Joan took off with her half marathon and she was happy.   The waves seemed endless.   The marathon itself was more ho hum, people got in line and at 8 o clock, we simply started.

Andrea and Jay were my companions.   They are strong runners.   I knew that we were going out too fast for my Achilles, but I stayed with them for the the first seven miles.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Feeling a part of a unified organism, a part of the whole, we ran down Monument avenue.  It was a glorious morning.    We did not feel pain.    We wondered how fortunate we are to feel this good and be able to run.   The friendly people lining the streets were wonderful.   We almost had an obligation to entertain them, those who brave the cold.

Normally, I can run twenty miles without much discomfort.   Two weeks earlier, running up a steep hill in downtown Richmond, I felt my right Achilles go, and could barely walk for a mile.   Stupidly, I finished the twelve mile run, and have not been able to run since.

I am a lay expert on Achilles tendons, having ruptured my left Achilles playing tennis.  It was my match point, and Mike hit a drop shot.  I remember the thought, "how dare he hit a drop shot on match point"  and then a a sudden collapse.   I fell to the ground, a lancing pain, and a helplessness as I could not stand.  Needless to say, I lost the match.  

After surgery and and a ugly scar, I understood better the the legend of Achilles, and the vulnerability of our bodies to this large tendon.   The Achilles is  so strong but lacking in blood supply and at risk to fatigue and sudden strains.   Once ruptured, we are helpless.  Indians used to cut the Achilles of their vanquished foe so that that could not fight again.  Now we have orthopedic surgeons who can sew them together, but the tendon is still suspect.

As we crossed the Hugenot bridge after mile seven, I began to listen to the dull strain that my virgin right Achilles was singing.  It was mixed with Stevie Wonder and Bob Dylan.   "How many roads ..."  I had hoped that music was my anesthetic, but my body's limbic system was very strong.  The mid calf muscle started to cramp, and it became difficult to keep cadence.  I saw Andrea and Jay recede into the distance as Pink Floyd began to sing Comfortably Numb. 

Running is an unconscious event, and beautiful runs are often effortless.  When we are injured, each foot step requires some instruction, and we are poor taskmasters to automatic functions.    Trying to protect the left leg resulted in straining  the right heel.   The hips go next, as the jarring constrains your stride.   Your posture slumps, the arms hang, and your vision begins to be restricted to the pavement rather than the beautiful vistas ahead.  Back ache ensue, and I am now bent over, octogenarian osteoporotic posture.

I kept reasonable pace until the the half way mark, and as we turned toward downtown and the Lee bridge, people began to pass me.   It is a strange sensation.  There is nothing that I could have done to keep up.   A "bumble bee" passed me quickly along with a 80 year old incredible man, Woody Whitlock, who was running his eight marathon in eight months to celebrate his eightieth birthday (Richmond Times Dispatch, Friday) .   His motto was, "if  I can do it, so can you."    I could only admire the back of his shirt and soon he was absorbed into the haze ahead.  He was running upright!

My thoughts turned inward with pain.    This pain is not the exhausting good pain of prolonged effort, but rather the red light sensors of your body telling you "what is wrong with you " persisting in this activity.    At the fifteen mile marker, Noah and Ben gave me some Tylenol, and I was becoming a traffic impediment to the hoards of runners streaming by me.    I tried to stay to the side.  Simple tasks became difficult.  My stride shortened.  Vision became tunneled. 

The people exhorting, " you can do it" and "one foot after the other" probably looked at me with pity.    I could not think of the task at hand, but had to live in the second to second.   If I knew there were ten miles to go, my intellectual left brain could not stomache it.  Emotion is stronger than intellect.  

So I tried to shut out my left brain, and let my right side take over.   I concentrated on the smells of the road.   Sticky rice restaurant and the frat boys with beer passed by.    My breathing was semi musical.    Joan Armitradin and Lou Reed serenaded my steps.  I felt the sun on my skin and tasted  sweaty salt.   My life compressed into each moment.  There was no past or future, just now.  There was no desire.  Life was bearable because there was no future. 

Janet and her marathon crew gave me a sip of Bud Lite near mile twenty, but I needed my faculties.     I no longer cared about the wonderfully trained soccer moms passing me by.  My tenth Richmond became a test of survival.   I wondered why I was running, and I realized that it was to celebrate life.    It was to mark a date when we can come together to test the hypothesis that we can still run.   Depite busy careers, raising children, being a husband and friend to my Joanie, that I could still run.  It is a selfish act but also setting an example to my kids.  

My frowns turns outward, and I regained my smile that I had for the first seven miles.   Usually, the marathon starts for me at mile 21, but this year it started a little bit sooner at mile seven.    Lucky for me, I thought, get in three times more experience this time.

As I turned the corner toward Pope avenue and the dread Pope avenue arch, my savior Kevin strode up.  He had been the coach for his half marathon teammates earlier and had run with each member to the finish line.   I think he had run more collective miles that morning than I did.

Kevin did not have to meet me, but he did and I was the benefactor.    He essentially saved my life and running yesterday.   We had been teammates on the Navy MTT in 2007 and ran Richmond together in 2008 (see Richmond Magazine Nov 2011, health section).   Kevin brought great cheer and began to regale me stories of his day.   He stayed with me through the Northside despite a blistering 13 mile pace, and only offered encouragement.  It was harder for him to shuffle beside me rather run his normal stride.  

Magically, with Kevin paving the way, the Brook road stretch passed quickly.   The head winds were warm and caressing.     We approached downtown via Lombardy, and I tried to keep pace with a woman from Ft Lauderdale.   As a true enthusiast, Kevin was encouraging all the runners around us!   He was checking on his former teammates, and tried to get a smile out our Florida woman, but she would not be dissuaded.   It made me smile, inwardly.

The last three miles were the longest.    Pain was present, but my mind was numb to it.  My body was hurting, but that was an old story.    I concentrated on keeping my feet moving and not falling.   I was very afraid that my left Achilles would snap just as my right did on the tennis court.    This would be "bad form" and certain to make Joan very angry.  She already thought  I was hard headed and had been worried about me the past two weeks.  

My Navy coaches joined us on the last mile, and they were uplifting.    I heard by the side that I was the last Navy runner, the anchor of the class for 2011!  I hoped that I was the Fortress anchor type rather than the Plow.     Kevin and I were able to pick up our  legs so that we ran in normally through the finish.    The fellow in front of me did a jumping jig.  I did a jumping collapse onto to the crates of Power-aid.

We all gathered at the Tobacco Company, an iconic Richmond institution, for French fries and beer.    Wealth is measured by happiness and a joyful steady outlook for the future.   I felt wealthy surround by my family and friends.    This tenth Richmond was one of my slowest races but my proudest thus far.    When I can no longer run Richmond, I hope to be one of those people on the sidelines, encouraging other runners to the finish. 

 As I look down on my legs, I see a beautiful bruise in the mid calf probably signifying a tendon tear and subsequent bleeding.  I will be looking for you in the doctor's lounge, Chris Young...These days of health care, I probably have to make an appointment and wait weeks.    I did not make the Richmond Forum last night as we have nosebleed seats in the balcony.    I could barely walk to the bathroom.  The day ended with a clear moon shadow casting a magical charm over the lake.      There are several more weekends before we retire Song of the Wind for the season.  The morning after today brings new hope and promise. The morning after today is grand.

The numbers...

	age	Year	Total	Half	20 miles
Skylon Marathon, Buffalo NY	22	1984	3:47:04
Richmond	40	2002	4:51:43	2:14:46	3:35:31
Richmond	41	2003	5:07:32	2:10:56	3:39:17
Richmond	42	2004	4:28:49	2:14:51	3:27:48
Richmond	43	2005	4:22:13	2:05:33	3:15:37
Richmond	44	2006	4:38:27
Richmond	45	2007	4:12:46	2:07:01	3:14:21
Richmond	46	2008	4:27:05	2:03:00	3:13:44
Richmond	47	2009	4:33:06	2:10:51	3:23:12
Richmond	48	2010	4:27:57	2:08:54	3:20:13
Richmond	49	2011	5:00:42	2:11:23	3:38:37

Running

I have run the Richmond Marathon for the last 9 years.  This will be the 10th time that my poor back will be be tested.   I started back in 2002, when I turned 40.   Mid life was an accurate description as the middle of my body was definitely growing.  So I decided to run.

I had inklings of mortality, having ruptured my Achilles tendon several years before.  After driving to Key West in January, I ruptured my L4L5 disc few weeks later.   Dr. Sanhi performed mini-discetomy.  I was out of work for several weeks , and gingerly started to ride my bicycle.  A crystal memory remains.  I  woke from anesthesia and felt reborn.  The constant nagging back pain was gone.  It lasted for a few days, and then with the first walk , the pain returned although not as intense.  My MRI post surgery looked worse,  probably from scar tissue.  My disc herniated and a disc fragment was lodged in a dorsal root ganglion.  This sudden event made my misery so intense that I could not pee or sit,  but only stand.    I could not walk from the entrance of the hospital to the radiology section. I was carted on a stretcher, gamely studying the interesting patterns of lights and shadows on the ceiling.

I was the fortunate beneficiary of an excellent surgeon, and I decided to test his work by running the Richmond Marathon that Fall.  I could not train due to a busy schedule, and I did not trust my running.  I had read the Gallagher walk-run strategy, and so I decided to try the run-walk.  From "men only" mountain bike trip every year, I learned that by day 5 of intense exercise, I was back in reasonable shape.  So the two weeks before Richmond, I started to run my Woodland Pond Loop, 3.24 miles, every night, with a head lamp and bottle water.   I purchased new shoes the week before, so that I did not wear out the shock absorption qualities of the heel.  It seemed to make sense at the time.

My neighbors and friends were excited, and they all signed up for the 8K portion of the race.   I remember the French fries at the Tobacco Company after.  I blamed the intense cramping on low potassium, but it was really deconditioning and muscle fatigue.  I found that Bud lite was an excellent antidote to leg cramps.

I had fun for the 1st 10 miles.  I felt okay for the next 5 miles.  I started to hurt for the next 5 miles.  The next 6.2 miles, where the marathon begins, was essentially a test of endurance.  When I looked around me however, all of the other runners who had actually trained appeared to be in the same boat, running downwind with the “wall” still looming. Because of adrenaline, the race itself was a blurr, and my back held up.  I learned about chaffing around the the nipples, thighs and belly.  Next year, Vaseline.

For the next several years, I ran the Richmond  marathon in similar fashion, running only the Woodland Pond Loop every day, one week before.  I made it a ritual of going to Runner Bills and buying new shoes.  I ate Pop Tarts at every “party zone” that my wonderful sister-in-law, Janet, faithfully provided.   She has made an art form of making it to all three party zones in time to provide these important nutrients.  She has been my best support staff.  This year, I think Bud lite is coming with the chocolate Pop Tarts.

I even made a Richmond Marathon before my twin’s Bat Mitzvah.  Joan made me promise that I would be able to dance and attend the formal party.  My secret weapon that year was Helen, who is wonderful nurse also a certified sport masseuse.   It was an incredibly hot race, but Helen did her magic, and I could be seen smiling in the Bat Mitzvah pictures.  I never could dance anyway, but had a good excuse that year.

For the last four years, I have been running with the Sportsbackers Marathon Training Team (MTT).  They are wonderful committed group of mostly volunteer coaches who sacrifice their weekends to lead a motley crew to run 26.2 miles.  I personally think they run too much, but the formula has stood the test of time.  They are enthusiastic, always encouraging, and never tired or cold regardless of weather.

When Joan and I ran together for her first marathon to celebrate her 50^th birthday, she followed the training schedule, and came within several minutes of making the Boston Marathon cut off.   We had a great time, taking pictures, and talking to family and friends throughout the run.   Being a mother of five, as well as a practicing physician, and of course, a spouse to me,  Joan has mastered multi-tasking and also endurance sports.  Probably, for her, race day was just another ho-hum affair and a reasonable day without the need for cooking dinner.  Miju surprised her by coming home from Williamstown for the weekend, missing the all important Amherst-Williams game.  

Joan and I have run another marathon two years later, and she is correct in deducing that marathons are not good for your health.  The training is important.    Running and being fit is salubrious.  The actual 26.2 miles is a little too long, and studies have shown myocardial enzyme “leak” especially in unfit runners like me.  The first marathon runner, Phillipes, died after reaching Athens from the plains of Marathon.   What we forget, is that Phillipes, ran from Athens to Sparta 140 miles, twice, and then fought a battle with the Persians.  After the battle, he was asked to run back to Athens, a distance around 40,000 meters or 24 miles, to bring news of the Greek victory and also to warn the Athenian that a separate Persian force was headed their way.  He promptly died  from exhaustion after reaching his goal.   Just as modern history is written mostly by the Brits, the real 26.2 miles came from the first Olympics in London, where the added miles was for the benefit of King Edward, that the race could finish in front of his stand.

I am now running for my own King Edward stand but feel more mortal than ever.  I have run some long runs this summer but my right Achilles has been out, and pain ensues any distance run.  I am not quite sure if it is my Achilles tendon or just a pulled muscle, but I cannot do my Woodland Pond Loop  for fear of injury.   So it will be a true taper.  I need to remind myself that I did not have to fight the Persians or run 280 miles the days before.  I simply have to go to work and eat piazza, and be ready for Janet to hand me my pop tarts and beer at party zones.  I think I ll be ready.  We have to have faith.

Going downwind or “running” in  sailing is also an act of faith. You have to believe that the boat will not broach.  You have to believe that you can turn  back upwind.  The gentility of the wind is treacherous.  The wind hits your back kindly but will not let you go back upwind without a fight.  It pushes you into a lee shore.  When you finally face it, the full breadth of your hull and sails are now exposed to weather.  You wonder why the poor blokes coming by you look so haggard and why their sails are reefed when you have your canvas magnificiently full and proud running downwind.  We are running downhill only to pay to price of that upwind leg and Heartbreak Hill to come later.  

It is actually more difficult to steer downwind.  The boat yaws.  Steering become loose.  The waves turn the broad rear of the boat in a  corkscrew action.    We sallow and yaw, and our bearing deviates jealously  with each rolling wave.  If lulled, you can jibe.  The full force of the wind takes your boom and turns it into a lethal force. Silent and swift, without any warning, the boom comes across hard, full force.  Deadly.

Paradoxically, tacking into weather is much easier on the hardware, and not as dangerous.  There is noise, the sails are flapping, but they are relatively impotent.   You need speed to tack.  The bow cleaves the waves well.  There is less yaw.  The heading is true.  Song of the Wind sometimes slams into the waves, but it is more arresting than dangerous.  The boom comes across more like a hestitating suitor while the jib crosses over like a jilted lover.   It is exciting when she pick up speed again, bearing on a new tack, a new object.  

This weekend, the meeting of my running coaches with sailing occurred, and this story is for them.  The MTT coaches have been extremely generous with their time and encouragement.  I want them to know the beauty of sail, and similarities to running.  When the dog days of August arrive, and the hot summer fades, I want to salute the poor runner who is training for his day in November.    I am often sailing rather than running on those hot Saturday mornings.   The MTT coaches are out there regardless of weather, spurring on lost runners and dishing out wisdom.  They are more fun on Song of the Wind than on the streets of Richmond, but that is for another story.

I hope to run another 10 Richmond races, but I will be grateful for just one more  run.  My memory of days when I could only barely sit or walk, suffuses each time that I can run.  There is freedom in movement.  Whether running downwind or going to weather,  just as long as we are outside, sailing or running, is enough. 

Whether one race or twenty races, just having family and friends running together is also enough.   Each healthy day is a blessing once we are reminded of our morbidity and mortality.  Looking backwards at the old marathon pictures, I am astonished how quickly nine years have passed.  Miju has graduated from Williams.  Ben, Mark, and Reuben are now in college.  Noah is a freshman and will be handing out water at the Maggie Walker High School near the 23 mile marker.


I am looking forward to this Saturday with joy and anticipation no matter what my aches are pains might portend.  I still have to contend with an expanding middle.  I did not have to fight the Persians.  I will have Joan and Janet and my MTT coaches spurring me on.  The course closes at 3 o clock, I hope that it will be enough.