The National Geographic Society called to Inform You That You May No Longer Say "Assateague" in Trip Reports.

The Gentlemen's Assateague Island canoe camper and Leonid meteor observation expedition was successfully undertaken. And completed before nightfall on "paddle-out" day this year.

Seven stalwart gents arrived on Assateague Wednesday evening to view the Leonid meteor shower. Although this years Leonids produced over 100 meteors between midnight and 4:00am the display didn't match last years spectacular show and the observing gentlemen turned in early (just before sunrise) for a good night sleep. At least this year Mr's Nathan, Mobley and Obert managed to stay awake to see the show. One catastrophic lawn chair fatality occurred, wherein Mr. Hone attempted to drop into his lounger from on high, instantly reducing this object to a non- ergonomic pile of twisted aluminum tubing and tangled webbing. Arising early Thursday morning to a hearty breakfast spread of oatmeal and coffee we successfully secured our backcountry permits and headed down to the put in. Packing our boats we quickly discovered that wind and wave conditions on Sinepauxent Bay would require us to carry considerable ballast. Fortunately, the Gentleman paddlers are always prepared, and sufficient (in not indulgent) quantities of beer, whiskey and fire wood were taken aboard to stabilize our craft.
Cruising south into a slight headwind the gentlemen paddled a scant mile or so before realizing that the tiny speck laboring on the horizon was in fact Jim, bringing up the rear. Upon his belated arrival a citation for "dawdling" was issued and the gents pushed on, pausing to rest on the leeward side of each peninsula or island.

Reaching the Pine Tree backcountry site in good time, having lightened out liquid ballast loads somewhat en route, we proceeded to haul our mountain of drybags, coolers, firewood and other assorted gear up to the site.

Tents up, boats secured, coolers at the ready the gents positioned their surviving lawn chairs ëround the campfire and began to reduce the pile of firewood generously provided by Mr Maneval (20 precut, twine tied bundles of dry dogwood). Our staying powers somewhat reduced by last nights foray into the pre-dawn hours we soon drifted off to our tents.

After a Friday morning breakfast of eggs, bacon coffee and bourbon Mr's Nathan, Obert and Hone headed out to the Atlantic side to cast their surf rods while Mr's McCrea, Maneval, Davis and Mobley headed out for a day paddle, hoping to intercept any Friday arriving gentlemen. Espying the bay from a vantage point we could soon make out two small craft laboring into the wind. Realizing that these craft were far out in the bay, and that we had nearly consumed all the beverages brought along on this day paddle, we established the international Duckhead "Come Ashore" signal (lining up in echelon, synchronizing our paddle twirling overhead..."and left, and right and dip and twirl"...think Busby Berkley meets Bill Mason) and swiftly called the beers..I mean, the boys, ashore.

The boys turned out to be Mr's Sill and Wilhelm. Mr Wilhelm was issued a citation for improper firewood storage and Mr. Sill's recent handiwork in transforming his ancient tandem clunker into an acceptable solo gents camping vessel was admired by all. Mr Wilhelm's and Sill's onboard beverage selection was also admired (and sampled) by all.

Turning our attention back to the bay we soon noted a small white kayak sweeping along and paddle-twirled Mr Chenowith into shelter. His onboard beverage selection was likewise sampled.

Guiding these Friday paddlers back to our site we arrived to find that our surf fishermen had successfully repeated their past gentlemen's angling experience, feeding a variety of baits and tackle to the local fish population without actually catching a damn thing.

Realizing that we had inadvertently had consumed a lunch consisting entirely of beer and whiskey we all settled in to await the preparation of supper with a beer in hand, the occasional whiskey bottle making the rounds.

After enjoying a hearty repast of veggies al dente (from the french "al" meaning "Alan" and "dente" meaning "raw potatoes") we again drew our chairs into a circle and watched Mr Wilhelm demonstrate his mastery of fire tending.

Unsurprisingly, the Wilhelm method of fire tending involves strict rules: a shot of whisky must be consumed for each log added to the fire...a shot of whiskey must be consumed each time a log is repositioned in the fire...a shot of whiskey must be consumed each time the fire is poked or prodded...a shot of whiskey must be consumed each time the word "fire" is mentioned.

At some point in the night it was noted that Mr Wilhelm was no longer tending the fire and, in fact, had not been seen for quite some time. Evaluating this situation the remaining gents took quick action by remaining around the campfire and making derogatory remarks about Mr Wilhelm's penchant for calamity on gentlemen's trips.

Later that evening (or perhaps early morning) a wandering gent stumbled across a quivering mound of mosquito ridden flesh, laying face down beside a tent. Gathering for an inspection of this sight it was decided that this lump of nearly desiccated flesh was the missing Mr Wilhelm, and that the only hope of reviving him was to cover his prostrate form with as many empty beer cans as we could gather. After a quick photo session Mr. Wilhelm as revived and placed securely in his tent, carefully leaving the door open to allow plenty of fresh air and hungry mosquitos to enter.

Awakening the next morning Mr. Wilhelm was appalled to find that the inside of his tent was festooned with hundreds of fully satiated mosquitos, clinging to the walls like bloated proboscis- bearing turkeys. Suddenly Mrs. Wilhelm's parting admonition "Use good judgement" seemed all too prophetic, the oxymoronic combination of "good judgment" and "Gentlemen's Trip" notwithstanding.

With a degree of desperation cracking in his whiskey ravenged voice Mr Wilhlem inquired of our resident infectious disease experts as to the specific early symptoms of West Nile Fever. Upon being authoritatively informed that the earliest symptoms of the dread mosquito borne fever are headache and dry mouth, and that preventive measures include cold, saltwater baths, Mr Wilhelm quietly slipped down to the bay to splash about in his skivvies.

The remaining gentlemen, concerned as ever about Mr. Wilhelm's physical and mental well being, hurriedly assembled their lawn chairs at waters edge to enjoy the show (photos available upon request).

Adjourning for breakfast, it was some time before our appetites returned and, while waiting, the discussion turned to a review of previous nights activities. Several theories were proposed in an attempt to rationalize Mr. Nathan's attempted lassoing of a Sika deer and it was finally agreed that his explanation for why the deer was standing immobilized in hip waders when last seen was somewhat implausible, and should perhaps remain a mystery.

Breaking for the day's round of activities our surf casting crew headed again for the beach, prepared with fresh bait, tackle and fishing strategies, accompanied by a supporting cast of Duckball players and assorted spectators.

Mr's Sill and McCrea opted for a day paddle, leaving Mr Wilhelm holding down the site as he patiently tallied his mosquito bite score ("one hundred three...one hundred four...one hundred five...").

Paddling out to our familiar vantage point to await any incoming gents a sizeable patch of mussels was noted and reserved for later collection. Coastwatchers Sill and McCrea quickly picked out a single tandem boat progressing slowly down the bay and soon the familiar cries of "Right. RIGHT. NO, YOUR OTHER RIGHT, DAMN IT!" identified this paddling team as Mr's Prunier and Wilson. The Prunier/Wilson craft was paddle-twirled to shore and it was discovered that, while they had packed in no firewood and little beer or whisky, they had outfitted their boat with floatation bags, quite the necessity in a bay that sometimes reaches depths of nearly eighteen inches.

Guiding these newcomers back to camp an enormous quantity of mussels were gathered and, electing to take the wind protected "sneak route" back to camp, Mr McCrea proceeded to make several consecutive wrong turns, eventually leading the paddling gentlemen back out to the bay no closer to camp then when they started.
Arriving back at camp to find Mr. Wilhelm ("...one thousand twenty seven...one thousand twenty eight...one thousand twenty nine...") had successfully defended the site against all comers we patiently awaited the return of our fishermen.
Voices were soon heard approaching through the pines. Our fisherman? No, a group of Girl Scouts, in search of the spot-a-pot. When it was explained to them that: 1) the sole bathroom facility was located amidst the gentlemen's site, between the midden of empty beer cans and the idiot savant ("...one thousand two hundred fifty one....oh, hello girls...one thousand two hundred fifty two...") and 2) the spot-a-pot door did not close, the Girl Scout leaders decided that this an opportune trip on which to teach the girls how to shit in the woods and, needless to say, they were never seen again.

The fishing gents returned soon after, sans fish, but having progressed appreciably in their ability to throw expensive tackle far out to sea. The secret, we were told, is in having the knot unravel at precisely the right moment, allowing the bait and tackle to sail hundreds of feet out into the ocean unfettered by that bothersome monofilament line, a technique now commonly known as the "Nathan Cast".
Fortunately, the gentlemen were not dependent of fresh fish for supper and something unmemorable was prepared...it did not, at any rate, involve consuming raw potatoes. Mr's Hone and Prunier began an entertaining game of "Let me show you how to do that" which, had we stayed a day longer, might well have ended in bloodshed.

As the sun set the finale of the nocturnal horseshoes series was begun. With glowing cyalume sticks attached to the poles and the horseshoes Mr's Mobley and McCrea attempted to defend their undefeated ranking from the previous night. Some problem with Mr. McCrea's depth perception was quickly apparent, as his pitches went flying in all variety of directions except towards the pole. Mr Mobley proved quite nimble at ducking and weaving as glowing chunks of weighty iron sailed past his head. Pit judges Hone and Prunier again provided a wealth of conflicting advise and council, but to no avail as the Mobley/McCrea team was defeated by the Cinderella team of Nathan/Obert (Mr. Obert looked particularly fetching in his Cinderella outfit). However, in the end, it was Mr Davis who was crowned undisputed champion of nocturnal horseshoes.

Gathered around the campfire for a sit-and-sip session one of the gentlemen was soon sufficiently liquored up enough to insist that he was going on a night paddle. Knowing that friends don't let friends paddle drunk, at least not solo, Mr's Chenowith, Davis and McCrea accompanied Mr Hone on this excursion.
Glasslike. One of those rare occasions when Chincoteaque Bay was truly glasslike. Ghosting along under a bright half moon Mr Chenowith guided us up an east running channel he had discovered earlier that day en route to surfing (and nearly losing) his kayak in the ocean.

Concluding their nightpaddle, the gentlemen again gathered around the campfire in a valiant attempt to burn all the firewood, drink all the whisky and convince Mr Wilhelm ("three thousand five hundred forty four...three thousand five hundred forty five...") to sleep with his tent doors open again. They were successful only in finishing off the firewood supply.

Sunday morning's breakfast provided a last chance for Mr's Hone and Prunier to illustrate their widely divergent techniques for such seemingly simple tasks as lighting a propane stove, mixing orange juice and adding crab meat to an omelette. This spectacle provided such worthwhile entertainment that the other gentlemen decided that, next year, Mr's Hone and Prunier should be placed together in a tandem boat, whereupon the boat would undoubtedly whirl dervish-like in circles as each paddled in opposite directions while accusations of paddling incompetence issued forth.

Breaking camp, our boats measurably lighter without their original quantities of firewood, beer and whisky, we moseyed along northwards, stopping frequently to consult the map and reminisce about last year's tribulations of paddling out, against the wind, in the dark, lead by a notoriously inept navigator with recurring depth perception problems.

Too quickly we reached the old ferry landing and our vehicles, and so the 1999 Gentlemen's Expedition drew to a close.

Someday, gentlemen, we need to paddle the length of the island. Applications for this endeavor are now being accepted.

Mike McCrea

Having taken too many turns on the observatory roof, Mike McCrea resorts to running outdoors to watch the Leonids through a paper towel tube.