Class of 1967

Reflections and Stories

Freshman Rowing Memories

by Jim Mockler '67

C'est moi, that good looking guy in the picture rowing bow position with the Freshman heavies.

Heavyweight Freshmen, 1964:

Bow-Jim Mockler; 2-Jim Woods;

3-Chuck Dailey; 4-Henry Scherr; 5-Mike Ryan; 6-Ed Witman;

7-John Soisson; Stroke-John Barry; Cox-Ned Moran

Goose was the RA on 4th floor New North in September 1963, and recruited me and several others for the Freshmen boats that year.

We did well that season, but I remember to this day the disappointment of not winning our final race at the Dad Vail. You had won, the JVs had won, the broom was coming out to be hoisted, but we choked our start and finished second to Marietta. A good day for Georgetown, but still a disappointment. We wanted that sweep.

I couldn't row Sophomore year, but did help Goose with his coaching duties for a bit. Yes, that was me who smashed the propeller of the coach's motorboat on the shallow rocks near the Three Sisters and Goose had to find some money to fix it because I sure didn't have any.

I had to leave Georgetown that year for personal reasons, losing my draft exemption in the process. It wasn't until '74, after years of military service, that I was able to scrape together enough money to complete my undergraduate degree.

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Mr. McCooey and the 1789

by Ed Witman ‘67

The legendary 1789

No account of that Spring racing season of ‘64 would be complete without crediting Mr. Richard J. McCooey, a GU alumnus (’52) and founder of the 1789, who generously provided “training table” meals for the Varsity and First Freshman heavyweight eights. He contributed two thirds of the cost, and Goose kicked in the other to make this meal-deal possible. These dinners were served in the upper dining room of the ‘89 by waiters in white jackets on tables elegantly set with linen and silver service. The menu included loin lamb chops, steaks, roast beef, etc.

The varsity and freshmen dressed in blazers and ties for these dinners and our etiquette was punctilious because we wanted to show the utmost respect for McCooey’s patronage which extended for three seasons (1963-65) before the cost and logistics became impossible for the restaurateur. Then on May 6, the Wednesday evening before the ’64 Dad Vail, he hosted the entire crew for a send-off dinner. As Rory Quirk noted in The Hoya p. 24 the next week, “People like McCooey make the phrase ‘alumni participation’ meaningful.” What an understatement.

The benefits of these dinners were as much spiritual as nutritional: the mingling of the Varsity and Freshman Heavies at a formal dining table solidified an esprit de corps that pervaded the entire crew and made us all feel very special. And after the varsity’s victory at the Dad Vail in ’64, McCooey hosted a Black Velvet party for the crew in the 1789 dining room, serving the traditional Welsh rarebit on toast, along with the Guinness stout & champagne. The celebratory Black Velvet was an English tradition carried over by Don Cadle from his days rowing for Balliol College, Oxford.

Then on the Saturday of the Dad Vail in 1965, each of us received an envelope. It was fine engraved stationery from “John O. Mooney & Co, Waldorf Astoria, NY” and enclosed this note:

When the Georgetown colors appear on the

Schuykill, you take with you a part of all those

who have carried them with honor before you.

May God give you the added strength to bring

you the victory for which you are so superbly trained

and that you so richly deserve.

Know further, that whatever the outcome, we

honor the spirit which is yours.

1789

Richard McCooey, 2010

We received many “best wishes” that day, but none so eloquent or so powerfully affecting. Richard McCooey was a classy guy in the best sense of the term, and we rowed all the harder to honor the spirit which he so well exemplified by his commitment to Georgetown and its Crew.

July 24, 2012 Washington Magazine article on Richard McCooey and the 1789, The Tombs, History of the 1789 in 2011 Hoya, and The 50th Anniversary of the Tombs in 2012.

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“The Day the Music Died”

A Memoir of November 22, 1963

by Edward P. Witman '67

“The president’s been shot! In Dallas,” stuttered Randy Ferguson. “President Kennedy’s been shot.”

That was how I first heard the news: from a blond Californian surfer-dude with a speech impediment, a guy who was regarded as a bit of a flake by his more conventional Georgetown classmates. Considering the source of this news to be less than authoritative, I continued on to my one o’clock class: Introduction to Calculus.

It was a remarkably warm and sunny noontime in Washington, a bright crystalline autumn Friday, and this was my last class of the week, indeed, my last class before heading home for the Thanksgiving holiday, my first trip home since starting college in September. Although classes were scheduled for the next Monday and Tuesday, I had saved my “cuts” and decided that I wouldn’t miss much anyway. My bags were packed, and I had a friend who’d drive me to Union Station for the train ride up to New York and a nice ten day vacation.

When I got to class, everyone was talking about the rumor that not only had President Kennedy been shot, but that Lyndon Johnson, the VP was also wounded, and that the Speaker of the House, John McCormack would succeed to the Presidency. Class was quickly dismissed, and I hurried back to my dorm to get my bags and meet up with my ride. By this time the mood on campus had become decidedly grim. The prevailing concern was that this assassination attempt might be either a coup d’etat, or an attempt to decapitate the United States Government as part of a first strike in a nuclear war with the Soviet Union.

This was not as paranoid as it might sound today almost fifty years later. Recall that this was the most dangerous period of the “cold war.” A year earlier, Kennedy had faced down Russian Premier Nikita Khrushchev in the “Cuban Missile Crisis,” and only a three weeks before, the President of South Vietnam, Ngo Dihn Diem, had been the victim of a bloody CIA-supported assassination in Saigon. So a fair amount of fear seemed quite reasonable in the light of events

Thus many of us were packing and calling cabs to get out of town and home to our families as quickly as possible. Washington suddenly seemed to be a very likely target for whatever dangers might be gathering that afternoon. Ironically, by the next day, Saturday, I was regretting that I had not stayed in DC for the historic events of the President’s Funeral.

As we drove downtown, I remember seeing small groups of people, many of them federal office workers standing on the street corners, confusion and dismay on their faces. It was on the car radio that I heard the announcement that the President had died at about one pm CST, two o’clock Eastern Time. At Union Station boarded the 3pm train to NYC.

I recall little of the next hours except for the melancholy silence on the train. Though crowded with weekend commuters heading to Baltimore, Philly, and NY, hardly anyone spoke. Even the conductor went about his task wordlessly. Most just sat and stared somberly out of the windows as the afternoon passed into twilight and darkness.

By the time I arrived in New York, the late afternoon editions of the city newspapers had the story in huge headlines, and my most vivid image of that day was looking the length of the Long Island Railroad car at all those identical headlines held by dozens of silent readers: JFK DEAD IN DALLAS, PRESIDENT ASSASSINATED.

I got home about 10pm, much to the relief of my parents who were glad to see me safely out of Washington. After a late supper, I walked out to the back yard alone, into the chill darkness of that November night. The air was heavy with the autumnal scent of dead leaves and damp grass. I stood and breathed deeply and looked up at the sky and knew that I would remember this day as long as I lived.

* * * * * *

President Kennedy's cortege

turns on Pennsylvania Avenue

(Ben Domenico photo)

However much the reputation of John F. Kennedy has been inflated by the mythology of “Camelot,” the political idealism of that time was deep and genuine. It is hard today for a young person to imagine a time when the US Government enjoyed the spontaneous respect and confidence of people as a force for good in the world, and when government service in the military or in the new Peace Corps was something people regarded with unabashed pride. And when the use of the term ‘patriotism’ didn’t imply the arch irony we are so inured to now.

Whether, had he lived, John Kennedy would have avoided escalating the war in Vietnam, championed the cause of civil rights, and continued to inspire and hold the allegiance of the youth -- these are the imponderables of history in the subjunctive mood, of History as “What if.”

What is certain is that on that beautiful November afternoon fifty years ago, American politics lost more than the presidential personification of its heroic courage, self-confidence, and idealism. It lost its music.

And the aftermath of that day –

· the conspiracy theories surrounding the assassination itself

· the political alienation of the youth

· the escalation of the Vietnam War,

· the failure of Lyndon Johnson’s presidency

· the draft riots,

· the counter-culture of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll

· the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy

· the Watergate affair and the impeachment of Richard Nixon

has left us all feeling bereft, mired in the corrosive cynicism that still pervades our national life.

Faulkner famously remarked that “The past isn’t dead. It’s not even past.” And for those who remember all too poignantly, and for those who can only imagine through the medium of myth, the music of Camelot still haunts us and reminds us in virtually every election cycle that while our politicians may still recite the lyrics, they cannot recapture the melody.

So as that terrible anniversary approaches once again,

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,

. . .

For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground,

And tell sad stories of the death of Kings.[1]

______________________

[1] Richard II, Act 3, scene 2

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Meeting Fr. Sellinger

by Ed Witman, ‘67

Joseph A. Selinger, S.J., 1964 Ye Domesday Book

Academically, Georgetown was competitive, and it was not unusual to find that most of one’s classmates had been valedictorians, yearbook editors, class presidents, and national merit scholars. Almost everyone came from the very top of their high school class so the competition for grades was stiff regardless of one’s school or major. Freshmen in particular felt the pressure of classrooms ruled by professors who seemed to care not a whit whether they flunked. In reading my old letters home from the years ’63 thru ’67, I am amazed by the relentless pace of tests passed, assignments written, and deadlines met; my own academic survival seems doubly impressive since I was devoting so much of my time to rowing.

Given the sharp academic competition it is no surprise that the attrition rate among freshmen and sophomores was fairly high, and it is this fact that brings us to introduce into our narrative Fr. Joseph A. Sellinger, SJ, the Academic Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. College boys who fell into academic peril received a summons to meet with Fr. Joe for a stern reminder about the true purpose of their time here at Georgetown. There were not many who had to be reminded twice.

Fr. Sellinger was not a tall man, but he was solidly built, broad in the shoulders, with dark close-cropped hair and sharp blue eyes; he carried himself like the athlete he was in his spare time. He was only thirty-seven years old in 1958, and had a young man’s enthusiasm for competitive pursuits as the means of attaining personal excellence. Whether in the class room or on the field, the track, or the river, he insisted on striving to be the best; so when he perceived a lack of scholarly diligence or effort he became impatient, even annoyed, and would summon the academic delinquent to his office to explain his expectations.

According to those who endured these meetings and survived to graduate, Fr. Sellinger had a sort of protocol that he followed in these interviews. Let Frank Barrett – one of those survivors – set the scene.

Joseph Sellinger, SJ was as tough as steel and really a hard, scary man when you were an undergrad, but at the end of the day a wonderful man. While a student I lived in constant fear of being called to his office. It was about 30 feet from the door to his desk. He wouldn’t acknowledge your presence, he’d just let you stand there for a while. Then he’d look up and fry you with his eyes. NOT FUN. (8/10/12)[1]

Later, in 1961 when the University administration decided to grant the Crew varsity recognition and pay the rent on the new Thompson boathouse, Fr. Sellinger became our moderator and a frequent companion on trips to away-races, as well as one of Crew’s staunchest supporters within the administration. Regrettably for the Crew, in 1964 Fr. Sellinger was called away from Georgetown to assume the Presidency of Loyola University in Baltimore where he went on to serve the longest tenure of any Jesuit college president in the US before succumbing to pancreatic cancer in April, 1993. He was indeed a wonderful man and a great friend of the Crew in its early days.

[1] Another visitor to Fr. Sellinger’s office was the Crew’s first Captain of Boats, Jim Fitzgerald who confirms Frank’s account of the proceedings. Jim adds to the lore this personal detail: “In 1972, he (Fr. S) was the official witness of my marriage to Melissa in Dahlgren Chapel. We have six children and celebrate our 40th anniversary this September so he did a great job.”

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Gifford’s

by Ed Witman, ‘67

One of the things that made rowing endurable during the sweltering summers of the mid-sixties was ice cream, large amounts of ice cream. On a moment’s notice on a Saturday afternoon, or a Tuesday evening we would all pile into the available vehicles and drive over Key Bridge and up Lee Highway to the Falls Church “Gifford’s.” There was another Gifford’s out in Maryland, but the one in Falls Church was more accessible and so received preferred status.

This classic “ice cream parlor” became a crew institution in those years. Besides the cute high school girls behind the counter, the other delights included the usual favorites: cones, sundaes, banana splits, thick-shakes, etc. but my personal favorite was a “Dutch Chocolate” sundae that was served with a miniature pitcher of a dark chocolate sauce that was so rich that after a few spoonfuls of the sundae the skin on my face would tingle and tighten. This was probably some sort of insulin rush, but the dish was absolutely, unquestionably, the best sundae ever, anytime, any place.

Gifford's also served a super-large bowl of ice cream named “The Cow” that certain guys (you know who you are) would order primarily in order to race each other to the bottom. This got real ugly, real fast, but invariably provided great entertainment. Of course it was sophomoric, but we were all sophomores in those days. Needless to say, the trips out to Falls Church became a regular relief from the constant heat and humidity of the dog days of August.

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Howard’s New Eight

by Ed Witman ‘67

Howland M. Ware in launch

on Potomac in 1962

A poignant event in the summer of 1965 commenced with the delivery to the Thompson boat house of a pair of large wooden shipping crates. The containers held a new sectional eight built by Donaronico in Italy for the 4-year-old Howard University crew which had been purchased by Howland M. Ware, a 1941 Howard University alumnus.

According to a July 1962 Ebony article, Ware had seen a regatta in 1952 and decided that Howard would benefit from having a crew. Ware spent 9 years lobbying Howard's administration to establish crew as a club sport, and gave $10,000 to launch the group. Ware, a DC real estate businessman, purchased a used shell from MIT and helped recruit SEC attorney Stuart Law to coach the team. Ware became the assistant coach, also driving the team back and forth to Thompson boat house for its twice daily practice sessions.

Ware, understandably, wanted Howard to have the best equipment that his funds could provide. When he read that Vesper’s Olympic crew had been victorious rowing a Donaronico, he decided to order the same boat for his own beloved crew. But since Howard’s crew did not row during the summer and had no one around to unpack, Mr. Ware called Goose (Bob Remuzzi) and asked for the favor: would the Georgetown guys unpack, rig, and put the new eight safely in the boathouse?

Howard Varsity rows against St. John’s in 1962

Always willing to extend a courtesy to a neighbor in the same house, Goose agreed. Ware in gratitude offered to let the GU guys take her out for her first trial run on the Potomac. So when the delivery day arrived, a gang of us were at the boat house, hammers and pry-bars in hand to open the carefully built crates under the close supervision of Goose and Mr. Ware. Once the two halves were bolted together the boat was truly a thing of beauty with its gorgeous deep V-shaped hull, light mahogany hue, and seats that rolled noiselessly on silky smooth slides.

Stuart Law (Howard University coach),

Howard oarsman Steve Magruder,

and benefactor Howland M. Ware

with 1964 DC Regatta Trophy

But now came the hard part. In that era Donaronico was to racing shells what Ferrari was to automobiles. Pocock built a sturdy boat analogous to a Chevy or a Ford, the sort of thing that any reasonably adept mechanic or rigger could fix himself. Ferraris and Donaronicos were something quite different, and when it came time to attach the riggers we discovered the almost infinitely variable adjustments these complex pieces of hardware allowed for, and required. Even Goose, who was a master rigger when it came to Pococks, was befuddled by the things. But we proceeded to get them bolted to the boat, and Goose did his best to align the pins accurately and leveled the locks to the same height within some margin of error, and we stood back to admire this splendid piece of Italian craftsmanship.

Then we got ready to put the boat in the water for its baptismal paddle. I can’t recall who went out in it that afternoon, but I do remember that the verdict was unanimous: the V-hull was absolutely unforgiving. The set-up had to be perfect or rowing became virtually impossible. Perhaps some “fine-tuning” with the riggers would help, but the consensus was that the boat was designed for an elite crew, and that it would need a trained rigger just to make it usable on the Potomac, much less to optimize the efficiency and speed of the oarsmen it was designed to accommodate. Regrettably, Howard had no such rigger, and was a long way from becoming an elite crew. Although we were tactful enough not to say so, it seemed to us that Ware had purchased a very expensive “white elephant.”

We carried the new boat into the house, wiped it down to remove any residue of Potomac’s waters, and carefully put it into the rack, where it would lay for long periods between futile attempts to master its mechanical mysteries. It was a sad disappointment to a fine gentleman’s pride and school spirit.

History of Howard's rowing; Ebony Magazine 1962

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The Coxswain's Song

by Ed Witman '67

The beauty and speed of a good rowing crew is an artifact of discipline and team work, of individuals merging themselves into an athletic organism that moves in perfect synchrony. Just as an infantry recruit masters the “Manual of Arms” and close-order drill, the rower’s first practical introduction to the sport is learning to execute the series of commands necessary for eight men to carry a delicate (and expensive) sixty-five foot shell safely from its rack in the boathouse down to the dock and onto the water, and return it thence at the end of the day.

To the seasoned rower there is a poetry in these commands and a grace in these motions that are as beautiful as a full dress parade on the Plain at West Point would be to army veteran. The drill sergeant and master of ceremonies in these proceedings is the coxswain, the little guy with the big voice and an abundance of “attitude.”

To oarsmen who began their careers in rowing eights, the coxswain was usually the target of expressed abuse but tacit respect. Most of the time we’d find fault with his “dead” weight, or faulty steering, or for being a passive passenger sitting there in the stern. We granted only grudging appreciation for the unique combination of personal and technical skills a good cox has to master. In short, coxswains rarely received the full credit they deserve. Consider the time-honored ritual of the victorious crew of tossing the cox into the river; this is all done in the spirit of celebration and good cheer, but the symbolism is paradoxical at least.

The reasons for this paradox have more to do with appearances than substance. Consider that almost by definition the cox must be relatively small in stature and slightly built, weighing hardly more than 120 lbs., yet possess the hearty self-assurance and strength of will to control much larger men by the sheer power and confidence of his voice. This is not an authority that simply comes ex cathedra as it were; there are many people physically small enough to fit into the cox’s seat who fail utterly in the art of command. Nor is it the job for a Napoleonic egotist, since the command of the boat – so far as rowing the race is concerned – is shared with the stroke for whom the cox serves as executive officer, his eyes and ears and voice during the race.

Despite the coxswain’s small stature, s/he must be athletically the equal of his oarsmen. If s/he is to build rapport and command their respect s/he must engage in the same rigorous training, the calisthenics, the lifting, and running that they do, with the only difference being that s/he is not permitted the reward of eating freely. Maintaining the proper weight means always having to diet while the rowers feast. Then there is the physical beating suffered in the continual slamming of the sacrum against the back of the cox’s seat at each catch of the oars, leaving rainbow colored hematomas that hardly ever get a chance to heal during the course of a season. And in the bitter days of February and March, the immobility of the “passive passenger” only increases the suffering of frozen feet and butt. In short, being a cox means enduring hardships oarsmen know not of.

On the water the cox must be an ever-watchful river pilot looking out for dangerous flotsam and errant boaters, an aggressively competitive steersman always hewing the shortest line to the finish, and a surrogate coach correcting flaws in the crew’s technique. These are merely the technical requirements for coxing. What separates the great cox from the mediocre is the indefinable skill of leadership, the ability to inspire a flagging crew to rally at the end of a tough workout or a grueling race, and work this magic by the mere power of his wits and rhetoric, his personality and voice. Imagine gallant King Harry V in the stern seat rather than storming the breach at Harfleur and you’ll get the idea.

So let us now pay our heartiest respects to those little guys in the stern for their service to our common goal. Listen to the coxswain’s song, and in your mind’s eye watch and remember how we first heard that voice and learned the “Manual of the Boats.”

Cox: ALL EIGHT ON THE BOAT !! Count-down when ready !

Crew: Bow. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Stroke

Cox: All eight, lay hold! Lift ‘er up! And ease her out. Port side hold, Starboard go under! All eight: To your shoulders lift ‘er up! Walk ‘er out of the house.

Swing the bow down the ramp and up-stream. Over your heads lift her UP! To your waist roll ‘er DOWN!

To the water place her IN! Bow and Stroke hold her off, Two to Seven get the oars. All eight, one foot in, And, off !

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The Pirates and the Santa Maria

(a comedy in three acts)

by Ed Witman '67

ACT ONE: The Caper

In the Summer of 1965, a full-scale replica of Columbus’ ship Santa Maria came to be moored on a wharf along the Anacostia waterfront. The ship had been an exhibit at the NY World’s Fair a year or two before and was now a minor DC tourist attraction.

Since the Summer rowing season was in the doldrums at the time, and we had little to occupy us other than our jobs and morning workouts, somebody got the idea to stage a “pirate raid” on the Santa Maria. Second floor Harbin was the center of the action that Summer because that’s where the more spirited members of the crew class of ’68 were living with Mike Vespoli, Rusty Duffy, Billy Groh, and Mack Ludolph, as ring-leaders. I myself was sharing a stiflingly hot room in Old North with Joe Creed, but was a frequent visitor to the air-conditioned Harbin suites.

No sooner was the idea broached than plans were laid to “borrow” canoes from the dock at the Harry Thompson boat house in the dark of night, paddle down the Potomac, portage them over Ohio Drive into the Tidal Basin, and thence into the Anacostia.

Upon hearing this, I decided that as the senior member present, I had better go along as a stabilizing influence. And so that Saturday night eight of us gathered in the lumber yard adjacent to the boat house to wait for the custodian, “Sailor John,” to fall asleep.

As we watched and waited, the weather was unseasonably chilly under a light drizzle. When impatience told us we had waited long enough, we skulked our way down to the dock and managed to launch four canoes without detection. Mike and I ended up in the last canoe, as I took the stern seat while Mike took bow. Up ahead of us in the rainy gloom paddled Ludolph, Duffy, Groh, Ron DeGrandis, Rick Morris, and Dennis Chagnon.

It was well after one am when we paddled passed the Jefferson Memorial and entered the Anacostia. We boarded our target in the classic pirate style: hand-over-hand from the canoes. Once aboard we ran up a small “Jolly Roger” on the main mast and set about to plunder and loot. But this was no treasure galleon, and we managed to make off with only an hour-glass and a Castilian flag.

Returning as we came, we slipped the canoes back up on the boathouse dock and went back to campus to celebrate our successful prank over an early breakfast.

ACT TWO: The Scam

Sunday passed uneventfully, but on Monday the Washington papers reported a major felony had been perpetrated: antiques worth thousands of dollars had been stolen from the Santa Maria by a gang of river “pirates.”

Now the items in question could not have been worth more than a hundred bucks at most. Obviously, someone was trying to scam their insurance company with an outrageously inflated claim. WE might be “pirates” but we weren’t crooks. This fraud could not be allowed to go any further. The scam could not stand!

ACT THREE: Pirates Repent

As word spread through the dorm, the buccaneers gathered the loot in a cardboard box with a note affirming that this was everything that had been taken and expressing remorse for the prank. Then Billy Groh and Dennis Chagnon set off in Bill’s VW to find some safe way to return the faux “antiques” without incriminating themselves. Spotting an empty police cruiser parked outside a downtown precinct house, stealthy stalwart Dennis Chagnon managed to stash the box on the backseat and slip away unnoticed.

The next day the morning papers ran the story with the headline “Pirates Repent!” along with the inventory and the note of apology.

The class of ’68 had made its mark in crew prankster lore.

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A Tribute To the Riggers

By Ed Witman ‘67

When it comes to Crew, coaches coach, oarsmen row, and riggers do everything else.

Crew is a capital intensive sport with a large physical plant: shells, oars, launches, outboard-motors, a truck (or two,) a trailer, and all the tools appropriate to each. The people who are responsible for ensuring that the boats are ready to row and race, and for maintaining all the other material means that serve that purpose are the riggers. At the major IRA schools the Rigger is a well-paid professional, but at Georgetown our riggers were students who volunteered to become the “go-to guys,” the jacks of all trades, and their masters as well.[1] And they did this without uniforms and with none of the glamor and glory that the crowds award to the rowers on the river. So the time has come to give these guys the credit and the honor that their generous dedication, talent, and hard work have earned. It is time to say “Thank you!” for making the Crew possible.

Anyone who has ever rowed a wooden boat soon comes to understand that such craft are quite “tender;” the need for maintenance is constant, and for repairs, frequent. Under the stress of rowing, hulls check, seats wear and break, stretchers that cause foot blisters may need sanding, riggers shimming, and oar locks reset. Even oars wear, crack and need repair, and frequent repainting.[2] When these minor – and sometimes major – fixes are multiplied by the eight rowers of a crew, and then again by the number of crews on the team, one comes to appreciate the challenges that face the rigger, the guy who takes care of the boats, the oars, and just about everything else in the boathouse.

The Riggers Cup of 1968: L to R: Back row: Frank McBride

Middle row: Denis Chagnon,?.?, Bill Grohs;

cox: Jay Shea

The first of Georgetown’s riggers was that “Renaissance Man” of our history, Bob “The Goose” Remuzzi. Goose was not only one of the Originals of ’61, but also a genius with remarkable hands. His career as an orthopedic surgeon might have been foreseen by anyone who watched him toiling over a checked hull or a broken seat. The work area at the rear of the Thompson boat house was his first operating room, complete with overhead lamps, instruments, and sometimes an “intern” to assist in the arts and crafts he practiced and taught; for Goose was not only an artisan but a teacher, role model and mentor to the guys who would take on these responsibilities after him.

The first in this line of apprentices was Joe Frederick, ’64. Jack Hoeschler recruited Joe in 1962. Then followed a succession of talented and dedicated guys: Don Ellis ’67, Denis Chagnon ’68, Frank McBride ’68, and Bill Pokorny’69.

Besides the arts of maintenance, there was the stress of taking the boats to away races, a task that required all the skills and endurance of a long-haul truck driver but without the pay much less the hours of training.[3] The medical-surgical maxim comes to mind: “See one, do one, teach one.” In the early days, “Goose usually drove the truck and you just had to watch where the bows and sterns were on tight turns.” [4] Then later, it was just a few turns around the block with Goose and off you go.

As Denis Chagnon explains:

I had never seen a stick shift until (Goose) taught me on the crew truck! As was the case in those days one did things first and asked permission later. No oversight, no formal training and here a freshman and sophomore were driving a university truck and towing 62 foot racing shells on a makeshift trailer up and down the east coast.

Whether this casual attitude toward the legal liabilities involved in interstate truck-driving was prudent, was a question that seemed beside the point of getting the boats to their destinations on time. But our luck held and the only encounter with the law that anyone can recall occurred somewhere in central New York. Joe Frederick was the rigger in those days and tells the story.

An oarsman was driving and I was navigating. [5] As usual I was low on sleep and dozed off, awakening to see us make the wrong turn at a major interstate split. A check of the map showed about forty miles to the next exit so we resolved to make a Ue. We needed a cross-over and no traffic and finally got a chance. I told him only one car was coming so make it quick. After we turned and straightened out, he looked in the side view mirror and said the good news was that we beat him but the bad news was that it was a New York State cop. I would have liked to have seen the expression on his face when he came over a small rise and saw two shells perpendicular to the Interstate. After he pulled us over, he was more fascinated by the shells and the oars on board than our crime. After advising us not to do it again, he sent us on our way.

Denis Chagnon with equipment, 1967

One can only wonder what might have been the repercussions had the trooper asked to see a chauffer’s license for driving a trailer rig.

Then came the epic weekend of May 12th and 13th, 1967, when the heavies rowed in the Dad Vail and the lightweights rowed at the EARC Sprints. Just recounting the sequence of trips is exhausting.

On Thursday morning (May 11th) after the morning workouts, the heavies loaded their boats on the trailer, and Denis and cox Jay Shea ‘69 left DC for the five-hour drive up Route 1 to Philadelphia and Boat House Row. Once at the University Barge Club, the boats were unloaded and Jay remained with them as overnight security man.

Denis then returned to Thompson’s to load the lightweight eights Friday morning. This time Bill Ludolph ’70 went along for the twelve hour ride up to Lake Quinsigamond. No sooner had they arrived than Bill received an emergency message to phone home; his father had died suddenly earlier that day, and so they had to deal with travel arrangements and get Bill to Logan airport for his flight home.

Saturday, May 13th, the lightweights rowed their races, and then loaded the boats back on the trailer. Having enlisted a volunteer to accompany him on the long ride home, Denis arrived back at Thompson’s just before dawn on Sunday, and tried to (finally) get some sleep in the truck until some oarsmen could come down to unload the eights and carry them back into the boathouse.

But now came the hard part, the final sprint so to speak: Denis and another volunteer set off again to retrieve the heavyweights’ boats from Philly. Arriving at University Barge Club around 1pm, they got the boats loaded and securely tied down, and set out on the last drive back to DC. Anticipating the physical and psychological exhaustion of serial long-distance drives, Dr. Goose Remuzzi had given Denis a “small pill to take in case I was not able to stay awake. . . I took it after arriving in Philly, and felt really ready to go-go-go for the final leg home.”

So goes the story – perhaps 34 hours of driving the truck and trailer from Thursday to Sunday. I doubt I slept a total of 10 hours in that entire time period. After taking that pill, I still to this day recall the semi-hallucinations I had with things popping out from the sides of the road at the truck. . . BUT I did stay rational, and did INDEED stay awake. On arrival back at school, I tried to study but things were all fuzzy and retaining anything was out of the question.

At the insistence of a few rowers, I went with them to the “Tombs” at the 1789 where they were having the end of the year “Black Velvet” party. . . I recall going down the steps at the ’89, and having one Black Velvet . . .

The next thing I recall is waking up in my bed on campus Tuesday morning. I had missed an exam on Monday, and another Tuesday morning. I postponed another as well. . .

It was a wild and crazy weekend. . . [6]

Denis concludes this tale with the understatement, “the life of a ‘Rigger’ was not all wine and roses and song!”

In recognition of their work, in 1964 Goose arranged for Joe Frederick to receive his varsity letter and Golden Oar; and in 1968 Denis was given the “Manager of the Year” award; no “manager” ever deserved it more.

So let us now say “Thank you!” to the riggers who maintained those beautiful wooden boats and delivered them to our races safely and ready to row:

Joe Frederick ‘64

Don Ellis ‘67

Denis Chagnon ’68 & Frank McBride ‘68

Bill Pokorny ‘69

Maybe they “never rowed” but without them, neither could we.

[1] Joe Frederick writes “We also served as ‘go-fers’ for the coaches, fueling and maintaining the launches, reserving hotel rooms and restaurants for the crew. I learned to drive a stick shift in Don Cadle’s VW beetle, jerking back and forth on my initial trips to get gas.” 6/11/13

[2] Denis Chagnon recalls “many hours putting on a fresh coat of paint before a regatta a couple of times each year – probably spent as much time if not more painting than repairing the oars.” 6/11/13

[3] And this was long before cell-phones and GPS made driving as secure as it is today.

[4] Joe Frederick, 12/3/12. How Goose learned these skills that he later taught so well to Joe and Denis is anyone’s guess.

[5] Which race, and who was the co-pilot are both uncertain. But since it was the summer of ’64, it was very likely the IRA on Lake Onondaga in Syracuse. (The Olympic Trials that summer were held at Orchard Beach in the Bronx, definitely not “central New York” as Joe remembers.) And since we know from Ben Domenico’s memoir of Linc Hoffman that they drove the boats to the IRA, my inference is that Joe’s memory might concern the return trip from the IRA.

[6] Denis Chagnon, 6/6/13. The wonder is that in 34 hours and over 1,400 miles on less than ten hours sleep there was no mishap.

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Subpages (7): Class of 1961 Reflections and Stories Class of 1962 Reflections and Stories Class of 1963 Reflections and Stories Class of 1964 Reflections and Stories Class of 1965 Reflections and Stories Class of 1966 Reflections and Stories Class of 1967 Reflections and Stories

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