St. John’s Cathedral Boys School

Picture above: Rollin’ on the (Red) River. The crew of the St. John during the Grand Forks to Winnipeg cutter race, 1962; the story of the race is below. I attended St. John’s Cathedral Boys School weekend classes 1961-1963, and the full time school for 64/65. If you have more pics, send them along and I’ll post them. Tom New.

Ted Byfield

I remember him as a gruff, kind-hearted teacher who didn’t take a whole lotta crap, but gave you a whole lotta leeway to find the right answers. Grade Eight history- while the regular-school curriculum was a single text book, ‘Mr. Byfield’ had us read volumes of detailed Canadian history that were as exciting as a novel. I remember him walking back and forth at the front of the classroom, one hand tucked behind his back, talking about the Upper and Lower Canada and the nation it would become. His obituary, from the National Post. -Tom New, SJCBS 1961-62, 1964-65

Racing The Red: Grand Forks to Winnipeg, 1962

Grand Forks, North Dakota: now that was exotic.

The concept of a river race from one country to another was sort of cool, especially in the mind of an 11-year old. We would start in Grand Forks, and a week later – give or take a day – we would pull into Winnipeg. We would row two old navy cutters 287 miles down the Red River, ten rowers and one coxswain in each boat (and yes, we all snickered every time we said ‘coxswain’).

The ‘we’ was St. John’s Cathedral Boys School. It was a weekend school, designed to toughen up kids who might be little loose around the edges, the kind of kid who might fidget in class, and/or who might have borrowed a pint of chocolate milk from the delivery man, although it was mostly his fault because he always left the truck wide open when he made deliveries. Every Friday night, after fidgeting through five days of regular school, I would head off for two more days of classrooms and physical activity.

St. John’s prided itself on the many ways it tried to strengthen our moral fibre. In the winter, that meant snowshoe races across the open prairie; in the spring and summer, that meant spending long hours in cutters, rowing up and down the Red River as we worked up to the big race in August. So even though I was on summer vacation from my regular school, my ‘other school’ decided it would be fun to race down the Red from Grand Forks to Winnipeg (‘down’ because you were going downstream with the current, even though looking at a map, you’d think you were going up the Red. Took me a long time to figure that one out. Coincidentally, that’s when I started to realize that there could be different definitions of the same word, like ‘fun’).

It was a three-hour bus ride to Grand Forks, and we all knew we would be rowing the whole distance back to Winnipeg. There were two crews and two boats, the St. John and the St. Andrew. We all knew each other because we took the same classes, but once you were in your boat, you weren’t friends anymore. We were ‘the St. John’, they were ‘the St. Andrew’ and you had to have a certain sneer in your voice when you said it.

So on a hot August afternoon, we worked the heavy cutters into the muddy waters of the Red River in Grand Forks. We loaded tents, duffel bags, and enough food and water to last the first few days of the race. The headmaster was there, along with a few parents who had driven down from Winnipeg (‘down’ because that’s the way it was on a map: obvious). There was nothing fancy about the start, just the headmaster making sure both cutters were pointed in the same general direction before he shouted “You’re off!!”.

Lots of adrenalin in those first few minutes, but we had practiced enough to do it properly, which meant everyone pulling at the same time, in the same rhythm. It was surprising how much speed we built up, especially considering the weight of the cutter. Little by little, we drew away from the St. Andrew. The interesting thing was that it gave you energy, and we rowed even harder. Over the first mile or so, we bent to the oars, pulling a bit further ahead on every stroke, almost skimming over the water-

Then we hit a sandbar.

Well, ‘hit’ makes it sound like there was a mighty crash and sudden jerk to a stop. But it was more like ‘oozing to a stop’.

“Weigh oars!” Everyone out!!”, which seems like a goofy thing to do in the middle of a river, but we knew we were on a sandbar, even if it was (barely) submerged. Everyone went over the side and landed in 3 inches of water (and another 6 inches of mud, or Red River gumbo as we called it). We frantically worked the St. John backwards as the St. Andrew came up on us. Because we had marked out the biggest sandbar in the river, they steered around it, and within seconds they passed us.

It took three or four minutes to pull the cutter off the sandbar, and as we piled back into the boat, we looked for the St. Andrew. Which was no longer there. The Red meanders; it’s an old river flowing through flat land, which means it loops and twists, which means you can never see more than a couple of hundred yards downstream. By the time we bent to our oars again, the St. Andrew had already gone around the next bend.  And by the time we got to that bend, they were already around the next. And just like that, we were alone on the river, and we were losing the race.

That first day, we rowed until 7 PM (exactly: this was, after all, a race, and we were honour-bound to stop and start at exact times). Setting up camp wasn’t much fun, although it was break from the mindlessness of rowing. Pull onto some flat-ish area on the shore, unroll the big tent, haul out the boxes of food, and eat. We pretty well fell into our sleeping bags, mostly because we were exhausted, but also because we would be getting up at 3:30 AM. ‘Getting up’ was a relative term; it was more like moaning and groaning and stumbling around in the dark as we prepared for another day on the river. But every morning, there we were, piling into the cutter as the coxswain stared at his watch. And at 5 AM, the river grey and still and so amazingly peaceful, he would say “Ok, stroke”, and we would be off.

There is a certain mindlessness to rowing: lean forward, dip, pull back, then repeat, over and over for hours. In unison. A quarter turn of the oar at the end each stroke, so that when they swung back, they didn’t catch air. Try doing that without a mistake for ten hours at a time. Once in awhile someone would lose the rhythm, and there would be a great clatter of wood on wood as the oars tangled. A lot of cursing; I picked up some great phrases that stuck with me for years. If you couldn’t get things straightened out on your own, the coxswain would say “weigh oars”, which meant everyone stopped rowing and rested their oars on the gunwales, the blades horizontal to cut through the wind. Then “Ok, stroke”, and it was pull, lift, lean and dip, ad nauseum/infinitum (we also studied Latin at St. John’s).

Lunch was always a welcome break. We would chose a clear spot on the banks, or even a sandbar if it was dry enough. We didn’t need a fire; that was only for the overnight camp. I loved the lunches: three big metal cans, honey, jam and peanut butter, as much as you wanted, smeared all over bread or hardtack. It was a short break – exactly an hour – and then we were back on the river, bow pointed down-stream.

It continued like that for three days; pull, lift, feather, dip. Even though we were facing backwards, we could always tell when we were coming to another bend in the river: the coxswain’s eyes would narrow. Sometimes he stood, sometimes he looked left or right, but we all knew what he was looking for: the St. Andrew. Our excitement would rise along with his, then leak away as he shook his head and settled back into his seat. No St. Andrew, in spite of all those mighty pulls on the oar.

For the most part, we gave it our best. Of course, being 11 years old, you couldn’t give it your best all the time; if you did that, it wouldn’t be your best, it would just be your average (we also studied Logic). Sometimes, if you were tired or maybe not at your ‘best’, you might ease up as bit. As long as you put the oar in the water at the right time, you could actually let the motion of the cutter take it along with the other oars without a lot of effort on your part. The guy behind you would probably/for sure make a comment if you did it too much, but we all did it occasionally.

But not much, because we really did want to catch the St. Andrew. Which didn’t happen until… that morning.

 It started just like any other day. By now, we were about halfway through the race. The coxswain had pointed out the border marker as we passed it, but it barely registered as we worked the long, heavy oars on the long, heavy trip. We were in the familiar rhythm, pull, lift, lean, over and over (and over and over) again.

And then…

We sensed it right away. The coxswain’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned. Then he leaned forward and whispered hoarsely: “Weigh oars! And quiet!!”

We were coming around a bend in the river, and up on the shore to the left there was a tent. A big tent. And a cutter pulled up on a sandbar. In an instant, we all knew exactly what had happened: the St. Andrew had overslept.

Because were headed down-river, our cutter kept moving with the current. Every single one of us held his breath as we came up to the campsite and then slowly drifted past. All eyes were on the tent flap, all ears strained to hear sounds of anyone stirring. But all we heard was that quiet solitude of people sleeping (or oversleeping), and you’ve never seen such joy in the faces of 10 and 11 year-olds.

Once we had drifted far enough downstream, the coxswain leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “Okay, everyone on the stroke. Quietly.” We began to pull, gingerly, as if any real effort would wake up the losers on shore. The coxswain kept looking backwards, and when we finally slipped around the next bend, he turned to us with a grin. “So let’s move it.” And we did, with all of the excitement and adrenalin of knowing we were once again in first place. By the end of the day, pulling with more energy than we had for a long time, we still hadn’t seen any sign of the St. Andrew behind us, even on some relatively long stretches of the Red.

When we finally pulled into shore for the night, we were pretty giddy, and also worried; every one of us asked the coxswain if he had set the alarm(s) for exactly 3:30 AM. He had, and we were up and ready to get underway right at 5. We were within spitting distance of Winnipeg by now, and we were in the lead. Life couldn’t get much sweeter than that. So we pulled and we rowed and we sweated through another hot August day, with no sign of the St. Andrew.

The very last morning on the river was special: not only were we winning the race, we knew it would all be over by early afternoon. So exactly at 5 AM, we shoved off. An hour later, panic set in.

Just as we were about to slide around a bend, there was a flash of light on the river, way back. It disappeared almost immediately, but we knew what it was: sun reflecting off wet oars. All of a sudden, our semi-leisurely victory glide into Winnipeg had just turned into a real race, the fate of humanity hanging in the balance.

So we bent to it, working the oars – hard – under a hot, cloudless sky. The oppressive heat of August still held its grip, but no one wanted to slow down for even a sip of water because slowly, relentlessly, the St. Andrew was gaining on us.

Sunstroke started to hit around noon, and I was one of its first victims. Headache, big-time sweats and nausea. Real nausea, and its consequences, which meant soon enough half of us were rowing and throwing up at the same time. It’s a neat trick if you can pull it off, because with ten oars moving in unison, you can’t just stop mid-stroke to cack. I felt sorry for the coxswain- he was downwind, which couldn’t have been all that pleasant.

Every time the Red straightened enough for us to see up-river, the St. Andrew was closer. We could actually make out some of the individuals, even their coxswain standing up in the back, yelling at them to pull!, just like in Ben Hur only without the chains and drumming.

But while they rowed with determination, we rowed with desperation, and in the end, our desperation triumphed, but not by much. The ‘finish line’ wasn’t a line at all, it was a spot on the muddy banks of the Red River where family and friends had gathered to welcome us back. They clapped and cheered as we glided into shore only a couple of hundred yards ahead of the St. Andrew. We all knew the cheering was for both crews, but that was okay because we could be gracious. We even stood to cheer the St. Andrew as they came in beside us. Good effort guys. Nice try.

There is not much in life as satisfying as finishing a long, physically gruelling task, and now we were finally, finally done. And it didn’t matter who had won, because both crews had done it together. Even though everyone knew who got there first.

 In August of 1962, Tom New and 21 other students from St. John’s Cathedral Boys School rowed from Grand Forks to Winnipeg. His cutter, the St. John, got their first.