Reflections on a Morning Row by Sharon Frayne

There’s an interesting truth about rowing
You only see what you’ve left behind
You don’t know where you’re going…

Part 1

Dark shadows and dreams plagued
throughout the long night
With tortured regrets and remembrances of past mistakes…
Sweat chilled in the early dawn of warm growing light
Came the realization that she was awake.

Cold hands pushed back blankets, that summer day
And the fractured old fears and memories that lay
Between the invisible skim of surface…
That separates past time and its fullness, from the present.

Stepped out of the room and walked away

It was the rowing in the morning that mattered.

Dawn chorus of avian throats and tiny insect buzz
Knock of woodpecker and clouds of amorous breakfasting bugs,
steaming wisps like cotton candy, drifting off the still water
pale sun slowly rising above ancient hemlocks and fog
Green and mourning the interminable passage of time.

She walked past the old campfire and overturned logs
Smell of wood smoke, damp earth and fresh pine
Down to the water’s edge and stopped.

The little green rowboat sat waiting
Resting on the beach,
Her hands grasped the pale worn wooden oars
That slipped into the locks on the varnished gunwhale with a bang.
The boat anchor — a big heavy stone, placed within reach.

Waded out and climbed aboard, crouching low, staying centered
Balanced and gripping the oars and quietly remembered
An important life lesson that he’s often said really mattered.

She took her place on the hard seat,
Facing the stern, while the boat’s pointed prow
cut through the morning stillness and the glassy, dark surface.
And then the journey was ahead.

It was all lean and pull, lean and pull,
Feet braced, back rocking, muscles sliding, little boat gliding forward.
Pull and glide, pull and glide, strong heads so steady
The view at the back spread out slowly before her.

The morning was new, the wind still sleeping and the lake was a mirror.
And the silver birch and the jack pine shimmered above and below
the cool mirror that was all aglow, with the blue morning.
And her heart and her head and the lake were one.

Behind the boat the ripples widened and spread
Trails of fragile gold bubbles danced on the surface
Marking a fine trail that soon simply vanished
on the calm lake in the pale dawning light of the sun.

But in the afternoon, the wind would rise and the lake would change
It would be noisy with boats, and music and wakeboards
And outboards and inboards, and paddleboards.
And the afternoon people who ignored nature’s warnings.

The lake was hers, now, all alone in the morning.

The craggy cliff’s granite face rose and fell, in perfect reflection
guarding the shoreline like a vigilant watchman.
Swimming close to port side, a loon called soft warning.
Diamonds flashed on its plumage as it dove down below
A tiny bass flipped on the surface beside her,
Lightly creasing the mirror’s clean glassy image.

Past dreams and the nightmares were all left on shore,
As the quiet journey continued, her spirit lifted and soared.
It was peaceful within her and it was all good,

In the morning, and the lake was hers alone.

Part 2

Then the wind blew up a sudden chill, from out of the west
and the quiet lake’s face turned angry and sullen.
Then came the heavy dark clouds and the portent of rain
The waves grew higher and the sun was black masked.
Against the strong current her arm muscles strained.

But all was still good,
It was a simple morning workout.
It was early, and the lake was hers alone.

It was the crash at the front the changed things.

She felt the hit first in her back, and then head and neck contorted,
the wooden oars vibrated and slipped in a blur
Over the silvery surface of the freshly marred mirror
And she splashed in the water and the reflections collided
and blurred, while the sky and the lake flipped, churned — and distorted.
The wind began blowing hard over the port side
Dangerously rocking the boat.

She’d hit something big in the water.

The boat kept moving. Didn’t stop or turn ’round.
It wouldn’t matter if she just kept on going,
She was alone on the lake in the morning.
No one knew what she did in the morning.

Then she stopped. Frightened…
and looked back to see what she’d done.

There was a deadhead.

A log, floating just below the surface of the water.
Lying like a submarine beneath the surface of the water.
Like a faceless totem from earlier times
The size of a big man’s body
Cut down
From the old green pines that stood all around
the lake and the hillside. She’d happened upon
a wooden colossus floating face down. Swollen and cold
With the water it absorbed, over unmeasured time.
Hidden, it hunted like a predator, hungry and old.
Beneath the cracked face of the mirror.

Not human.
So she shrugged and kept rowing on track for the land.
After all, the lake was hers alone, in the morning.

Then she stopped, and turned back, water splashed on her hands.
The green boat tossed on the lake’s transformed rugged surface
By the wind that blew hard, and the billowing waves bleak attack
splashed over the gunnels. The boat started to drift and almost flipped over.
Then she stood tall and straight, in the boat in the midst of the storm.
Remembering the lessons she’d learned from her father.

The deadhead was a hidden time bomb — a certain disaster
For the people that would surely come after,
The laughing adults and children,
And the ski boat, and the wakeboat and the din that blasted,
With the miserably overloud music, buzzing jet boats and chaotic conditions
she hated.
The lake was lost to her in those hours.

There was a rope in the bottom of the boat and she grabbed it.
Leaned over the side and frantically pulled the deadhead much closer.
It was heavy and dark and green slippery with rot,
Still she seized it, and tied it fast with a strong sailor’s knot
Remembering the one that her father had taught.

A father who’d died early that same year in the spring
Her bitter tears dried with the change that time brings.
But despite how she’d tried, she hadn’t forgot.

Because the dark shadows always came back in the night.

So then, in a small craft in the strange sudden storm,
She made a decision and acted alone.

The distant safe shore seemed further than ever
and the sky grew darker. The wind sighed and blew wilder.
Her muscles strained and screamed with the pain.
Cold water mixed with fresh tears, in the hard pounding rain
and she leaned and pulled in the water.

Back bending, legs pushing, head bowed with a prayer
As she pulled in vain in the water, all time seemed suspended.
Heavy, heavy, the boat struggled deep in the water

With the deadhead shackled behind her.

It dragged the boat down, and the waves grew stronger
They splashed beside and behind her, the way seemed much longer.

Like a drunken sailor after a drought, the boat staggered,
Raging down a rain-drenched alley, in some old wartime harbour.
Her heart pounded madly and more tears ran down
Her face, as she fought the boat and the weight that hauled behind her.

“Let it go.”
The voices in her head shouted.
“Let it be. Who would know?”
She was alone in the storm that had spouted
From out of the west and brought to recall
the glorious stories of the past that collided.
With fate and the weather that strange day on the lake.

She’d been stopped by the deadhead she’d encountered that day.
But what about later? If left, what would come after?
While it floated below the surface like a sleeping torpedo
If it remained, there would certainly be a disaster.

So she rowed the boat in the morning.
She dragged the log like a second boat anchor.
It bounced and it rolled and it pulled like a tanker.
The struggling boat nearly tipped and went under.
Still, she rowed through the storm and rowed through the rain
Rowed through the wind and rowed through the waves
that filled the boat with water that came up to the seat — almost.
And dragged the deadhead behind her.
Then remembered her father’s words as if his pale ghost
Rode straight and strong in the boat right beside her.

“Never give up. Life is precious.”

She took a knife to the boat anchor under the seat, and tossed its bulk over.
It sank like a stone and she knew she was right
To lighten the load and keep up the fight.
And when the shore came it was sudden.
Crunching aground on solid sand bottom.
Hardened hands hauling rope in, lungs gasping for air,
her work was done.

The enormous log she’d dragged, was finally set free.
Then, safely secured, with strong metal chains,
with the help of the afternoon people,
To a tall, sturdy ancient pine tree.
Like a bridge it lay between water and land.

The day lay ahead — the dreams were set free.
And the lake had been hers in the morning.

Source: NOTL Writers’ Circle. Rising Spirits Anthology, 2016

Sharon Frayne is an award-winning novelist, poet, and short story writer whose work has been
recognized by the CBC. Formerly a high school English and Visual Art teacher and
administrator, she’s published in DarkWinter Literary, CommuterLit, Agnes and True, Uproar,
the Ekphrastic Review and numerous anthologies. She’s the author of Caught Between the Walls
(Bygones Publishing), set in Niagara-on-the-Lake, The Sound of a Rainbow (Latitude46
Publishing) and the forthcoming Rainbow Fire (2027) and Webs: Tales of Survival and Practikal
Magick (2027)..

Click here to visit the website of Sharon Frayne

Rivers of Light by Wayne Ritchie

I often look up and into the sky.
I’m guessing, Heaven only knows the reason why.
WhenI get lonesome as I usually do.
I contemplate about the time spent with you.
My youthful years went by far too quick.
Looking up into heaven for my uncle Nick.
Being my Cub Scout leader teaching me well.
Learned a lot more, it’s amazing to tell.
Laying on my back, I see rivers of light.
I can see water flowing. It’s a wonderful sight.
He taught the boys to row a canoe.
Down through the rapids here’s what you do.
With a paddle you could make water flow.
Making your vessel travel where you wanted to go.
Tops of the trees have plenty of leaves.
Rivers of light flowing thanks to the breeze.
One Summer we circumnavigated around the Great lakes.
We learned from his talking, by our mistakes.
I remember a river that became Niagara Falls.
The swift mighty river that became river stalls.
Rivers of my youth flowed like blood in my veins.
Learned to build fires when no one complains.
He loved to joke, here’s one of his best.
His laughter made tears, let’s get some rest.
Folks should know you can’t drink Canada Dry.
The answer is easy, just ask yourself why.
The answer is as comfortable as nightly dreams.
Canada has too many lakes, rivers, and streams.
Nighttime fell upon my campsite under the trees.
The rivers went dark, went to my knees.
Giving thanks to the Lord for the view.
So very thankful that I can tell you.
Open your eyes to the great sights we see.
There all around us, take it from me.

Source: Wayne Ritchie, 2023

At the time of submitting this poem, Wayne Ritchie was 73 years old and had been writing poetry and short stories for 60 years.

Niagara Falls by Rev. Roswell Park

Written in remembrance of a visit to Niagara, and Queenstown ; April 20, 1827.

“Niagara rolls on. The faithless wave,
That tore the Indian from his gentle cove,
Is smooth and bright as silver. Nothing speaks
Of last night’s rain : and now the rainbow smiles,
And the white gull flaps through its orange light ;
And the eternal roaring of the Falls
Goes on the same. Wild Indian, farewell !
Thou wert a brother, and thy dying bed
Was the white lashing spray ;— thy only knell
The Rapid’s thunder ;—and the deep, deep gulf
Thy sunless sepulchre !”
— J. R. ORTON.

THE sun shone brightly o’er me as I stood
And gazed upon Niagara’s swelling flood ;—
Whose waters, springing from a distant source,
Through ages past have sped their solemn course ;
Then rushing downward, o’er the lofty rock,
Have made the mountains tremble with their shock ;
Till flowing on majestical and free,
They join’d afar the bosom of the sea.
Between rich plains, extending far around,
And gentle hills with verdant foliage crown’d,
Whose sloping sides grow dim in distant blue,
Niagara river steals upon the view.
Then winding slow the current glides along
Its fertile isles and sunny banks among,
Till soon it meets a rough and rocky bed,
And o’er the rapids dashes on with speed ;—
Sinks in the hollows, swells and sinks again,
And rolls its billows like the raging main :—
Now the huge breakers raise it to the skies,
Whirlpools revolve, and foaming mountains rise.
New floods behind, the waves before them urge,
Approaching nearer to the giddy verge ;
Till a fair isle the mighty current braves,
And with its front divides the yielding waves.
On either side the mighty waters roll,
And ceaseless hurry to the frightful goal ;
Then from the lofty rocks with awful sound
Fall headlong downward to the vast profound,—
Speed to the bottom, swell the deeps below,—
Rise to the surface, boiling as they flow ;—
In eddying circles vent their angry force ;—
Then join the current and pursue their course.
Here on the brow the sea-green flood rolls by,
Reflecting all the brightness of the sky,
While piles of foam, the cataract beneath,
Hang o’er the rocks and round the billows wreathe.
There, as the falling torrent meets the air,
White foaming fleeces down the chasm appear ;
And the bright rainbow through the misty spray,
Shines in the sun and gilds the face of day.
And far below, from adamantine beds,
The rocky banks erect their hoary heads ;—
While lofty trees, like dwarfs, above them seen,
Clothe the high cliffs with robes of brightest green ;
Like uptorn Ossa, from its centre riven,
When the fierce giants fought the pow’rs of heav’n.
‡‡I thought when gazing on this glorious view,
How once the Indian, in his bark canoe,
While fishing far away upon the wave,
Was swiftly buried in a wat’ry grave.
As moor’d at anchor on the treacherous flood,
He throws his net and line in sportive mood,
How great his horror when at first he hears
The cataract swelling louder on his ears ;
When first, beneath the evening’s dusky hue,
The mighty rapid breaks upon his view ;
And unsuspected, with the currents’ glide,
His little boat is carried by the tide,—
While the dim figures seen upon the strand
Move with the stream which bears him from the land !
Then is his angle rod in haste thrown by,
While resolution flashes from his eye ;
Then his strong arm, unceasing bends the oar,
His course directing to the nearest shore ;
At every stroke he dashes through the foam,
And anxiously seems drawing toward his home.
Row ! Indian, row ! avoid the fearful steep !
Bend the light bark, and o’er the waters sweep !
Too late, alas ! the vigorous arm is strung ;
The rapid current hurries him along !
In vain he sees his cabin gleam afar,
Beneath the twinkling of the evening star;—
The shore recedes, the hut eludes his sight,
Then fades in distance mid the gloom of night !
And now the breakers swell with lofty waves,
And now his bark their foaming summit cleaves ;
Despair now seizes on his wearied breast,
His oars neglected lie upon their rest ;
His dog, unheeded, fawns upon his side,
Then leaps, unconscious, in the fatal tide.
One pray’r is utter’d by his wilder’d mind ;
Then sits the Indian, silent and resign’d,
And in his light canoe with patience waits
The speedy issue of his awful fates.
Now roar the waters, terrible and loud,
As heaviest thunder from the blackest cloud ;
And now the chasm its awful depth reveals,
And now the bark upon its summit reels ;
Then down the vast abyss is viewless borne,
To depths of darkness, never to return !
The setting sun beheld him far from shore,
Whom rising morn shall ne’er awaken more ;
But on the beach his bones unburied lie,
And whiten under many a summer’s sky ;
And oft, the Indians say, his spirit roves,
Where once he hunted in his native groves ;
And ever as he flies before the wind,
His faithful dog still follows close behind ;
And oft in loneliness the maiden weeps,
Beside the waters where her hero sleeps ;
And oft the stranger listens to his tale,
And hears the warriors raise his funeral wail ;
While fervent prayers to the Great Spirit rise,
To bless their brother-hunter in the skies.

West Point, Oct., 1828.

Source: Rev. Roswell Park. Selections of Juvenile and Miscellaneous Poems. Philadelphia: DeSilver, Thomas & Co, 1836

Read about Rev. Roswell Park

Bear and Falls by James McIntyre

Strange incidents do happen ever
On the famed Niagara river,
This thought to mind it now recalls
Event three miles above the falls.

Thrilling ventures there abound,
A bear which weighed eight hundred pounds,
Hunters they do him discover
As he was swimming down the river.

They felt he would be glorious prize
This grand fat bear of mighty size,
Three men they jump’d into canoe,
A skilful and determined crew.

Soon alongside of him they row,
But kindly feelings he doth show,
Quick he scrambled o’er the boat side
For to enjoy a good boat ride.

And as o’er the side he straddles
They hit him on head with paddles,
But all in vain, so two of crew
A short time bade the bear adieu.

And soon they swiftly swam to shore,
But current down the river bore
Man, bear and boat, the sound appals
Of roaring mighty water falls.

But vigorous now he plys the oar,
In hopes to safely reach the shore,
But this made bear to grin and growl
And wear on brow a horrid scowl.

So poor man sore against his will
Finds that in boat he must keep still,
Or else be hugged to death by bear,
While sound of falls becomes more near.

But his two friends so brave and true
Row quick ’longside in a canoe,
And fire in bruin leaden balls,
Thus saving friend from bear and falls.

Source: McIntyre, James. Poems of James McIntyre. Ingersoll: The Chronicle, 1889.

This poem is discussed in Episode 2 of the Niagara Falls History and Poetry podcast

Biography of James McIntyre in the Dictionary of Canadian Biography.

The Launch of the Griffin by Thomas D’Arcy McGee

Within Cayuga’s forest shade
The stocks were set—the keel was laid—
Wet with the nightly forest dew,
The frame of that first vessel grew.
Strange was the sight upon the brim
Of the swift river, even to him
‡‡The builder of the bark;
To see its artificial lines
Festoon’d with summer’s sudden vines,
‡‡Another New World’s ark.

II.

As rounds to ripeness manhood’s schemes
Out of youth’s fond, disjointed dreams,
So ripen’d in her kindred wood
That traveller of the untried flood.
And often as the evening sun
Gleam’d on the group, their labor done—
‡‡The Indian prowling out of sight
‡‡Of corded friar and belted knight—
And smiled upon them as they smiled,
The builders on the bark—their child!

III.

The hour has come: upon the stocks
The masted hull already rocks—
The mallet in the master’s hand
Is poised to launch her from the land.
Beside him, partner of his quest
For the great river of the West,
Stands the adventurous Recollet
Whose page records that anxions day.
To him the master would defer
The final act—he will not bear
That any else than him who plann’d,
Should launch “the Griffin” from the land.
In courteous conflict they contend,
The knight and priest, as friend with friend—
‡‡In that strange savage scene
The swift blue river glides before,
And still Niagara’s awful roar
‡‡Booms through the vistas green.

IV.

And now the mallet falls, stroke—stroke—
On prop of pine and wedge of oak
‡‡The vessel feels her way;
The quick mechanics leap aside
As, rushing downward to the tide,
‡‡She dashes them with spray.
The ready, warp arrests her course,
And holds her for a while perforce,
While on her deck the merry crew
Man every rope, loose every clew,
‡‡And spread her canvas free.
Away! ’tis done! the Griffin floats,
First of Lake Erie’s winged boats—
‡‡Her flag, the Fleur-de-lis.

Gun after gun proclaims the hour,
As nature yields to human power;
And now upon the deeper calm
The Indian hears the holy psalm—
Laudamus to the Lord of Hosts!
Whose name unknown on all their coasts,
The inmost wilderness shall know,
Wafted upon yon wings of snow
That, sinking in the waters blue,
Seem but some lake-bird lost to view.

VI.

In old romance and fairy lays
Its wondrous part the Griffin plays—
Grimly it guards the gloomy gate
Seal’d by the strong behest of Fate—
Or, spreading its portentous wings,
Wafts Virgil to the Court of Kings;
And unto scenes as wondrous shall
Thy Griffin bear thee, brave La Salle!
Thy winged steed shall stall where grows
On Michigan the sweet wild rose;
Lost in the mazes of St. Clair,
Shall give thee hope amid despair,
And bear thee past those isles of dread
The Huron peoples with the dead,
Where foot of savage never trod
Within the precinct of his god;
And it may be thy lot to trace
The footprints of the unknown race
‘Graved on Superior’s iron shore,
Which knows their very name no more
Through scenes so vast and wondrous shall
Thy Griffin bear thee, brave La Salle—
True Wizard of the Wild! whose art,
An eye of power, a knightly heart,
A patient purpose silence-nursed,
A high, enduring, saintly trust—
Are mighty spells—we honor these,
Columbus of the inland seas!

Source: Thomas D’Arcy McGee. The Poems of Thomas D’Arcy McGee. London: D. & J. Sadlier, 1870

Note: The Griffin was originally known as Le Griffon. It was built at Cayuga Creek, just south of Niagara Falls, New York.

Tag: boats

Reflections on a Morning Row by Sharon Frayne

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Rivers of Light by Wayne Ritchie

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Niagara Falls by Rev. Roswell Park

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Bear and Falls by James McIntyre

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The Launch of the Griffin by Thomas D’Arcy McGee

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