Out of My Scull (eBook)

Chapter 2

Damsels in Distress

The Christina River in Wilmington, Delaware, can beckon to you on a bright sunny day, but no one swims in it, even on the hottest summer day. It’s a contaminated river, frequently the subject of potential reclamation projects upon which city officials run political campaigns but never quite put into place after the election.

It connects to a smaller river running through town into which the city sewage system flows when storm drains overflow. In the spring, with heavy rains, it is tough to avoid conjecturing what the baby-shit-brown–colored sludge floating on the surface might be. I’m told that chemicals were freely dumped into that river by local companies back then, so years of effluence have been added to the sewer soup.

Many years ago, a friend told me of an incident when she presented to her physician with a nasty wart on her finger. He said to her that she had three options: he could burn it off, cut it out, or she could dip it into the Christina River and wait a week for it to fall off. She chose the latter course and was delighted not to pay a doctor’s bill.

And here we four are, in shock to find ourselves suddenly bobbing and blubbering in its nasty water on what began as a fine spring morning row.

“Is everyone okay?” Lou sputters.

“Yeah, I guess,” Linda says from the other side of the overturned boat.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” says Ann. “What happened?”

“Hit something, or something hit us. Anyone see anything?” I ask.

We four are the Panthers, a woman’s recreational quad crew of good rowers who have been rowing together for years. We are an unlikely crew because of physical size differences, but we row well together and don’t usually face anything similar to the current devastating predicament. We know that the river offers up debris with the changing tides, which can be substantial. That’s why we are careful to watch where we are rowing.

“Can’t see anything, but my feet are sinking into the damn mud on the bottom of this disgusting river,” says Linda.

Linda is every inch Italian; her homemade limoncello is a favorite around the boathouse on barbeque nights. She’s built for power, all muscle. Like most Italian mammas, she’d give anyone the shirt off her back. She’s a natural take-charge person, always volunteering to deliver a homemade dinner to anyone temporarily incapacitated. She knows everyone, knows all the latest gossip, and can find humor in the smallest of life’s happenings. She’s protective of her brood, which includes her two daughters and rowing buddies.

From Lou, a nervous laugh, “I can’t touch the bottom.”

Lou is a tiny five feet and one hundred pounds, married with a daughter. She always has a smile on her face and kind words for everyone. Just below the smile, Lou has a perpetual laugh. Everything in her world is funny, making her great fun. She and Linda can get our quad laughing at pretty much nothing. And somehow, all that nothing is always hysterical.

“Maybe we can get the boat turned over and back in.”

“Uh, not without riggers.” At this point, we all notice that they have been sheared clean off.

“Oh my god!”

There is no way to row a boat with oars on just one side. We are doomed and dreading the need to be rescued, which is every rower’s nightmare.

“Anyone got their cell phone?”

Linda pipes in, “I have mine. I’ll call the boathouse.”

The boat is now upside down with four of our eight oars still attached in oarlocks and riggers. But four other oars, attached to their oarlocks and riggers, are floating merrily about us.

“Can someone please grab the riggers and oars floating on that side,” Lou, ever polite, asks.

“I’ve got these two,” I say.

I’m Danielle, the boat’s stroke seat. I’m fifty-eight, five feet four inches tall, and 130 pounds. I’m strong, but years of smoking destroyed my lungs, so I have significantly diminished my aerobic ability. I’m married, have no kids, and foolishly confident enough to try anything once.

“I’ve got the other two,” grunts Ann as she reaches for the last oar and rigger. Ann is our other powerhouse. The tallest of the group at around five feet nine inches, she has a son and daughter just out of the house and is no longer married. She is the most experienced rower among the four of us, having taken rowing vacations with her kids when they were in high school.

While Linda calls the boathouse to rescue us, the rest of us stand sinking into the mud or, in Lou’s case, treading water, trying to keep the boat and its broken pieces from drifting downriver with the tide. Oh, did I not mention that our river is tidal? One of its many challenges is a rather hefty tide that will carry sculls toward the myriad debris floating or stuck firmly in the mud, creating collision hazards for unsuspecting rowers. This morning, it is trying to drag the boat and us upriver away from our boathouse and into the considerably more significant, container-boat-trafficked Delaware River port.

“Yeah, the boat is upside down, we are in the water, and the starboard riggers are sheared off. We can’t row it even if we could get in it. Can someone come and get us? We want to get out of this awful river before we are knee-deep in sludge. Thank you,” says Linda.

“Who was there?” asks Lou, still wearing her black Roy Orbison–style spy sunglasses. The sunglasses are mirrored at the edges so bows can see behind them without turning around.

“Peter Myers. At least he knows how to drive a launch,” says Linda.

“Oh, that’s good,” says Ann. “We have an experienced knight coming to our rescue.” Still a little shell-shocked, we don’t find this at all funny.

“I don’t like being out here,” says Lou, tired from treading water because she can’t touch the bottom.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Lou, hang onto the boat, I say. We should all hang onto the boat. There is no need to touch the bottom and lose a sock.” All rowers wear socks inside the boat shoes out of fear of catching athlete’s foot, warts, or some other contagious, unheard-of, and incurable foot disease from others who row in the same shoes.

“Already lost mine,” laughs Linda.

“I’m coming around to that side of the boat. I don’t like being on this side alone,” says Ann. “I’m alone enough as it is.”

“Do you think we are drifting downstream?” asks Lou in a tiny voice.

“Ah, yeah, we probably are. The tide was going out,” I say.

“Here, Ann, I can hold onto one of those oars while you come around. Just don’t let go of the boat, okay?” says Linda.

“I’m fine,” says Ann. “Uh-oh.”

“What, what is it?” I ask.

“I lost hold of the other rigger. It’s drifting toward your end, Lou,” says Ann.

“Okay, okay, let me see if I can grab it. Hold on. Don’t worry. I’ll go around the end and . . .” says Lou.

“Don’t let go of the boat!” shouts Linda in a panic. “Lou, Lou, say something. We can’t see you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Got it,” Lou shouts.

“Thank god,” says Linda.

“Ann, you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, did Lou get the rigger?”

“Yes. She’s got it, and she’s okay. Lou, you coming back around?”

“Thank god. The Board would probably have made me pay for that,” says Ann, who is on the rowing club’s Board.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Lou materializes from the stern of the boat with a rigger part in one hand and a smile on her face. “One rescued rigger coming up.”

“What a mess,” declares Linda. “What the heck could we have hit?”

“I’m sorry, guys. I didn’t see anything, and I was looking, believe me. Whatever it was, it must have been submerged. This is all my fault,” declares Lou, accepting all the blame we are not putting on her shoulders.

“Oh, Lou, it’s not your fault. We can’t even see what we hit knowing something’s there,” says Linda.

“Maybe it was the river monster arising from the muddy depths to lure rowers into the murky waters,” I say, trying to assuage Lou’s guilt.

“I don’t care what it was. I want to get out of here as soon as possible,” says Linda, who is adding panic to her anxiety.

Finally, our rescue sixteen-foot aluminum rowboat with a twenty-five horse-power motor arrives. It’s not exactly what we need to get us all out of the grunge, but at least we no longer feel alone. Someone knows we are in trouble and is there to help us escape this mess.

“What the hell did you hit?” he asks first. Not how are you or anyone else hurt, but what did you hit? This response erases that fleeting feeling of comfort at not being alone and getting...