July 28, 1975
Page 25427
HURRICANE ISLAND OUTWARD BOUND SCHOOL
Mr. MUSKIE. Mr. President, the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School, in my home State, is one of six Outward Bound schools which have been established in the United States during the last 13 years. Last year, Hurricane Island celebrated its 10th anniversary of operations. On a number of occasions I have had an opportunity to be briefed on the school's progress, and I have watched its growth with great interest. Outward Bound is an exciting concept, and I am proud of the successful development of the Hurricane Island School in Maine and the contributions it has made to the development of young people from Maine and other parts of the country.
The expression "outward bound" refers to a ship heading for the open sea. The first school was established in 1941 in Aberdovey, Wales, and was designed as survival training for young British merchant seamen during World War II. The success of the school as a training ground for personal growth led to the establishment of several additional British schools, administered by the Outward Bound Trust in London. Since then, 32 schools have been established in Europe, Africa, Asia, Australia, and North America. In the United States, there are now six Outward Bound schools in operation, serving more than 5,000 students each year, with over 30,000 alumni. The American schools are located in Maine, Colorado, Minnesota, North Carolina, Oregon, and Texas. In addition, there is an Outward Bound Center operating at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire.
The founder and guiding spirit of Outward Bound was a German and British educator by the name of Dr. Kurt Hahn, who died last year at the age of 88. Dr. Hahn's educational philosophy can be summarized in his own words:
The aim of education is to impel young people into value-forming experiences ... to insure the survival of these qualities: an enterprising curiosity; an undefeatable spirit; tenacity in pursuit; readiness for sensible self-denial; and, above all, compassion.
Hahn observed that "youth suffer from the misery of unimportance" and was deeply concerned by what he viewed as a "progressive inhumanity of the society in which we live." He saw in the Outward Bound concept a means of countering the "decline in fitness due to the modern methods of locomotion; the decline in initiative, due to the widespread disease of spectator-itis; the decline in care and skill, due to the weakened tradition of craftsmanship; the decline of self- discipline, due to the ever-present availability of tranquilizers and stimulants; and the decline of compassion, which William Temple called "spiritual death."
The Outward Bound schools in this country and abroad have their own special approaches to implementing Dr. Hahn's philosophy, and their programs are adapted to their unique environments. For example, the Colorado school concentrates on mountaineering, hiking, and rock climbing. The Hurricane Island school, on the other hand, is basically a sea school — like the original Outward Bound school — and its programs are designed to take advantage of the unique seamanship opportunities available in Maine's Penobscot Bay and surrounding areas.
Hurricane Island itself is located 12 miles east of Rockland — where the school's main offices are situated — close by to the much larger Vinalhaven Island.
The program at the Hurricane Island school concentrates on sailing and navigation in 30-foot open pulling boats, and students will go on ocean-going expeditions in various directions — 100 miles "down east" to the Machias, south to Portland and Casco Bay, out to the farthest offshore islands on the eastern seaboard. In addition, the school teaches basic rock-climbing techniques in abandoned quarries and on the ocean cliffs at Acadia National Park. A key part of the program at Hurricane Island is search and rescue training and firefighting which are undertaken on the school's powerboats whenever called upon by the U.S. Coast Guard and the Maine State Forest Service. Rescue training was a principal part of Dr. Hahn's philosophy, since he believed that the "experience of helping a fellow man in danger, or even of training in a realistic manner to be ready to give this help, tends to change the balance of power in a youth's inner life with the result that compassion can become the master motive."
With a new rescue station in operation at Hurricane Island and manned around the clock, the school now participates frequently in search and rescue missions in the area.
Participants at the school vary in age and background. About two-fifths of the students are women. Although the minimum age for admission is 16½, over one-third of the students are over 21 years old. A large number of the students come from poor families in the inner city under special grant programs, and the school has been involved in helping several States develop special programs for disadvantaged youths using Outward Bound concepts. Literally hundreds of schools, colleges, universities, and other organizations have adopted Outward Bound principles for their own programs, several of which the people at Hurricane Island helped start.
Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent that two articles on Maine's Outward Bound School be printed in the RECORD – "Sailing Through Outward Bound: No Easy Trick," from the January 1975, issue of Boating magazine, and "Outward Bound at Moosehead," from Down East magazine.
There being no objection, the articles were ordered to be printed in the RECORD, as follows:
[Reprinted from Boating, January 1975]
SAILING THROUGH OUTWARD BOUND: NO EASY TRICK
(By Toni Brodax)
Two days of extensive seamanship, navigation, ocean sailing and rock climbing. Three days on a solo — isolated on an island with a gallon of water, the clothes you wore, a sleeping bag, and tent. Sound interesting? I thought so, and signed up for a five-day Outward Bound course on Hurricane Island, Me.
The course began Monday October 9 aboard Maine's 1240 Vinalhaven ferry where the 12 of us in the course met for the first time. Barely had the ferry left the pier before our instructor, Franklin Mullen, had us tying knots as he explained what we'd be doing at HIOBS (Hurricane Island Outward Bound School). It wasn't a day-by-day account or, believe me, I would have returned to Rockland on the next ferry. In fact, we never knew what would be happening until it happened.
There were relatively few opportunitiesto make entries in our logs. The following is my first and nearly last entry, made at 0420 on October 10, 1974 to record my impression of the first day: "I was wakened from a cold, restless sleep 20 minutes ago to take the 0400–0600 watch with Bob Simicrope. Somehow I've managed to make it through the first day. I don't think I like it here — am sure I will be the first to leave. My body feels like it's about to collapse and my brain is telling me I'm crazy. At 22, I wonder if I'm too young to die from a heart attack?"
I was sure the Marines had adapted their basic training course from Outward Bound, but in fact Outward Bound began as a survival school for British Merchant Seamen in 1941 in Aberdovey, Wales. Since then, more than 30 private, non-profit Outward Bound Schools have sprung up.
"What Outward Bound offers," Franklin said, "is experiential education — you learn by doing."
While demonstrating a square knot he added, "There are some basic ingredients in all the Outward Bound Schools — stress, risk, and adventure — I'll find each of your limits and stretch you beyond them."
Before reaching Vinalhaven, we had learned how to tie four knots and we'd learned the name of our watch.. Each course on Hurricane Island is assigned a name for their watch. Ours was Aurora.
While HIOBS is in operation from April to November each watch assists, in cooperation with the U.S. Coast Guard, in search and rescue to local island and coastal communities as well as all mariners in Penobscot Bay. Hurricane Island is located 10 miles east of Rockland.
Pulling boat No. 10 was waiting at the dock for us at Vinalhaven.
Number 10 was as ugly onboard as she was from ashore. For the next five days this 30-foot, 3000 lb. gray and orange pulling boat would be our second home.
I guess it was about 1430 when we started to row and not much later when my muscles began to tighten. Afraid to look at the palms of my hands for fear of bright red, juicy blisters, I just followed Franklin's commands, "Give way together, hold oars, backwater, give way together,"for the next four hours.
Resting for a brief ten minutes I felt every muscle in my body tense up as Franklin gave us a short lesson on sailing. We spent the next 15 minutes putting up and taking down sails, but there was no wind. Back to the oars.
Towards sunset we reached Hurricane Island, tired and hungry. First things being first, we grabbed our gear and jogged to our tent and then to a 12-foot wooden wall. We were to get over it anyway we could, using only our bodies. Pyramids and a lot of pushing, pulling and tugging got us over in 25 minutes. (Record time is 39 seconds.)
Off and jogging to the watch locker for sleeping bags, jogging back to the tent, jogging to the watch locker for foul weather gear, and jogging back to the tent. A couple of things ought to be added here: all this jogging was done in complete darkness, our sleeping bags were made of cotton (mine had a broken zipper), and our foul weather gear didn't fit.
Our last jog of many was to the mess hall.
It must've been 2300 when Franklin ended our charting and navigating lesson, informing us that we'd be taking two-hour, two-man safety watch shifts that night. Fortunately I'd be able to sleep for five hours before my 0400–0600 radio watch with Bob. Our duties entailed radio watch and boat check.
Franklin walked in to the Safety house at 0600. I had just gotten through the longest day of my life and thinking today would be better when he told me to wake Aurora watch and tell everyone to put on their sweat suits and bring a towel for the morning's run-and-dip.
We jogged for half a mile before reaching the dock where we'd take our "dip."
"I thought swimming was optional," I said to Franklin, outraged.
"Swimming is optional, but run-and-dip is not!" came his curt reply.
Eight feet below me was cold water. I though it couldn't be that bad — it was worse. The water at most, was 45º. Fact: Exposure for more than 20 minutes would result in death.
Hiking through the beautiful Maine woods in autumn splendor followed breakfast. I could have hiked through those woods for the rest of the afternoon and wished we had when I saw the rope climbing course set up for us.
We were supposed to complete the course in one hour. I never thought I would, but with determination, encouragement, and a great deal of stubbornness, I did — about two hours later.
For the first time, being the last to finish worked to our advantage. Had we completed on time, the next event would have been capsize drill. Instead we observed another watch capsize a boat, A remarkable job.
Rock climbing and rappelling consumed what was left of our afternoon. I had no knees left after climbing straight up over 100 feet of solid granite with no sort of footholds to grab onto. All the time I hoped Tom Riedy was belaying for me the way we'd been taught. One slip and my life would be over in two seconds, if Tom wasn't careful.
However, rappelling down the cliffs was very exhilarating. After the first step it's all down hill, bouncing and swinging off the rocks all the way down. I controlled my speed while Dick Barbieri gave me slack on the safety line.
Planning a three-day sailing expedition occupied our time Thursday night. As Quartermaster I stowed away the food (six lb. can of tuna, five 10 lb. loaves of homemade bread, six gallons of water, etc.) while the others stuffed duffel bags (one for 2 people) with sleeping bags and plastic tarpaulin, clothes, and flashlights. There would be three days to try the other positions of Captain, First Mate, and Navigator as they were rotated to prevent any mutinies.
Three people in our crew had decided to leave HIOBS the next morning. It was more than they expected, they said, and they weren't prepared to go through any more of what we'd done.
Showers never felt so good. This was the first luxury I'd had in two days. Aside from being tired, I felt good. I was going to make it through the next three days "come hell or high water" even if it killed me.
Sunrise and Franklin — the two were like bread and butter — coming to wake us every morning. Sweats but not towels. I was ecstatic and the first to start jogging; the last to finish. However, we were in time for the most fantastic sailing weather. In minutes we had the sprit rigged main and mizzen up, making way at five knots. Clear skies, brisk northeast winds, and an oncoming cold front — couldn't ask for more.
Our first hours of sailing was confusing, comical and haphazard. Only two or three of us had sailed before. When we finally managed to raise the mainsail, it was momentful as raising the flag on Iwo Jima. Enjoying our new prowess in tacking and jibbing, we forgot about lunch until Franklin suggested we picnic on Little Rye Island, four miles from Hurricane Island. Having unloaded our lunch and two duffel bags and started to eat, we suddenly noticed Franklin sailing away.
"Franklin, where you going? Looking for another anchorage?" we yelled from shore. "I'll see you tomorrow, maybe," was his reply. Franklin doesn't talk much.
We stood there stunned and surprised, especially when we discovered three sleeping bags instead of four. Then we started enjoying the idea of being alone on a deserted island like Robinson Crusoe. No matter what, we'd survive, whether it be for one day or three. We were going to make the best of it and of what we had: one gallon of water, 19 tuna fish sandwiches, 26 plums, granola, three sleeping bags, and a plastic tarpaulin.
Scouting the island, which took no more than 20 minutes, we found a place to camp, firewood, mussels, snails, and a lot of vegetation. George Appleton filled us in on the edibles, having read one of Euell Gibbon's books. Glasswarts are delicious but salty, rosehips make great tea and are filled with plenty of vitamin. C, and mussels were plentiful. We steamed some that evening after pitching a makeshift plastic tent.
The nine of us slept shoulder-to-shoulder with the three sleeping bags covering us. Enough body heat diffused through all our clothing and foul weather gear to keep us relatively warm through the 40˚ night, without a sniffle in the morning.
To our dismay, Franklin came for us at 1000. There was some urgency in getting off of Little Rye Island because of low tide and rocks. Within a half hour we were all aboard and heading for Burnt Island. We caught the wind after a short time of rowing.
Clouds began to clutter what was a magnificent sky while we proficiently tacked and jibbed through three-foot swells. Appreciative of the foul weather gear, we sailed with ease and for once enjoyed the scenery, waving while a convoy of HIOBS pulling boats passed us by.
It wasn't long until we reached Burnt Island and anchored in Mullen Cove. We disembarked, making sure Franklin was not the last aboard. With no foreseeable problems, we divided into two groups. One group would make camp not far from where we beached, and the other would collect firewood and prepare dinner.
There were no problems as the sun set, and in fact, I had really enjoyed. the day's events. John Donovan and I had volunteered for boat watch that night. I figured we had a relatively easy job compared to the others who would have to take shore watch — similar to our first night on Hurricane Island.
Shortly before 2100 at high tide, John and I boarded No. 10 prepared for an easy, restful night. We had two sleeping bags and two chocolate bars between us and the most magnificent view of the milky way above us. It was also one of the warmest evenings we'd had thus far on the trip.
An hour or so must've passed when I heard John yelling to shore. "Get Franklin, the wind's changed and the anchor might be shifting!"
What was once a gentle southerly had shifted direction. Now a cold, bitter northerly brought ominous and foreboding clouds.
Things were hectic on shore. Franklin was telling shore watch to break camp and move down to the fire on the beach. I could see people running and moving about.
Our only connection to shore was 200 feet of line. And 50 feet of line connected us to the anchor. Rocks were two feet below us.
The wind had shifted again, coming strongly from the northeast, crossing our deck broadside. For the first time since the beginning of our trip, we all felt helpless and unsure. A decision had to be made. We could stay put and wait out the weather or get everyone on board and look for another anchorage. We chose to stay. We'd know at 0917, high tide, if we had made the right decision. Getting to shore amidst the rocks was our biggest problem.
Low tide came at 0230. The swells had grown to about four feet with incessant cold winds penetrating foul weather gear and warm clothing. John and I had no protection from the cold. Our sleeping bags were soaked and there was no cabin to rest in.
We were two bitter cold people in a completely open boat in a rough sea.
Our most warming sight came during low tide — the Northern Lights, which I had never seen before. Surrounding us was the most magnificent light show. Flashing spurts of light instantly changed into a neon-like rainbow. It was a radiant demonstration of nature at its best.
We knew high tide was a few minutes away, and our best hope for getting ashore without going on the rocks. We had to make it then, or John and I would be where we were for the next 12 hours. We were prepared to radio for help. I couldn't take much more. All night long I thought things would get better, but they hadn't.
We finally had a solution. We threw the life preserver towards shore, where the tide brought it in. A line was tied to it on shore and we pulled it back, cleating it down. Dennis Blender and Lennna Dower slowly let go of the first line while the others pulled in on theirs and I slowly let out the anchor line. The bow was heading to shore, under control.
In five minutes we had reached shore, stowed the gear and gotten everyone aboard. Soon Burnt Island grew smaller as the wind filled the sails. Now there was plenty of time for conversation as we ran with the wind almost all the 12 miles back to Hurricane Island.
Sailing back to Hurricane Island was fantastic. The wind was with us all the way, filling the sheets until they looked like pillows. And we'd just watch those big fiberglass sailboats pass by with a smile on our faces. We were no beauty in comparison, but I don't think any of us would have exchanged our boat for theirs.
We reached Hurricane Island late that afternoon, sailing straight to the dock. While we unloaded our gear and cleaned up our mess, I observed the other watches coming in from their expeditions. They too were tired, hungry, elated, and content.
Dinner would be served at 1830 after we had showered and changed. We'd been wearing and sleeping in the same clothes for three days. Three meals a day, and all the extra luxuries of our homes had been forgotten.
I spent the remaining time before dinner down by the dock watching the sunset and thinking. There was No. 10 next to the other moored boats. Had she been a smaller, less sturdy boat, I probably wouldn't still be here. Had she been bigger and more elaborate, well, I probably wouldn't have seen the Northern Lights or experienced freezing cold weather. "Experiential Education" it says in the brochure.
At 2230, a night navigation lesson preceded dinner on two small HIOBS cabin cruisers. Franklin said we had to put on foul weather gear. I was putting on all my warmest clothes underneath the foul weather gear. One thing that night on the boat taught me is that I never want to be cold again.
We divided into two groups and boarded the rescue boats. Taught how to use the depth sounder, radar, compass, and charts, we navigated to an island eight miles away.
"This is Aurora watch isn't it?" were the exact words Franklin woke us with: The last day of our course and he told us to put on sweats. And if he told us to bring a towel, well, I would have, without argument.
While we jogged to a point on the island I realized my muscles weren't sore and that I felt good, really good. My accomplishments, no matter how difficult or how long they took, made me feel great. And whether I was doing chinups or freezing in an open boat, it was working with the elements and making the most of each situation.
There was no dip that morning and within a few hours we were aboard the Rockland ferry. Our course was over; the most incredible five days of sailing, rock climbing, and camping I've ever experienced. Where did the time go?
OUTWARD BOUND AT MOOSEHEAD
(By Eliza Cocroft)
When the weather turns cold in the fall, Hurricane Island Outward Bound School of Rockland closes down its operation on an island off Vinalhaven and moves its training program to Maine's north woods near Moosehead Lake. During the months of January, February and March it offers a 23-day course in outdoor winter living to groups of students of both sexes, 16½ years and older.
The winter program began in 1972 with the help of the Great Northern Paper Company, which gave the school use of Grant Farm, a former lumbering depot, located ten miles from Kokadjo (winter population, one). In 1973 the base was moved to its present location at Mountain View Farm at the foot of Squaw Mountain on the outskirts of Greenville.
Training at Moosehead is modeled after that followed in the summer at Hurricane Island and at other Outward Bound schools in this country and abroad. The goal is to provide students with the kind of experience that will challenge them both physically and emotionally and develop in them self reliance, confidence and a greater understanding for others.
The course includes snowshoe expeditions, cross-country skiing, camping, first-aid training, map and compass work, marathon-style running and a "solo" experience during which a student spends three days and two nights alone in the woods fending for himself. Each day at Mountain View Farm begins before sunrise and ends after eight at night.
Besides learning to live outdoors in the winter, both as individuals and in groups, students become acquainted with what life was like in the north woods three generations ago. They harvest ice from Moosehead Lake, cook over an open wood fire, and travel long distances on foot in the cold.
Upon arrival at Mountain View Farm students are divided into groups of from eight to twelve members. Each group, or "crew," functions as a unit throughout the training period under the supervision of two instructors. As their students become more proficient, the instructors gradually relinquish the responsibility for decision-making until the students themselves assume the full initiative.
Physical conditioning is a part of each day. An early morning run soon after daybreak wakens tired bodies and sleepy minds. Supplying the needs of the farm provides initial experience in splitting wood, gathering water from a nearby stream and cooking for a large group. Then the students move out from the farm to practice in the woods what they have learned at the farm: coping with the cold, handling minor medical problems such as frostbite, and providing hot food and a warm, dry shelter on the trail.
Midway in the course each student is given an opportunity to put into use as an individual what he has learned in the group. Solo begins when the instructors leave their students alone and apart deep in the woods. The student must then immediately provide for his needs: building and tending a fire, cooking, and digging a cave in the snow for a shelter or designing and building one from evergreen boughs. Then as he settles into the days and nights he must spend alone he has time to listen to the sounds of the forest and observe the wild creatures that share it with him.
For some, the period is a lonely vigil; for others, a time in which they come to realize how important other people are to them. Usually, a higher level of tolerance for others and a keener understanding of differences between people are developed.
The return to the farm after three days of solitude is a joyful occasion. Students rejoin their group and share the insights they have gained during solo. Then one full day is spent working for others outside the school. This may mean a visit to a senior citizens' home in Greenville or instructing local schoolchildren in physical fitness on an obstacle course.
Finally, comes the real test – a five-day expedition, planned and executed by the students themselves. They elect a leader, a quartermaster to be in charge of food, a safety officer and a navigator. Their route must be carefully planned and their objectives clear. If all these conditions are met, the instructors give them permission to proceed. From then on they are on their own, with the instructors interceding only if a student's safety is at stake.
With 40-to-50-pound packs and either skis or snowshoes strapped on their backs, the students leave the farm behind as they set out over the ice of Moosehead or deep into the forest. Their objective may be to scale a mountain peak or to reach a point forty miles from the base. Since winter days are short, rising before daybreak is not unusual. The days are busy and filled with hard traveling, but before students return to the farm five days later they may have passed beaver dams, traversed windswept Moosehead or perhaps climbed Mt. Kineo in the moonlight.
One last event, the marathon, confronts each student with an individual physical challenge. The route may be a four-to-six mile run across the frozen lake on foot, a cross-country run on snowshoes, a running climb uphill for several miles, or even a 13-mile lope along an open road.
Whatever the course, students are asked to run farther than most of them have ever imagined they could. Bodies in motion for up to two hours ring with "I can!" New horizons have been set — and met — in winter days with Outward Bound at Moosehead.