At

 16.62′

the Phatwater, today, is six feet below the gage reading at Natchez a year ago.  Actually a little more than 6, but who’s counting surface oscillations?

“Yes, I read in the paper, thanks to the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009, that there are now openings for ‘Oscillations Counter’, throughout the Mississippi River Watershed, and I would like to apply.”

“And what, sir, are your qualifications?”

“I am a seasoned viewer of Jerry Springer.  I feel, as a result, I have a finger on the pulse of mankind. This alone should qualify me.”

“Very well, sir, if you would please — “

“Excuse me, but I would like for you to refrain from usage of the gender specific title ‘Sir’ in my case. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through, and I feel as though you are proceeding in a prejudicial manner.”

“But Si — ah, Applicant-At-Large, the application asks this information of you as well.  You will have to select either male or female.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.  I’ll take one of your applications, but you can expect a call from the EEOC and my attorney before the close of the business day. Furthermore, I have taken note of your hostile attitude, and have recorded this entire conversation on my personal communications device. We will see you in court.  Good day.”

So here’s a shot from Phatwater X of our winning couple, bathing in the spotlight

Joe Glickman of Brooklyn, New York, and Eric Mims of Hermitage, Tennessee, with all their goodies.

We will be updating the web site before long, and engineering things, such as the results page, into a more user-friendly format.  Until then, we hope to make a few more MODERATE WEATHER trips down the Phatwater, as well as attending the Cane River “Marathon Rowing Championships” in Natchitoches, Lousisiana, which I believe is scheduled for the 12th of November.  There is a chance this race will again be cancelled, however, due to low water.  As soon as I find out I will let you all know.

Thanks again to all of you for your participation in Phatwater X.  We look forward to seeing you again next October 13th for the XIth annual Phatwater.

All For Naught, All For Now — KB

16.64′

is the current level for the Phatwater on the Natchez gage; a level at which catfish spines and sturgeon barbels begin to introduce, to the bottom of the Phatwater, the riparian equivalent of crop circles, exhibiting a design uniqueness which, unfortunately for humans, can only be viewed from above the stratosphere, and, like him or hate him, until Richard Branson does something about lowering the cost of space flight, most of us will have dirt thrown over us before we have an opportunity to witness them first hand.

In the interim, I’ll allow cheap Scotch to provide me with all the baroque imagery to which I should rightfully be entitled, savoring the several reports of safety boater heroics I received as dusk yanked the light switch the evening of Phatwater X.  One such report held that Veteran Safety Boater and pioneer of excellence in all things edible, Attorney Kevin ‘Cold Beer’ Colbert, dismissed one struggling paddler, swimming his boat to shore.  This was incorrect. Assistance was offered by Attorney Colbert, free of caveat; however, the recipient of offers by Captain Attorney Colbert and his able crew to lend a hand were roundly refused in the mistaken belief that any intervention by a safety boat would lead to disqualification of the paddler, leaving him to fulfill his mission on this green Earth with the stain of DNF circling his reputation for all time.  I’ll allow him to tell the story, as presented, though bracketed in a few places in order to preserve the integrity of this family-oriented news stream.

Without further ado —

Wehell,

After a great start and a workmanlike first ten or so miles during which time I fell in with some of those skinny boys in their long boats and was holdin’ my own if I do say so myself I was imagining my competition disappearing over the horizon behind me when my boat began to wallow and water sloshing noises came from the void (I paddle a Pelican Fisherman, 11.5 feet of injection-molded sit-on-top lightning) under me.  I turned toward a sand spit and paddled hard but alas the flooded boat up-ended and spit me off into the Big Muddy.  At this point I should interject how totally impressed I was with the dedication of the multiple safety boats who rushed to my aid attempting rescue as I scissor-kicked towing my upside-down boat toward the sand spit with my paddle in one hand and my flip-flops clenched in my teeth listening to my MP3 crackle to an agonizing and watery death.  Unsure of the rules of aid and encouragement regarding this momentous event and not wanting to disqualify myself I managed to persuade the would-be rescuers that I was not, at that moment, in distress and given enough time and current to make it to the sand I would drain my boat and be back in the fray post-haste.  They offered encouragement, water, and for a small fee offered to run down a few of the competition who were, by now, starting to rocket by in increasing numbers and although too distant to make out details I’m sure with smug expressions on each of their faces as the pro from Ocean Springs drug his sodden boat up on the sand.  Anyway I got the boat drained and proceeded to re-enter the race only to have an instant replay after only two miles in which the boat did not founder and during the necessary interlude I took the time to diagnose the leaky drain plug at my stern was being forced underwater by my new rearward leaning paddling style which, while fast, was forcing a steady stream of water into my boat.

Recognizing that I’d have to abandon boat trim and torso rotation in favor of flotation I reclaimed my former paddling style which actually helped during the seventy-mile-per-hour gusts that came howling upriver during the last two hours and began to pick off (again) the folks at the rear of the pack who were no doubt wondering from which dimension I kept appearing as I churned by leaning forward and foaming slightly at the mouth with significant jugular vein distention and a determined look on my face.

Don’t think it didn’t occur to me to whistle up the dogs and call it a fiasco but as the miles passed and my boat kept floating and other boats kept receding in my rear view mirror it kind of got good to me.  Having no watch (by design) I pretty much knew my target of 6 hours was now unattainable so I set my sights on 6′ 45″ and kept digging, the lack of music giving my mind way too much time to dwell on the dearth of comfortable positions available to a 240-pound frame in a molded plastic boat.  The wind chased most everyone but me to the east bank for the last three miles as they attempted to hide in the land shadow giving the fast water and a shorter route to those hardy enough to brave the gale force winds midstream and allowed me to pick up several positions as I slobbered and sweated my way in from the west much to the consternation of those competitors who had relaxed into their respective finishing positions relying on the fatigue of their competition to preserve their ranking without having to push too hard at the finish.

So anyway I drug my fractured gut up the hill, sucked the bottom out of a coupla Buds, cleaned a plate of some stellar grub and rehashed some racing with a bunch of nice folks all of whom I passed or passed me sometime in the race giving me a perspective unique to one who has raced at both ends of the pack and everywhere in between.  I can tell you that the racing was no less heated among the people’s boats than it was at the south end of the pack although there was the hint of Marlboro smoke and the occasional radio tuned inevitably to classic rock.  The trash talking was actually more prevalent toward the north end of the pack with good-natured insults, epithets, and encouragement being exchanged whenever two boats passed.

I must admit my fatigue got the best of my curiosity and sportsmanship as I heard the emcee warming up the crowd while I was loading up my boat, thinking I was not a contender for any sort of award and dreading the four hour drive back to the coast, as I limped to the truck and pointed that sum[*%#$@] south to the land of still waters and soft beds.  Imagine my surprise as I perused the finishing times to find my time of 6′ 40″ listed second best for the under 12″ yaks.  Given the adversity endured and the fact that when The River was whipping me I battled back with indomitable courage and a dapper sense of humor I lay claim to whatever prize is due the second-by-a-mile finisher in the pool toy division because BY GOD I EARNED IT!  If it’s only bragging rights then I’ve already begun to enjoy them but if there’s a trophy of any kind I want to make arrangements to take possession of same because if I don’t nobody will ever believe my story.

Anyway, let me know if one of those cool looking trophies I saw goes with my finish and if so how I can claim said trophy.  You should also know I’m patching my boat, cutting back on the smokes, and saving my money for entry fee and new MP3 ’cause I fully expect to win this sum[*%#$@] next year.

Just sayin’.

Nate Payne

Ocean Springs

Spoken Like A True Southerner.

And for a more abbreviated conclusion, this from our Arkansas friends Lou and Charley Peyton:

10/12/2011

Hello Keith and Melissa,

We wanted to write and thank you for the great paddle and thge Misissippi River and to say that we do not take for granted all of the hard work and planning that it takes to have the Phatwater. Regards to all the volunteers and hope to be back with more Arkys next year.

What we liked about the Phatwater:

Happy Trails

Charley and Lou Peyton, Little Rock

Thanks Charley and Lou.  See you in Little Rock, in June.

All For Now — KB

A grit gumming ancient fellow with scaly eyebrows and a north to south running pair of rubbery lips whom I know from the great northeast once told me this about photography: “Don’t spare your film the indignity of the landfill.”

Film, for those of you born after the turn of the last century, is the medium upon which photography once depended. A lot of good photographs were captured on film.  The first and presumably only footprints on the Moon, for example, were preserved on film. Film was popularized long before the plastic containers in which it eventually found itself being packaged — long before microwavable popcorn, panty hose, or Elvis impersonators, subjects about which in the past I have written, though which knew no audience save the underpaid graduate students whose lot in life it was to suffer the cluttered monolith that is the stuff of a stack of freshman comp essays, grudgingly set forth on his desk by unappreciative former high-school head cheerleaders more concerned about acne than academic excellence, or their male counterparts whose paling desire to surrender their Locknonny Bears (State Champs, Triple-A) letter jackets, was outdone only by freshman photographers hell-bent on keeping every frame of film that ever resulted from their untutored grasp of composition.

Surrendering electronic files is much simpler than surrendering film, and takes far less space and/or microbes to bring about its eventual decay. There may be cause for concern of brain cancer developing in today’s cadre of photographers, what with lithium-ion batteries humming a silent wave length so close to the photograpers’ frontal lobes, but we’ll deal with that when the evidence points more judiciously in this direction.  For the time at hand, we have discarded many a file to pare down to a few hundred those you may now dawdle through, with respect to Phatwater X, by going to our site, detcord.smugmug.com  Here you will find some shots of most finishers, expertly authored by the talented and lovely Keagan Mims, wife of Eric Mims, the first Phatwater X paddler to close the circuit between Grand Gulf and Natchez, with his able sidewinder, Joe Glickman, in the second bucket, nanoseconds behind.

“I can’t find them,” I hear.  Okay, here’s what you do.  Type detcord.smugmug.com  into your google search window (upper right corner of your screen)

Once you have completed this arduous task, your window should now read:

Excellent. You must have majored in English.  Now, hit the “return” key. When you do, you will discover this:

My header here shows purple, indicating I’ve clicked this link before, although yours will likely show up as blue, so don’t be alarmed.  Just click on it, and enjoy the galleries.  I’ll be adding some more as I have time.  If you do not find yourself featured here, please understand that Keagan was doing us a favor by using my camera while trying to shoot with hers simultaneously, and once she filled the card on my camera there was nothing more she could accomplish.  My bust, which was a phrase, like film, that was long ago in broad usage, popularized by the United States Marines; a phrase which, sadly, has over time evolved to the pedantic, urban, “My Bad,” which is now so desperately in need of revitalization by those who still cling to their high-school Letter Jackets, be they from Montpelier or Moose Jaw.

Here’s an essay by Phatwater Veteran and outstanding paddler, Maggie Pyle, who, some of you may have noticed, paddles, “like a girl”.

Keith,

Here’s my Phatwater story. Chris is saying he will train for next year.

Hope so!

Maggie

Oh worry, what kayak do I use? Checking the weather forecast several times a day prior to the Phatwater, it appeared we would definitely have strong winds. I hate paddling in gusty winds. Was I ready to race in my new Stellar SES surf ski? Not me, I need lots more paddle time in gusting 25 mph winds. Hats off to Melissa Maedgen in her tippy Carbonology Atom surf ski! What about the NDK Pilgrim sea kayak? Mm, it weighs 50#! A lot of pounds to push for 5+ hours. So I opted for the lightweight Jet. Now that’s a sweet boat and it even got some attention at the Phatwater. Folks took a second look and asked what is that? Well it’s a step below a K1 / ICF racing kayak. The KayakPro Jet is a flatwater racing / training kayak. And trust me, I now understand, it means what it says. It is a flatwater as in totally flat water racing kayak. About those barge rollers for about 3 miles, the Jet said hey what’s this and submarined under every large roller. Pretty cool to watch the bow go completely under. Yee haw! Another small thing, the rudder… well it’s 4” by 3” (I measured the microscopic thing). Designed for flatwater. With a seriously underruddered kayak, I probably got to see more of the Mississippi than anybody else as I zigged and zagged with the wind willies and currents. Cussed a good bit. Add another small matter, the foot pedal brace does not extend to the kayak floor. With dainty short feet, I needed and added foam blocking to brace my heels on. That lasted about a mile before disappearing behind the foot brace. For 5 hours, bracing was done on my tippy toes. My knees are still yowling from such mistreatment. But did I have a grand time on the mighty Mississippi, in spite of the rudder, the wind, and somebody moving the Power Line every time I got within a mile, you bet I did and am excited about Phatwater 2012!

Phatwater on the Natchez gage today is:

 17.15′
down from a year ago about five and a half feet.

All For Now-KB

It is Saturday, the 15th of October, 2011, as we run like gangbusters toward 2012, whereupon the Phatwater will be held October 13th, 363 days from now. The Phatwater on the Natchez gage today is:

19.72′

down from 22.94′ a year ago on this date.

As promised, I’ve elected to feature stories from afar, but before we launch into our soliloquy by goat farmer and veteran Phatwater Ski paddler Rick Carter, AKA, Palmetto-Junction, permit me a moment to explain the title of today’s post. In the darkening omega of the last century I had occasion to befriend a tired old crooked-toothed photographer, illustrator and sculptor from the tidewater of Rhode Island by the name of Richard Abarno.

He’s still with us so I won’t speak of him in the past tense, but will report that he had, and presumably still has, a fetish for fingerfood stained, faded red ball caps. Somewhere I have a photograph of him wearing such an appurtenance, beneath the bill of which can be seen his blood-shot, black-and-blue eyes; the result of a bicycle collision against cracked shell gravel while trying to avoid a scampering DelMarva Fox squirrel. At the time there dangled from his neck an vintage Nikon-F2. He was shooting panoramas of dunes, and mustangs racing through the surf amid the shores of  Assateague or Chincoteague Island, I never can remember which, for the good people at Seagram’s Distillery, for which he was paid an astronomical sum, the lion’s share of which he spent on cheap wine, a new red ball cap, and that cheese food product one squirts from a tube. Always the early riser, as evening progressed he would fall in and out of sleep, nestled in an ancient houndstooth checked divan, while studying the wrist movements of Jack Biondolillo on “Bowling For Dollars”, and spooning Hormel Chili into his maw from a can with the top peeled back though not entirely separated from the rim in an effort to save time by making only one toss at the distant trash bin sitting aside his 1974 compact Zenith black and white, waiting for reruns of The Honeymooners to aire. I still write him on occasion, because he makes me laugh, although he is lousy at predicting global crises. Because he is much older than I, I have made it my business to keep him laughing as well.  In turn, I have recruited Rick Palmetto Junction Carter to keep me laughing because I am much older than he, so now I am safe, although I haven’t a clue where Rick stands on Hormel Chili or greasy billed Red Ball Caps, or Ivory Billed Woodpeckers for that matter, although, as a former jet pilot, hoping to dodge birdstrikes, it’s my guess he tries to avoid them at all costs. As to snakes, he’s one of us . . .

Without further ado . . .

The sun don’t shine on the same dog’s ass all the time. 
Catfish Hunter

by Rick Palmetto Junction Carter,

One recent October morning, a horde of demented adventurers gathered on the banks of the Mississippi River to bathe in “them rays” of nuclear fission and reluctantly feed mosquitoes. Meanwhile, Grand Gulf power station quietly fueled the toasters, televisions and other implements of The Saturday Morning Ritual that was being enjoyed by saner citizens of South Mississippi.

Just a few hours earlier, this mob ingested gallons of coffee and countless glazed doughnuts. Chatting excitedly, they boarded a line of yellow school busses and departed Natchez on a [fifty] mile journey.  As this hapless caravan trundled steadily through the darkness, conversation gradually diminished with the passing of miles while reality tightened its grip. A single, compelling thought soon displaced the capacity for speech. We were trapped in a toiletless hell, facing the dismal prospect of ruptured bladders. The road gets rougher as you get toward the end.

With daylight, salient features emerged and the predominant demographic became apparent. A passerby would have concluded this was a clandestine assembly of the Gray Panthers if not for the brightly colored boats on the grass. It looked like a gigantic piñata had burst and strewn candy across the yard. Phatwater X was about to begin. Some genuine talent was there, including former Olympic competitors in contention for the purse, but the bulk of the field was composed of regular folks simply there to enjoy a beautiful day.

Once everyone was on the water the excitement began to peak. KB and Melissa paddled in circles, reflecting the mental turmoil of a veteran race director. Wyndy jockeyed with others to hold position as the current disrupted the starting formation. Hatler took pictures of the spectacle. I watched my footwell fill and realized I had not closed the bailer. Then the horn sounded and we were off in a massive spasm of collective adrenaline.

Joe Glickman and Eric Mimms left the pack like scalded dogs.  Forty-two miles later, this tandem would be the first to arrive, almost eight minutes ahead of the closest threat. Covering that distance in three hours and fifty-four minutes against a headwind is truly impressive. As expected, DeAnne and Patrick Hemmens were up in front, as well as Philippe Boccara in his surfski. Less expected were John and Karen Wellens who seemed just within reach, only to slowly but steadily pull away. They took third place in the tandem division.

Struggling to negotiate this vast river is a different kind of accomplishment. There are times when you will find yourself alone with your demons. It is an opportunity for introspection that has no parallel. While others mow the grass, wash the car and occupy themselves with the mundane and meaningless, you are engaged in something they will never understand. You are testing personal boundaries and exploring “the limits of human will.” Validation awaits at the finish line.

At last the pavement of Silver Street came into view and I wobbled between the buoys at the boat ramp. Sincere thanks go out to the U. S. Navy who took my ski to the mountain top while I assaulted the summit on hands and knees. Finally, I opened a folding chair on the bluff and cracked a beer to relax and watch the finishers. In the distance, a pair of white Epic paddle blades flashed with the rhythm of a metronome. It was Wyndy in my 18X.  She doesn’t even own a kayak. Before the race, she expressed concern that she might not finish. Not only did she reach the end, she took first in her division, winning a big honkin’ trophy and a nice cash prize.

At the saloon, Eric opened his palms to reveal blood blisters the size of small grapes. Winning first place involves many things, but nothing so much as commitment. Melissa Maedgan was the first woman across the finish and I know Moe is proud of how she represented South Carolina. Richard Knelly overcame cramps in his hand to beat the deadline by seven minutes and win first in his division as well as the Sub-V pocket knife. Larry Castillo made the winner’s circle in his canoe despite the extra weight of all that hardware in his joints. Predictably, Philippe was the first surf-ski and I think that when he finally quits growing he has a great future in this sport.  After much Scotch on the rocks I also had the chance to ask Glicker about Molokai. I’m pretty sure he said that compared to Phatwater, it was a cinch. That is really good to know. The man is an endless source of inspiration.

Can’t think of a better way to have celebrated my 37^th birthday. This was a well organized event that keeps getting better.  Wyndy met eligibility for grandma status a long time ago. If she can do this, so can you. See ya next year at Phatwater.

pictures at: detcord.smugmug.com

Or, just go the Smugmug.com and enter “detcord” into their search tab, or button, or doohickey, or whatever the thing that says “search” is called.

All For Now-KB

20.50′

is the current reading on the Natchez gage, 3 and a half feet below this date a year ago. Footage on the Weather Channel just now featured a true poor-timing-hall-of-famer, trekking through sub-Saharan Africa on a “mountain bike”, and getting knocked ass-over-tea-kettle by what to me looked like a hartebeest. He took a good shot to the ribs, but it must have been a clean hit because I saw no flags after the play. You’ve seen it. If you haven’t, you probably will.

The score of hartebeests against two-wheelers is One-Oh, but I cannot report the score in the jousting between Phatwater paddlers and this year’s spawn of leaping carp because all the news and anecdotes from this past Saturday have yet to scruff my doormat.  There was an unconfirmed sighting of a Zeuglodon above the St. Joe elevator, where the water ran wild and turbulent.  I have some fallout from one paddler claiming a “two foot drop”.  This is possible, though a bit over the top, even though it was under the boat, but we’ll get to his epistle later, which we will publish, along with Rick Carter’s essay which has scruffed my doormat, though I’ve not had the time comb through it.  Those of the rest of you wishing to have your story scruff the hall-of-fame of the Phatwater need to bundle it up and send it my way.  I will publish every one I receive, as received, complete, with or without mistakes and claims of virginity restored, if you’ll just take the time to jottle the throttle of your inspiration.  If you wish to publish anon, let me know.

Photos and requests for photos continue unabated, and I am just now able to sort through them, and am doing so as I write.  The lovely Keaton Mims took the duty with aplomb, and shot everyone landing on the ramp, and she did a fantastic job, as did Priss Bryant at the Put-In, and I will be placing these images on my Smugmug page where they may be viewed and purchased. Go ye to detcord.smugmug.com and select the gallery “Phatwater X”, and entry shall be granted.

I will also be setting up an account with SouthernCamera, where prints may be purchased.  Both Smugmug and SouthernCamera do excellent work. I don’t know the extent to which you can have your images adjusted through Smugmug because I’m just not familiar with them, but I’ve been using SouthernCamera for prints for years, and I like them, and they have broad mastery of photoshop and reworking images of Uncle Farny on the back row with closed eyes suddenly being opened, so please give them some business. I should have an FTP later today where you can order from either source.

Here’s a prelim, featuring Sam McLemore, able seaman, from Starkville, Mississippi, with Sally the Wunderhund.

You will note that Sam is wearing his wrist band, as requested, but, from this angle, I cannot tell if Sally is.

All For Now-KB

At 0322 the Phatwater on the morning of our Xth annual event, the Natchez gage reading is:

 22.41′

on a slow fall. Current temperature in Natchez is 66° with a slight east wind, 6 mph. Conditions will warm rapidly, however, as we set out at 0800.  Be prepared with adequate energy and fluid.

Reports of overnight Zeuglodon sighting are presistent, though unsubstantiated at this time.  Be wary when dipping your hands into the Phat of the water.

See you all at the Natchez Grand in an hour, the Claiborne County Port, the starting line, or the finish line, unless I don’t see you.  In either case, have a great race.

All For Now-KB

The Phatwater at Twenty-Hundred, Friday, October 7th, stands at

22.54′

on the Natchez gage, and falling. We are

3.2′

feet below this time and date a year ago.

The water temperature today from the gage records for Natchez was at 72°, with light winds quaking from the west and north. There was a flow rate of 410,000 CFS at 7 feet per second on the Natchez gage; roughly, 4.8 miles per hour. Anticipated winds for the Xth annual Phatwater Kayak Challenge tomorrow will be light at 3-5 mph, down from an earlier prediction of from 15-25 miles per hour. The winds will apparently be predominantly from the southeast, which will prove disastrous to any record attempt. Expected temperatures for tomorrow will be in the mid-eighties.

Prize money for top finishers has still not been determined; however, given the present numbers of those registered, we will have to reevaluate what we had hoped to be able to award. At this point, the figures do no favor as attractive a pay package as we had hoped. It is clear that a more concerted effort on my part to develop corporate sponsorship must somehow be reached. For my failure to achieve such hoped for goals, I sincerely apologize to you all. The upside is that we cannot grow any worse, only better.

On the lighter side, today I had the distinct pleasure of being contacted, again and again, by some form of hominid for whom human conversation was not necessarily a stumbling block, though, at the same time,  for whom spatial thinking and direction finding were the stuff of pure fantasy.

In this regard, I have a good friend—a retired Navy SEAL Team Commander, in fact, who is now a uniformed patrolman for the San Diego Police Department, who contends that the only thing more bothersome than a blood sucking arthropod is a college educated upper-middle-class urban dweller with access to a cell phone, a driver’s license and a map.

God, spare us, because none of we will.

All For Now-KB

Phatwater on the Natchez gage today is currently running at

 22.71′

with a slight fall for tomorrow. This is good news for those of you who seek good news, and welcome news for those of you seeking welcome news. For those of you seeking “bad” news, seek elsewhere, for we are all about positive, ahem, strokes.

All my best to each of you; hope I get a chance to speak with you either today or tomorrow. I will try to make another post later this morning.

As they say at Miss-Lou Port-O-Johns, whom we need to meet in ten minutes, “Gotta go”.

All For Now-KB

When one allows the anger to subside and considers the advantage in having a promise withdrawn, the corners of the mouth begin to lose their weight. Moments ago we lost a most loquacious know-it-all to the vagaries of his own egomania; an act by which I was initially annoyed, though given lengthier reflection, now realize I am well pleased.

Under the circumstances of our acquaintance’s presumed “assistance”, someone, if not many, would have, by default, fallen victim to his vitriol, tasteless jokes, and rambling discourse on topics of dubious interest. Now, thanks to his abandonment of us, we’ve now been spared his litany of personal anecdotes, most of which are followed by equine guffaws that bring to mind the child actor/character portrayed by Ron Palillo/”Arnold Horshack”, in the disaster that was once fired upon prime-time viewers of this great land under the network myopia, “Welcome Back Kotter”.

Perhaps someone of you, through the six degrees of separation, has a personal relationship with Ron Palillo, and can, before Saturday, persuade him to take our acquaintance’s place. If not, fear not, we shall persevere . . .

Phatwater on the Natchez gage is still losing its weight, having climbed up to

22.94′

at 0900 on this fine morning.

I’m going to try to cut and paste a graph that Chris VanMeter emailed me the other day, while languishing amid the various neuroses one encounters in the working man’s world, exhibited by the pocket-protector, duct-taped-together black-plastic-frame eyeglass wearing types referred to in the above. Chris, you see, is a numbers guy, with a winning smile and decidedly un-Horshack-like laughter. Here goes:

So, there’ya have it.  No excuses for you human calculators.  It’s all laid out like an Australian Thanksgiving Double Wattled Cassowary, ready to be carved.

Here’s something for all of you to think about before I disappear. I just got off the phone after being interrupted by David “Prince Boy” Lloyd, who is on his way South, and guess what? He forgot to pack his paddle.

Not to worry, I told him, we’ve got a spare. Of course, it may be a bit LONG for Master Sergeant Lloyd . . .  What is of far greater concern, however, is that when Prince Boy hands out the trophies, an act for which he is singularly well suited given his power of oratory, should Phillipe Bocarra, who is six-feet-eight, win a trophy, which is highly likely, when Lloyd stares up at him, in doing so he will be exposing his throat to the Sun, irradiating his larynx in the process and thus posing a threat to his future behind a mike, so, if one of you “taller” folks would consider standing in as Lloyd’s “second”, for a second, we may be spared grave circumstances in future years.

All For Now-KB

Yesterday, in Frogmore, Louisiana, where Chris VanMeter was swooning over the prowess of the Groin Gay Packers—Oh, excuse me, the “Green Bay Packers”—puns of every stripe were being traded and then slain, left and right, having to do with all manner of topics, during the barrage of which was brought out a bottle of Absinthe from a distillery in Milwaukee, which Chris proffered to able Veteran Safety Boaters and hostess Randy Meng and sub-host Forrest Flinn, as the proceedings of the contest between the New England Patriots and the Oakland Raiders got underway.  It was our hope that Natchez native Stevan Ridley, running back for the Pats, would gather some air time, and we were not disappointed, as Stevan, #22, rushed for 97 yards on nine carries, earning his first rookie touchdown, with a blast from the line of scrimmage that quickly developed into the sort of thing for which Stevan is known; a 33 yard dash across a broken field strewn (there’s that verb, yet again) with grasping hands not quite up to the task of completing their arrest. It was pure poetry.

So, referencing the above pun of the day, it really has nothing to do with Chris’s anticipated performance on Saturday, as our first Stand Up Paddler.  We really don’t expect him to finish next to last.  In fact, if the conditions are what they were yesterday, with a stiff north wind, it is very likely Chris will be leading those desperate mortals hoping to finish Sub-V, while scouting from his “White Tip Crow’s Nest” for signs of a pod of marauding Zeuglodons.  Such a guy!

The Phatwater on the Natchez gage at 0855, today, is:

 22.07′

and creeping up another micron.

Here’s a brief rundown on waivers, authored by our registration authority, Allen Hancock.  Call or write if you still have questions:

Come see us Friday, Under the Hill, where we will be happy to see you & welcome you to the Phat.  Your goodie bags, and pre-printed ACA Waivers will be ready for you!

In exchange for your signature on your ACA Insurance waiver, we will issue you your boat numbers: one to be taped to the port side of your boat, the other to be attached to your PFD.

For all you ACA members who didn’t have your ACA # when you registered online, we’ll offer bonus kudos if you’ll have it then.

For all you paddlers who haven’t registered:  Doing so NOW will ensure that we’ll have your waiver and number ready for you this weekend.

Another, Such a guy!

All For Now-KB