It all begins, as is often the case, with the end. It's three o'clock in the morning, I am on
my knees shivering uncontrollably and vomiting on a sand bar in the San Marcos River. My 18th
hour into the 1996 Texas Water Safari, the " World's Toughest Boat Race", has not turned out
like I planned. I am approximately at mile 50, almost in dead last place and at least 20 miles
behind the race leaders. I am alone and am close to being hypothermic, an amazing condition to
be in given the fact that it's June in the middle of a drought.
I want nothing more than to quit. My childhood dream of competing in this race has
turned into the nightmare known as reality. I cannot paddle any further; my pace is below one
mile per hour. I am fighting logjams, fatigue and nausea. Fallen trees that span the river, called
sweepers, knock me out of my canoe and into the river. Ahead, lies the one hazard on the river
not to be taken lightly, the Ottine dam. It is an unmarked dam. All the race literature warns not to
try running this section of the river at night unless, it has been previously scouted.
I am tired and afraid as I crawl up into the bow of my flimsy 17.5-foot racing canoe to try
to get some rest. Sleep comes in fits. I have climbed glaciated peaks in Europe and North
America and have never been as cold as this night. I get up after an hour or two. It's just a matter
of finding a place to quit. Fifteen hours and 30 miles later, I find that place. I never want to do
this race again.
Weeks go by and the pain in my joints subsides, but my hunger for the race returns. At
least one or two nights each week I dream about the race. Something goes wrong in each dream.
Usually in the dream, I get to the race after it has started and am too late to race. In September, I
decide to do a short 15-mile race with my 11-year-old son. We finish in last place, but place
third in our category. Time is morphine and has erased the memory of the pain. I decide to try it
again.
I have learned some lessons to help me next year. I need a partner, someone whom I can
count on. The best teams seem to be composed of relatives: fathers, sons, brothers and cousins. It
only makes sense. No matter how tough it gets or how high the emotions run, blood is thicker
than water. I convince my cousin Mark into doing the race with me. Mark is a 6' 2" oil field
hand who works on an offshore production platform and in his spare time runs a small farm. He
is twice as strong as I am and will make the perfect teammate. I also decide on using a different
canoe. After studying the race results and talking to other racers, I buy a lightweight aluminum
canoe from a boat outfitter in San Marcos who strips out the floatation and installs adjustable
tractor seats for speed and comfort.
Cindy, my wife, is none too happy about my decision to enter the race again. She agrees
to let me do it under a couple of conditions. First, she will be my team captain and there will be
no quitting. Second, she is going to need suitable transportation. The station wagon that she has
wanted to trade in for that last year is not going to cut it. Cindy wants a new van, so she and the
kids can sleep in it as she follows us down the river. I agree to the tune of $24,000. Somehow
when I attended the Water Safari Seminar, a one-day class for neophytes taught by veteran
racers, I must have missed the section on how to handle spouses. Well I have paid the price for
marrying someone smarter than myself before and I will pay it again.
At the seminar we are given a short history of the race. The genesis of the race was a
publicity stunt staged by Bill "Big Willie" George a local businessman and Frank Brown head of
the San Marcos Chamber of Commerce in 1962 to bring attention to the City of San Marcos.
Wearing pith helmets, they got in their heavy V bottom fishing boat and began paddling down
the river. A few people gathered at the first towns to watch these modern day Don Quixote's.
Soon, the press arrived and started following their progress. Then politicians showed up along
the way to have their pictures taken with these two unlikely heroes. By the time they reached
Corpus a month later they were featured in Life Magazine and the whole world knew their story.
The trip drew so much publicity that in 1963 was turned into a race. It was a big deal in
its early days. Cash prizes were given. There were Texas Water Safari parades and beauty
pageants in the towns along the route. Astronauts would come and congratulate the winners. The
race was a little tougher in those days. The participants could not have any assistance.
Even giving a team member water was not permitted. The racers had to bring their own water,
boil river water, or drink it straight from the river. The rules have been changed only slightly
over the years. The course was shortened by 80 miles and a 100-hour time limit was imposed,
probably to placate the spouses and bosses. Too many racers were getting sick from drinking bad
water, so the rules were modified to allow the racers to receive water. Only one person, the team
captain, is allowed to pass the racers water. The team captain is not allowed to assist the team in
any other way. They may not even touch the team members.
The course starts in the Central Texas town of San Marcos and follows the San Marcos
River for 85 miles from its source to its confluence with the Guadalupe River. Proceeds down
the Guadalupe for 170 miles to the Gulf of Mexico, then heads out 5 miles across the Gulf and
ends at the coastal town of Seadrift. There are several checkpoints and mandatory cutoff times
along the way. The most technical section of the course is the upper San Marcos River and most
of the cutoff times are intended to insure that inexperienced racers are not caught on that portion
of the river after dark.
Mark and I start to train. The first training run is on a cold, but clear, day in January.
Mark lives on a farm near Dallas. He works seven days on an oil platform offshore from
Galveston and the other seven days he works on his farm taking care of his cattle and kids. I
leave Houston around 3:00 a.m. for the three-hour drive to San Marcos. Mark leaves around 1:00
a.m. from Dallas. Our plan is to meet in San Marcos at 6:00 a.m., paddle all day, then drive to
Houston. We will get back to Houston around midnight. Mark plans on getting about three hours
of sleep before driving to Galveston to catch a helicopter to the oil platform. Sleep depravation is
great training for the Safari. Its one of the coldest days of the year and we are bundled up from
head to toe. We look like creatures from another planet as we wander around the aisles of the
San Marcos Super Wal-Mart at six in the morning looking for neoprene socks. We find some
and head for the river. By the end of the day, we are shivering uncontrollably and can barely
move our arms. We have barely made 22 miles.
Our training continues through the spring. We work on how to best steer the canoe. We
start with me in the back and Mark in the front. Then we try me in the front and Mark in the
back. We start with single blade paddles. We try paddling on the same side, then opposite sides.
We try to build a rudder. Finally, we buy double bladed paddles and attempt a 40-mile run. We
are able to keep the boat straight and only capsize once.
The race is just weeks away when Mark telephones me. He was watching the news and
saw the story of a father and son who were training for the Safari. Due to the high flood waters;
when they came to the Ottine dam they mistook it for a set of rapids and went over. The father
drowned. It was a tragic accident and would haunt us both. It was only the week before that we
had stood on the shore downstream from the dam and commented on how dangerous it would be
for someone to go over. Mark mentions that he is now dreaming about the race every night and
not sleeping very soundly.
Two weeks before the race work starts to get real hectic. I am flying to two or three cities
a week and working 60 to 80 hours per week. There is little time to train. I have another big
project that is coming up. A week before the race, I still have not had a chance to ask my boss
for permission to do the race. I am real apprehensive about asking for the time off. Fortunately,
my boss is understanding and wishes me good luck.
The race starts on the second Saturday in June at 9:00 am. Teams check in on Friday
afternoon between 2:00 and 4:00 p.m. at Aquarian Springs, the starting point of the race and
home to Ralph the Swimming Pig. Eighty-eight teams show up for check in. The teams entered
this year range from rookies to prose's. The fastest boats are 40 foot long and built from
lightweight carbon fiber. The top two teams are headed by Joe Mynar and John Bugge. They are
the Hatfields and McCoys of TWS racing. The 1996 race was won by John Bugge in a 5-man
boat. Although the Mynars were running a 4-man boat, the difference in finishing times between
the two boats was only 30 minutes over the 260-mile race. This year the Mynars have built a six-man boat and will win the race in a record time of 29 hours. As I look around, I do not feel like I
fit in here. Most of these men and women could tear my head off and eat me for dinner. They are
a tough looking group, many with multiple safaris under their belts. There is no way Mark and I
have any chance to win, we just hope to finish.
Each team must prepare a list of all the materials that it is carrying. Every item must be
listed. An official will verify the list, and check out the boat to make sure it will float if
submerged. The only required materials are a first aid kit, a snakebite kit, flares and life
preservers. Mark arrives around 1:30 and I pull in around 2:00. We frantically compile our list
of material. As we read off the items on our list, Cindy keeps admonishing us to get rid of gear
and food. Last year I was overloaded. Extra food means weight. Primarily, we are relying on a
liquid food supplement that cancer patients drink. We figure on each drinking 3 cans a day for 4
days, 24 cans total. To save weight I ditch several of my allotted cans.
I search for a race official to go over our inventory. Roger Zimmerman, the head judge
approves our list but will not approve our canoe. Roger does not believe the pool floaties I have
secured to the gunwales will float the boat should it submerge. We have to get additional
floatation in the next hour and a half or we are out of the race. I am panicking as I run to my van
and speed the fourteen miles to Spencer's Canoe Livery to buy some floatation. Jack Spencer is
leaving as I pull in to Spencer's. He tells me that I am free to look around his workshop and take
whatever floatation I can find. Back in a corner of the workshop, I find several pieces of closed
cell foam. I get them and hurry back to San Marcos. Mark attaches the foam to the canoe and
Roger approves our canoe. It's 5:00 and check-in is over. Race official Phil Bowden then gives
the teams a briefing on the river conditions. Due to recent rains the river is at flood stage. Phil's
description of the additional hazards associated with the floodwaters scares the hell out of a me
and a lot of the other racers. Four teams take Phil's advice to heart and drop out of the race.
The night before the race, I get about six hours of restless sleep and Mark gets none.
Some teams take sleeping pills the week before the race which have a side effect of causing
insomnia after you stop taking them. The team that told us about the sleeping pills also brings
suppositories to insure that when Mother Nature calls, all the team members will answer at the
same time. Instead of making four restroom stops this four-man boat takes only one.
Saturday morning; we have breakfast and head to the starting area where we are greeted
by a cacophony of activity as experienced racers in fast canoes and colorful outfits, novices in
brand new canoes wearing camouflage are all making last minute preparations. Mark and I are
one of the first boats to enter the water and line up for the start. We paddle across the river and
sit in our canoe on the opposite shore. A veteran racer in a black carbon fiber solo racing boat
comes up and docks next to us. He gets out of his boat and starts to stretch. He advises us to do
the same as we are going to be sitting for the next four days.
One by one the 84 boats enter the water and line up for the start. The crowd of well
wishers gathers around. A TV helicopter flies overhead, our hearts are pounding. A newspaper
reporter and photographer take our picture and ask us a few questions. Suddenly, I panic. I
realize that I took my medicine bag into the hotel room last night. I have left it in the van. I
search the crowd for Cindy. There are only a few minutes before the start. If I do not get the bag
before the race starts I will be out of luck. Cindy has noticed that there is something wrong and
has made her way to the other side of the river. I tell her the problem and she runs back to the
van and grabs the medicine bag.
San Marcos to Staples
Mike Spencer gives a short dedication. There is a moment of silence for the police chief
that died at Ottine. The race starts and we are off. We wait a few seconds for the big boats to get
by and then head to the right side of the river. Boats are everywhere. Most are going in straight
line, but some are crashing into each other. Three minutes later we are approaching the first dam.
I see what I think is an experienced team heading to the right. We follow them. The right is
clearly the wrong way. We have to wait on the boat ahead of us to lift their boat over the three-foot dam. They accidentally drop their boat on the rocks below. I am glad we chose an aluminum
boat as we bang it up a bit lowering it over the dam.
We wind our way down the river through the campus of Southwest Texas State
University to the Rio Vista Dam. This four-foot dam has a spillway in the center of it. Each boat
has a different method of getting around this obstacle. Some shoot the spillway and usually
capsize. Portaging around the dam takes about the same length of time. It's an exciting place for
people to watch the race and a large crowd of spectators lines the river.
Mark and I take a novel but unintended approach to solving the dam problem. As we
approach the dam I cannot see where the spillway is. I tell Mark to move us to the right. He does
and we miss the spillway and are heading over the dam. We are going to take a 4-foot drop and
crash onto a cement ledge. The race could well be over for us. We might even get hurt in front of
a hundred or so people. I brace for the fall. Suddenly, the boat catches on the lip of the dam and
stops. I am in mid air several feet over the lip. The crowd is roaring with laughter. Quickly, I
slide over the gunwales and jump to the cement ledge below. Mark hops into the middle of the
boat and steps on to the dam. We lower the boat down. I push the boat into the water and jump in
the water behind it. Mark climbs down and jumps into the water and swims downstream to catch
up. We lose little time but have expended a lot of energy on our unique portage.
Ten minutes later we come to Thompson Island Dam. We wait for 2 boats to portage it,
then we go over. Mark and I find our rhythm and start to pass a few boats. One of the boats we
pass is a five-man rig full of experienced racers. I feel pretty good about being close to them at
this stage of the race.
An hour later we are at Cummings Dam, a twenty-foot dam just south of the confluence
of the Blanco and San Marcos rivers. Three teams are lowering their boats over the dam. We
quickly portage around it and pass them. At this point in the race each of the other boats are our
competitors and we are out to pass as many as we can. As we come to Cottonseed rapids, the
only technical rapids on the San Marcos, I pitch for running them. Mark, the more cautious team
member, convinces me to portage. Later, I discover that only one boat successfully negotiated
the rapids. There is a large crowd at Cottonseed on the opposite shore cheering on the boats.
Many in the crowd are motioning for us to put back in the river. If we follow the crowds advice
it appears to us that we will be carried by the high waters right into a large cypress tree. I am not
sure what to do. I hear a familiar voice. It is Cindy, she is screaming for us to put back in further
downstream. We listen to her and wade through the water among the trees along the banks of the
cresting river and put in 50 feet further down river. Team Captain saves the day.
The high water is making our job a lot easier. The water has covered a lot of the trees that
have fallen into the river. Normally these are hazards. Today, only small branches from these
trees reach the surface. We near the Westfield crossing low water bridge. Normally, we could go
under the bridge but the high water forces us to portage on the right. Just as we get the boat on to
the shore the five-man boat we passed up earlier, comes screaming down the river and plows
into Mark's leg, giving him a nasty bruise that will last for several weeks. We get out of their
way and let them go ahead then cruise on down river to Staples, the first checkpoint. Cindy is
waiting for us. Its 12:30 we are about 2 hours ahead of the cutoff time for this checkpoint. We
drink a liquid lunch before heading out.
Staples to Palmetto
The river between Staples and Palmetto might well be the most treacherous on the river.
We are both very uncomfortable on this section of the river. Our goal is to make it to Palmetto
by dark. Last year I did not get to Palmetto until ten o'clock on Sunday morning. We are making
good time and see few other boats.
Four hours later, we come to a series of very sharp turns in the flooding river. There are
series of wooden erosion control devices here snagging fallen trees and creating multiple
hazards. At every turn a decision must be made as to which line to take. At each decision point
we find a safari boat swept into an erosion control device. This makes our choice somewhat
simpler. We pass 5 boats in some stage of distress. Ten minutes later at around 5 o'clock we pull
into the Luling Check point. The high water has left little room at this checkpoint for more than
one boat. We take on our drinking water and then continue, alerting the other team captains to
the five boats behind us.
In the next 9 miles there are four major logjams spanning the river. There are several
ways to attack the jams. Portaging around them, which is sometimes impossible because of the
dense vegetation and steep banks. Pulling the canoe across the jam is another method. However,
there is a danger of falling through the logs and being swept under the jam. Forcing the boat
through the jam, which are often covered with fire ants and snakes, is also an alternative. Each
logjam is a struggle. At times, the tracks of previous boats guide us up the steep banks. Mark
uses his tremendous strength to pull the boat around two of the jams. We crawl over two more.
Before every dam there are three or four miles of dead water. The calms before Luling
Dam are especially monotonous. After what seems like years we finally reach the dam. The
floodwater is pouring over the dam and we carefully portage around it.
Five minutes later, we approach a tree that spans the entire river. It is about eight inches
above the water. How far below we do not know. There does not seem to be a way around it. It is
too far above the water to jump. While we are trying to decide our approach we forget to slow
down and we forget to speed up. We hesitate, go sideways and the boat flips over. Suddenly, I
am under water, under the boat. The boat is under the tree. I struggle to push my way up through
the aluminum canoe and through the trunk of the tree. I do not want to let go of the boat for fear
that I will be swept into the submerged branches of the tree and trapped forever. Finally, I am
out of air. I release myself from my own death grip and am swept downstream. I surface and
Mark is calling out for me. Our paddles and life jackets are floating downstream. The canoe is
floating thanks to Jack Spencer's floatation and Roger Zimmerman's instance on our having it.
Mark swims downstream to catch our gear, while I hang on to the boat and try to steer it over to
a suitable spot to drain the water out.
After getting the water out of the boat, we take stock of how we are doing. It appears to
us that we have not lost anything. Mark's dry bag took on water and his set of sleeping clothes is
soaked. The spill took a tremendous amount of energy out of us. A few miles later we pass the
spot where I was vomiting last year and swearing I would never do this race again. We hurry
ahead, now racing the approaching night instead of the other racers.
Due to the high water Jack Spencer is posted at the Ottine Dam portage to give guidance
around this hazard. We exchange pleasantries with Jack and tell him that his floatation has come
in handy. We are only a mile from the third checkpoint at Palmetto. It occurs to us that the high
water will make the steeped bank Palmetto checkpoint a difficult place to get out of the boat. So,
we rig up our light system, get something to eat, and douse our bodies in insect repellant to fight
off the insects. Several boats pass us as we are preparing ourselves for the night.
Darkness wraps herself around us, as we put in below the Ottine Dam and paddle the
mile to Palmetto. Cindy is up to her knees in mud on the riverbank as she hands us our water.
She has been sitting on a small muddy ledge for over an hour waiting for us to appear. To
lighten his load, Mark hands Cindy a small bag with his wet set of extra clothes. Several of the
boats that passed us up at Ottine are now busy rigging up their boats for night running. Mark and
I wait for a solo boat with a huge spotlight mounted on its bow to leave. We head out just behind
him. At night, it is less frightening to run with another boat.
Palmetto To Gonzales
Our little bow light and puny headlamps are not formidable weapons in the battle against
the forces of darkness. Fortunately, the solo boat that we are paddling with has a huge light.
Unfortunately, we cannot keep up with the solo boat. An hour from Palmetto, as we are creeping
along at a snails pace, we see two human figures walking on water. Thinking that we are
hallucinating we both focus our headlamps on the shapes. Suddenly, we realize that there are two
safari racers standing in the middle of the river on a logjam. We move our boat to the shore and
ask them if they need any help. They tell us that they have lost their boat and paddles under the
logjam. We ask them if they want to ride with us to the next bridge. Clinging to a very thin shred
of hope, they decline and continue poking around on the logjam. We wish them well and make
our way through the jam. All the while, wondering how in the heck these guys are ever going to
get out of this jam. Even if they find the boat there is very little chance that they are going to find
their gear. Thirty minutes later we come upon a two-man boat pulled off on the bank.
Anticipating another logjam, we hail the racers to find out what the situation is. They have found
the lost canoe and they are securing it to a tree. There is no way for us to paddle back upstream
to find the lost canoe team.
We continued onward through the darkness. The vegetation from the river banks blocks
out all starlight. At 2 am we make it to Gonzales Dam. Again due to the high water dedicated
safari volunteers are there to guide us. Mark and I get out, grab the front of the boat and start to
drag it the extra half mile around the dam. This is the first time that I realize how tired Mark is.
We stop often. The boat feels as if it has gained about 60 pounds since the day started. We put in
below the dam and paddle the mile to the Gonzales checkpoint.
Gonzales to Hocheim
My kids played on the sand bar Gonzales last year. This year the area under the bridge is
a mud pit. There is no team captain to be found waiting for us. We pull the boat up the muddy
bank and walk up the road to where the van is parked. Cindy and the kids are sound asleep. I
wake Cindy up to let her know that we are here. She and Mark's wife Sherri walk down to the
river. Mark and I decide to camp under the bridge for a few hours sleep. This turns out to be a
big mistake. The checkpoint is too noisy. A ham radio operator has set up the Texas Water Safari
communications network about ten yards from where we are sleeping. Various team captain's
cars and trucks are coming and going. The ham radio crackles on through the night calling out
the boat numbers of the veteran teams in boats a hundred miles ahead of us. They are slicing
through the night, as we lay in the mud on a piece of tin foil masquerading as an emergency
blanket. Mark has only his wet clothes to sleep in. I have my expedition weight underwear and
am managing to sleep. Several thunderstorms sweep over us. As the bridge repels the storm,
Mark's wet clothes, exhaustion and lack of sleep have turned his runny nose into a fountain of
snot. He begins to fight an internal battle with a fast developing illness.
At the crack of dawn with the remnants of the thunderstorm still drizzling around us,
Cindy and Sherri wake us up and urge us to continue. Other boats are pulling into the
checkpoint. The racers that were out in the storm all night pull in looking like wet rats. Some
have been defeated and are pulling out. We leave, hoping defeat is not contagious. I am dry
under my raincoat. Mark fashions a poncho out of our emergency blanket and some duct tape. It
helps some but he still gets wet. As, the sun starts to burn off the drizzle; Mark relates his misery
of the night before to me. He has not slept in at least 48 hours and we still have two more days to
paddle. His cold is getting worse. I do not have any medication that will help him. We both are
starting to become nauseous from the build up of acid in our stomachs. Mark as brought several
packets of antacid and we begin eating them in the hope that they will help.
As Mark's cold worsens we stop every 50 minutes to rest and to urinate. We come across
an abandoned three person unlimited boat. We wonder what happened to the racers. As we
paddle we talk about our jobs, our kids and our wives. We both agree that stopping to sleep last
night was a mistake.
Seven hours later we reach the Hocheim checkpoint. When we get there I can tell that
something is wrong with Cindy. She is not her usual assertive self. When I get the chance, I take
her aside to find out what is wrong. She tells me that she is having a tough time coordinating our
kids and her duties as a team captain. We get our water and head on to the Cheapside checkpoint.
Hocheim to Cheapside
About an hour from Hocheim, Mark spots a picnic table on a ranch. He is feeling tired
and sick and we have to stop for a rest. I am not sleepy and resent having to stop, but I
understand how he feels. A solo paddler in a kayak paddles by; his name is Thomas Mendenhall,
a firefighter from the Dallas area. We have been trading positions with him for the last two days.
I ask him to tell Cindy that Mark is tired and we are resting. Another twenty minutes goes by and
a canoe passes us. My pulse is starting to quicken as my competitive instincts start to emerge. I
try to suppress it. I recall past friendships injured on the slopes of mountains as the desire for a
summit conflicted with the health of other partners and I resolve to let Mark keep sleeping as
long as he needs to rejuvenate himself. Fifteen minutes later Mark is up. He feels worse than
before but he cannot sleep, and wants to continue.
Cheapside to Cuero 236
The scene when we arrive at Cheapside is a pleasant one. Cindy is smiling. The kids have
made posters wishing Mark and I a happy Father's Day. Cindy has worked out the situation with
our kids. The sight of them in a pleasant mood makes me feel good. It is late Sunday afternoon.
Mark and I stretch our legs; get our water and head down the river. We want to make it to the
Cuero Dam, before dark. An hour later we start to hear the noise of the dam. Thirty minutes later
we make it there. Because of the high waters the Safari has stationed a lone sentinel out here at
this remote location. We portage our canoe through a putrid swamp. I still have scars from the
fungal infection that I get wadding through the knee-high muck as we make our way back into
the main current. The river no longer constrained by the dam is bursting its banks as the
floodwaters flow downstream.
Night begins to set in and Mark and I put on our life vests and brace ourselves for another
night on the river. We come to a break in a levy. The river has cut through the levy and is
flowing between a ten-foot high caliche bank into another arm of the river. The river is also
continuing to flow downstream and as strange as it seems the river is also flowing upstream. We
recall Phil Bowden's course description and warning that choosing a wrong course through one
of these cuts might take us into a cow pasture where we will be decapitated by a barbwire fence.
We keep our fingers crossed. We are unable to determine whether or not we have made the right
choice. It is now dark. I try to connect up our bow light but the battery is dead. We are blind and
barely paddling, heading for parts unknown. We are letting the river pull us and stand ready to
back paddle at the slightest hint of danger. Two hours later we make the Cuero 236 Bridge. It is
11 p.m. on Sunday night.
Cuero 236
We tie off our boat and climb up the steep bank at Cuero 236. Cindy and my son Nick are
there to greet us. Sam Theide, the president of the Texas Canoe Racing Association is the
checkpoint judge. Several racers are already bunked out. I am really tired and want to get some
sleep. There appears to be no place to sleep except for on the wet grass. Mark takes out the torn
survival blanket and we lay down on it. It is starting to cool off. Fortunately, I have my
expedition underwear to change into. Mark is soaking wet. After lying on the survival blanket
for five minutes I get up. Every time I move the foil blanket it makes horrible noises. I cannot
take it any more. I give my share of the blanket to Mark and wander off to find another place to
sleep. I find a cement pier covered with bird droppings under the bridge and climb up on it and
go to sleep.
Several hours later, I am woken by Cindy and Sam. According to them, Mark is
hypothermic and is wondering around in a daze. Sam directs me to take off my thermals and
give them to Mark. I wrap him in the survival blanket and help him put on the thermals. Mark is
in real bad shape. He asks me what he should do. I tell him to do whatever he thinks is best. He
lies down on the cement pier and tries to get a couple of hours rest. An hour later. Mark peals off
my thermals and throws in the towel. He goes to his truck and gets dry clothes on and goes to
sleep in the bed of the truck. I put my thermals back on and go back to sleep. An hour later the
sun is peering over the horizon. Cindy wakes me up and asks me what I am going to do. I walk
over to Sam and ask him if I can continue the last one hundred miles without a partner. Sam says
its okay but I cannot accept any additional aid from Mark.
Mark is moving around and is already regretting his decision to drop out. I salvage his
remaining food store. We try to console each other, before I head back in the water, but there is
not much to say. We both wish that we were continuing on together. I bid him good-bye. I am
really nauseous as the morning begins. I would probably throw up but there is nothing in my
stomach. I take an antacid and hope that it kicks in soon. I know that no matter how bad I feel,
the pain of quitting last year has eaten inside of me for a year. It is going to take a lot more than
nausea and headaches to stop me. I have learned that the physical pain will go away and be
forgotten but the emotional pain will stay for a long time. I feel sorry for Mark because I know
he will start to feel better physically, but another pain is about to take its place.
The river is mine for the rest of the afternoon. I finish the run from Cuero to Victoria in
the 27th fastest time of all the boats.
Victoria to Dupont
As I paddle along this section of the river I feel as if I am riding on a log ride at an
amusement park. The river is swollen to the top of its levee. From my canoe, I am actually
looking down at the surrounding countryside. Every half mile or so the levee has broken and
water flows through the break, flooding the adjacent fields. The sinuosity of the river increases
to the point that at times I am actually paddling away from the Gulf.
Hours before I get to the Dupont chemical plant, the next checkpoint, I hear the pumps
and motors of the plant running. Sometimes they are in front of me, sometimes they are ahead of
me and sometimes they are behind me. Every once in a while I hear a loud horn. I wonder if the
horn is an alarm or a signal for a shift change. I try to pick up the pace. I want to reach the
Dupont checkpoint before dark. I come to a 40' logjam spanning the river. There is no way
through it. Water is flowing swiftly through a grove of small cottonwood trees on the left bank
around the jam and back into the main channel. The distance between each of the trees appears
narrower than the width of my boat. Decision time. I am too afraid to try to attack the logjam
head on. The bank on the right is too steep to portage. I decide to paddle around the jam through
the grove of trees on the left. I have two seconds to decide which of the trees I am going to
squeeze through. Choosing the one that looks the widest, I pull in my paddle and lie down in my
boat. The first of the low hanging limbs crosses the middle of my boat. I quickly look up and
grab on to other limbs in a futile attempt to steer. I successfully reenter the main channel just as
the last of the days light fades away feeling sorry for teams that will have to run this gauntlet in
the darkness.
Darkness on this section of the river brings a new fear. I have just entered alligator
country; however, that is not what scares me. I am worried about the possibility of an alligator
gar attack. During previous years race, an alligator gar attracted by the headlamp of a canoer,
jumped into a canoe cracking the ribs of the paddler and ending the race for the team. My fears
subside as the lights of the Dupont plant appear.
Checkpoint Dupont to Tivoli
Cindy's spotted my head light and is waiting for me. Anticipating getting a good nights
sleep tonight, she is in especially good spirits. It's only 60 miles to the Gulf. Barring any
unforeseen accidents, I should make it to Seadrift by tomorrow night. The checkpoint judge at
Dupont is West Hansen. West has already completed the race, finishing in third place this year.
His time was 32 hours. He was racing in the C-2 division. The only boats that finished ahead of
West and his teammate were the 6 man Bugge and Mynar teams. West gives me a rundown of
the hazards ahead. He has drawn a map of what is the toughest and most dangerous obstacle on
the river this year. About an hour and 45 minutes down river there is an impassable logjam one
mile in length. It is growing by the hour as logs continue to pile up from the flood. Four channels
have broken through the levee at the upper end of jam. Two channels are flowing to the right and
two channels are flowing to the left. The channels on the left are flooding fields adjacent to the
river and are dead ends. We must go to the right and West gives me instructions on how to get
through this mess.
I try to get some sleep and plan on leaving in the morning, but due to the flooding there is
no dry place to sleep. Around midnight, Thomas Mendenhall, the solo kayaker, and I decide to
continue. I walk up the road and wake Cindy up. I tell her that I am leaving and will see her in
the morning at Tivoli.
Thomas and I head out into the darkness. Just as West predicted, an hour and 45 minutes
after leaving Dupont I hear the sound of rushing water. We immediately head to the right bank.
Water is flowing over the banks. Thomas and I decide to leave the canoes and scout out the
channel. We walk for 5 minutes though the swamp. We decide we should go back and get our
canoes. We begin retracing our steps to locate our canoes, which are now hidden in the darkness.
We find them and a new stage of Hell, as we begin pulling them though the swamp. My legs
sink up to my calves in mud as I pull the canoe
It is getting harder and harder for me to pull my canoe. Mark was twice as strong as me
and could pull the canoe over any obstacle. I envy Thomas, a fire fighter and ex-marine. He has
been trained to pull bodies out of burning buildings. As I attempt to follow his lead, his
headlamp begins to fade away until it appears to be a small fire fly fluttering through the swamp
far in the distance. The trail narrows and my canoe becomes frequently lodged between trees
forcing me to back track and chose other routes. There is between 4 to 6 inches of flowing water
on the ground. I find that if I get a running start I can use the momentum to pull the canoe from
puddle to puddle. I try to stay focused on what I am doing and not where I am, which is in the
middle of a snake and alligator infested swamp. Luckily, my mind is numb after two days of
little sleep and I do not have the luxury of an imagination. It would be easy to conjure up a nest
of water moccasins writhing about in some of the sinkholes I am wading through.
Thomas yells out. He has located the channel. We have been warned that we face loss of
our canoe and possibly our lives if we are unsuccessful in navigating the channels ahead.
Thomas leads me through the remaining 50 yards of swamp to the first channel. As we shine our
lights across the channel we can see the water rushing through the break in the levee. The
channel is about 25 feet wide. Depth unknown. We cannot see where the water is flowing to but
we have been told that it flows into trouble. Thomas puts in his boat and ferries it upstream,
across the channel. I put in my canoe worrying about the current turning my canoe side ways.
Thomas has pulled his boat out and is waiting for me on the other side. I ferry upstream paddling
as hard as I can. I reach out and grab a limb on the other side. As I do my canoe swings
downstream. I leap out of the canoe one hand on the gunnels and the other on the branch, and
successfully pull the canoe on to the bank.
Thomas puts his strap over his shoulder, lowers his head and pulls his kayak into the
swamp to look for the second channel. We have been cautioned not to put back into this channel
too early or we will be in a life-threatening predicament that only the most experienced teams
could survive. Thomas shouts out that he has found a place to put in. I catch up to him. The only
thing I am sure of is the fast running channel is so filled with trees that I am not going to be able
to see the bow of my canoe when I put it in the water. Thomas believes this is the spot. I decide
to keep my doubts to myself. Neither one of us can see more than 10 feet in front of us at 3
o'clock in the morning in the middle of a swamp. We have no idea if this is the right place. No
use in debating it. I am ready to start paddling again. I do not have the energy to drag the canoe
any further.
Thomas puts in. The forest swallows him like the doors of a spook house. It is my turn.
As I enter the channel, I hear shouts of profanity and catch glimpses of Thomas' headlamp
moving ahead. Tree limbs are coming right at me. In horror. I see that the limbs of the trees have
been cut with a chain saw. We were warned that a top team had come through here a couple of
days before the race and cut a path with a chain saw. They also quickly decided that it was too
dangerous to run. As the swift moving water and the branches conspire to decapitate me, I lie in
the floor of the canoe and scream out, hoping to warn Thomas. Its too late, he is in a serious jam
just ahead of me. I am steering by grabbing branches as I lay on my back. I am sure that the race
is over for Thomas and me. Thomas is pinned against a tree in the channel and is taking on
water. I am heading straight for him with no real control over the canoe as I attempt to negotiate
passage through the chain-sawed maze. I brace myself for the collision with Thomas that will
probably flip us both into the current and kill us. Fortunately, our luck is running with the current
and we are flung out of the channel and dumped into the flooding pasture the channel is
emptying into.
Thomas and I congratulate ourselves. I am totally drenched in sweat. The pasture is
surrounded by four walls of trees. The main current is moving straight ahead, through a ten-foot
opening. This is the obvious direction to proceed. It is also the wrong way. If we continue in this
direction we will float into Alligator Lake. The experienced teams use Alligator Lake as a short
cut back to the main river channel. But even experienced teams have become lost in the lake.
West Hansen told me if I made it to this point, I should go to the left. He said if we looked to the
left we would see a wall of trees. If we paddled up to the trees and moved some of the branches
we would find that hidden behind the trees was a bayou which would lead us back into the
Guadalupe River below the log jam. Thomas is skeptical but agrees to give it a shot. Sure
enough when we part the foliage and paddle through about 10 feet of brush, the bayou appears.
As the adrenaline wears off, sleep calls. We paddle on trying to stay awake. I fall asleep
paddling several times. Each time I wake up screaming as I almost fall into the river. My
screams startle Thomas. We agree that if we can find a place to lie down we will go to sleep. Our
eyes are burning for sleep. Thomas paddles ahead to escape from my screams and look for a
place to sleep. I feel worse than I have felt on the entire trip. All I can think about is sleep. As the
black of night fades into the gray of morning, I spy the roof of some sort of boathouse. Beyond
that is a salt-water barrier dam. Docked under the boathouse is a big PT looking type boat. A
perfect place to stop and sleep.
We tie up next to the boat and climb up on to its deck. Thomas decides to walkover to the
dam and check out the proper way to shoot it. I can't believe he has the energy to walk. I change
into my dry thermals and lay down on the steel deck of the boat. The pain of sleep depravation
has been has been worse than the pain in my muscles from paddling. Sleep eases the pain. I wake
up in an hour. Thomas is still sleeping. The morning sun is up. A canoe approaches; it is a team
that passed me the day before. I wake up Thomas. Knowledge that we are being passed causes us
to abandon all thoughts of additional sleep. We are only a few miles from the Tivoli checkpoint.
We are rested and our competitors are passing us. I change back into my day clothes and turn the
canoe down river. Thomas is moving faster than I am this morning and I tell him to go on ahead.
An hour later houses start appearing.
Tivoli to Seadrift
The elevation at Tivoli is close to sea level and the houses here are built on stilts. The
Tivoli Bridge and checkpoint come into view. It is early morning. The checkpoint is buzzing
with activity. Cindy is here with mom, dad, Mark, my kids, Thomas, his wife, and their kids.
Everyone is excited, the teams, the race officials, the spectators. This checkpoint is probably in
the worst condition as far as team captains & judges are concerned. Mud is everywhere, but due
to the fact that it is a beautiful morning and we are only 17 miles from the finish the mood here
is the best so far. There will be no more nights spent without sleep. For some of us from two to
five years of training is about to come to fruition.
Tom Goynes a race legend is the checkpoint judge. He is pumping each of us up with
compliments. Roger Zimmerman the chief judge is here. He congratulates me on making it this
far solo in a two-man canoe. Tom gives me the lowdown on the next section of the river. About
6 miles remain before I hit the bay. The waves in the bay have been terrible to this point in the
race. One of the top teams, racing in a four man unlimited class boat, had to use their flares and
was rescued by the Coast Guard. Tom explains that the fastest route across the bay is to hug the
west coast then cross the mouth of the bay at its widest, deepest and most exposed point. A safer
course is to leave the mouth of the river and go straight across the bay to the east side. This is the
least exposed and shallowest portion of the bay, and longest route to Seadrift.
I ditch all my non-essential gear at Tivoli, extra food, and extra clothes. Cindy
admonishes me to drink more water. As more boats start to come in to the checkpoint, I begin to
get anxious to leave. My competitive juices are starting to flow. I say good-bye and leave before
the other boats.
The section of the river I am heading into is a section of the river where Mark and I saw several
eight to ten foot alligators during a training run. The river forks in different directions and the
flora are tropical. It reminds me of the movie The African Queen. Several minutes later a team
catches up to me. I give them directions to help them avoid making a wrong turn. They thank me
and continue onward. Thomas catches up to me. He checks to make sure that I am okay. I tell
him he should have no trouble crossing the bay in his sea kayak. He might even be able to pass
up a couple of the teams that are ahead of us. Thomas is concerned about making it to Seadrift
for the awards ceremony. I have doubts as to whether or not I will make it in time for the awards.
If the wind on the bay is high I will be unable to steer the canoe. A mile later I come to a floating
bridge between the mainland and a channel island. It is use to ferry cattle between the island and
the ranch on the mainland. Just past this bridge the river ends at the bay. I stop to urinate before
attempting the bay crossing. Heeding the advise of the race officials at Tivoli, I turn my canoe
backwards and throw some drift wood in the bow for weight. This is supposed to help control the
boat in the bay.
As I get back in the canoe an alligator lifts its head out of the water about 10 feet off my
port side. It opens its mouth and snaps its jaws at me. Then sinks back in the river. I push off the
shore and turn out into the bay. I see Thomas about 100 yards in front of me. He is hugging the
west side of the bay in his sea kayak. I try to keep up with him and I am able to for 300 yards but
the winds and waves are too much for me and they start to push me into the middle of the bay. I
decide to head straight across the bay to take the "chicken route". I am too close to the end of the
race to risk getting swamped. I do not have the strength to right the canoe if that happens. As the
shore gets closer, I estimate that if I walk around the bay I will get to Seadrift in a couple of
hours. I have been warned by other racers that this is a mistake.
The east side of the bay is covered with a thick coastal grass three feet high. It is very
dense and impossible to walk through. Three hundred yards on the other side of the grass is the
Victoria Ship Channel. This channel was built to allow ocean tankers to load plastics and
chemical manufactured at the chemical plants constructed along the channel from Seadrift to
Victoria. The chemical plants are located in this area due to the abundance of oil and gas found
along the gulf coast. The oil and gas is the feedstock for the plastic. The plastic and other
chemicals are shipped out the ship channel to places as far away as China and New Jersey. I
watch in awe as a four-story ocean tanker zooms through the channel. Because of the coastal
grass, I am forced to walk in the water. My feet sink in the mud up to my ankles. I have been
instructed to shuttle my feet along the top of the mud before taking a step. A famous incident in
the Safari occurred yards from the finish line when a racer stepped on a stingray. The racer had
to be helped out of the bay, taken to the hospital and the poison barb removed from his leg. He
was disqualified. This appears to be sound advice as unidentifiable submarine creatures flutter
off my feet. It makes walking more of an effort, but for now just being out of the boat is a relief.
The hours began to pass, and the shoreline is not getting any shorter. I pass countless
false points that I am sure will turn towards Seadrift. Instead, at each point the mud becomes
deeper and deeper. The sun begins to beat down on me and the mud is now up to my knees.
More hours pass and I sink up to my thighs in the mud. I can barely lift them to the take the next
step. The warnings given to me were accurate, I am walking through quasi-quicksand. I cannot
paddle because of the high winds and waves, which beat on my chest as I sink in the mud. I am
delirious. I want to quit, but there is no one to surrender to. Why am I doing this, who do I think
I am, some kind of tough guy? This is miserable. I curse myself, the race, and all the other
outdoor challenges I have made my body endure. I promise myself that I will never do anything
so stupid again. I continue forward only because there is no other way.
At last, I round a point and see the village of Seadrift. It is late afternoon and as I am
crawling, I come to the final obstacle, the ship channel. I must get in my canoe and paddle across
the channel. As I start across, I notice there is a ship at a bend in the channel. I panic and start to
paddle as fast as I can. The ship gets closer and closer. I am not moving. I am sure that I am
going to die. Finally, somehow, I make it across. As I look over my shoulder, I realize the ship is
not moving, it be docked.
I see people ahead on the shore about a half a mile ahead. I have been walking for eight
hours. As I get closer, I can see that Mark has walked up the coast to get as close to me as he
can. I totally lose it. I do not know if it is the relief, sorrow, or happiness but I spend the next few
minutes with my head lying on the boat, pretending to rest, while I am crying my eyes out. After
a few minutes I pull myself together and I continue on to the finish line, Cindy and the kids run
down the piers to greet me. At the finish line, fellow racers are there to applaud, and congratulate
me. They jump into the bay and get my boat. Mark is there to give me a hug. We both wish we
had finished together. My mom and dad are there with the orange soda I asked for. Dad has a
steak on the grill. I get my Texas Water Safari finishers plaque. I realize standing there that
winning, surviving, quitting, the race itself, none of it matters. In the end it's the people you care
for that matter.
