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Dock Of The Bay

Death on a Country Road

In all of Anne Arundel County, no place may be as out of the way. Leitch Road, south of Deale a few miles, opens through a natural gate of gnarled oaks. It snakes eastward for a mile to the Bay beneath a canopy of Maryland woods and alongside an idyllic horse farm.

It was here on Leitch Road, at daybreak on the Sunday before Christmas, where a waterman traveled to fetch a newspaper and pastries. Instead, he discovered the confluence of solitude and criminal madness.

At first, he thought it was a pile of rags he was seeing at the grassy turnoff to a bean field. Maybe a mannequin. But reality swiftly became clear to the waterman, who had seen bodies during war.

“She was a little gal, lyin’ there on her back with her feet together and her arms down to her sides, like somebody had picked her up and put her there,” said the man, who requested anonymity.

She was dressed in a black coat, and the man noticed a swath of bare skin showing beneath. She was quite pale, and quite dead.

“We read about all this stuff and hear about it and see it on television,” said the man’s spouse. “Now, it has gotten close to home.”

Police closed Leitch road while they searched for clues.

Who was she? How did she get here? How did she die?

The last answer was the easiest. Gunshot wounds.

News accounts held clues to her identity: the letters P-U-L
tattooed crudely on her forearm.

In Annapolis, Tristram Jones recognized the markings and telephoned police. His fear became fact. The body lying on the lonely road was that of a woman he knew and befriended, Margaret “Peggy” Courson, 26.

Who was this woman? And what lay behind yet another crime statistic?

“She looked real peaceful, lyin’ there like she was,” observed the man who found her.

Peaceful then, but seldom before. Indeed, Peggy Courson had been tormented in her short life, unable to control her drinking. She wound up in Annapolis after hitchhiking around the country—in 48 states, friends say—and leaving behind her two small children in Florida.

“She was enormously intelligent and wonderfully witty,” said Jones. “She had a big sloppy grin.”

But the same Peggy who read widely and said smart things could transform into a street tough.

Survival instincts propelled her to sober up and get jobs. But she would fall of the wagon—as she apparently did in the fall. And she had other flaws that may have led to her demise. A friend noted that she had problems with men, attributed to the suicide of her father when she was young.

Despite her intelligence, she had an abandon that prompted her to put out her thumb on street corners. Friends say that these traits may have led to Peggy Courson’s demise on a Saturday night full of holiday parties.

Police continue to investigate. Perhaps we will never know the answer. What we do know is that gun violence can leave its gruesome mark anywhere.

As it did on this troubled young woman whose demons got the best of her.

“Now that she’s dead and a headline, she has a million friends,” said Jones. "“She'd be amused by the cloying sentimentality.”

Chesapeake Water Trail: Will the Bay Get Its ‘Emerald Necklace’?
Imagine journeying along the Bay to an island wilderness. You pull up your kayak or your canoe, your sailboat or your small-powered craft, and pitch your tent for the night.,

In the morning, you head out with your water trail map and another beautiful campsite beckoning.

Sounds like a fine time, eh? Perhaps a whole vacation.

In the future, you may be able to travel along a Bay water trail—if people pitch in now to plan.

“A water trail would be more than just fun—it would be a way to revive a great transportation tradition of the Chesapeake,” said Chris Conklin, president of the Chesapeake Paddlers Association.

A Bay water trail has a heap of obstacles in its path, but it is hardly farfetched. Full networks of waterway trails line the Maine Coast, cross the Florida Everglades, wind through northern Minnesota rivers and the Pacific Northwest’s Puget Sound.

In other places, water trails are being developed: along rivers in New York and Connecticut; on Lake Superior; and along the coastal waters of South Carolina and California. They are clean, green business opportunities in remote areas that need economic development.

The Chesapeake has all the raw material, including plenty of beautiful places, many of them already publicly owned. But it also has impediments, among them an absence so far of coordinated planning.

One high hurdle will be gaining access to private property and waiving liability. Planners also will need to work out a system for monitoring campsites to make certain they remain clean and undisturbed.

“It may have to be a self-patrolling situation,” suggested Ron Casterline, who operates Annapolis Coastal Kayaking.

Most people agree that the dream of a water trail will take not just a few kayakers but an alliance of boaters to pressure government agencies—perhaps a new group called the Chesapeake Bay Trail Organization.

(If you want to be part of the planning, write to the Chesapeake Paddlers Association, P.O. Box 3873, Fairfax, VA 22038.)

Indian Giving

It may be a long way from the Chesapeake Bay to British Columbia's Alert Bay, but an exhibit at the National Museum of Natural History in Washington brings the distant worlds together.

"Chiefly Feasts" focuses on the traditional practice of Indian tribes giving away gifts to those invited to ceremonies that mark marriage, birth, death and benchmark events in seafaring lands. The exhibit runs through March 6.

Be prepared for startling, brightly colored masks of mythical birds and sea creatures. And who knows — you, too, may become infused with the spirit of giving.

—Eli Flam

Way Downstream...

In parts of South Florida, people are mystified about the disappearance of sand from beaches. They blamed storms, but when they went to dredge for sand in the ocean, the bottom was hard coral. So much for the phrase, "like taking sand to the beach..."

Along the St. Lawrence River between the U.S. and Canada, they're finding a use for those dreaded, drain-clogging, fast-breeding zebra mussels: they're analyzing them to pinpoint pollution.

In one batch, they discovered Strontium 90—evidence of a leaking nuclear power plant...

Those Canadians make good beer, and now they're leading the way in reusable beer cases. The Sleeman Brewery in Ontario, which introduced the plastic cases, believes it can cut the use of cardboard beer containers in Canada by two-thirds...

In England, well-heeled Brits have their knickers in a twist over wind farms sprouting in the countryside. Never mind that they live in an energy-short country where you have to drop a quarter or two in a box for a blast of heat. Rich folks say the wind generators are unsightly...

Our Creature Feature this week concerns those giant, lovable pandas that often have problems in captivity. We won't be pining for our local panda much longer.

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service says it will no longer consider applications to import pandas into the U.S. Instead, the government will work with the China on ways to preserve the remaining 1,000 or so bears in their mountain bamboo habitat...

Finally, as you return your holiday gifts, think of your beleaguered government officials. EPA administrator Carol Browner had to give back a framed photo of the Everglades because its value exceeded $20.

President Bill Clinton had to return a gift of his own—$245 worth of Slim-Fast.

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EditorialFIGHTING FOR FISH
You don’t have to be an old-timer to recall schools of strapping American shad in the Chesapeake Bay. Or herring. Or the croaker, flounder, hardhead and bountiful sea trout (weakfish) that combined for angling joy and good business.

Some will tell you to sit tight, these things run in cycles.

Don’t listen.

Many factors make for declining fish populations. But truth be told, we Marylanders are victims. Victims of commercial intercept boats in Virginia that harvest shad en route to their spawning rivers. Victims of North Carolinians plundering sea trout.

The critical state of migratory fish in our region requires a fix that goes beyond the Bay. The best solution out there is legislation in Congress to force cooperation among states.

The bill, authored by Rep. Gerry Studds (D-Mass) requires fish management plans in the Atlantic coastal region. It has teeth to make them work: authority for the federal government to slap on fishing bans in states that drag their feet.

Don’t let anybody snow you with claptrap about this bill tramping on states’ rights. You’ll hear that in Virginia, where they’re opposing the Studds bill and fighting to protect their right to overfish.

The bill needs work. Provisions for sea trout should be sped up. The Interior Secretary needs to be given enforcement power equal with the Commerce Secretary.

But the concept is sound and badly needed. Maryland members of Congress ought to battle for this legislation. Simply endorsing it is not enough.

MVA (Many Vipers Afoot)
A caller asked if we write only about the Chesapeake Bay and its people. No. We are drawn to many issues, among them government’s maddening ways.

In this space today, we write about a plague that has afflicted many Baysiders—rudeness by the Motor Vehicle Administration. Our experience is fresh.

You’d think licensing a truck would be a simple dealing. In Maryland, think again. After waiting in line for 45 minutes, we were greeted by Clerk No. 1.

“Give me your papers,” she barked.

“What specifically do you need, ma’m?” we said.

“JUST GIVE ME EVERYTHING YOU GOT,” she spat.

She immediately declared our title no good, which was nonsense. Corrected by her supervisor, she grudgingly dispatched us to wait some more.

About 50 minutes later, we said hello to Clerk No. 2. She said nothing, until she found and chided us over her own imaginary problem. Finally, she handed over the tags, but not before berating us once more, this time for the way we had made out our check. A fat check at that.

Is this necessary? Could it be that some MVA offices hold rudeness competitions? After closing, they howl with laughter as they tell tales of misery inflicted. (“I sent this one fool all the way to Baltimore, then I locked the door just when he got back.”)

What the El Toro II Taught Us

The El Toro II mishap Dec. 5 that took three lives and the Coast Guard hearings afterward taught lessons that most of us won’t forget.

We learned vividly how with little warning the tranquil Chesapeake can turn ferocious. The wind climbed to gale force that day, creating six-foot seas and swamping the crippled ship.

We saw how an angry Bay will victimize even big boats—in this case 60 feet—if they are unseaworthy.

We found out once more how important it is for boaters to plug into weather forecasts—even though we were reminded that you can’t always bank on the predictions.

In troubling and sometimes conflicting testimony, we learned how communication between insurers and boaters can break down.

Finally, we saw how fates and carelessness can team up to make tragedy.

The Coast Guard has promised a report likely to recommend new regulations. Already, they have issued a national safety alert to toughen standards for inspecting wooden boats such as El Toro II.

We also think that the Coast Guard would be wise to beef up communications abilities beyond the marine band so that complicated rescues could run smoother. That was a topic of a pre-Christmas meeting organized by Rep. Steny Hoyer, D-Md., among the Coast Guard, Maryland State Police and local fire and rescue teams.

The batch of lessons already learned centers on the Bay’s unpredictability and the need for heightened personal responsibility by charter operators.

We welcome the Coast Guard’s report. And we trust that it will fine-tune without over-reaching or impinging on boaters’ rights.

BWI Signs: ‘Flightmare’ on Elm Road
We’re among motorists who read every sign, billboard or bumper sticker that flies by, no matter how silly.

High on our list of pet peeves are rude and preachy signs like you see on beaches or in parks listing the many things you can't do. Or signs repeated—and ignored—every 10 or 20 feet. We consider this sign pollution.

We’ve noticed more signs of the times around Baltimore-Washington International Airport, the travel venue used by many Baysiders.

We call this sign confusion.

Unless you’ve been to BWI a few times, you may not get there. On time, anyway.

Coming from the South on I-97, directional signs are vague and befuddling. If you’ve been lucky or cunning enough to get near the terminal on Rt. 170, you’ve done very well. Then, a small green sign points you leftward if you want Elm Rd. or Air Cargo.

If you happen to notice a third listing on the sign, Airport Terminal, you may be able to jerk the wheel left in time. Your adventure isn’t finished yet.

The next crucial sign instructs you to veer left for terminal parking or rental car return. Excuse me, but a parking lot and a terminal aren’t the same thing. At least around most airports they’re not. But at BWI, if you take things literally, you’ll end up back on the interstate.

Attempting BWI from the north is trickier still. Leaving is no piece of cake, either.

We heard that BWI was to be featured in a scene from a new film, "Major League II." We wonder if the actors are still out there, driving around confused by dumb signs.

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Commentary

On Swimming an Estuary

When we’ve colonized our moon and terraformed the face of Mars,

will we then remember the Piscataway and the Potomac?

when what we knew as Earth begins to fade from the consciousness of our ancestral survivors,who will recall the juncture in our cultures when Europeans and Native Americans fished together upon a river destined centuries later to run through a world capital which oversaw our blasting out of the atmosphere, stretching for the stars, sealing our survival yet clouding memories of our distant past?

I stroke and stroke and stroke chanting “for the river’s sake” across the mouth of a cold river churning into a still abundant Bay sweeping in and out of a mighty sea bearing both unbelieveable and untapped resources and the time bombs of nuclear debris.

Merge my spirit, set me free, give me—water— a new identity!

Tired, aching, cold, stroking still, not seeing land ahead,wondering whether I am making any forward movement at all, I remember the rock passed from friend to friend, affirming my ability, reaffirming my determination, warming me with familiar faces which might be awaiting me on the shore and “for the river’s sake” I stroke and chant and kick and breathe and stretch and pull my way across the Potomac “on the path and off the trail” alternating with “for the river’s sake” now and I am like the rocket reaching Mars …but what does a swim across a river once inhabited by a tribe known as Piscataway have to do with settling Mars?

Merging spirit, set us free, give us—space—new identity …but one taking into account mistakes we made,
cultures/ways/spirits co-opted, corrupted, destroyed, arrogance and greed, pollution, the proliferation of selfish needs depleting the common good.

Wash away our foolishness and fear and as the sun burns our planet’s face
and we find safety far away on terraformed Mars remember I swam the Potomac in the former land of the Piscataway for the river’s sake and to merge my spirit, set me free and find a new identity. So be it.

—Joe Stewart

Joe Stewart first swam the Potomac in May, 1993. He’ll repeat that 6.3 nautical-mile effort on May 21, 1994.

Join him in his effort with a pledge of any amount. All money raised will be divided among the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, Potomac River Association, St. Mary’s Friends of the Chesapeake, Southern Maryland Sierra Club, St. Mary’s Environmental Support Group, and Point Lookout State Park.

Mark your calendar early for a picnic celebration at the finish line: 3:15pm on May 21, 1994 at Point Lookout State Park.

Little Birds Pull Heart Strings

Editor’s note: Steve Cardano’s description of the migration of Bay osprey (Vol. 1: 13) moved his old acquaintance, Kent Mountford, to write his own observation of birds with whom we share part of our year (Vol. 1: 16 and 17). Now University of Maryland student Betsy Kehne describes how Dr. Mountford’s Commentary, “The Little Birds Flitting Through Our Autumn Forest Are Threads in the Living Fabric we call ‘Biodiversity,’” tugged at her heart strings.

The emotional slant in “The Little Birds Flitting” affected me more than the rational on my first reading. But after emotion draws me in, I’m ready to ask rational questions.

The details of the rational portion—the series of locations, the types of birds, the conference—don’t really pull me in because I’m separated from it. I’m interested but not dedicated.

A series of geographic locations and generalizations regarding size—”migrants,” “warblers,” “big migrating pool”—achieves another effect: the world seems big and we’re “sharing resources.”

But Mountford pulls at my heart strings when he introduces such emotional terms as “strong champion,” and “grasping at straws,” which create a contrast between strength and desperation.

Next forests are “cut up” into “smaller patches,” forcing me to re-evaluate my image of the land, where birds are plentiful. Focusing on smaller and smaller sections of the bird population, Mountford relates them to the human household (prey for our household cats) and calls them “little visitors,” bringing them even closer to me by using personification.

The emotional bond is intensified by the list of these birds’ potential tragedies so similar to human tragedies: failure to nest, loss of young, death from weakness.

Finally, the focus on the single, “tiny” Golden Crowned Kinglet wrenches my heart. Suddenly I am much more focused and much more willing to re-investigate the details.

To make sure that I don’t interpret the Kinglet’s death as isolated, Mountford returns to the image of largeness: 230,000 birds in the sky and the millions “falling exhausted into the sea.”

The mix of size—tiny birds and large-scale tragedy—moves me first to reread, then to look further into the subject to understand my effect on the greater environment.

—Betsy Kehne

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Reflections

Going Like 60: Reflection on Resolves
by Eli Flam

That’s it, I told myself on seeing the story in the New Bay Times about a newly-designated, 100-mile-long “Beach-to-Bay Indian Trail.” I had to hike it, bike it, traverse it from start to finish. Put my footprint on it, and vice versa.

“The trail,” the article said, “begins at Assateague Island and winds through historic towns, tidal bays, an old-growth forest and a cypress swamp.” It marked “the seasonal movement of Native Americans from ocean to Bay,” at least in times past.

As to my movements—
A recent hike on a remote stretch of the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal Tow Path, up near Paw Paw, had stirred plans to gear up for a solo hike all the way, before the 50th anniversary this spring of Justice Douglas’ walkathon from Cumberland to Washington, D.C. (done with plenty of company), which helped to keep that salutary retreat unpaved. (New Bay Times' David Hawxhurst traversed the C&O’s 184.5 miles on bicycle in just over 14 hours this summer, with the winner doing it in just under 13 hours, as headlined in the Sept. 22 issue: “… Ouch!”)

But a week-plus C&O hike presented a lot of roadblocks, beginning with logistics. The Beach-to-Bay, on the other hand, or foot, recalled a week-long summer bicycle trip in the late 1970s.

I started in Southern Maryland with a well-thumbed copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in one saddle bag, worked up the Bay shore through Annapolis and tooled down Eastern Shore back roads, mixing in a century (a hundred miles in one day) just for the sweaty, gorp-gobbling hell of it. Early on the last morning, I rolled across the long, quiet causeway into Chincoteague under a big blue sky, took a room in a little inn that made raspberry pancakes and immersed myself in the ocean off the dunes of Assateague.

Now here was a chance to work my way back—as in that old spoof, right? “Backwards run the hands of TIME...”

Going 60 at 60
Having recently reached 60, I find myself wanting to accomplish finite, measurable things, self-generated, start to finish; fresh, worthwhile ventures, where possible tying into, rounding out the past.

Still ghosting around, if seemingly out of effective reach, is the notion to walk across America, hatched at the end of my two years in the Army, in 1958, though pretty much laid to rest after Peter Jenkins wrote A Walk Across America.

Later, I was going to bike across the U.S., walk the full Appalachian Trail, swim across the Bay, do the Marine Corps marathon in Washington, D.C.—among other feats at home and abroad. I read Sailing Alone Around the World, Blue Highways, Caucasian Journey and a scad of other traveling tales.

But until now, though having run—well, jogged—from Washington to Alexandria and back, survived a dicey clamber across a jagged rock face on a Greek island and otherwise scooted around and about, I haven’t pulled off any truly individual, long-haul adventure. While keeping active, staying in good shape and scoping out Big Jaunts, I’ve mostly fallen back on excuses like work, other travel, “the house,” “the family,” responsibilities, even Thoreau’s chestnut about traveling far without leaving home.

Just the other month I learned that a young, well-founded archaeologist was planning next year to follow Capt. John Smith’s voyage up the Potomac in 1608—a project I’ve been toying with since moving to Southern Maryland early in the 1980s.

But until now …

Editor’s Note: Eli Flam’s resolves, as you see, are many. How many of these dreams will he live up to? Join us in keeping a close eye on him in New Bay Times in ‘94. Start this week, when he considers trails in Diversions and Excursions.

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