Hark, let me tell you of a man the world lost,
A son, brother, and friend of a kind seldom crossed.
More sure in his kayak than most on their toes,
Mr. Ludwig formed friends fast, instead of foes.
He could often be found in the top hole at Double,
throwing loops into twists, not minding the trouble.
When not on the water he had a pastoral talent:
his gardening, though simple, was also gallant.
A voice of reason, order and justice
as rarely seen in Hartford, among us.
Taken from life at just twenty-seven,
he’s sorely missed by his paddling brethren.
Its true, you know, he died doing his thing.
While that helps some, we still feel the sting.
I recall once boating with him in the dark:
he took us, just rookies, out on a lark.
In late afternoon we left for the French Broad;
by the sun’s heels darkness had already gnawed.
We could not yet roll, were as helpless as lambs,
yet he alone herded us through low water jams.
I should have been worried out there in the black,
but ever I knew he would gather up my slack.
That flock is now scattered, our shepherd has drowned;
for others, was battered, by Road Prong renowned.
I was not there, for I sure had no place,
but I’m told his death was an act of grace.
The torrent too pushy, they agreed fast,
Isaac, best, went for the eddy last.
We’ll never quite know, for nobody saw,
how he washed into the West Prong, flood raw.
His boat had split, so strong the creek pressed;
such was the violence that laid him to rest.
In the ardor of August and the ides of May
St. Isaac watch over us, we want and pray.
During hurricane rains we recall him
cascading down creeks brown to their brim.
And oft we’ll still be sad and say
“I wish Isaac were with us today.”
