tom peters!

Brooks Townes

Dear Steve and Dave,

    I just returned from a lovely row and thought I'd drop you guys a note. I was slipping along easily for a piece, stretching out and flying for a mile or so, then easy, drifting silently past a great blue heron perched one-legged on a branch near the willows. Yellow sunrays ran deep into the green water this way and that, and over on yonder grassy shore, two small girls squealed when a bevy of ducks trotted toward them up the bank. Fall colors were coming out in the trees surrounding the lake beneath an unsullied blue sky and a young mother’s blonde hair glowed like silk and bounced as she jogged on a path by the shore

    Over the headphones from the FM Walkman, NPR went from classical music to reporting on the terrorists' effect on American life. That broke the spell but as I rowed off, pulling harder and harder to the news getting bleaker, it felt good, soothing in another way, and I realized that a guide boat in these times is no luxury. It's the best damn tonic you can imagine for getting away to beauty, changing the subject and smoothing the hurt. If the normal thought is that guideboat sales will tank now that relief agencies are crying for money, the stock market's draining to mud and layoffs abound…I’m here to tell you… that ain't the way it should be. Anybody who knows will tell you a guideboat is a necessity, now more than ever   

                                                                 Brooks

 Jim Hely

 Judy Goodwin

William Masters

Dear David and Steve,

    The Kevlar guide boat arrived in fine shape. It stands out like a Strobelight at midnight, in this era of total plastic jelly bean boats, with its graceful lines, cherry woodwork and caned seats. Neighbors have said they have seen me out in my "canoe", just as your literature describes. So, it is always fun to spread the gospel of the guide boat, and its many fine points. It is a joy to row; and has already provided many hours of exercise, and, more importantly, contentment. It allows me to really relax and observe the abundant wildlife that we have here; and it is easy to launch from our beach. I keep the boat in my garage on the dolly. When I row, the boat goes from my garage, across the driveway, and down a gravel path to our beach.

    So far, I have not decided on a name for my guide boat. My original wooden guide boat was named Maida, but I am not sure of the derivation of that name. Also, thought about Elva, as in sports car. The origin of Elva (as in sports car), is French, and is a contraction of, elle va; meaning "she goes". This really describes how the boat effortlessly glides through the water. Whatever name I pick for her, she is, truly a wonderful boat. Perhaps, if you guys can make it, we will see you at the Wooden Boat Show, in Port Townsend, next year. In any event, keep up the good work with the guide boats.

Sincerely,

Bill Masters, Port Ludlow, WA

Martin Withington

.

    Unfortunately, I only discovered Lieutenant Nares’ salutary warning after I had launched my boat on the wind-swept (but, nowadays, surprisingly clean) waters of Lac St Louis, which, as my readers will know well, is the broad reach formed by the confluence of the St Lawrence and Ottawa Rivers, just west of Montreal.

    The craft in question, although purchased from a builder in Vermont, is what is now properly termed an Adirondack Guide Boat, an elegant design perfected during the 19th century for hunting, fishing and recreation in the delightful lakes and rivers of that northern part of the Empire State. These boats are usually 15 feet or 16 feet in length; but mine is slightly smaller, at only 12 feet: it was originally designed for children, I think, but is a very convenient size for one person to lift in and out of the water – provided you don’t let it catch the wind.

    I say "now" because, like so many local types, it really had no name until it was already virtually obsolete in terms of its original purpose. To the craftsmen who developed its sleek lines and smooth hull in the 1870’s, it was simply a boat. Surprisingly, the type is virtually unknown in Quebec: it grows tedious to explain to ill-educated bystanders that: No, it is not a canoe (which appears to be the indigenous classification for anything smaller than a Laker provided it has no sails).

    The Adirondack Guide Boat is in fact a rowing boat, and is capable of a very fair turn of speed. It is a double-ended craft. If there is only one occupant, he sits more or less in the middle, on a rattan seat, with the transverse yoke as a back rest. If there is a passenger, he (or, one hopes, she) will sit in the seat at one end, and the rower will reverse his position and sit at the other. Which end of the boat is the bow, therefore, depends strictly on where the rower places himself. (It is unwise for the oarsman to insist on sitting in the middle with his back towards the passenger in what is then the bow: besides being rather rude, this naturally results in an excessive trim by the head.)

   The yoke, by the way, is so called because it is designed to allow the guide to carry the boat upside down on his back. Considering its light construction, the boat is extremely stable except when (and this brings me back to the admirable Nares) one is rash enough to stand in order to alight, or indeed (as I soon discovered) to board.

   But to return to my narrative: it was a bright, and distinctly breezy, day when I first launched my boat, which I had bought on an impulse, with some money (not much, sad to say) bequeathed to me by my uncle. No doubt, if I had had a small and secure wooden floating dock of the type so commonly seen in late nineteenth century photographs of leafy Adirondack resorts - crinolines, parasols, dappled sunshine, etc., - all would have been well.

    But my task was to get from a rocky and weed-encrusted beach, seasoned by a brisk blow and stiff swell, into a lively and untethered flat-bottomed shell. I gave the matter considerable thought; but after a while, egged on by the churlish jibes of my dependants assembled on the adjacent bank, I gingerly placed my left foot squarely in the centre of the craft.

   My planning would no doubt have been crowned with a gratifying success had my basic assumption proved to be sound: that the boat itself was reasonably passive. Sadly, this hope proved to be not well-placed. As I transferred my weight onto the ship-borne foot, the hull lurched capriciously towards my other leg. This right limb remaining firmly planted on the bottom of the Lake, my centre of gravity was soon transferred to a point outside the critical vertical line. (Cf Leaning Tower of Pisa.)

It was quite late in these proceedings when I came to appreciate that my other foot was in fact firmly planted, not on the bottom at all, but on some singularly slimy and treacherous algae. After that flash of enlightenment, I must admit, I am not at all clear about the course of the rapidly unfolding events. Suffice it to say (to coin a serviceable phrase) that I soon found myself supine in the shallows, with the boat on top of my head.

   So much for stability. The only good thing, I think, was that my family, by this time helpless with unseemly and disrespectful mirth, was quite unable to find, much less to operate, the camera. The waters of the Lake (it being now November, or very close to it) were not excessively warm. And it is not, as I quickly realised, a very dignified exercise to seek to divest yourself of a boat, however elegantly designed, which happens to be sitting on your head like a bowler hat, - especially when you yourself are semi-recumbent in the shallows, with spectacles dangling off one ear, water-weed clinging to your wrists, and the oars drifting away like cats on the loose.

   As I have explained, it was only after this that I discovered the advice of the excellent Lieutenant Nares. But believe me, it really is quite sound: I know this from experience.

     Best , Alex Mac C .