"Deep Water" - the Tragedy of Donald Crowhurst, and the Price we Pay to Dream

"We are all human beings...and we have dreams."

In 1968, the British Sunday Times newspaper sponsored an international yachting competition, known as the Golden Globe Race. Nine men entered. Their task? Circumnavigate the world under sail, single handed (the Yachtsman's term for solo), without stopping. Nobody knew if a human or boat could withstand the stress of such a voyage.

Most of the men who entered the race were experienced sailors. Among the favorites were a 29 year old Englishman, Robin Knox - Johnston, and a quiet 43 year old Frenchman named Bernard Moitessier. There was also one "mystery man" among them. His name was Donald Crowhurst.

Louise Osmond explores the story of this race, and Donald Crowhurst's ill - fated voyage, in a documentary film titled "Deep Water." Through a combination of crude hand - held footage shot by the yachtsmen themselves, touching interviews, and dramatic narration by Tilda Swinton, she portrays Donald Crowhurst as a man who sailed off on a quest for self fulfillment, only to become a prisoner of both his own ambitions, and those of his sponsors.

At the time of the race, Crowhurst was a 35 year old father of four children, with a struggling marine electronics business. While he was, as one of his friends puts it, a man of "great brains," his business ventures had never validated him. While his wife and children had home and food on the table, they had little else. He saw the Golden Globe Race as a potentially transformative experience - one that would finally provide the self - actualization he had yet to discover.

There was only one problem - a lack of funds. To secure the necessary financial backing for his voyage, Crowhurst turned to a wealthy businessman, Stanley Best. He also hired a veteran journalist, Rodney Hullworth, who served as his press agent. As part of their agreement, Mr. Best stipulated that if Crowhurst either quit or failed in the early stages of the race, he would be forced to buy his boat back. This meant Crowhurst would be forced to sell his house, and he and his family would become mired in financial ruin. He had, in short, staked his (and his family's) life on being successful in the race.

Osmond chooses to depict Crowhurst as a man who became trapped both by his own dreams, and the financial ambitions of his sponsors. Best and Hullworth knew that if Crowhurst succeeded, they stood to make a lot of money, through book deals and interviews, among other things. As such, they transformed the mild - mannered Crowhurst into somebody he wasn't. Donald had no choice but to play the role in which he had been cast.

As his departure date neared, Crowhurst battled increasing self - doubts. On one hand, he wanted to be in the race. But he was also a realist, and he knew he was far behind schedule. His relative lack of experience, combined with the fact that he was custom building a boat from scratch with limited time, led to numerous errors. On the eve of the race, he confided to his wife and friends that the boat "wasn't ready." When he approached his sponsors and told them of his predicament, Osmond leads us to believe that they gave Crowhurst no choice but to sail before the departure deadline. He was, in short, already trapped.

Ultimately, his boat began leaking badly, and in his haste to depart on time, he had neglected to pack supplies needed for repairs. He was faced with a terrible dilemma. If he quit the race, his family faced an uncertain future. However, if he continued, his boat would likely be destroyed by the mountainous waves of the southern ocean. It was this dilemma that led to him deciding to fake his voyage. He drifted aimlessly in the South Atlantic for hundreds of days, all the while maintaining two logs - one true, and one false. He radioed in false reports of his position. In short, he played the character he was expected to play. However, the stress and internal turmoil of faking his voyage led to a severe mental breakdown, and his voyage concluded in suicide.

When contemplating Crowhurst's journey, the main question that arises is one of motive. Was Crowhurst's voyage and suicide an act of selfishness? Or was it something else?

Osmond seems to suggest it is the latter. She implies that Donald's decisions were driven by a deep, heartfelt love for his wife and children. Above all else, she suggests, he didn't want to fail them. Further, the restrictions imposed by sponsorship put him in a position where he couldn't afford to fail them.

In the latter portions of the film, Osmond faces an artistic choice. She can either ponder the question of who is to blaim for Donald's failure, or she can look beyond it for greater meaning. The fact that she chooses the latter is what makes the film especially strong.

The most compelling portions of the film are her interviews with the families of Crowhurst and Bernard Moitessier. Both faced a sense of loss and abandonment. Moitessier was close behind the race's leader (and eventual winner), Robin Knox- Johnston. He had a strong chance of winning. However, shortly after rounding the Cape Horn, Moitessier abandoned the race, and chose to continue sailing alone, all the way to Tahiti. His journey had proven transformative and fulfilling, but it meant that his home was no longer in France. Home was the sea, and his boat.

His wife and children were devastated by his decision to not come home. However, in a beautiful moment, Moitessier's wife, Francoise reflects that "I was expecting something, I knew him too well. Before the voyage, Bernard said 'Anyone who does this race for money or fame will come to grief.' He was happy at sea, he was content. He found himself."

While their marriage eventually ended, Francoise nonetheless accepts the fact that Bernard needed to go to sea. As she puts it, "A man can decide to take part in a motor race or go to the moon. You can't stop him. You can't stop a bird from flying."

Claire Crowhurst and her son Simon echo Francoise's sentiments, and, at least to my mind, help validate Osmond's suggestion that having great dreams and choosing to pursue them is not, in and of itself, an act of selfishness. Near the end of the film, as she reflects on Donald's death, Claire notes that

I feel that I failed. I didn't stop him from going, and I didn't help him when he needed it. But people need to dream. I think Donald needed that. And he had a right to have it.

In sum, "Deep Water" implies that daring to dream isn't selfish. It's something every human must do, in order to grow. However, Osmond reminds us that while dreams are a necessary part of life, they always come at a cost.

Bigelow Mountain and Flagstaff Lake - Three Days in the Heart of Maine

Tucked into the corner of Northwest Maine, the 36,000 acre Bigelow Preserve is one of the state's hiking and camping gems. Recently, Macy and I traveled to this remote area with the goal of climbing the 4,150 West Peak of Mt. Bigelow - a rugged alpine wilderness often described as Maine's "second mountain" (after Katahdin).

To be clear, the Bigelow Preserve is not far from civilization. In fact, throughout its history, the region has been impacted and shaped by man on numerous occasions. The mountain is named after an American army major, Timothy Bigelow. Bigelow climbed the mountain in 1775, "for purposes of observation." He was part of an ill - fated expedition led by Benedict Arnold through Maine's wilderness during the Revolutionary War. Arnold's objective was to march a detachment of troops from Massachusetts to Quebec, by way of Maine. He hoped to drive British out of Quebec, and form an alliance with the French. By the time he reached Quebec, the Maine Wilderness had exacted a tremendous toll on his men's health and morale. This arguably led to their hasty defeat at the Battle of Quebec in December 1775.

Maine's lumber and paper industries have long been a part of the region. The Dead River, which forms just beyond the preserve's northern boundary, was used as a thoroughfare for the famous "River Drives," when millions of freshly sawed logs would be floated downriver, towards the sawmills and paper companies.

On the Northern side of the preserve sits Flagstaff Lake, a massive body of water which despite its size, is remarkably quiet. Few people realize that the lake is actually quite young. It was formed in 1949, when the Central Maine Power company constructed Long Falls Dam on the Dead River. The resulting lake flooded the town of Flagstaff, which had been abandoned to make room for the project. Because of its unnatural origins, the lake is quite unique. It is deep in places, but randomly shallow in others, often in places one might now expect (maybe say, the middle?). The lake's boundaries are littered with evidence of civilization - be it rusted out farm of logging equipment, old fencing, etc. If you are canoeing on the lake, you might come across and old pot - bellied stove sitting just beneath the surface!

Finally, the preserve sits directly adjacent to the massive Sugarloaf Ski resort. Opened in 1951, the resort has transformed itself into a four season operation. Thousands of people travel north every winter and spring to use its numerous trails, which cover the mountainside. Many people also enjoy its premiere 18 hole golf course during the warmer months. Condominiums, ski lifts, and a hotel perch on the mountain's land, and a massive communications tower sits at the top.

Had it not been for the foresight of some individuals in the 1970s, it is speculated that Bigelow Mountain may have met a similar fate to sugarloaf. A developer sought to transform the area into an "Aspen of the east." Environmental advocates organized the opposition, and in 1976, the citizens of Maine voted to incorporate nearly 40,000 acres of land surrounding Bigelow Mountain, to form the Bigelow Preserve, maintaining the land in a natural state.

Exploring this ruggedly pristine environment set against the backdrop of civilization's influence makes one appreciate the beauty and fragility of our natural world.

So it was that on a beautiful day in early September, Macy and I packed up her Volkswagen Jetta wagon, and headed north. Our destination was the Round Barn camping area, a spot I had read about while researching the trip. It is managed by the preserve, includes eight secluded campsites, along with a large group site that can accommodate up to thirty people. It sits on the shore of Flagstaff lake, includes one central privy, and is free for anyone to use. There are no entrance fees.

We drove north from my parents' house in Woolwich on Route 27. After about two hours, we reached a small (and I mean, SMALL) town called Carrabasset, just south of Sugarloaf. We turned right onto a tiny road, called the Carriage Road. This road was derelict for a number of years, and as such, does not appear on older maps. It crosses land owned by the Penobscot Indians. A deal was recently struck, and they agreed to improve the road to make it more suitable for public use.

Despite its improvements, the road is still quite rough. There are many potholes and frost heaves, and rocks protrude from the road bed in places. Our vehicle had a relatively low ground clearance and did OK, but we had to drive very slowly. I would not recommend attempting this road in a car with a lower ground clearance. A sure indicator of the road's remoteness was the fact that it included signage intended for snowmobiles and ATV's, but not cars!

After about five miles of bumpy driving, we turned left onto the East Flagstaff Road, and continued on. This road was marginally better - wider and more graded, but still rough enough. The Preserve has added some signage to help visitors locate Round Barn, and we were appreciative of the help. After several miles, we turned off into the Long Barn Camping Area's lot. To our surprise, there were three other vehicles there, including a state - owned pickup truck.

After using the privy and stretching our legs, a fellow wearing a Maine DOC (Department of Conservation) uniform approached us. He introduced himself as Steve, the Preserve Manager. He was a cheerful, affable fellow, and welcomed us to the area. He explained that he was based out of Farmington, which is over thirty miles to the south. He periodically travels up to check on the Round Barn Area, but is also responsible for the maintenance and coverage of the whole preserve. The fact that our paths crossed was a chance occurrence indeed.

The only way into the camp sites was by foot. We poked around for a few minutes and identified a wonderful camp site, on a point looking out at the lake. We carried in our gear packs, and made camp.

A few minutes later, Steve reappeared to check which site we had picked. He asked us about how we had learned about the preserve and the camping area, and what we were planning to do. I had originally planned for us to hike the mountain from the western side. However, the long bumpy drive, combined with the proximity of another trail to our camping area, led us to decide on a different route. Steve recommended that we ascend on the Safford Brook trail, which left directly from Round Barn. This trail leads to the Appalachian Trail, which you can follow to the peaks. He even suggested that if we felt ambitious, we might backpack our gear up the Safford Brook Trail, and camp at a site near the end. From there, we could day hike a significant chunk of the mountain.

Ultimately, we decided to make Round Barn our base camp. It was a beautiful spot, and we reasoned that with an early start, we could hike to the top and back in one day, easily. We spent a lazy afternoon lounging on the sandy beach nearby, staring up toward the mountain's peaks. One other couple arrived late in the afternoon, with a golden retriever and an infant. They had hiked on the mountain earlier in the day, and planned to camp there for the night. They were very good neighbors. Aside from their camp fire, we wouldn't have known they were there.

As the sun set, we made our supper. The breeze died, and we built a small fire, and sipped hot chocolate. Later on, after hauling our food and toiletries back to the car (didn't want to deal with mice, raccoons or bears), we sat on a rock by the shore and watched an absolutely perfect moonrise over the mountains on the far shore. I'm ashamed to say I didn't photograph it, but we just felt like sitting there and admiring it. The beautiful, mournful calls of loons echoed across the lake, and we quietly sat and enjoyed it, until the night grew too cold.

The next morning, we rose before sunrise, and were treated to yet another beautiful view.




After a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal and cocoa, we loaded up our day packs, changed into our hiking clothes, and hit the trail.

The Safford Brook trail gradually works its way up the mountainside for about 2.2 miles, gaining some 900 feet in elevation. We found the terrain very easy, and reached the Appalachian Trail in a little over an hour. The A.T. traverses the entire mountain Ridge, which runs some 14 miles and includes several peaks.


After a brief rest and some water, we set off on the Appalachian Trail, bound for Avery Peak, a distance of 1.9 miles, but with a 2000 foot elevation gain. It was tough.

Many people say that Maine and New Hampshire are the toughest sections of the A.T., and after hiking in the Bigelow Preserve, I can see why. The ground is very rough, rocky, steep, and covered with roots. The undergrowth is thick, and the forest canopy keeps the ground dark, even in daylight. I imagined Benedict Arnold's men struggling over this land, carrying heavy gear, wearing cold, wet clothing, clad in poor footwear. In short, I felt sorry for them.

Despite the rough trail, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. There were numerous viewpoints along the trail where we could stop and enjoy the scenery.

Additionally, we crossed paths with many AT hikers along the way. We met one older gentleman who was section - hiking all the way to Katahdin. He had started in Hudson Valley, New York. We admired his determination. We also passed two younger men, roughly our age. They were trying to find a water source. We directed them to Safford Brook, which would be a small detour for them. Despite their lack of water, they moved over the rugged terrain with remarkable swifness. We passed another young woman hiking alone, and another young couple hiking south. As we approached Avery Peek, we passed another older man carrying a heavy pack. He had a large strip of duct tape, a backcountry band - aid, on one of his legs. Still, he looked cheerful.

Finally, after a little less than two hours of rough climbing, we reached Avery Peek, which sits at 4088 feet. The peek is named after Myron Haliburton Avery, a native Mainer who, with Benton MacKaye, helped create the Appalachian Trail.He was the first hiker to complete the 2000 mile trek, in an era when the trail was poorly marked, and hardly mapped. His through hike was undoubtedly harder than those attempted by people today. There is a plaque bearing his name on the peak. My heart goes out to the poor soul who lugged it up there.






Sitting atop the peak is an old wooden shack sitting on a stone foundation. It served as a fire lookout tower until the old manned tower system was replaced by airplanes. According to records, the current tower on Avery Peak was built in 1965. It is hard to imagine Maine's fire wardens trekking to these alpine perches nearly every day, let alone roughing it out in the Maine wilds in their small cabins for extended periods.

We rested briefly. I treated a hot spot in one of my boots with some mole skin. We decided to push onward for the West Peek, which sits a little higher than 4,100 feet - the mountain's high point. We wanted to get to the top!









Shortly after leaving Avery Peak, we started making our way down into the col on the mountain's ridge. The total distance from Avery Peak to West Peak is just 0.7 miles, but it was tough. This was probably the hardest part of the whole hike - lots of boulder scrambling was necessary, and we needed to look for hand and foot holds carefully. At one point, it was so rough that I wondered if it would be worth it - I did not wish to dilly dally on the top since we only had daypacks. We decided to push on a little more, to see if the trail became easier. Sure enough, it did. We passed through the Bigelow col's camping area, and reached the West Peak a short time later. In total, it took us 3 hours and 50 minutes to reach the top from the trailhead.

We enjoyed our lunch, and some amazing panoramic views of the region. After resting for about a half hour, we repacked, and started hiking back to our camp site.

As we passed Avery Peek again, we crossed paths with another older section hiker. He was from Florida, and had started hiking on the A.T. for his 50th birthday. His goal was to finish when he was 60 - next year. He asked us to snap a picture of him on his blackberry, so he could send it to his wife, because, he said jokingly, "she didn't believe he had made it out here." He took a picture of us too. We wished him well, and parted ways.

The trip down was hard. Our muscles grew achey from the pounding, but the air was cool and pleasant. We reached our campsite at 4:15 in the afternoon, some 3 hours and 15 minutes after leaving the top. We spent a relaxing evening on the lake shore, hearing the loons call until dusk. I even went for a swim! We both slept like logs that night.

The next morning, we ate breakfast and broke camp early. After loading up the car, we drove back out via the East Flagstaff and Carriage Roads, which took almost 40 minutes all told. We enjoyed a leisurely drive through the Rangely Lakes Region on the way home, stopping at several gorgeous viewpoints.






I hope we return to the Bigelow Preserve some day. In many ways, it is the perfect place for campers of our experience level. It is remote and wild enough to feel like a real wilderness experience, but close enough to civilization to make access relatively easy. Additionally, it includes things - a privy, maintained camp sites, and well - marked trails, which make the great outdoors easier to manage and less intimidating. I highly recommend that you visit it some day!

Who is Dean Karnazes?

Running a marathon is considered to be one of the greatest feats of human endurance. The total distance of 26.2 initially seems arbitrary. Why not 25 miles, or 30? Why 26.2?

The marathon is deeply rooted in history, and is thought to have its origins in events that happened nearly 2,500 years ago. In approximately 490 B.C., on the Plains of Marathon, a brave, but severely outnumbered army from the Greek city - state of Athens was battled an invading force from Persia. Tradition says that the Athenians launched a brave offensive, and managed to kill over 6400 Persians while losing less than 200 of their own. After sustaining heavy losses, the Persians retreated to their ships and prepared to head south toward Athens. Their goal was to regroup and destroy the city before the Athenian army (which was traveling overland) could return to defend their homes.

Facing the threat of invasion by Persia, the Athenians knew that they needed to deliver news of the incoming threat as quickly as possible. Accordingly, they ordered a messenger, named Phiddipedes, to run all the way to Athens, a distance of 26.2 miles. He was to deliver news of their victory, while also advising the citizens to prepare for a Persian sneak attack. It is thought that Phiddipedes ran the distance in approximately three hours. When he arrived, he was so severely exhausted that he managed to gasp, "Rejoice, we conquer." After that, he collapsed and died.

When I first learned of this story, I found it somewhat silly. For one thing, most of the artistic depictions of Phiddipedes I had seen portrayed him as running along completely naked. It was in college that I learned that this was typical of classical Greek art and their fascination with the "athletic ideal." Still, the image of a fellow running naked through the hills of Greece was comical. I could only imagine what people might have said (perhaps something to the effect of "dude, where's your chiton?"). Additionally, I found the story amusing because this run killed Phidippedes. Thousands of people successfully complete marathons every year, and finish in fine form. Phidippedes obviously wasn't in good enough shape. Either that, or, I thought, he did not understand that wonderful concept we call hydration.

However, all of these views changed when I learned of another great endurance athlete (with a Greek name, no less!) named Dean Karnazes. He recently gained national fame by running fifty marathons in fifty states in fifty consecutive days.

I'll say that again.

Fifty marathons. In fifty states. In fifty days.

However brilliant this achievement sounds, the truth is that Dean has run distances far greater than 26.2 miles without sleeping.

Try 350 miles in a shade over 80 hours of nonstop running.

I know what you're thinking. This guy is insane.

Well, as I later learned, Dean is not the first so called "ultramarathoner." In fact, tradition says that Phidippedes was the first.

What most people tend to overlook is a story related by the Greek historian Herodotus. As he tells it, the Athenians first dispatched Phidippedes to the city of Sparta, which is 140 rugged, mountainous miles away. Upon arriving, he was expected to plead with the Spartans to join Athens in pushing the Persian army back. The Spartans, however, refused to aid Athens until the moon was full, since their religion apparently forbid it. Thus Phidippedes turned around, and ran 140 miles back to Athens, delivering this disappointing news.

All I can say is, thank goodness for e-mail.

Later on, it is said that he grabbed his sword and shield and fought valiantly on the battlefield at Marathon all day. It was only then that he ran a "marathon" back to Athens, where he died. If this legend is true, then in total, Phidippedes covered approximately 306 miles on foot over the course of several days.

It's safe to say that I would have died long before making it that far. That can be said for most people. Not so for Dean Karnazes, though. Assuming the legends of Phidippedes are true (which admittedly is a significant assumption), Karnazes is probably the closest incarnation of Phidippedes walking...er...running among us today.

Amazingly, he does not earn a living by running absurd distances. He owns his own health foods company, is married, and has two children. He is not overly young, either At 45 years old, he has reached an age when most professional athletes have retired. And yet, he is widely considered one of the greatest endurance athletes (and fittest human beings) on the face of the earth. He regularly rises before dawn, runs a marathon before breakfast, showers and dresses, and helps take his kids to school before heading to work himself. Typically, situps, pullups, and pushups, perhaps combined with another long run, await when he comes home in the evening.

Karnazes recently authored a book titled Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All Night Runner. In his simple, colloquial style, he tries to provide rational explanations for his seemingly insane desire to run ridiculous distances.

The book is essentially an autobiography. Essentially, Dean uses various races from different parts of his life to tell us a story, not of his entire life, but rather, his life as a distance runner. He was a relatively good cross country runner in high school, but as he grew older, his interest in running was superseded by a greater interest in windsurfing and climbing the corporate ladder.

All of that changed on the night of his thirtieth birthday. As he downed tequila shots with friends (his wife had long since grown tired and headed home). He claims that in the drunken festivities, a married woman began flirting with him. She bought him several more shots, at which point, Dean says he became overwhelmed by a mess of emotions. He was entering a new decade, and despite his intoxication, realized he was a shot or two away from potentially ruining it. So, he he excused himself, claiming he needed to use the bathroom, and walked home.

When he came home, he realized he did not want go to bed. Rather, he craved a revitalizing adrenaline rush - perhaps something to make him feel good about himself again. As he tells it,

...I went out to the garage and cautiously made my way through the darkness to the back porch, where I kept an old pair of sneakers used for yard work. I deliberated for a moment about what else to wear. After some thought, I undid my belt and pulled off my pants. I had on a pair of loose - fitting jockey briefs, which would be comfortable enough. I took off my sweater but left my undershirt on. The socks were a problem. They were black, silk knee - highs. I folded them down low around my ankles, then put on the sneakers.

In my pants pocket I found a twenty - dollar bill. It had started the evening as a hundred - dollar bill, but the bar had consumed the balance. Folding it up nearly and stuffing it into my shoe, I took a swig of water from the hose, and made my way back to the street...

He then proceeded to run thirty miles on his thirtieth birthday. The pain was excruciating, but as he tells it, his spirit soared to knew heights. He had found a new passion.

There are countless other tales of long distance runs, including the Badwater ultramarathon in Death Valley, and running a marathon at the South Pole, among other seemingly ridiculous places. There are also many humorous, but nonetheless true, accounts of Dean shoving pizzas and cheesecakes down his throat on the run in order to keep his body fueled.

The book itself is very easy to read. It will never be considered a great work of literature, as Karnazes' writing is quite conversational. At times, the book presents itself as more of a transcribed interview as opposed to an autobiographical work.

It is also largely grounded in familiar athletic cliches. For instance, early in the book, Karnazes relates a story about his stoic junior high school track coach, Jack McTavish. After completing a race, the coach approached and asked how Dean felt. He of course replied that he felt pretty good.

In response, his coach said "If it felt good, you didn't push hard enough. It's supposed to hurt like hell."

In other words, no pain, no gain.

Despite these minor shortcomings, the book is nonetheless inspiring, particularly in an era when increasing numbers of Americans are struggling with weight - related health complications at earlier and earlier ages. We may not all be able to run 350 miles (most of us aren't crazy enough). However, Karnazes' amazing cardiovascular feats demonstrate that the human body is an absolutely remarkable machine, and that, when pushed, it is capable of doing amazing things.

Ultramarathon Man does not teach us about any radically new concepts. It is not a book filled with revelations or brilliant insights. Indeed, when asked about why he runs such long distances, Karnazes will often say, half - jokingly, "well, I'm not very bright."

Rather, this book reminds us that oftentimes the most fulfilling experiences in life are those which are difficult to attain. This lesson is so simple (dare I say "pedestrian") that we often forget it, but it is, at least from this reader's perspective, very important.

So, in short, don't be afraid of some pain. Don't be afraid of a little stress. For there are few feelings that are greater than when we can look back at an accomplishment, and simply utter, "wow. I can't believe I did that."

Excuse me while I grab my running shoes...

A Flood of History we have Yet to Learn

The recent floods in the upper Mississippi basin have brought terrible devastation to America's heartland. As of today, twenty-four people have died, one hundred forty eight have been injured, and countless people have been forced to evacuate their homes. There have also been millions of dollars worth of property damage and losses. Sitting here on the East coast, I suspect that our perceptions of the destruction are somewhat limited. The beauty of television (or any form of media, for that matter) is that the individual can control the flow of information into the mind. Whenever the news becomes too overwhelming, we can just change the channel, put the newspaper down, or visit a new website. Unfortunately, our fellow citizens in the Midwest must face these difficulties all day, every day. Their resolve is something to be admired.

The flood's devastation has created great controversy. There are some who have argued that such incidents only occur every five hundred years. This seems to suggest that no matter what we do to prepare, there will be floods that are beyond our ability to contain. Eric Halpin, a special assistant for dam and levee safety with the US Army Corps of Engineers, made the following comment:

"Nature has its way of upping the ante. This storm proved that even if we had built levees to the floods of record, they would have been overwhelmed by this event."

There are also those who argue that America's flood containment system is grossly inadequate. By now, most of us are probably familiar with the concept of "levees." For those who are not, a levee is nothing more than an embankment designed to prevent the flooding of a river. In the United States, many levees are evaluated by what is known as the "100 year standard." This simply means that in any given year, there is a one percent chance that a flood will rise above the levee. If a levee meets that standard, it is considered sufficient. However, according to some, this system is a joke. The people of the Netherlands, for example, frequently have to deal with the possibility of ocean flooding. Levees in the Netherlands are built in accordance with a ten thousand year standard. Additionally, the addition of sandbags to the top of a levee can actually become weaker, as the earth cannot always support the extra weight. Sandbags are, of course, one of the most visible symbols of floods in this country.

Essentially, there are those who say that such floods are beyond our control, and those who say we are severely unprepared. One should not oversimplify this debate, as it is, undoubtedly, a very complex issue. However there are some very serious questions that we, as Americans, must begin to answer. From my perspective, two important questions that have been overlooked are these.

(1) Should flooding always be automatically equated with economic disaster and hardship?

(2) How should we deal with such incidents in the future?

For thousands of years, man has struggled to control the Earth's waters. Ancient Egypt, for instance, was able to survive through highly successful agriculture near the Nile. It was one of the agricultural centers of the ancient world. Interestingly, without floods, the ancient Egyptians may never have thrived. During the period of the Old Kingdom, Egyptian agriculture relied heavily on the fertile soil of the Nile's flood plains. The floods determined the rhythm of the agricultural seasons. The floodwaters would replenish the soil's nutrients and moisture every year, then recede long enough for the farmers to sew and harvest their crops.

Such an approach to farming stands in stark contrast to today's agricultural practices. We are bombarded by news of agricultural devastation due to flooding. It is fascinating to think that there was a time when farmers prayed that floods would arrive.

However, things did not always work out for the Egyptians. They were subjected to the unpredictable characteristics of Mother Nature, just as we are today. It is thought that environmental challenges actually led to the collapse of the Old Kingdom in approximately 2185 BC. Geological evidence suggests that at this time, the Nile's floods were unusually low, which starved the Egyptian soil. In sum, the people were starving, the economy failed, and the kingdom withered in the sun.

Some twenty-five years after the Old Kingdom failed, the Pharaohs and their legions of engineers were determined to transcend their natural agricultural limitations. To combat poor flood levels, they resolved to develop elaborate irrigation systems. In one region, called the Faiyum Depression, they struggled mightily.

This region was dependent on the Nile's floods. The pharaohs and their engineers decided to construct a large reservoir, which could replenish the region with water in times of drought. Additionally, instead of allowing the Nile's waters to flood the entire depression, it was determined that it would be contained to a lake, creating a greater area of available farmland. Large pyramids were erected in the region, along with an obelisk.

In the fifth century BC, the Greek historian Herodotus visited the region. He was disappointed to find that the whole Faiyum Depression was severely flooded. He had hoped to see statues that had been built at the old lake's edge. Instead, all he could see were the very tops of their heads - the rest of them were hidden underwater. Poor Herodotus. The river's behavior had suddenly changed, and it went from being meagerly low to being swollen with floodwater. Despite all of their efforts, the engineers could not contain the Nile's waters and shape them to suit their agricultural practices.

Over the centuries, new dams would be constructed to try and contain the Nile's waters in the depression. All of them held for a while, but ultimately failed. For the ancient Egyptians (and later the Romans), farming this region was a significant exercise in futility.

And yet, here we are in the twenty first century, engaging in the same struggles in which the ancient Egyptians took part thousands of years ago. It can be summed up as follows:

1) River meets land
2) Man meets river
3) Man wants crops
4) Man tames river
5) River tames man.
6) Man rebuilds, rinses, and repeats.

If we are to learn anything for Herodotus, and the experiences of the ancient Egyptians, it is this. Rivers are unpredictable, and containing them is little more than an exercise in futility. After thousands of years, it is probably safe to say that we need to find a better way.

In the upper Mississippi region, humans have radically re-engineered the landscape to change its water absorbing properties. Since the advent of the plow, farmers have utilized drainpipes to control the water table, thus ensuring that they would have more land available for farming. As a result, many wetlands have disappeared. Essentially, landscapes are being altered in ways that change their abilities to absorb what nature throws at them.

It all seems so redundant.

If we really want to find ways to avoid such disastrous losses as those incurred by the people of the Midwest, it seems that we must come to grips with a simple, but difficult truth. Floods are only devastating when we permit them to be so.

It is time to take a hard look at our agricultural practices. If we do not move beyond the failures of our ancient ancestors, then we will likely face the same difficulties.

All of this makes me want to outside and tend to my gardens...

The Long Tailed Duck's Commute

Floating alone in the water, the Long Tailed Duck may strike most birders as an unremarkable creature. Its body is not particularly large or small when compared to other similar birds, and its patchy black and white plumage gives it the appearance of a clown who has erred in applying his makeup. Nonetheless, this little clown of the sea is one of the most amazing creatures in the animal kingdom.

What about this creature is impressive? Is it their voice? Certainly not. Look no further than their more colloquial sobriquet - "oldsquaw." As is often the case with such words, the exact origin of this name is unknown. However, we can make some inference based on their call. Loud and squawky, this duck seems to say "OW-OW-OWA-WET, OW-OW-OWA-WET!" I suspect some early observer likened its call to native American wives chastising the men in their lives, or, perhaps they were chastising each other. We will likely never know where the term originates, nor is such information necessary for appreciating this animal.

Indeed, this creature does not impress us when it is alone, but rather when it is surrounded by thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, of its own kind. Every year, great rafts of these ducks leave the frigid waters of northern Canada to winter over in the relative warmth of the North American East Coast. Many are particularly fond of the waters surrounding Nantucket.

I first learned of the Long Tailed Duck when I moved to the western end of Nantucket, a region called Madaket. A friend told me that late on a cold winter day, I might see thousands of these little flyers on their daily commute from their oceanic feeding grounds to the relative peace and warmth of Nantucket Sound. Always skeptical of exaggerations, I nodded and smiled, but secretly doubted her description. Nantucket is already inundated by thousands of tourists every year. Could there really be room for thousands of these ducks? Certainly not, I thought.

That perception changed one twilight evening in December. While jogging along a path towards the island's western edge, I suddenly noticed something in the sky, perhaps half a mile ahead. At first, it looked like a wisp of smoke. Then, as my eyes searched the sky, the wisp grew longer. And longer. And longer still, until I realized it stretched from one end of the sky to the other.

"The Oldsquaws," I thought! They do exist! My pace quickened.

My sneakers pounded the pavement harder than usual, as I was determined not to miss an opportunity to see them. Finally, I stopped, exhausted, my chest heaving and lungs burning from the exertion. I looked down at the pavement, breathing hard. Then I looked up.

First I looked off to the right. "Where are they going?" I thought. "Can I see the front of the pack, like a flying V of Canada Geese?" I could not. I turned to my left, expecting to see the slow birds struggling to keep up. Instead, all I could see was an endless stream of energetically flapping waterfowl. They seemed to rise up from the horizon - welling up from an ocean - fed spring of life. Simply incredible. I strained my ears to hear their trademark call, but was disappointed by the strong wind muffling my hearing. All I had were my eyes. However, my eyesight was more than enough for that day.

In a funny way, these swift - winged commuters of the sky reminded me of humans driving along an interstate highway at rush hour - a seemingly endless stream of life, zipping along through the world, focused on a single purpose - getting somewhere else. Like drivers in the left hand lane, they flapped their wings with an almost unnatural sense of urgency, as if they were late for a social gathering in the sound's chilly waters. Why do they do this, I wondered? Why do they seem so hurried? After a moment, the answer became clear.

They do it because it's what the duck next to them is doing. I laughed when thinking about the start of their afternoon odyssey. Who was the first duck to take off, I wondered? There was no way to know of course - the ducks certainly didn't. Then again, do we know the first driver to enter the Tip O'Neil tunnel in Boston during rush hour? Certainly not. All we know is that the BMW in front of us is going 70 MPH, that the Volvo behind us wants to do the same, and that we had better keep up in order to avoid being rear ended.

That said, there is one difference. For the duck, the daily commute is literally life and death. If they choose to remain idle, they will likely starve. All too often though, I think we drive our cars and live our lives with the same life or death urgency of the Long Tailed Duck's flight. Is this really necessary for us? I think not.

We are lucky in that respect. Unlike the ducks, we can afford to pull over once in a while, to watch the stream of our fellows fly by, while catching our breath. And yet, more often than not, we become so wrapped up in our daily commutes that we forget such luxuries. All of life, it seems, is a race against the clock.

It's important to remember that humans have a choice. It's also unfortunate that much of the time, we force ourselves to forget about it.