Horizon

In my Chicago neighborhood a horizon is hard to come by. I venture to the shore of Lake Michigan or travel vertically to the upper floors of skyscrapers to when I need to see one. This is the legacy of our glacial past, which left us with barely a hill to stand upon. Far from being discouraged by this, I have searched out unique horizons for most of my life. Most are memorable for their association with the sun, but not all.

In the east, Florida’s sun coalesces from a deformed reddish glow that comes from deep below the Atlantic’s horizon only to set a white-hot orb amidst the cheers of the revelers at the tip of North America. And in the West off the California coast, the naked sun unceremoniously plunges into the cold Pacific. In the middle of Lake Michigan it rises and sets with no hint of the influence of land. And as a young man I watched the golden globe rise and set over a horizon of the picturesque islands of the Aegean and the Adriatic, not to mention the vast Mediterranean Sea.

Then, as impossible is seems, there is the lack of sunrise and sunset. In the seas above the Arctic Circle the sun heads straight for the horizon and inexplicably starts back up while still high in the sky permeating everything in a golden fluorescence. In the same region’s deep valleys the sun secrets itself behind mountain silhouettes only to hint at its magnificence. This premature horizon makes winter seem endless.

In Osaka I stood opened jawed before the window of a high rise hotel and I watched the staccato skyline taper off into the distance demarcated by the sickly glow of mercury vapor. Then after a sleepless night I watched it inundated with the ghostly mingling of dew and smog.

On a recent afternoon with the sun high in the sky I sat waiting for the traffic light on Balbo Street to change. I looked east across Lake Shore Drive and focused from the street, to the deserted harbor, and finally, settled on Four Mile Crib sitting three miles east of Monroe Harbor.

At first the horizon appeared flat but this was an illusion. The water close to shore was sheltered from the Northwest wind and barely showed a ripple. Further out though, the horizon was roiling. The closer I focused the more detail I discerned at the interface between the water and the sky. Waves were galloping south in riotous fashion with white caps decorating the peaks and a deep cerulean blue concealing the troughs.

The detail was millimeters thick. I felt as if I was looking at it with the oil lens of a microscope. Then a horn blared and the moment was lost. I raced across the intersection and turn north towards home. I was glad not to be on the lake that day.

This summer I had a similar experience. A stiff east wind had been blowing along Lake Huron’s length for several days, so when I left my snug anchorage that morning I resigned myself to a lumpy ride west toward Mackinac Island. This time instead of sitting at a traffic light I was steaming south through DeTour Passage between Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and Drummond Island with Lake Huron before me.

Again I focused on the horizon. That is after dodging the two crisscrossing ferries and then steering clear of a several-football-field long lake freighter. It had descended from St. Mary’s River and was also bearing for the freedom of the open lake.

On its southern end the DeTour Reef Lighthouse demarcates DeTour Passage from the lake. It is an imposing structure that sits in solitude surrounded by water and submerged rocks. A somber sight on any day, it was especially so this cool gray day with low clouds scudding overhead. The horizon beyond it was as alive as the one I watched off Balbo Street, but this time I was heading straight for it at 7 knots.

Maneuvering in large seas can be nerve racking. I wonder how the boat and crew will take the assault. Neither, especially the former, has let me down and this time was no different. We were lifted onto the swells and glided off their backsides into the troughs. It is difficult to describe being a part of all this moving water. That is for another time.

Once amongst the waves the horizon disappears. Your worldview shrinks to what can be seen and felt within a few boat lengths. The next horizon I remember was in Little Traverse Bay where it was tinted by a perfect amber sunset that melted into the lake and into my memory.

Maybe it is because I have lived my life deprived of horizons that I hold fiercely onto the memory of each. Maybe it is how the sun and the earth play this game of sunrises and sunsets, vying to see who will be the most spectacular. But probably it is the realization that each one is unique: one time, one meeting (ichigo, ichie). Never to be repeated again.

Time has a way of focusing the mind especially at this time of year. I remind myself not to become complacent. Not to hunker down in my neighborhood of bungalows and wait for Spring but to venture out and seek the next horizon.

Nature

Late one stormy night while driving the back roads of Chicago I spied Mr. Fox and Mr. Rabbit in close proximity. The former was on the move with his long bushy tail trailing straight out behind him, except that is when he stopped to mark every other tree. The latter, with ears erect and tracking, looked alert despite being as still as Michelangelo’s David.

To the north lie the crumbling wall of an ancient cemetery, and to the south a tall uninviting, but unobtrusive green corrugated metal fence of a large industrial concern. My wife’s relatives repose just over the north wall and it is also the location of my first summer job where I most likely cut the grass around their graves. Thus it, the cemetery, is a familiar place. Not in the least creepy or at least not until I saw Mr. Fox and began to think of his nighttime exploits.

He looked dusky, as all city dwelling animals tend to look. Go to the suburbs and the squirrel’s fur radiates multiple hues, but here in my bungalow’s backyard they come in any color as long as it is dull grey. And that goes for the sparrows and possums. I am not sure about the skunks. I only smell them as they pass under my backyard windows. Of all the animals that inhabit my little corner of Chicago the raccoons seem the exception. They always look fit and well groomed, even as I try to extricate them from the attic.

But that is beside the point, let me not get distracted. The sight of the rabbit’s close call further confirmed my thoughts, thoughts of the seriousness of the natural world. I see a dog wag its tail and smile, a cat purrs in my lap and I anthropomorphize them. But I think if set free without a loving human to feed them, they would quickly turn on me to satisfy their hunger.

The natural world is an unforgiving place. We have done a marvelous job of isolating ourselves from it, but occasionally I seek it out. I have traveled to unruly lands: Israel moments before the Yom Kippur War, Northern Ireland in the first year of the Troubles and Greece during the junta. Closer to home I have hiked in the wilderness home of the grizzly and summited a few 12,000 foot peaks and even closer, I have spent many days on the blue waters of the Great Lakes.

Of all the time spent on the Great Lakes, many more hours have been consumed contemplating the weather. I know that if I make a mistake I am in for an unpleasant experience, if not a dangerous one. I hope for an uneventful passage. More than hope, I plan for it, and contrary to popular opinion I often remember an uneventful voyage and forget a bad one.

The natural world is not divorced from the middle of the city. How many life and death struggles take place each evening. Late one afternoon as I walked to the now destroyed Michael Reese Hospital parking structure I heard the shrill cries of a mother squirrel and her baby. The dense hedges that surrounded the parking garage supported a remarkable diversity of creatures and it was there that I witnessed the drama.

I went searching for the commotion and saw a large crow, several times the size of the mother squirrel, raiding the nest with a yelping baby squirrel between its beaks. I startled the crow causing it to drop the baby. Mother squirrel quickly grabbed her baby by the fur and fled back to the nest. The crow did not hesitate to bound up and kidnap the baby once again. The mother’s unrestrained aggression towards the crow was futile, it barely noticed her.

I decided that as unseemly as this spectacle was, I best not get involved. Turning away I dare not look back. This was nature playing out its destiny. It was on a smaller scale than on the plains of Africa or the northern reaches of the Americas where lions and wolves cull the herds of antelope and caribou, but it was just as sobering.

This event came back to me as I watched the fox and the rabbit’s paths cross. For all our preconceived notions while sitting in the comfortable cocoon of modernity, the natural world is unrelenting. I have no illusions that the lake is concerned with my well being. If I get roughed up on the way to the next port I am grateful to reach safe harbor. Just as I am sure that Mr. Rabbit was, in some rabbit way, happy to have escaped the notice of Mr. Fox . . . for this time at least.

Waves

Surfing down a wave in a 17,000 pound 32 foot piece of pointed plastic can be simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. The noise resembles a washing machine’s spin cycle. As I am lucky enough to have a functioning autopilot I stay ready to slide off my comfortable seat and disengage it to save our little ship. If I did not have one then I would have already anticipated what the following wave was going to do and started to correct for it.

Each boat responds in a unique way and each wave presents a different challenge. Waves come in waves. On the Great Lakes, my hub of experience, they come in series of sixes or sevens. Each series is characterized by increasingly larger waves. Occasionally one is demarcated by a large wave out of proportion to the others. Waves in the Great Lakes have a short period (the time between crest) of about 6 to 8 seconds, so it can be several minutes between series. And within that cycle there are even longer cycles, which generate larger waves. These big ones sneak up on you.

The Perfect Storm made us familiar with rogue waves. Of course I am not talking about anything on that scale. The waves on our fresh water lakes are known more for their steep close packed nature than their towering size. Our waves beat you to pulp with their quick repeatability, rather than engulf you whole like those of the oceans. That said, remember the Edmund Fitzgerald and beware.

If driving into them, we pound; if traveling across, we swing like an upside-down metronome. If they are behind, well, then we slow as we get sucked back into the troughs, and speed up as we are lifted and flung forward by the front of the approaching wave. Speed can increase from 5 to 12 knots in an instant. Some following waves quietly gurgle as they pass. Others pick up the stern to a point where gravity takes over and starts the boat careening into the wave that has just passed.

It is then that the boat does something usually the purview of young bleached blond men and women on exotic islands, surf. The boat feels lively and light as it skips along on the foaming water of the breeching wave. When the speed of the wave matches that of the boat, the rudder loses it grip and the boat starts to turn right across the offending wave. This (broaching is the technical term) cannot be allowed to happen.

If sideways to a sizable wave it can overwhelm and flipped the boat over on its side or worse. I turn the wheel as far to the left as possible, far enough to feel the rudder bite into the water and the bow begins to swing to the left. Of course I do not want to go too far that way either, so a bit before the neutral point I bring the wheel back to center.

All this takes several very long seconds and thankfully large waves, in most cases, herald the beginning of a new series with smaller waves in the forefront. I take a breath and recover my heading. Once in a stable rhythm the autopilot is reengaged. I sit back to wait for the next one to appear. It may or may not, so I keep alert.

I have been at the helm of many boats from square sided tubs to sleek double enders. From heavy cruising boats to ultra light racers. All behave differently. My present boat does not sail but powers through the water pushed in front of a large four bladed propeller with over two hundred pounds of torque behind it. It seldom exhibits any strain despite the conditions it finds itself in.

She — the boat — has a fine entry that flattens out to a shallow V and ends in a broad, billboard like stern. The tons of water that make up a following wave love to push it around, but thanks to a large rudder and a long deep keel it is not often bested.

The operative word here is often. Off of Michigan’s Little Sable Point this year an odd combination of wind, waves and terrain, both above and below the water, twist us in such a fashion to dislodge furniture, nick-knacks and anything else not Velcro-ed down, including us. It occurred with such a noise that I considered, if only for a second, the sanity of being out on the water.

In another boat, like our former Swedish sailboat Lenore, the wave would have simply parted at the stern and passed by with a whoosh. Lenore loved — more than me — strong winds and big seas. She had a hidden stern as fine and pointed as her bow. A boring boat in anything less than 15 knots of wind she became more comfortable as conditions worsened. Once her sail was shortened she would steer herself, managing tacks and gybes with ease.

Lovely she was, but slow and cramped and so Carrie Rose, the 17,000 pound piece of pointed plastic, replaced her in 2003. We traded ocean-crossing ability for the RV comforts of a coastal cruiser. A good choice overall, but a choice that has me wishing for her when the waves get their dander up and start to carry us downwind on another adventure.

Rocks

Rocks are not a big part of my life in Chicago. There is the occasional one I dig out of the garden and sometimes I find myself admiring the fossils that reside in the stone that make up the buildings downtown. But that is about it. I found John McPhee’s Basin and Range interesting but geology was my least favorite science in college. I admit to a fascination with Japanese rock gardens and the Japanese veneration of particular rocks. Last year I sat at the edge of the Ryoan-ji dry rock garden in Kyoto and quietly soaked in the ambiance.

But in the Northern reaches of Michigan and into Canada the rocks demand attention. The farther north Charlotte and I traveled from Chicago the more subservient the environment became to its rocks: telephone poles are supported by piles of rocks at their base because there is no soil to bury them, foundations that only go down inches rather than feet, and minimal top soil—most of it having been pushed to central Illinois by the glaciers that scraped this area down to bedrock.

Rocks define the North Channel of Ontario where Carrie Rose, our 32’ Nordic Tug, carried us this spring and summer. Our attention was directed to avoiding the multitude of barely submerged rocks that inhabit these waters. To keep from hitting them we used our eyes, two sets of charts, several local cruising guides, an outdated Garmin chart plotter, an even older back-up GPS and a newly purchased navigation program for my MacBook with another GPS plugged into its USB port. Believe me we needed them all.

After much travail I was able to load the computer with the current Canadian and U.S. charts. They display rocks that mariners have been charting since Admiral Bayfield made his way here in the early 1800s. But there is no guarantee that the charted rocks will be where they are supposed to be and that uncharted ones will miraculously surface. Every cruising guide on every page cautions this inevitability.

As I write this Carrie Rose is having a well-deserved rest in Petoskey, MI. This is the land of the famed Petoskey stone. These dusty grey stones have a lace like filigree pattern and are the coral remnants of an ancient sea. During past visits we bought a small bud vase and a Pandora charm made out of them. This year we decide to find our own and so, the bikes were taken off the boat, cleaned of spider webs and ridden down a path west of the harbor. At the first beach that appeared slightly remote we walk down the stairway to the beach. Once there, with heads bowed, we start searching. Within 30 seconds I find one, and then another and another. Granted these were not prime examples but after a little cleaning, sure enough they were Petoskey stones. I now understand, as one local told me, that the entire landscape from here to Mackinac Island is composed of them, just waiting to be found by naïve southerners like us. When we get back to the boat Charlotte sits sanding our treasure to bring out their hidden details. With this level of intensity she should have them gleaming by next year. A worthy pursuit considering she has just retired.

We left Chicago in early June to get to the North Channel of Lake Huron and cruise amongst its ancient rocks. The rock culture is intense there. Mountains of gleaming white quartz defy description. Your eyes want to attribute the whiteness to something else besides the rock itself, but you can touch it and feel the sun’s heat that radiates from its mirror like surface.

The celebrated islands in the North Channel are the Benjamin’s. They are a small group of islands in the shape of a C that are composed of pink quartz. It is not easy to get to them, nor is it easy to stay. Their poor anchorage is exposed to winds from many directions and its bottom, which has been scoured by thousands of anchors has questionable holding. To further complicate matters, most days it is filled with cruising boat vying for the few safe places to anchor.

To climb its treeless dome of exposed quartz is to commune with rocks as old as any found on the planet. For a Christian nation it smacks of animism. This is behavior I expect from the Japanese with their reverence of Shinto’s kami-sama, spirits associated with the natural world. Most of the national parks in Japan have Shinto shrines to provide for the spiritual needs of their visitors. But here amongst the fifty and sixty year old middle class of North America it seems sacrilegious.

Of course as luck would have it Carrie Rose broke down just as we entered the Benjamin’s. We were towed east to Little Current, the largest town on Manitoulin Island, for repairs. We linger there for two weeks waiting for engine parts and never setting foot on the coveted terrain we had been removed from. Instead we spent our time with the town’s friendly and caring people, and with the transient community that cruise this rock-ridden archipelago each summer. A couple we barely knew offered us the key to their behemoth Ford and encouraged us to take in some of the sites while they were away cruising. We accepted and went north into the odd landscape of the Le Cloche Mountains. Once the size of the Rockies these hills of white quartz are billions of years old and they look it.

I wish I could give you an accurate description. The land is an odd mixture of trees, water and convoluted, rounded stones folded upon themselves. The shear rock faces radiates heat, and foliage hangs on for its life, as do the cottages that are tucked into every crevasse. The energy the earth poured into this landscape for billions of years is tangible. I am unaccustomed to such intensity and it makes me nervous.

I sense the billion-year history of these rocks and think of my few meager decades. I leave the North Channel sobered. It put my allotment of consciousness in context. The time here on earth before I become an elemental particle again is the universe’s gift and I better not waste it!

Chi-Town

We had a weather window of one day, today, to cross the lake, so we took it and are back on our mooring in Montrose Harbor after a smooth 10 hour transit from Holland, MI. Spending the night on Carrie Rose and will consider touching land after some coffee in the morning.

Chafe Update

Frankfort to Manistee, Manistee to Pentwater, Pentwater to Whitelake, Whitelake to Holland . . . Some were comfortable runs, others not. The weather is changing with more west winds of both the southern and northern variety. We know that at this time of year it makes sense to cross to the west side of the lake up north, and travel to Chicago on the lee, and therefore more comfortable shore. But we like Michigan and are reluctant to leave.

Michigan’s harbors are part of river and/or lake systems. This is unlike Wisconsin and Illinois ports that are attached to the coast; this, and the fact that the wind blows from the west, means that the western shore offers calmer seas and therefore placid harbors. In Michigan any combination of a west wind makes the lakes and rivers surge. The lake flows into them and meets an out flowing current that has nowhere to go, and hence it goes up and down and so do we.

We rock on all axes: x, y and z. It can get exciting and leads to much consternation about how to tie to the dock or slip. In Holland I had seven lines out and could have used more if I could have only reached the post on my port rear quarter. It was too far away and so I made due with what I could reach.

Rocking, rolling and yawing also creates chafe. Dock lines have disintegrated before my eyes, so once Carrie Rose is secured I begin the task of adding chafe protection. As with most things in boating every captain has their preferred method and device. I inherited approximately eight foot long stiff white tubes with overlapping slits that run the length, and if that is not enough detail for you, difficult to get at holes in each end for fishing through securing lines. These shoelace like lines are necessary because the movement that eats the dock lines will move the tubes to one side (and eat the dock lines) if they are not secured.

Needless to say once this is accomplished we’d rather not leave the harbor for a few days. It is nice to have a day to recover and that is a story for another day.

Sunset in Frankfort, MI

Ridding the boat of these is my first task each morning

Whitelake smoking at dawn

Holland's inner lighthouse

Coasting

This was written in June on the way to the Nordic Tug rendezvous in St. Ignace, MI.


I thought we had enough time, is a common refrain on Lake Michigan. At present I am sitting through the third thunderstorm of the last three days. I thought I had enough time to get to our destination by today but I did not. Prudence dictates I remain in the harbor and it gives me some unexpected time to look around and absorb the scene. In the last few days I have seen a cast of characters pass through the different harbors I have been sequestered in.

The best were two elderly gentlemen in a small open sailboat of British design who are sailing, weather be damned, south along the east coast. After seeing what they have been through I feel like a wimp for staying put through these few “inconsequential” major storms.

Then there was the couple that spent the last eight summers cruising the Great Lakes in their large traditional (read slow) ketch. They go where they want, when they want with no strings attached.

A fellow Nordic Tug owner whom I have met at rendezvous’ appeared late yesterday in the heart of the worst of the worse weather. I “caught” him as he turned into his slip with the wind blowing his little ship a beam. Once tied up he described fighting progressively higher winds and seas as he approached the harbor only to turn back three miles to rescue a disabled sailboat.

This reverie could go on but I will stop. The storm clouds have move on to reek havoc over the horizon and blue sky has returned, as have the tourist that fled at the first sign of rain. There is a bit of going native about cruising even if every harbor town is full of ice cream and t-shirt shops. I have hardly seen a soul on this trip up the eastern shore, that is excluding the fishermen three miles out from every harbor mouth,

I have had the lake to myself. This was most evident while passing through the Manitou Passage. A lonely stretch of water bounded by South and North Manitou Islands to the west, and Sleeping Bear and Pyramid Points to the east. It is primordial compared to other areas of the lake I have experienced. The forces and the time involved in shaping this terrain, both above and below the surface of the lake, occupy my thoughts as I negotiate through the various nuns and cans, and lighthouses that mark the passage.

I get the same feeling when I focus my telescope back in time from the moon, to the planets, to the Milky Way, and to our local group of galaxies and beyond. My mind relaxes, shedding filters that are normally in place and roams. It is a common thread for most voyagers. It is why you can meet people as you wander and instantly fall in sync with them.

At least for me there is superstition involved in this. When I was growing up my Sicilian mother (bless her soul) enforced many different entreaties. The oddest being that opening an umbrella inside the house meant a family member would die. I am sure I killed off a few of my dear aunts due to my inattention. My traveling companion Charlotte is a good antidote to this line of thinking. She always speaks the obvious in any situation. I seldom do, fearing I will tempt faith. I am not convinced this is a good practice but I have silenced my objection to it.

One thing that differentiates coasting from other types of boating is housekeeping. Besides charting and never ending maintenance someone has to shop and cook, wash the dishes and make the bed, and do the laundry. Granted the grass doesn’t need to be cut or the garden weeded but the above more than makes up for the lack of those chores. This is why charter captains and their pampered guest exist.

Maybe one day I will succumb to be pampered but not today. Today I will swing in each beam sea, drive into whitecaps and squalls, ghost through early summer fog and wait out weather in a safe harbor.

Coasting involves pairing down to the essentials, no end of endless horizons and fellow travelers that are not so much about the trip as they are about the spirit of the trip. So when I really think about it I do have enough time, because how much time does it take to absorb the spirit of a place.

Cruising Log WEEK10

There comes a time to leave. It may not be in the best of circumstances but it is time, so we headed south. South from Elk Rapids means north for 20 miles to exit Grand Traverse Bay. If the weather is iffy, as it was, Northport is the last refuge in the bay to bail out. We have spent many days waiting for better weather there and were not looking forward to another extended stay. We decided to try for Leland or maybe Frankfort.

The Manitou Passage is a channel of sorts; North and South Manitou Islands demarcate it to the west, and Pyramid Point and Sleeping Bear Point to the east. It constricts the lake in both the horizontal and the vertical plane: 6 miles across and in some places 6 feet deep. From Grand Traverse Light on one end to Frankfort on the other, Leland is about a third of the way through.

Leland’s harbor is an afterthought, tacked on the coast to give boats a way out of the Passage’s often riotous weather. But Leland requires getting off track and heading east away from Pyramid Point. This means the next day you have to make up the lost ground and with the weather forecast none to hopeful we decided to tough it out to Frankfort.

Whether it was a good choice or bad one is hard to judge. I do know that if someone would have made us an offer for Carrie Rose during what turned out to be a 87 mile, 9½ hour trek we would have given it serious consideration.

Frankfort is a lovely town on the banks of Betsie Lake with a good bakery, several fine restaurants, a well-stocked hardware store and a bike path running through the marina. Our stay was extended by a guest’s arrival from Chicago. Marty drove up the 6 hours and drove us around an area that we have only seen from the lake: Sleeping Bear Dunes Light House and national seashore, the maritime museum at Glen Haven, dinner in Glen Arbor, and a survey of Leland Harbor, never before seen in its new configuration.

Tuesday we cruised to Manistee, an uneventful trip except for stopping dead in a nearly empty lake to prevent a wayward fisherman from colliding with us. The marina has a new boathouse and is located on the banks of the Manistee River about a mile and a half from the lake. The river had an odd combination of an outward flowing current with a strong inward blowing wind and this lead to a minor mishap while docking. I managed to destroy several of our engine intake louvers in the process.

Besides the constant stream of fishing vessels of every possible configuration an enormous lake freighter ghosted by in the early afternoon, and as predicted by the harbormaster did the same at 2AM with its now empty bulk even larger than before. There is no room for error in its transit. One false move and the entire riverfront would be splinters of fiberglass and wood, not to mention bones!

Pentwater is our next stop but don’t hold me to this . . . you just never know on the big lake.

Point Betsie lighthouse, just 5 miles from Frankfort

The welcoming Frankfort, MI lighthouse

Manistee River amongst the butterflies

One humongous ship

One humongous ship at 2:30 in the morning

Slip 29

Slip 29 in Elk Rapids will be our home for the next couple days until the weather calms down. We came over from Northport, MI on Saturday. Elk Rapids is quite south (20 miles) on the east shore of Grand Traverse Bay. It is a pretty town with a protected harbor, a well-stocked wine store and a first class pizzeria.

The Antrim Chain of Lakes, the main one being Torch Lake, empties into the bay here via the Elk River. As with the other wonders of Michigan who knew this existed. There is a spillway, which leads to a rapid of sorts, two beaches and a privately owned (by a family that lives on the premises) hydroelectric plant at the dam. Charlotte is catching up on her watercolors and I am waiting for inspiration, this along with walking on the beach and visiting every art gallery in town.

Sitting here waiting out the latest string of thunderstorms has me reminiscing about our experiences in northern Michigan and Canada. It is a challenging area with — get ready this is a long list — islands, shoals, freighters, rivers, international borders, commercial fishing nets, the Straight of Mackinac culminating with the bridge, fog, large light houses, hit and miss weather forecasts, magnetic variation, ferries, narrow channels, unpredictable currents and to top it all off, Lake Michigan and Lake Huron with their long fetches and large waves. Then there are the rocks of the North Channel.

This is not to mention the technical skills of navigating the above and at the end of each day anchoring with no way to replenish supplies other than what we remembered to bring. It is a crash course in piloting and navigation. All it needs is tides to complicate matters further!

Shelter

This entry is out of sync. It was written on 7/21/11 but I thought it captures the feel of anchoring in the North Channel. It is interesting to look back at this while secured to the east wall of Northport Harbor in Grand Traverse Bay surrounded by 50 and 60 foot powerboats with their AC running.

Shelter

Amendroz Island is straight west out of Little Current for 8 miles then a right-left-right. There is an entrance on the east side but the ultimate authority in these parts, The Great Lake Cruising Club’s Port Pilot and Log Book, says to go north around the Bourinot Reef and then come straight south into the anchorage. We did and are now anchored in 18 feet of water with 100 of chain off the bow. Our trusty Bruce anchor is well dug into the mud and rotted sawdust of years past when our ancestors were busy chopping the entire island’s trees down to build cities which eventually burned to the ground.

Now that latitude and longitude have come into vogue I will share my coordinates — N 46˚ 03.138, W082˚ 08.357 — in the hope the reader will locate this special place for yourselves and have a look. It is in the friendly confines of Canada: country full of down to earth, joyous people, most of whom are very glad not to be U.S. citizens. That said, Canada, if my unscientific survey is correct, is a country that moves to Florida for the winter. They live in fifth wheels, doublewides, your common condo and boats of every description.

A buffeted small green sailboat has just sailed in and placed itself about 100 yards port of Carrie Rose. With its anchor barely in the water the solo sailor jumps in the tepid bay for a swim. And the larger sailboat I drove behind (never drive in front of an anchored boat if possible) on my way to anchor, went out to test the Main Passage made turbulent by 30 knot winds and returned to anchor closer to shore. It is shallower there but also a bit more protected.

Carrie Rose is swinging to the gusts. She is having a tug of war with the wind and the 100 feet of chain off her bow. I have decided to monitor the one small deciduous tree amongst the conifers. Its gray trunk stands out from the multiple shades of green. So far it is a stalemate and will remain as such until the wind moderates this evening.

Every cruise brings on another set of stressors. This cruise is no exception but sheltered in this protected cove from a strong west wind most of our travails seem worth it. It is a hard thing to judge. Some distance is needed and distance we will have. As the crow flies we are 342 nm from our mooring in Montrose harbor. That is a lot of diesel!

Cruising Log WEEK8

We spent the weekend in Petoskey, MI on the south side of Little Traverse Bay. This is our first time venturing into the bay as we are usually racing up and down the coast trying to make a deadline but not this trip, so we detoured in. Petoskey is a lively town and was made even livelier by the sidewalk sale and farmer’s market.

The bikes finally got off the boat and took us the 9 miles up and back to Harbor Springs where we put our name on a waiting list for Monday and sure enough made the cut. Harbor Springs is an upscale old time resort with boats of all descriptions and large bric-a-brac “cottages”. And it is a perfectly protected deep-water harbor.

It was a short cruise across the bay (our shortest yet) from Petoskey. We will stay here for while, take the dingy out for a cruise, that is if it ever stops raining, and just kickback and wonder where to go next.

Petoskey Harbor

On our way across the bay

Across from the Harbor Springs Municipal Dock

Afloat

Each waterfront has a distinct feel. Sitting here in the pilothouse looking out at the shoreline their differences became palpable. I conjure up the smell of a walk along the beach, a trek out to the end of a pier or a stroll through the harbor. It is the result of a lifetime of experience.

When I was a kid my father took me to Chicago’s lakefront. We looked at the boats and due to dad’s disarming charm, immediately entered into conversations with the captains. These are some of my fondest memories of him. Life was not as sophisticated back then. No electronic gadget kept people glued to a screen. Everyone was on the dock puttering around, doing this or that. They were ripe for a distraction, which my talkative father provided.

These excursions usually took place on warm summer afternoons except during smelting season. Then we would roam the harbor’s edge on cold spring nights. The fisherman kept warm by burning scraps of wood in 55-gallon drums. It was a colorful scene complete with nets, lanterns, and bundled up men huddled around fires drinking, smoking and gossiping.

When I got myself a big bike the first place I headed was the lakefront. I spent most of my summers there. I still do. Eventually I got off the shoreline and onto the water; this lead to my first encounters with seasickness. Every year I would go out sailing, get deadly ill and throw my guts up for a few hours. After that the rest of the season would usually be okay. I realized the sooner I got it over with the better.

Seasickness is a class of malady for which there is no definitive cure. Therefore there are millions of them. Well, I exaggerate; there are hundreds of thousands. None of which are very effective. Please believe me, I have tried them all: ginger, eating prior to sailing, eating afterwards, pretzels, electronic wrist bands, acupressure, Dramamine, meclizine, scopolamine, herbal oils, beer, looking at the horizon, never going below deck and in the most dire circumstances, prayer.

Thankfully with the passing decades my semi-circular canals have calmed down, so being afloat entails much less gastrointestinal drama. Now I have time to ponder other things like the feel of the wind blowing across the deck; sunrise and sunset; the gentle rocking that lulls me to sleep; the pride of a well executed passage. Separation from land provides space for inspiration and reflection.

These are the secret pleasures of the watery world. They are in plain sight and because of this difficult to comprehend. When someone walks to the edge and looks out on the water they sense it. It is the reason why pastel colored condos line every harbor. People instinctively want to be part of it, but it is illusive unless you are afloat. That is truth as I see, feel and know it.

Water is a tuff taskmaster. It is not forgiving. Flying of course is worse but boating is not far behind. I try to find the balance between finishing projects and still having the time to be on the water. Some years are a wash. I never catch up. But even in those years I am afloat and there is value in that.

My fellow harbor mates come and go to their preordained schedules. If I am around I wish them fair winds at their departure and provide them a hearty welcome when they return. We chitchat a bit and then go our way. Except for the few obligatory stories of hair-raising events or breakdowns, being afloat is a private matter.

There are a few great writers able to convey the experience. Some that come to mind are Hal Roth, William F. Buckley, Melville, Conrad, Lynn and Larry Pardey and Joshua Slocum; the first man to sail alone around the world. Download any of them to your Kindle and enjoy the journey.

Of course, they have been to many different shorelines and thus all have unique tales to tell. As I sit here their stories are also palpable. I can see the books lining my bookshelves, just begging to be cast off into another young impressionable mind.

Cruising Log WEEK7

Leaving Little Current behind we traveled West rather than East due to some nagging concerns about the engine, concluding that if it malfunctioned again it would be better to be in the lower 48 rather than in the vast wilderness of Canada. Lucky for us our friends on Sir Tugly Blue were also heading west, so off we went.

The first night we anchored in a stiff NW wind in Amendroz Bay. It was quiet and well protected. Great to be swinging in the breeze again. The next day we transited the narrow McBean Channel above Fox Island, then squeezed through Little Detroit to the Whalesback Channel, skirted around Turtle Rock, turned north pass Godfrey, Prendergast and Drew Island, and snuck under Navy Island to anchor where our adventure started, Long Point Cove. Quite a day!

The next day we motored into a fog bank several miles south of the appropriately named town of Blind River and then made a mid-course correction, which took us to Drummond Island, MI instead of our original destination of Thessalon, Canada. So, Sunday found us painlessly checked back into the U.S. by a young Immigration officer and it only cost us $27.59 — credit cards only, please.

Moving on we left for St. Ignace and the Straits of Mackinac spending the entire day in 3 to 4 to 5, ye gads, 6 foot rollers and even managed to surf down one at greater than 12 knots; quite an accomplishment for our overloaded tug. I respectfully asked Charlotte to stop announcing the next big wave catching us up from behind. I spent the 6 hours it took watching the new autopilot (I spent fifty some hours installing it last summer) doing a stellar job keeping us on course.

Monday we actually vacationed and took our bikes on a ferry to Mackinaw Island. There is a 8 mile bike path around the island, which we surprised ourselves by completing without much difficulty, had a snack on the porch of The Grand Hotel (10 bucks for the privilege), checked out the stately “cottages”, walked the main drag (how much fudge can you sell!) and took the ferry back during a squall; all-in-all enjoyable day.

Now we sit in Petoskey, across from Harbor Springs, The Naples of the North. We had a calm day for our trip west down the Straits of Mackinac and south through Grays Reef Passage. This time we could see the Abandoned, White Shoal, Grays Reef and Ile aux Galets lighthouses. All missed the first time due to dense fog. The Pride of Baltimore tall ship accompanied us through the passage.

Sadly Sir Tugly Blue’s and our paths diverged once through the Passage. They have to get back to the real world and we still have some time in our fantasy one. Better companions we could have not wished for. Now we can wander, ride our bikes, try and find a Petoskey stone, and only travel in calm seas … ahhhhh!

Sunset in Amendroz Island

A sampling of rocks in the Whalesback Channel

Long Point Cove

None the worse for wear

Just spectacular

Grays Reef Light house and the Pride of Baltimore

Fog

Fog requires concentration. Fog requires subduing gut wrenching, heart pounding and nail biting panic. Fog requires not trusting your senses. Fog requires the realization that you can slow down or even stop. Fog requires protocol.

Radar, chart plotters and radios can negate fog if you are mindful. But fog is the “mental” mother of all weather on the water. The wind and waves of storms are a physical challenge; fog is an intellectual one. The blessing is that calm water usually accompanies fog. The wind that creates havoc on the water also carries away the fog, so it is a mixed blessing.

Fog is the nearest I get to a cloud other then when flying through one. In a plane I am cocooned within a quarter inch or so of aluminum. In a boat I am in contact with it. I can open the pilothouse door and touch it, and it is like being rained on without the rain. Sounds like a koan: How can you be in the rain without rain?

I start out sounding the horn every two minute but slowly realize that nobody, if there is anybody, in the vicinity is doing the same. I am not sure why. Some will announce their presence over the VHF radio, “Securite-Securite this is the recreational vehicle Carrie Rose out of Charlevoix northbound to Gray’s Reef Passage.” This may get a response or may not but at least I have made the world aware of my intentions.

Now I set into a routine. One by one I scan the instruments, paying particular attention to the radar and the chart plotter. I adjust the autopilot to keep on my prearranged course and react to blips on the radar. Your microwave is essentially radar but instead of popping popcorn mine allows me to see an unseen world. When dots appear I track them to see if the dot and me are on a collision course.

This year for some unknown reason I knew how to use all the buttons (16 and 3 dials) on the radar. Don’t ask me how. I have been reading the manual for years and never figured them out until now. The two most useful turned out to be EBL (electronic bearing line) and VRM (variable range marker). With these two markers I can assure myself that I am on a safe course in respect to other traffic or obstacles in the area. Plus it helps to wile away the time between harbors.

This is a concern I did not have on my sailboat. Sailboats are needy. They require constant attention to do their best. On a sailboat I have to respond to every change in the weather, whereas in my little trawler I mostly just plow through it, watching the wind gusts and shifts outside the ten windows of my pilothouse. It is an interesting change in perspective.

In the fog there is no perspective. It is easy to over compensate and end up going in circles. As obvious as it sounds I have learned to slow up or stop if I get confused. Cruising has a momentum that is difficult to override. All kinds of vessels become casualties due to this, from small fishing boats to super tankers. I do not plan on being one of them.

I find that when I am safely in port I have an intense pain, well pain may not be the correct word, maybe awareness of my solar plexus is a better but more obtuse description. I start to do the deep abdominal breathing I learned in yoga decades ago and it eventually subsides. A glass of wine doesn’t hurt either. Later as I lay in bed I relive the experience. During the debriefing I focus on details and look for the lessons imbedded in the undertaking.

That is what makes fog and cruising compelling. It is not all fun but it is on the edge of what awareness is about. Every second, whether painful or not, is precious: one time, one meeting …

Cruising Log WEEK6

Sunday was very hot reaching 87 degrees. We thinks yous sweltering in Chicago have it worse. Again we assisted Roy’s Cruiser’s Net call-in in capturing and transcribing boat names and locations. There have been #125 cruisers traveling around the North Channel islands reporting in. Of course this is not mandatory, so who knows how many boats there are actually out there.

The two lovely owners of Mystic leant us their car (without doing a background check, mind you) for the weekend. This allowed a day trip off the island as far as Espanola. We made a couple detours and one of these lead us to an artist studio tucked into the quartz hills at Loon Lake.

Somehow wherever we are in the world the conversations get around to Chicago and today was no different. I spied two pictures of a young handsome guy: one shaking Ronald Reagan’s hand complete with his signature and the other with the artist, the young man (her son) and Wayne Gretzky. Turns out we were talking to Alan “Rocky” Secord’s mom. As some of you might know (not us) he was an ex-Chicago Blackhawk’s player.

So began WEEK6. After much consternation the mechanic arrived today, Wednesday. Though barely fitting into the engine compartment he replaced 6 injectors, a fuel lift pump, the impellor and the fuel filter. After a few adjustments the engine is running well, and weather permitting we will leave the welcoming town of Little Current Thursday AM with Sir Tugly Blue to head west.

New injector

Old injector

For the cognoscenti

A ray of ....

Song

I wonder if anyone has ever gone crazy listening to the song of the white-throated sparrow. From the first accented note of its soaring whistle follows a singsong that cascades down in pitch for several bars. As I listen I realize how privileged I am to have the time and the ability to anchor in this remote bay where their song predominates.

I begin to pick out individuals. Some songs are higher, some lower; some have more cadences, some less; some are up beat, some down. Listening to them makes me want to whistle, a skill I have never mastered. If I could only see them but I am floating a hundred feet off shore and they are in the dense forest that clings to the granite islands that litter the North Channel. There are a few more sounds: gulls, terns, warblers, crows and the occasional out board, but they are a mere backdrop.

The day before I shared Whitney Bay, MI with a family of loons. Now that is a sound. At first I did not want to believe it. I kept trying to convince myself that it must be something else. It was not. Their song is eerily compelling. I will not begin to describe it. Go to YouTube and listen for yourself. My only advice is, if you are alone leave the lights on.

Then there is the buzz. It began late one night while I was reading with the ceiling light on over my head. I turned to look out the rear window of the pilothouse and there, through the screen, was a mass of needles with wings. They were testing the boats defenses. Alien has nothing on a North Country mosquito. So far I have kept the upper hand, but I am not getting cocky. Even though it is three days away from the Fourth of July it is still early in the North and this year has been a particularly wet and cool. I have been advised that the worst is yet to come.

Mostly though, it is the lack of sound that is impressionable. At home I live under one of O’Hare’s flight paths. I get concerned if an airliner hasn’t come or gone in a couple of minutes. And when I am moored at Montrose Harbor in Chicago it is rare if an ambulance or fire engine has not raced by in a half hour. Here in the North Channel it is generally quiet but not tonight.

Tonight it is Canada Day and their way of celebrating is the same as the rest of the world since the Chinese invented fireworks. Amidst the plop of the wavelets striking the bow, I can hear the muffled thunder of sparkling lights in the sky. Later in the night the rumble comes from approaching thunderstorms. This gets me thinking: did I anchor far enough away from the rock-strewn shore and is the anchor properly set.

Then there is the song of Rosie the dinghy. Rosie was my early spring project. The kit arrived at my doorstep off the back of a friend’s humongous red pickup truck. Little of the flat elongated package belied her future shape. She is all curves and floats in a few inches of water. I thought this would make her skittish but her designer gave her a long deep keel and a couple of skegs either side. This gives her the odd characteristic of tracking true (straight) and also spinning on a dime.

But let me get back to the song. Rosie is made of exotic marine plywood, and has two hollow chambers, one forward and one aft. This makes her resonant. I’m no musician but she has a clear tone that any percussionist would be proud of. The sound is most evident as she swings from Carrie Rose, the mother ship, in a short chop.

The wavelets hit a flat region about a quarter back from the bow and it is here that she sings her song — a surprisingly sonorous song. So loud at times does she sing that the here-to-for mentioned white-throated sparrows are drowned out.

I experiment with multiple positions to lessen the volume: hanging her far aft, pulling her bow up on a fender resting on the swim platform and banishing her to as close to Carrie Rose’s bow as possible. All my efforts are in vain. Her song still soars. Finally, I reverse steps and pull her out of the water. She hangs limply off the back of the boat, quiet.

So, my own question is answered except in the reverse. I went crazy by not listening to the song of the white-throated sparrow. It made for a couple of interesting days while floating in this archipelago of deep green granite islands and dark clear water.

Cruising Log WEEK5

Little Current…Little Current…Little Current. Nice place to visit but I think we would have preferred a shorter stay, though the folks here have been very hospitable. We are helping Roy with the Cruiser Net Call-in. As we mentioned before, on the VHF radio each morning Roy gives the cruising community the weather, news for the day and sports highlights and then all the boaters traveling in the North Channel call-in with their boat name and location. We are frantically writing all this down because Roy keeps a tally of all this detail. The number of boats has increased each day and on Saturday we reached 140 boat call-ins.

Our other entertainment has been wandering around Little Current. We have seen everything more than once: grocery, gift shops, restaurant, ice cream stall, hair-salon, barber and the hardware store. We have not been to the wine shop or the beer store; maybe we will save this for another time. The diesel mechanic was here on Wednesday and determined we had an injector issue. The parts are on order but are coming from Halifax so, we wait for him to return early this coming week to do the repair. That’s the plan.

Roy gave us a tour after the Cruiser Net call–in on Saturday that included a visit to his home where his wife Margaret maintains a very beautiful perennial garden. Their property overlooks the North Channel with beautiful views as the property slopes down to the water’s edge. Then Roy took us on a driving tour which included some history of the island and a discussion of the troubled past between the First Peoples and the European settlers.

The boat owners of Mystic lent us their car for the weekend so we could get off the island or just check out the goings on in the different towns. Off we went to visit a couple of 90-year-old hardware stores and see more of the island. We also drove across the one-way Little Current swing bridge, the only access by car to the island. It was originally built for the railroad and is still only has one lane. It swings opens every hour to let the boaters traveling between Little Current on the North Channel to the islands of Georgian Bay. Our tug friends (Dale and Kathy) from Albin & Co joined us today.

So ends week5. We hope to be able to leave early this coming week and maybe catch up with our friends before they enter Collins Inlet East of Killarney at the beginning of Georgian Bay.


Our new home


Roy's beautiful view


One heck of a hardware store


The only way onto or off of Manitoulin Island


If you have to get stuck somewhere Little Current is not a bad place

Disappointed

The storm passes with a sudden lull, and then a new wind trickles in. Off in the distance there is a rich amber sunset with the coastal pine forest silhouetted by the remnants of wispy clouds. And the temperature has moderated. I hear all sorts of weird birds calling across the channel now that the wind is hush.

A perfect night for a walk but there is a small problem, mosquitoes. They have but a few weeks in the North (N 45˚59.16/W 81˚55.71) to suck blood, and they are not about to lose any time. I may be anthropomorphizing but come on you know I am right.

They are looking for warm mammals and I fit the bill. In fact I am the perfect thin-skinned dupe. That is unless I am covered with DEET. If there was ever a trade off between some perceived threat and immediate gratification this is it. Who would not give a year of life in return for not being eaten alive?

So I am disappointed that I cannot be outside on this perfect night. I am disappointed that after years of planning three misfiring injectors derail our cruise. And I am disappointed that the parts are in Halifax and not in the back of the mechanics truck. That’s life you say but I feel like grieving.

I think some grief might come in handy. Maybe then I can stop grinding my teeth. There are worse things than being stranded in your yacht. It is not hard to think of them. In fact that is what I am doing right at this moment. I will let you come up with your own examples.

I thought writing this would make me feel better. It has not. The fact that I am wallowing is probably making things worse. So I will change the topic, to what I am not sure. I like feeling miserable about this turn of events. It seems to be the correct response. And I have not even started to think about the cash outlay. That will further tug on the emotions.

There is one cause for joy: the barometer is rising. Quite a bit actually and this portends multiple days of fine weather; multiple days that I will not be able to take advantage of. See, more reasons for misery. I need a good cry but I am not schooled in the technique. It has happened in the past but only during life altering events. This is hardly that. I think it may help. I will try to tear again in the morning before I have my cup of coffee, maybe that will trigger it.

Now I can see the moon through the rigging of a nearby sailboat. During the windstorm that same sailboat’s halyard was banging against its mast. I will never understand why certain sailors do not tie their lines off. It is simple enough. I wanted to silence it, but it is not my boat. A passing neighbor asks if the noise is bothering me. When I respond in the affirmative she says, “Go tie it off, no one will care.” And so I do and am back in my chair in thirty seconds.

This is the one definitive thing I do all day, other than planning my escape west out of these islands. That is if the parts arrive from Halifax and the mechanic drives up the entire east coast of Georgian Bay to install them. He seems a nice enough guy. I have the manual, so I am confident if he sent me them I could save him the trip. But I will keep this to my miserable self, after all it is the least I deserve.

Before, During and After

Looking out the entrance of Long Point Cove


Sir Tugly Blue in the morning haze at Long Point Cove


A nice bit of rock in Long Point Cove


A narrow spot in the road called Little Detroit


Dolly beautifully lying at Hotham Island


Rescued from the Benjamin Islands by ...


... Pat in Beachcomber from Boyle Marine.


Our present location.


We're trying, we're trying!!!

Injectors

Good news: not major engine damage. It appears to be injectors.

Bad news: they have to come from Halifax, so we are here until at least Tuesday.

Two weeks in Little Current ... who would have thought.

The picture is of the crews of Jenny Jo, O B Quiet, Sir Tugly Blue, Dolly and Carrie Rose.

The gentleman in the pink shirt is Roy who host the Little Current Cruiser Net that helps all of us keep in touch. Charlotte and I (more Charlotte) has been helping him in the AM pick up the boats that call in via channel 71 on VHF radio from all over the North Channel. It is much more challenging then either of us thought ...

2/3

Odds are I will make it to ninety. My father died at eighty of an oddball disease that I am betting I will not contract and my mother made to 94 in good health except for three years of senility. So, this leads me to believe that I am in the mist of a 2/3rd life crisis. My mid-life crisis came a little early but this one is right on schedule.

This is when folks my age start dreaming about RV’s. In our late teens most of us had wanderlust and it appears to have only been in remission for 40 years. Of course most of us do not want to relive sleeping in tents and getting eaten by mosquitoes. After years of work we deserve some creature comforts. This leads a few to purchase opulent vehicles for their return to nature but that is not I.

I am comfortable within 32’ of fiberglass in most places except out on the lake in poor conditions. There is heat, a functional kitchen, a nice bathroom and even a tolerable shower if need be. My venue is wood lined and has a folksy charm about it. I even have another equally as charming boat hanging off the back. In boating parlance I do not have 2-footitist.

Mid life was about achieving. At that stage I wondered where I was going with my life. Would my goals/dreams ever materialize? In my case I did not see it happening, so I (with the support of my wife) changed course. It lead me on a decade long voyage that turned out to be one of the great adventures of my life; one that I am still trying to unravel. I suppose psychotherapy might help quicken the process but I have never been one for doctors.

I knew something was up when I started to let my magazine subscriptions lapse. I have always loved magazines. They are the perfect venue for planning a dream. In most cases they are practical, at least the ones I get. One day I noticed that I had read the articles before. Not the exact ones but close enough. I had come full circle and probably knew as much as the writer. The difference between them and me was that they had figured out how to do “it”.

It could be anything. In my case it is going on an extended cruise in my 32-footer. For some it is running a marathon or driving to Alaska or writing a novel or, or, or. Two thirds (if your lucky) of your life is gone. Your skin is getting spots. You need glasses and a light to read a menu. A podiatrist is needed to carve growths off your feet and let’s not even talk about the urologist. It has become painfully obvious that you do not have forever anymore. Your biological time on earth is coming to a close.

But I will lighten up. If you are healthy and not in a drug or alcohol stupor it is a wonderful time to meet fellow 2/3rders. Nobody is out to prove anything. If schedules do not work out, well then we will see you next year. Past professions matter less than present ability and resourcefulness. Tolerance and flexibility are coveted traits. Though there are cliques, they are not malicious. They are based on destinations or on your ride.

What I mean to say is that most of the things we concern ourselves with in the work-a-day world, 2/3rders just don’t give a hoot about. I hope the wanderlust never fades until I reach 3/3rd and at that point who cares!

Picturama

Before it warmed up in Thessalon. First stop in Canada!


Took a sharp right into our first anchorage, Long Point Cove.


Circumnavigating Beardrop Harbour with the crews from Dolly and Sir Tugley Blue


Charlotte at Beardrop Harbour


Berrypicker Rock in Whalesback Channel


Fun while awaiting the mechanic ...


Ya think they would know better!