I remember when and where I first saw the word “maelstrom.”

I was a pre-teen in a town barbershop, reading a men’s magazine. The magazine was one those that featured “true” articles that were actually fiction of the uber-macho kind. Titles ran along the lines of “Shipwrecked in Nympho Island,” “The Man Who Broke Anvils with his Bare Hands” and “Croc Killer of Man-Koo-Ring.”

Being of tender age and desperate for exotic fare, I devoured that bumpf like apple turnovers from Deissler’s Bakery.

And bumpf it was.

Without exaggeration, the maelstrom featured in the article, the maelstrom of Salstraumen, is impressive enough. It’s the world’s most powerful whirpool, near Norway. It’s in a 500-foot strait, can crank up to 25 mph and sucks down about 500 million cubic yards of water when it does its thing. Suffice it to say, ships stay out of the strait during the whirpool, which happens four times a day, but tourists are all the hell over the place.

According to the magazine I read, whose stock in trade was hyperbole, it could drag down an aircraft carrier, crew and all, like nobody’s business, and it did, with alarming regularity. Such heady claims were the intoxicants of my boyhood.

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The icy vortex

Every year, sometime in early January, I think of the maelstrom because that’s what Winter Carnival is to me — an irresistible vortex that draws me in and traps me till its force dissipates.

It’s always been like that. I can’t remember my first Carnival, but certainly by first grade I was a full-fledged participant, enjoying the speed skating and skiing races, the palace and the fireworks. There were also the coronation and the Rotary Show, which even if I didn’t go to, I heard about anyway. I mean, who didn’t know about the town fathers cavorting about on stage in full drag?

However, every year’s highlight was the parade.

In my childhood, they were spectacular professional affairs, with the featured unit being the Philadelphia Mummers’, decked out in satin costumes and huge feathers.

In later years, the parade hit the skids and didn’t have many groups, and almost no exciting ones, for sure.

Today, while our parade isn’t professional, it’s as exciting and colorful as it ever was. And best of all, it’s almost completely manned (or if you prefer, “personned”) by hometown talent. And consider what an accomplishment that is: A town of 4,500 puts on a two-and-a-half-hour, 100-unit parade, almost all by its lonesome. I don’t want to get competitive or boastful, but I doubt many other small towns can come close to matching that.

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Pearls before swine

Back when Carnival was only four days (Thursday to Sunday) and My Home Town boasted over 35 bars, a lot of Carnival was a pub crawl, which was fine with everyone, especially the local costabulary. What wasn’t fine was violating the open container law, especially during the parade.

Actually, there were some exemptions to the violation. A flask whisked out of an overcoat didn’t count, nor did subtle sips from a bottle somewhat hidden — at least not by locals. College kids, on the other hand, got no exemptions.

The week before every Carnival I drilled home this and a few other points to my students:

One was if they were in a car, be sure they had a reliable designated driver. Aside from the obvious danger of turning a vehicle into a lethal weapon, I told them about the only people on the roads on Carnival nights were cops and drunks, and the former were highly skilled at spotting the latter.

Another was not to drink alone, since being buzzed and by yourself in 20-below could easily and quickly end in tragedy.

Third was to be polite to the cops. They had a hard enough job and not only did they not find loud, drunken 18-year-old asininity amusing, they could also find it grounds for an arrest.

And last but hardly least, I told them do not, under any circumstances, drink on the streets.

One year, I’d no sooner said that than an outburst came from a guy in the last row.

“Whattya mean, no drinking on the streets?” he barked.

It came from none other than Zane Sawyer, himself.

Zane Sawyer was one of those students everyone knows and no one can stand. He was loud, obnoxious, demanding, and totally self-absorbed. He knew everything, had an ax to be ground with everyone, and listened to no one. Beyond that, while he was impressed with his brilliance, he wasn’t all that bright. Or to use the nautical metaphor favored by Commodore Ed Woodward, he was “thicker than whale poop.” He was unaffectionately known college-wide as Zane the Pain. Due to his constantly arguing about everything, I’d bestowed another mantle on him — Sawyer the Lawyer.

“What’s the matter, Zane?” I said, feigning confusion. “Am I using words that’re too big for you.”

Either ignoring or not getting my sarcasm, he plowed on.

“Get real,” he said. “I was there last year and there were lots of people drinking on the streets.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But guess what?”

“What?”

“There’s a huge difference between them and you.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Like what?”

“Like they’re not college students, and you are.”

He paused for a bit as he let the enormity of this outrage sink in.

“That’s not right!” he snapped.

“No, it’s not,” I said. “But that’s the way it is.”

Then I added, “And you might want to pay attention to it.”

“And I might not,” he said. “I know my rights.”

“OK,” I said, in dismissal rather than agreement.

Then I went on with the business of the day and gave no more thought to Sawyer the Lawyer and his rights, till they became an issue on parade day.

Jailhouse lawyer

I was with the rabble outside the Waterhole, waiting for the parade to start, when scanning the crowd across the street, I saw Sawyer standing in front of Rice’s Furniture. He was pretty hard to miss, since he was in front of the crowd, decked out in a bright yellow snowsuit, with matching hat. And he had another attention-getter about him — he was drinking a can of Budweiser and was making no move to hide it.

“Idiot,” I said to myself.

And I’d no sooner said that than he was spotted by two cops walking up the street. Of course, they immediately went over to him.

One of the cops said something to Sawyer. He gave the cop a broad smirk, shook his head, and started talking.

Of course, I knew what’d just happened. The cop had given him a break and told him to pour out his beer and throw it away. Sawyer, of course, had refused, about to wow the cop with his vast knowledge of constitutional law, citizens’ rights and police brutality.

Suddenly, the cops knocked the can out of Sawyer’s hands, had cuffed him, and were leading him away.

I wasn’t the only one who saw it. The Waterhole crowd was full of Paul Smith’s students, all of whom saw what was happening and none of whom could stand Sawyer. As a result, a sudden cheer went up from the crowd, followed by thunderous applause.

My personal feelings toward Sawyer aside, I didn’t either cheer or clap. I didn’t think it appropriate to applaud his arrest and forthcoming night in the jail. In fact, as much as I would’ve liked to have given a couple dozen skyward fist pumps, I did nothing; I didn’t even allow myself so much as a tiny smile.

On the other hand, I didn’t go over to the hoosegow and offer my services as an amateur bail bondsman.