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Biking 184.5 Miles in One Day…Ouch!
by Alex Knoll and David Hawxurst

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world and right now my ass is a milk bone,” said Mark ‘Skip’ Darden of Dayton, Md.

One hundred eighty-four point five miles in one day…ouch! When I first thought about this ride, it seemed an adventure. The distance and time to be spent on the bike I tried not to think about. I knew that if I thought about it too much, it wouldn’t seem nearly so thrilling. So I marked the day on the calendar and tried to forget what I was about to do to myself.

For more than 100 years, no barge, boat or raft has plied the 184.5-mile Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, the first commercial route connecting Cumberland, Md., with the nation’s capitol. But on this sultry day, with the temperature hovering near 90 and the humidity clinging to the skin, a group of 11 bicyclists set out to do in one day what had once taken a week by boat.

We hit the trail about 6am. All 11 of us looked as though we had no clue where we were as we headed off into the cool morning darkness.

WHY DO IT? The riders left Cumberland together and in high spirits. The canal trail was smooth and fast. This put us all in good spirits. The sun pushed slowly over the horizon, allowing us to see the countryside we were rolling through. The pace was faster than it should have been, and the group started to split up.

After the early miles, concentration replaced conversation, and six riders pulled ahead.

Williamsport, the nation’s capitol for 28 hours during the Revolutionary War and a major battleground during the Civil war, was a fateful landmark for the newest C&O riders.

For some of the 11, the worst was over. This second of three rendezvous points with the support team represented 85 miles of dusty trail through the Appalachian mountains already covered.

But for some, it was a pinnacle of pain that couldn’t be overcome.

Darden could go no farther. Wearing unpadded biking shorts and too saddle-sore to continue, he loaded his mountain bike into the support van driven by Proteus bike store owner Larry Dean.

At Lock 44, once a stopping point for goods on route south to the nation’s capitol, some of the cyclists sat; others stretched their aching muscles. All refueled, devouring fruit, bagels, muffins, Powerbars and other high-energy food. The four-member support team scurried to refill water bottles and camel packs (a backpack/canteen contraption in a pouch with a straw angled over the shoulder) with water and Gatorade.

I had never ridden more than 80 miles at a time. This ride would teach me a thing or two about long-distance riding. The riders moved slowly, testing their steps as if they had just reached dry land after weeks at sea. Some complained of cramping muscles, others of uncomfortable seats.

And some said nothing, only staring into space blankly.

I was in the first group to come into the first check point. We wasted little time. We filled our water bottles, loaded up with good, and headed off.

The first group to pedal to Lock 44 had averaged 20 miles an hour and gained at least 45 minutes on the second group.

Setting the grueling pace was 33-year-old Eric Ewald of College Park, Md.

After refueling, watering and resting for a brief five minutes, Ewald could wait no more.

“If I’d stopped and cooled down, my heart rate would have settled down,” Ewald explained a few hours later at the canal terminus in Georgetown, D.C. Then he would have to get his body used to the pace all over again. Ewald did not want to slip out of the “meditation focus” he had attained.

By the time the last group arrived at the Williamsport rest stop, Ewald had sped off almost two hours earlier, forcing the support crew to split up.

Tamara Ewald—Eric’s wife—and Alexandra Skowronski went on to Nolands Ferry to greet Ewald when he arrived at the third and final rest stop.

Some two hours later, Darden and the three other riders with him pulled in to Lock 44.

Given the casualties that piled up in the 54 miles between Williamsport and Nolands Ferry, the second check point, Darden should be thankful he baled out when he did.

The second stop, around the 90-mile mark, took much longer to get to. The rest stop was also much longer. We all realized that we had reach the point when the ride would cease being enjoyable…but we were half-way there.

A section of the trail had eroded away, leaving little sound footing. Later the riders remembered passing a sign for a detour, but only Ewald followed it to the road, leaving the trail for a few miles.

The other riders were forced to walk their bikes around the wipe-out.

Getting to the third check-point was difficult. It took about four hours to ride 50 miles. We had gotten lost and had two crashes, but we knew we were getting close to our goal.

“I fell and got a hole in my pants,” said James Gross, 28 of Beltsville, Md. “That third leg seemed like it took forever. I just kept saying, ‘if I can get 10 miles closer I can make it.’”

The fourth and final leg was started in the middle of the afternoon. We were still going pretty fast. I knew that I could finish, but I had to do it at my own pace. I slowed down and let the four guys in front of me pull away. If I had kept that pace much longer, I would have seen Elvis behind every tree. There was no way I was going to stop. I had made it that far. I couldn’t give up.

I rolled along quietly for a while, trying to take in the sights and not think about how much my butt hurt. My mind started to do strange things, but I just kept on clicking off the mile markers. Fortunately, Jim caught up to me. I now had someone to share my bizarre mental state with. I don’t remember what we talked about, but it made the time go by much quicker.

Not everyone, however, would persevere through mind alone.

While waiting for the remaining riders to reach Nolands Ferry, word came in from Proteus headquarters in Washington over Larry’s cellular phone: A rider, Eric _____, had taken an end-over fall over the handlebars. He had gotten help at a ranger’s cabin near Antietam, the Civil War battlefield along the canal. But he too was out for the day and would need to be picked up.

Once again the support crew split. Proteus owner Dean left with the support van to pick up Eric. Darden and I stayed to wait for the last three riders before heading on to the finish line in Georgetown.

Three riders were still out, and we kept our eyes to the trail as the sun edged toward the tree-line. To cut weight, the riders had shed their lights at the first rest stop that morning. Now with darkness approaching, any riders still out there raced against more than themselves.

Finally a lone cyclist came into view—22-year-old John Tsaknis, a senior at University of Maryland at College Park—who had fallen behind the lead group.

Somewhere out between the second and third rest stops, Tsaknis heard a pop in his knee. Pain flooded his vision and before he knew it his riding mates were out of sight.

Stranded who-knew-how-far from help, he bore the pain, pedaling with only his good leg at times, walking his bike at others.

What happened out there?

“If you think about it,” Tsaknis said, “you [pedal] 60 to 70 revolutions per minute. Over the course of 10 or 12 hours you can pick up a lot of abuse.”

Somehow Tsaknis still arrived at the Nolands Ferry rest point around 6pm—almost a full hour before the final group of riders. But he would go no farther by bicycle that day.

Then, in the last half-hour of daylight, the final two riders came in tired but excited to be so close to the end. Only 45 miles to go. Or so they thought.

An hour after the last riders got back on the trail at Nolands Ferry, Ewald reached the Georgetown terminus, 12 hours 50 minutes after leaving Cumberland 184.5 miles to the north.

Seventeen minutes later, Dee Owen, a 25-year-old bicycle messenger, reached the end.

“D.C.s my home. I know this street. I know what to do,” he said. “I started sprinting with 10 miles to go.”

Looking on at the end of the trail, Darden’s thoughts showed on his face. “I gotta do the whole thing,” he said, shaking his head. “I won’t be satisfied with myself until I do.”

He gestured around the sidewalk at the cyclists resting on the pavement. “Look at these guys. They’ve got the look of satisfaction on their faces. That’s the look I wanna wear.”

Slowly the mile markers got closer to 184. i had never been so happy to see the Beltway. Soon we saw Georgetown. After dodging a few joggers and climbing a steep ramp, we heard shouts from our support crew and the guys who had finished before us.

Jim and I rode to the end of the trail with huge grins across our faces. The sense of accomplishment was amazing. Fourteen hours and seven minutes after we left Cumberland, I laid down on the most comfortable brick sidewalk there ever was.

Around 9:30 the group of riders began to break up. But the ride still wasn’t over for ______ and _____. Somewhere between Nolands Ferry and Georgetown, they had taken a wrong turn. By the time they reached the end of the C&O canal at 12:30am, they had ridden 215 miles—30 miles longer than the canal route.

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County Fairs — That Blue Ribbon Could Have Your Name on It
by Lee Summerall

The smell of cotton candy—sweet, piercing and somehow almost pink—fills the air so your teeth nearly ache in anticipation. Above your head, light and noise swirl. You’re at the county fair.

Here are dozens of exhibits: pig races, food alleys, horse pulls, demolition derbies, country and western singers. The bawl of cows and bleat of lambs hurry you into the livestock area to inhale the scent of hay, admire gigantic cows, pat the lambs. Scores of chickens squawk and silent bunnies stare from tiny wire cages adorned with a blue ribbon, a white one, and a purple. What makes one bunny or cow better than the next, anyway?

In the Exhibition Hall, shelves of glass jars gleam, rich with color and the promise of equally rich taste. Cakes and cookies lure. Like pastel banners, quilts sway high above perfect photos, cockeyed horse portraits, cedar bookends and crocheted Christmas doilies. Flowers range from a gigantic mixed bouquet to a lone zinnia in a pop bottle; vegetables from enormous pumpkins to tiny hot peppers. Herbs—including pungent tobacco—are still pungent, and bees still busy behind a glass-walled hive. Scattered among all are ribbons: blue, red, yellow, white, and huge purple rosettes.

The midway beckons, its lights casting grotesque shadows into the real world of canning and cookies, cows and chickens. A diesel engine roars, producing faint, delighted shrieks of terror. You leave reality behind and shoulder through the blazing, pulsating midway. Which way to turn?

Here are a woman who looks like a snake, a 800-pound man, a boy with no limbs. A bored, leather-clad rider guns her motorcycle above your head; the barker beckons. Here are goldfish and stuffed pandas, pink rubber balls with deceptive bounce, tattooed young men hawking giant plush porpoises, three throws for a buck, hey fella don't you want your girl to have a teddy bear/pink panther/goldfish, c’mon over here, you look like a real big winner to me...

Something Old
Even in the late twentieth century, the county fair has something for everybody. It’s a harvest season reward—an occasion to celebrate tradition and take a peek at innovation. But the heart of every fair is agricultural and domestic achievement.

“Traditionally, fairs have taught consumers what good quality is so when they buy they can get top quality. And they’ve taught farmers—children and adults—how to produce at that quality,” says Charles County Cooperative Agricultural Extension Service Agent Pam King, who has recently rewritten the vegetable judging standards for Maryland fairs and teaches judges how to apply them. “At the state fair, we wrote comments on over 1000 entries to teach kids how they can produce top quality.”

Something New
The values and discrimination 4-H-ers learn as kids are being discovered later in life by many off-the-farm adults. Cooks and gardeners alike are learning the pleasures of growing and making their own food. Made-for-commerce hybrids are feeling competition from old-fashioned and ethnic seeds. Organic gardening is putting down strong roots.

When you do it yourself, you know what you’ve got, and that’s especially true with home grown, home-canned food. Chemicals and additives are absent, quality is unimpeachable, and the cost is little more than commercial products—which pale in comparison. Best is the pleasure of work that’s its own reward.

Both Anne Arundel and Calvert judges report a trend in recent years to more canning and more fresh produce. How big a trend? How many people enter? What’s the hottest item? For those answers, we’ll have to wait until next year when at least Calvert County breaks tradition and computerizes, the better to count its appeal. Canned items are becoming less traditional, and dehydrated foods, something that are standard at fairs such as York, Penn., are on the rise as well.

New and unusual produce is also increasing. Take hot peppers, for example. Until last year, it was jalapenos, jalapenos, and more jalapenos. Then a new pepper showed up: intense yellow and shrunken, looking like a bell pepper Amazon headhunters had gotten to. What was it? A habanera, the tiny pepper with a big attitude and a reputation as the world’s hottest pepper. This year, there’ll probably be dozens of plates of habaneras to judge. And, of course, some enterprising cook will put up a few jars of habanera jelly.

A Blue for You?
Exhibition Hall—where foods and produce, needlework, 4-H, art works (photos, paintings, carving, and ceramics) and Christmas goods are judged—draw crowds at both Anne Arundel and Calvert County fairgrounds. Folks flock to their favorite, kibitzing and critiquing. The “why-I-could-do-better-than-that” motive has brought many entries to many fairs.

Where real-life judges decree just how well you’ve really done.

Judging is complicated and intense, and judges must attend training sessions in their chosen fields, for everything from wood carving to putting up peaches. This is hard work. Imagine tasting 95 strawberry jams in one sitting.

“All our judges are experts. Some of them have worked for large food manufacturers. They know good produce when they see it,” says Carol Lee, supervisor of Calvert County Fair’s Exhibition Hall.

So, despite the rumblings of self-styled experts, a judge’s word means something. Calvert County’s 1992 canned goods Grand Champion was Peach Melba Jam, a delicate blush-colored jar almost invisible behind its blue and purple ribbons. For all her expertise, even that jam-maker’s name is lost to history, so we couldn’t try to beg the recipe.

“A ribbon proves I can produce good quality products. It shows my family I’m not fooling around,” says Ag agent Pam King, who reluctantly admits the Peach Melba Champion wasn’t hers.

This writer’s a Type-A home canner with different motives. I go to see what the competition does. Next year I want that purple ribbon so I plan ahead!

But last fair, Anne Arundel took the distinction out of its ribbons by awarding green “Participation” ribbons to all entrants, regardless of quality.

Tommy Boehm, supervisor of Anne Arundel’s Exhibition Hall, argues that the “green” is a good idea: “You’d be amazed how pleased many people are to get a ribbon of any kind. Last year was our fortieth year and we wanted to do something special, to give something back to the community. It takes effort to put food up or make a quilt, and to bring it here, and we were rewarding the effort.”

Calvert’s attitude towards entries is equally mellow. “If we don’t have a category for what you bring,” says Carol Lee, “we'll make one for you.” (Music to the ears of a New Age canner of caponata and pickled prunes.) “We don’t want anyone disappointed. You may not get a ribbon, but you’ll at least get a hearing.” Or, more to the point, a tasting.

That wonderfully humane philosophy is a far cry from the big-city inflexibility of the State Fair at Timonium. There, if it isn’t on the accepted list and in an accepted jar, it isn’t accepted. Which is why the Maryland State Fair is up to its eyebrows in quart jars of tomatoes but hasn’t one single pickled prune.

True or false: Making a batch of jam is difficult and time-consuming.

True or false: I couldn’t possibly win a prize at the fair, even though I make a killer chocolate chip cookie.

True or false: Only regulars get prizes.

Answer to all questions: False

One mom’s kids said her cakes were too good not to enter, so she did. Expecting no results, she didn’t plan to visit the bakery department when she went to the fair. But her kids dragged her to the cake with the purple ribbon: she’d won Best of Show.

A judge remembers a fair that shall remain unnamed. “There were twenty eight chocolate chip cookie entries. And not one was really good! We didn't award a first prize in chocolate chip cookies that year.”

Anne Arundel County Fair begins early this year, with a pre-fair carnival Sept. 10-15. The fair then runs from September 14 to 19. Entry Days are Sept. 12, 13 and 14.

Calvert County Fair starts September 29. Canning and baking entries for judging accepted on the 27th.

Read full details on entering in the fair premium booklets available at your library.

Lee Summerall, a regular blue-ribbon winner, is chutney queen of Calvert County.

NAFTA? MARYLAND SAYS WE HAFTA
Before the bell sounds in this nation’s next big scrap, the state of Maryland is staunchly in one corner—the side in favor of ratifying the North American Free Trade Agreement.

NAFTA is a word you will be seeing and hearing often and a hugely important issue. The treaty-like agreement opens the borders between the U.S., Mexico and Canada for free trading. NAFTA is despised by labor unions and those who believe Ross Perot’s warning that it will trigger the “sucking sound” of jobs draining to Mexico.

A lot of environmental advocates worry about problems along the border when polluting plants begin operating with fewer rules and little enforcement. Others worry about the potential that all of us will be eating lots more Mexican produce tainted with some of the strongest pesticides on the books.

These prospects are enough to scare a majority of Democrats in the U.S. House away from NAFTA. But they are not enough to change the mind of Maryland’s Democratic governor, William Donald Schaefer.

Even before the governor and his entourage travelled to Mexico in July, the Schaefer administration trumpeted the value of NAFTA to Maryland.

“If it fails, it would be a blow to Maryland, and more importantly, a blow long-term to the U.S. economy,” asserted Maryland Agriculture Secretary Robert L. Walker, during an interview with New Bay Times. “And it would be a blow to Mexico, which has invested a lot in this already.”

We’ll be hearing lots of high-minded talk about the good of nations. But judging from early skirmishes, the issue may come down to a competition between self-interested states. Last week, Walker and his farm office counterparts in Virginia and Delaware sent out pro-NAFTA press releases predicting a potential bounty in agriculture exports for their states.

The Eastern Shore poultry industry would be among the biggest winners, Walker said, shipping to Mexicans hungry for frozen and processed food.

Other states, some carrying more clout than Maryland, will be looking at matters differently when the ruckus breaks out in Congress. California and Florida can expect to see their produce industries shrink when the first waves of winter vegetables from Mexico flood U.S. markets.

You will be hearing more about how and where your food is grown.

If NAFTA passes, you can lay odds that the tomato or pepper you bite into in the winter was grown on a Mexican plantation by low-paid Indians spraying heavy chemicals from backpacks.

Walker, for one, says he’s confident that Congress can work through all the worries about jobs and the environment on the way to approving a deal that is good for Maryland.

“I strongly believe this is in our economic interest,” he said. “Sometimes, I think we over-react in pointing out the pesticides and the other negative parts to this agreement.”

Rockfish Bonanza
Get the boat tuned, the reels oiled and the excuses ready to get off work. From every indication, Maryland’s fall rockfish season opening Oct. 1 will be one bountiful blast.

Charter captains and regular fishing folk report schools of rockfish breaking up and down the Bay. Many times, they are travelling in the company of those bluefish we’ve been missing, teaming up for some hungry, frenzied behavior not for the faint of heart.

We know of a couple good ol’ boys still jumpy from the mugging they took from such a school last week as they drifted, half asleep, for spot.

From every indication, we’re about to be rewarded for those years of rockfish bans we endured after the species became threatened. Fishing boats accidentally catch many keeper-sized stripers. Those too-small fellas tossed back last fall have returned robust and ready.

And Maryland is set to prolong the pleasure by tacking some extra time on to the end of the season. A state panel has decided on an Oct. 1—Nov. 7 rockfish season for most license-holders and an Oct.1—Nov. 21 season for charter boats. The Legislature probably will approve the plan.

So get ready to store up a few fish—not to mention a few fishing tales.

...Which reminds us of that day last fall when the rockfish were so thick the ducks had to ride on their backs...We had to call ahead for a U-haul trailer...for three fish...Good thing there was a crane at the dock or we’d have never got one of ‘em out of the boat...

Sprouting Windmills?
The wind energy industry announced recently a plan to increase by eight times the amount of energy produced by windmills by the year 2000.

Can it happen here? Will we see “wind farms” like they have out West, along the Bay or even on the Bay?

Don’t count on it, right away at least, for one large reason: the wind doesn’t howl here like it does in Wyoming. Even with new tax credits, it could be hard to finance equipment that would get by on wind blowing at less than 14-16 mph, some experts believe.

But wind proponents talk about new turbines that operate on less wind and systems like that built in Holland where wind farms are built over water.

Craig Culp, a spokesman for the American Wind Energy Association, pointed to the Eastern Shore as a potential windmill haven. “We think that the time is right for power companies to look at the feasibility,” Culp said.

Way Downstream...
In the Chesapeake Bay, have you been noticing those “mahogany tides”—stretches of darkish water short on oxygen? They are caused by oxygen-depleting algae blooms, mainly from the nitrogen and phosphorous used as farm and lawn fertilizers.

But if you were in Australia, you’d really see weird-looking water. A 600 mile-long stretch of toxic algae is menacing the coast, tarnishing that country’s unspoiled image and generating a movement to ban phosphorous from detergents...

You’ve heard warnings about those “tree-huggers” messing up the timber industry by working to save endangered species and old-growth forests. Here’s what also happens. In Canada last week, an economist told lumber executives to send thank-you notes to environmentalists for the industry’s strong profits, apparently from shortages due to conservation...

India’s Supreme Court has shown polluters that you don’t mess with a landmark. The court last week ordered the shut down of more than 200 factories because acid-filled air pollution is eating the Taj Mahal. Presumably, thousands of people will be able to go back to work when the factories ante up for pollution control devices...

That ruling in India may be happily felt in the U.S., where companies are cashing in on the “green” market worldwide. That exploding market climbed to nearly $300 billion last year, the U.S. Environmental Technology Export Council reported last week.

“The world has changed so that it’s not acceptable to pollute on a massive scale anymore,” John Mizroch, head of the council, told the Journal of Commerce...

We thought you’d want to know about this week’s first Creature Feature since you're picking up the tab. With money from the federal Energy Department, researchers at the University of California are starting a study of dog DNA aimed at detecting personality traits in your pooch.

Why does a beagle wander? Why are Labs so loving? What makes bulldogs so doggone loyal? By analyzing dogs’ genetic material, researchers think that by 1995, they'll have answers to all these questions. If not, they’ll probably apply for a new grant...

And for those who say that New Bay Times is too serious, we offer a Jay Leno joke. Leno wondered on the Tonight Show why Interior Secretary Bruce Babbitt wants to set aside 6.2 million acres to protect the desert tortoise.

“I had a tortoise once,” Leno said, “and it took him all summer to get across the back yard.”

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Wetlands: Good New Rules with Some Snags

Truth be told, a lot that goes on over in Washington has little to do with our lives. Not so with two matters that have bubbled to the surface recently: wetlands protection and the North American Free Trade Agreement.

The Clinton Administration has followed through with promises to protect wetlands from more abuse and development. This is particularly important to the thousands of miles of shoreline along the Chesapeake Bay and its rivers.

All the swamps, marshes and pools along the Bay purify our water and provide the habitat for many of our endangered creatures. In recent years, the federal government has done little to set the tone for wetlands protection. About 300,000 acres of wetlands have been disappearing annually in the U.S., according to one federal study.

The new rules could change that trend, yet there are questionable new features.

Among them, private land-owners—but not environmental advocates—would be permitted to appeal decisions on wetlands. It remains to be seen whether this provision goes too far, but it should be noted that about three-fourths of the remaining wetlands in the U.S. are privately owned.

Next, we wonder about the wisdom of exempting from further regulation the 53 million acres of farmland that once were wetlands. There may be some flawed thinking here in allowing developers to build on these lands if they create wetlands elsewhere. Experts on the Chesapeake and elsewhere will tell you that recreated wetlands just aren’t the same.

Last, we think it’s dumb and possibly dangerous to put the U.S. Department of Agriculture rather than the EPA in charge of wetlands decisions. That’s because the Agriculture Department functions to boost production not preservation.

All in all, we’re pleased that the government has moved ahead. But the proof lies in how these rules are implemented. We’ll be watching.

Wary Bedfellows on Trade
Elsewhere in this issue, we write about how the state of Maryland thinks we ought to approve the North American Free Trade Agreement—the acronym you’ll soon be hearing lots about in the news.

We aren’t taking a position one way or the other—just yet anyway—because it’s not our mission to jump into big national brouhahas.

For now, we’ll be content to make a couple observations. First, we think that you ought to listen closely when they talk about what NAFTA means for the environment. Without more teeth and protections, NAFTA could mean serious problems for people and land in Mexico, where more of Maryland’s fruits and vegetables will be coming from.

Secondly, we’ve noticed a thing or two that may help you place a bet on the outcome. Or maybe an investment.

At the Jobs, Justice and Peace gathering on a steamy Saturday recently in Washington, representatives of conservation groups were scarce. Few environmental advocates around the Bay felt compelled to join the labor union members and the others to signal unity.

So what, you ask? Here’s what.

When the NAFTA slugfest starts, unions and environmental groups are the chief opponents, albeit for different reasons. But do you really think they can succeed if they continue to indulge their distrust for one another?

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Good Reading

Dear New Bay Times:
With a lazy Sunday stretched out before me and last week’s pile of unopened mail gloating from the corner of my desk, I did what any rational career woman would do—I picked up the Sunday Washington Post and read everything of interest. Total reading time, cover to cover: 27 minutes (including clipping coupons and finding a great bulk deal on a case of Mountain Dew).

My next reading stop, over lunch, was my latest issue of New Bay Times. Total reading time for these great 28 pages: one hour and 12 minutes (including time spend clipping the Stony Field yogurt coupon and cheating on the new Word Puzzler). I laughed more often while reading the poison ivy story than I’ve ever laughed while reading Dave Berry in the Post. And I can truly impress my Midwestern sister next week by giving her a meteor shower as a birthday present.

Sign me up for two years, please!

Gotta run. I’m off to put together this issue’s “Not Just for Kids” project, so I’ll be prepared the next time someone tells me to go fly a kite.

Paula Langguth, Silver Spring

Dear New Bay Times:
Just a little note to say your New Bay Times paper is so refreshing to read without all the depressing news we get every day. Keep up the good work.

Shirley Mathews, Shady Side

Dear New Bay Times:
Awoke early this am, made coffee and sat down and there was my New Bay Times. I’ve been meaning to write and let you know I’m really reading and enjoying it. I look for articles from people I know. I’m also getting to know Sonia, and wish I could sample the wonderful restaurants—I love steamed clams and all seafood.

I hope the paper’s going well. I know it’s lots of work getting new projects and businesses started—always was, and everything today seems more complicated. But there is just something about us staid Midwesteners: we want to do it ourselves.

Good luck!

Virginia Dinzler, Dallas, Texas

Ed’s Note: Virginia Dinzler owned two wonderful restaurantsin St. Louis during the 50s and 60s.

Love to David

Dear New Bay Times:
I love the paper! The photographs taken by David Hawxhurst are especially outstanding. (I just hope someone will respond to the poor kid’s personal ad!)

Thanks very much.

Jean Hawxhurst, Lexington, Kentucky

North Beach Superlative

Dear New Bay Times:
Wow! What an issue. North Beach story superlative. Please rush another 75 copies to Bay Country Store for distribution. Keep up the excellent work and thank you for telling the town’s story.

Sincerely,

Ron and Bobby Russo

Dear New Bay Times:
Thanks! the story on North Beach was great!

Nancy Regelin

North Beach Correction
Russell Hall is the former mayor of North Beach. Our apologies for the misnomer. Eds.

Bay Fest Winners
All you had to do to win at Bay Fest was be there. All you had to do to compete for prizes from New Bay Times and Neptune’s was sign your name—no strings attached.

First prize winner Chris Gannon, of North Beach, wins a gift certificate to Neptune’s.

Second prize winner Kathy Frost, of Dunkirk, wins a year’s subscription to New Bay Times.

Call to collect your prizes!

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In the Clear
by Bob Milstead

We were anchored in six feet of water in Broad creek off the Choptank River in late May, rafted up with some friends, when I glanced over the side of our C&C 30 sloop—and there it was. I was sure I was mistaken as I rubbed my eyes, did a mental recount of the beers from the night before, and looked back, this time with deliberation. There was no denying it.

“Hey, Jeff! Come here. Look at this,” I said, trying to cover up the amazement in my voice, for I was still suspecting, just a little, that it was a hallucination or some optical illusion brought on by the reflection of an unusual could formation…or something.

“Yeah, what?” he answered listlessly, looking up from reprogramming his Loran, a ritual he performs every weekend, always declaring final victory in the quest to prepare it to be of some use the following week as a navigational tool. He was probably expecting me to show him some piece of broken gear on the boat that was going to cost twice as much as it should just because it’s labeled “marine”.

“Look down there,” I said. “You can see the bottom.”

“Yeah, right,” Jeff said. “The only bottom you’ve seen lately is in your beer glass.”

But there it was, the bottom of the Bay, through six feet of water, complete with crab and oyster shells and clumps of some kind of plant. It was a little hazy, but you could see it. In five years of being out on the Bay almost every weekend when the temperature was above 60 degrees at some point in the day, the only bottom I had ever seen was that gray slime coating the anchor as well as my hands, shirt, shoes, and foredeck.

I’m told it wasn’t always this way. Some people can remember when the water back up in these creeks was crystal clear all summer. In fact, there was a time hundreds of years ago when the whole Bay was like that. Sadly, those days are gone, forever.

Although water quality in the Bay has improved slightly in the last few years, the political and economic reality do not bode well for the long term.

Building and development in the Chesapeake Bay watershed, which extends from New York to southern Virginia, has permanently altered the landscape. The feet-thick leaf duff that used to filter runoff into a pure trickle has been replaced by asphalt parking lots that let rain run off in torrents, washing dirt and silt into the Bay.

Building on the shoreline is especially damaging. The only place in the central part of the Bay that I know of where you can anchor out of sight of a house is Dividing Creek, and that’s only because it’s in a state park. Thousands of miles of shoreline and houses on all of it. What is not a parking lot or rooftop is likely to be an over-fertilized lawn or corn field that leeches nutrients into the Bay.

Too many nutrients cause algae blooms that rob oxygen from the water, reducing the numbers of fish and invertebrates that the Bay can sustain. Silt and algae also block light essential for Bay grasses that host the early stages of life for such important fish species as rockfish. Oysters are also suffering from disease and the pressures of over-fishing. When the Europeans first came to the Bay, there were enough oysters to filter all of the water in the Bay every three days. Wow! Now it would take them over a year to do the same. At the end of the season, there is hardly an oyster left in the Bay.

For a start, people can help by reducing or eliminating the fertilizer they apply to lawns and gardens and leaving as much vegetation as possible around structures they build. It looks better, anyway.

“This is a great spot. We should come here again,” Jeff said as he sipped on his coffee that Sunday morning. Just then our heads snapped around to locate the source of a high-pitched grating whine. It was a circular saw at a new home site on a nearby shore.

During the week, Bob Milstead supports his sailing addiction by working in the computer document imaging field.

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Forty Birthdays on the Bay
by Barbi Eversfield Shields

The world may be fast paced and ever changing, but my Chesapeake Bay neighborhood’s not.
Last month, I had my birthday party at home—the same home where I celebrated my first and twenty-first birthdays. The same house I was born in, on my grandparents’ farm that sits just above the Chesapeake and stretches from the cliffs to the marsh lake. New birthday: my fortieth.

My mother, Peggy Eversfield, has been talking about selling the house, and even though houses here are usually sold to family or friends, I got sentimental. I asked for a party with all the people we’d known over the years—or a cruise. But as July 24 got closer, it looked to me as if I was getting neither.

In fact, that night we drove the half a mile home to have cake and ice cream for my niece’s birthday on the same day. So when everybody yelled I don’t remember what, I was absolutely dumbfounded. “It was a first. Barbi was speechless,” said Delegate George Owings.

I didn’t mind his using my childhood nickname. Though I hated it as a kid, I grew into it a long time ago. When I went to work for Tom Rymer after he became Judge Rymer, and his wife, Gracie, who knew me from way back, called me “Barbi” again, it stuck.

I didn’t mind his saying my being speechless was a first. It was true. Still, I’ve got some stories I could tell about George.

We go back a long way, too. Down south where Anne Arundel and Calvert counties merge, a lot of people do. So everybody who helped me celebrate my fortieth had something in common with everybody else. Families go back three and four generations. Some of those families send representatives of all their generations to my birthday.

Like Bill Maske, of Lothian, who grew up with my dad. Their parents had been friends, too. Bill and Betty’s daughter Rene Rayburn and I grew up together and had our kids at the same time. Three generations of that family helped me celebrate.

Mrs. Mable Marcellas, the nurse who held me in her arms when I left Calvert Memorial Hospital 40 years ago, came to help me through this birthday. So did my first grade teacher at old Tracy’s School, Mrs. Iva P. Owings. She took me under her wing when Dad died after his tractor turned over on a steep hill near the Bay. One of the things we did was see Misty of Chincoteague at the movies. My gift from Miss Iva was a post card I mailed her some 35 years ago, when postage was two cents, plus some sheets of my old class work. Miss Iva still remembered every student’s name from 37 years ago and whether each was right or left handed. She didn’t have to be introduced to many of the guests, since she’d taught most of them over the years.

My principal at Tracy’s, Mrs. Jean Hopkins, was there too, with her husband Newton. She also tutored my 10-year-old son, helping him learn the basics that he’d avoided in his classroom. So was my second grade teacher, Miss Virginia Crosby, whose family has been here for generations. She used to take us to the tobacco field to hide from bombs when the test alarms rang. She lives up the road in Friendship, and we still visit three or four times a year.

Catherine Thames and her daughter, my schoolmate Pam Michael, helped me celebrate, too. Catherine’s husband Frank taught George Owings in school at Chesapeake Beach. Catherine will say, “Oh, George is a good dancer now, not shy like he was at dances as a boy.”

Bill Ferko came back. My younger brother Vic’s friend, “Brother” Bill used to spend the summer with us. When I’d come home from a date, the two “brothers” would be sitting on the landing flashing the lights off and on. “Ooh, they’re kissing,” they’d say.

Mother had dozens of old pictures blown up big, reuniting those who could join us with those who couldn’t. I was there as a little girl on the beach, pouring a bucket of water over my head. My Dad was there, as were the horses I gave up when Donald was born.

Judge Rymer offered the toast: “Life begins at 40,” he said.

The old neighborhood’s nearly the same, except for a few more houses. Some of the “summer people” are now year-round residents after winterizing their family summer cottages.

When I begin to think that people around here don’t realize what they have, I think again. Maybe they do. Living here is like being at camp all year round. Beach and boats and woods, we have it all.

The beach is about the same as it was when our grandparents supervised our parents, and when our parents supervised us. Now my generation watches our own children creating the fantastic sand works of art we once constructed. We watch the older kids and the summer romances, snickering when we think about how it could be that sometime in the future (hopefully far off, but not too far off), we’ll be supervising the sand castles of our grandchildren.

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Query Author about 91-92 stats

Don’t let the recent mass invasion of bluefish in the mid- and lower Chesapeake lull you into complacency. Bluefish woes, obviously, are deep rooted—and probably not temporary. Digest the following:

“The latest biological information on Atlantic Coast bluefish presents classical evidence that the stock is being overfished.”

Does that get your attention? Or, how about this:

“Even if statistics were not cause enough for concern, according to the most plausible separable virtual population analysis models, fishing mortality (all bluefish killed as a result of commercial and recreational fishing activities) currently exceeds the predicted mortality rate that would cause stock collapse.”

Now, read those last 10 words again; let them sink in.

These quotes are not those of alarmed sportsfishermen or charterboat skippers frustrated by plummeting catches of a deteriorating population obviously in trouble. They come from a quasi-scientific organization, the prestigious Washington-based Sport Fishing Institute.

Both are in a report featured in the current SFI Bulletin. Chilling isn’t it? Without blues—and rockfishing restricted in Maryland to a month-long spring season and another of considerably fewer than two months in the fall—what do we have left to fish for?

Sea trout populations are way down, flounder have been a flop in much of the Bay; the same with Spanish mackerel. In many sectors, the comeback of the hardhead saved sportsfishing—and that took the help of the Department of Natural Resources, which lowered the minimum size from 10 to 9 inches.

But delightful as hardheads are on the table, they and their panfish cousins Norfolk spot and white perch, aren’t suitable substitutes for rock, trout and blues. In early season, black drum somewhat filled the void in mid-Bay angling off Tilghman Island, but otherwise we are getting a bitter taste of what it’s like when things are amiss among the Big Three species.

True, there is some consolation in the dramatic increase in rock populations as we wait for what is certain to be one of the Department of Natural Resources’ better—if not its best—Young of the Year Index that monitors spawning success. But let’s temper that with reality.

The Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission, which has the final word in liberalization of rockfish regulations, is made up of representatives of all coastal states, from North Carolina north. It is very conservative in its approach—as it should be—but beyond that there is reluctance among most other states to appreciably relax regulations for Maryland.

It matters not that 80 percent or more of coastal rock populations originate in Maryland; other states are envious that we currently are allowed more rock by numbers and weight than any other state. Consider the dilemma of representatives of other states. They vote to allow us special consideration; then they must face their own constituents who also want to catch more.

There is selfishness in all of us. In all probability if the rock resurgence continues, relaxed regulations will follow, but designed so that all states will share in the bounty. However, that will come about slowly—and never will we (or other states’ fishermen) return to the free-wheeling pre-moratorium days.

This makes bluefish of utmost importance to the Chesapeake fishery. But observations of SFI, as well as recreational fishermen and charter skippers, are ominous.

Pete Jensen, who heads DNR tidal fisheries management, did little to ease my concern. Jensen is of the tell-it-like-it-is mold, and has no quarrel with SFI’s assessment of the bluefish predicament. Here’s how he boils down SFI's assessment:

There well could have been overestimates of ocean bluefish stocks when species management plans were designed. Also, with ocean populations dwindling we can expect them to do so in the Chesapeake—but to a greater extent.

The Atlantic is the traditional habitat of blues, explained Pete. When there is an abundance in the ocean, many relocate in warmer months to areas such as the Chesapeake Bay, which he described as marginal habitat.

The rest is obvious. Ocean stocks are down; thus we can expect less blues to meander into the Chesapeake as they make their northward migration beginning in April. So that’s where we stand at this time when we can only recall the days of practically being guaranteed a nice catch.

How did we get into this mess? And what can we do about it? As for the latter question, Pete said there were no plans at this time to curtail catching here, or to his knowledge anywhere else along the coast. It’s sort of like we’re involved in a management plan—and will ride with it for the time being at least.

Managing bluefish stocks is much more complex than, say, rock, which tend to stay closer to the shore and prefer the Bay and river habitats so essential to their spawning. Blues, on the other hand, are a far-ranging ocean species, which, of course, complicates management. Blues spawn in the ocean; some use bays and tributaries as nursery grounds, but otherwise spend most of their time in the Atlantic.

To further hinder management, bluefish populations tend to be very cyclic in nature. Traditionally there are periods of as long as a decade or more when the Atlantic seems filled with them, then long periods when scarcities are evident. In recent years, there have been indications that hatches were considerably less than desired—though this year spawning success appears to have improved slightly.

SFI observes “the most plausible statistics of population status (e.g., fishing mortality rates, a contracted age structure, juvenile recruitment, spawning stock bio mass and catch per unit effort) clearly indicates that bluefish populations are severely stressed by fishing pressure, and that immediate conservation measures need to be implemented to prevent further decline.”

Too much catching? Don’t blame Chesapeake anglers—nor other hook-and-liners along the coast. We’re hurting. SFI’s statistics indicate the coastal recreational catch has dropped steadily from 130.9 million pounds in 1986 to 37.3 million pounds in 1992.

In our mid-Atlantic region, recreational anglers have been hit harder than their counterparts elsewhere. Our catch has dropped 77.8 percent from 1979 to 1992. We’re not even catching one bluefish now for every four we caught six years ago.

Meanwhile, the commercial catch has remained fairly stable, which brings up a curious point in the management plan. At the offset it was realized that blues were especially important to the recreational fishery; thus it was first decided the commercial catch quota would be set at 10 percent of the entire fishery. Suddenly that was changed to 20 percent.

At the same time, recreational fishermen were restricted to a limit of 10 blues a day in the plan eventually ratified by most states. New Jersey still hasn’t accepted the program, which is in litigation.

Estimates of last year’s commercial catch edged up to 21.2 percent. Next year it is also projected to be 21.2 percent. Hey, there’s something wrong here.

The precipitous decline in recreational landings has driven total landings down, causing the relatively stable commercial harvest to comprise a larger fraction of the total. Curiously, the management plan has no solution for this. It contains no provisions to crack down further when the fishery becomes troubled.

It is incredible that a plan developed on the basis of a fishery at its peak has no built-in safeguards for times like this when there is solid evidence of excessive fishing pressure. Let’s face it. It’s not solely a matter of commercial interests exceeding their share; it’s a matter of too many blues removed from the population—whether by hook or net. Enough said...

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Bay Life: Sam and Joe
by Sandra Martin

Joe’s a little gnome of a man, while Sam’s a great big blue crab, a foot from point to point. Of course, without Joe, Sam wouldn’t be at all, for he’s a story-book Chesapeake Blue crab, conceived, born and sustained in imagination. But you know how creatures of the imagination carry on.

Look at the crablike tenacity with which other fabulous creatures have held onto life. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t die when his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, pushed him over the Reichenbach Falls. His public brought him back to life. Now Doyle is 63 years dead, but Holmes is more lively than ever, having jumped from page to radio to film and television. Just yesterday, a phantasm created on Star Trek’s holodeck wouldn’t stand for being unplugged. The characters we meet in fiction rise fresher and live longer than many we meet in real life.

That’s the kind of guy Sam is. All the “shells” are crazy about him—attracted by his physique, prowess, and dash. He’s a Phillip Marlow of crabs, hard-boiled (Sam wouldn’t appreciate the metaphor), handsome, heroic—and sensitive underneath that hard shell.

Even humans find that to know Sam is to love him. Madge of the Chesapeake Bay town of Curling Edge, the “special crabber” who first catches him, never gets over the crab she’s trained so well that he’s invited to the Johnny Carson show. “Sam,” she moans after his escape, “I’ll call Johnny Carson and tell him we’ll be late. Come back, do you hear? There’ll be come chicken necks on the back steps in case you’re hungry.”

Readers, who get to share Sam’s feelings as well as admire his deeds, identify with his skin-of-the-teeth escapes from crab basket and pot. For like Phillip Marlow’s Raymond Chandler—one of the creators of great American detective fiction—Sam’s Joe Cahill writes about “mean streets.” There’s danger lurking at every turn, beauty and goodness die young, and paradise is never what you hoped it might be.

In his eat-or-be-eaten world, where humans are as predatory as bluefish, hardboiled Sam’s as ready to dine or fight as the next guy. But he’ll do anything for a friend and his dreams soar with the seagulls above the blue crab’s condition.

In other words, spunky Sam is the hero of a pocketsized, Chesapeake Bay epic. And everybody but a villain loves a hero.

That, and Joe Cahill’s nice way with both words and local color, is why Sam’s little trilogy—Sam (1988), Summer’s Perfume (1989), and The View (1991)—have traveled to England, Italy, Japan and Germany. Sam is in its fourth printing, and Joe just sold his 400th set of the trilogy at North Beach’s Bay Fest last month.

Sam’s got quite a hold on life, and Joe’s well hooked in his claws.

Their partnership began on the Western Shore Chesapeake beach at Fairhaven Cliffs, some years and so many lives ago that Joe only knows it happened because his friends tell him so. Sometime between midnight and dawn one summer night, according to eyewitness Barbi Eversfield Shields of Fairhaven, Joe traced the word “Sam” in the sand and began a story about a big blue crab.

Years and beers passed, and Sam lay fallow until Joe was recovering from an automobile assault that nearly left him in the next world. Sometime in those otherworldly months, Sam returned to give Joe a short story first published in Chesapeake Bay magazine. After that, “Sam stayed in my head so I continued to write,” says Joe. The next 11,000 words became Sam, published and distributed by Joe.

“But Sam wasn’t finished with me yet,” says Joe. “I had an ending to the book but not to Sam, so there had to be a second book.” That was Summer’s Perfume (which is, of course, the fragrance of cooking, spiced crabs and white vinegar). Then came a third, The View. “It’s amazing how a character dictates to you,” marvels Joe. A fourth is ready for publication, when Sam earns the partnership a few more dollars.

Along the way, Sam found an editor, Betts Williams, and an artist-designer, Larry Knox, who helped give the books a professional touch. They’re little books, 4 by 61/2 inches, printed on nice ivory paper and handsomely bound under the direction of Crystal Gull Publication in Annapolis. Text is typewritten.

Nowadays, Joe signs every one, wraps sets of all three stories in cellophane, then ties them with a length of crab line and a sinker. He sells them ($10 for the set) at fairs and festivals, and at The Market in Millville, Delaware, where he’s lived since his accident. Sam also adorns T-shirts, aprons and sailor caps.

Sam’s got his claws in Joe for at least one more book. “I know the end of Book Five and the last line. After that, I think I may be out of Sam—though that’s what I said after the third book,” says the author. We’ll wait to hear what Sam and his following have to say.

When Joe’s not taking care of that demanding Sam, he’s out shooting pictures of nature that will knock your socks off or riding around the Delaware beaches on his old-fashioned girl’s bicycle.

Sam wouldn’t be without Joe, but you have to wonder where Joe would be without Sam.

Order Sam and his paraphernalia from his creator, Joe Cahill, PO Box 1156, Bethany Beach, Delaware 19930. Add 20% for postage and handling.

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