Projects

Holiday Letter 2010

I try to avoid clichés, but this year I bit off more than I could chew. Every year as summer wanes I find myself with a list of winter boat projects. It sits staring at me on a yellow post-it note just forward of Carrie Rose’s helm. Though different each year the length never seems to diminish. 2009’s was particularly long.

Of course it does not includes regularly scheduled maintenance; things like bottom paint, oil and filters, and maybe, if I have the energy, waxing the boat. These tasks are straightforward and require more grunt work than psychic energy. But the others are, well, unique and hopefully once in a lifetime projects.

How to begin? First mate (and purser) Charlotte advises plotting each project on a spreadsheet. Arranging the details neatly in little rectangular boxes according to start and finish dates, part numbers and cost projections. She assures me the process will then proceed in a logical fashion from purchase to installation. Alas, I cannot fit myself into little rectangles. Just looking at a spreadsheet causes my mind to go into hibernation.

Granted, over the years I have accomplish a lot, and I know if I were a little more organized I could have saved myself a decade over the last half century. I am as organized as I am ever going to get and I’m all right with that even if it drives my first mate nuts. One of the convoluted ways I ensure that a project will be completed is to spend thousands of dollars on hardware prior to knowing what I am getting myself into.

In Chicago, winter is spent going to boat shows and devoting hundreds of hours online or with my head buried in marine catalogs. Boats are peculiar entities in a world of look alike mass-produced items. They are individuals. Patience is required when working on them. Each project entails funding, logistics and consultation prior to picking up a wrench or cutting a hole. The old adage, measure twice—cut once, though not always followed, has deep roots in the marine community.

Before beginning I familiarize myself with the anatomy. I sit on Carrie Rose and stare at what needs to be repaired or replaced. I gaze into the void where something new is to be installed. Manuals are read and highlighted. Equipment is fondled. Consultation’s sought. I visualize the job and note the steps.

Sometimes, no matter how much study, I am stymied. This may seem obvious, but I know that if I do not start I will never finish. Caution is thrown to the wind and I begin, hoping the inevitable mistakes will not be too costly. This year I was blessed with several opportunities to put this approach into practice.

It started with the head. While not complex, plumbing can be frustrating. Installation is simply getting the correct hoses attached in the correct way without a lot of extra curves and of course, without leaks. An understatement if I ever heard one. To get the proper bends, so I would not have to cut more holes in the boat, I experimented with heating various hoses in the oven. Nothing much came of this approach other than stinking up the house. Then I discovered just the right hose and it all came together. Not without a few scraped knuckles and a kinked back, but that is the price you pay for not hiring a professional. This first project was miraculously completed before Carrie Rose was launched and worked splendidly all summer.

Now with the boat in the water, it was essential to install the autopilot. It is a complex device that encompasses the entire boat, so the first thing I did was to expose every hidden cubbyhole from the bow to the stern. It made Carrie Rose unlivable. Several weekend sleepovers had to be canceled. To make matters worse we had an early heat wave with temperatures over ninety degrees.

Every chance I got I rowed out to the boat and slaved. I’d get home, reread the manual and the next day find myself redoing what I had done the day before, only correctly. After 50 hours of uncompensated labor it was finally installed. I turned it on and nada.

I restrained from jumping in the lake. It would have been a fitting end to the misery, but the water was too warm to do much damage. Flashlight in hand I delved into the guts of the boat looking like Slim Pickens straddling the H-bomb in Dr. Strangelove. I waited for the next morning to push the power button again and sure enough it worked. Hallelujah!

Next came the propane cabin heater. It took me all winter to find the correct combination of fittings to connect it to the twenty pounds of propane at the stern. Then I tortured over the decision about where to locate it. Once decided the installation was straightforward, if you think drilling a four-inch hole in the roof of a Nordic Tug clear-cut. It worked perfectly during the premature cold snap other than for the leaking propane (quickly fixed!), but we won’t go there.

Now, already mid-August, it was time to enjoy the boat. I invited Charlotte to inspect my handy work. It was so exciting to be finished. To celebrate I planned a short cruise south to the casino and steel mill laden coast of Indiana when I discovered a leak in the exhaust system—back to the drawing board!

Stationary Front

Holiday Letter 2009


A low develops. It drops down from the Arctic or is born in the Pacific off the West coast of Washington State, and travels eastward across the continent. It stays in Canada due to the influence of the jet stream and sits unmoving, centered over Ontario.

Tendrils extend south past Chicago, but most of its venom is unleashed on northern Michigan and above. NW wind gusting to 25 knots, low clouds, cold and rain are what it contributes. Summer nights are not balmy while it spins counterclockwise above us, but a frigid fifty degrees.

On the West coast of Lake Michigan where I live, this NW wind would not represent a problem. Though the wind may blow, the surface of the lake remains calm. There is no fetch to allow the waves to build. We can usually travel without discomfort, vigilant not to be blown off course with our little ship crabbing into the wind to maintain the proper track.

But here on the East coast the waves have time to build and hit Carrie Rose on her starboard bow just aft of the forward quarter. The long keel, large diesel and equally large prop of our Nordic Tug keeps us moving in a more-or-less straight line, but does not prevent the inclinometer from quickly swinging 15 to 30 degrees either side of center.

Out on the lake just south of Charlevoix, MI we begin to think of options. No long trip today. I depressed the GOTO button on the GPS and alter course. Fresh blue water cascades up and over the pilothouse, and soaks our bed because I have neglected to secure the forward hatch. Either due to complacency or over familiarity with the process, I have stopped consulting my pre-departure checklist, wrongly thinking I will reflexively perform the appropriate tasks. Is this not the precise reason for a checklist?

Our new destination shortens today’s trip from fifty to fifteen miles. First we need to cross Grand Traverse Bay and then, once in the lee of Lighthouse Point, things should calm down. Soon after that all will be well except for a few shoals to avoid in Northport Bay, and then the ever-present anxiety about when to depart will begin.

If you look at a map of Lake Michigan you see an undulating coastline like the design on the blade of a fine samurai sword. On land these curves hardly matter. Most are sought after for their scenic beauty. On the water they are obstacles to surmount.

Grand Traverse Bay’s large opening alters the weather and waves surrounding it. Points of land also do this. More of a factor for sailboats, I also note the different feel and sound of boat and engine as we round the various headlands. This gets the hair on my neck ruffled and heightens my awareness. With good reason as many of these points have sent much larger boats than ours to the bottom.

Large lighthouses mark their farthest reaches. Big and Little Sable Points, Point Betsie, Grand Traverse and North Manitou Shoal illuminate the hazards to navigation. I do not follow the coast closely, preferring to stay off shore watching the beach as it recedes and then miles later, comes up to meet us. This habit of staying offshore is a remnant from my sailing days.

On our harried trip home we travel from Northport to Pentwater, skirting through the Manitou Passage protected from the NW wind by the North and South Manitou Islands. We hop-scotch from Sleeping Bear Point to Point Betsie to Big Sable Point, and then after 116 nautical miles (our longest trip yet) gratefully tie up at the fuel dock in Pentwater. It was the last and the best spot in town to watch the fireworks held on July 3rd in this quaint coastal village.

With the rising sun we maneuver between trolling fishing boats and once around Little Sable Point, head straight for Holland, MI. In Holland we sleep the extra hour we will gain by crossing the lake to Chicago. We venture out on a beautiful flat blue surface and are interrupted by only a few miles of fog and one equally lonely powerboat crossing our path in eight hours.

Two weeks on the water. Sixty-one hours on the diesel. A new radio won for being the boat that came the farthest to the Nordic Tug rendezvous in Charlevoix and five days marooned in Northport due to weather.

A cruise is made up of emotions: joy, mania, camaraderie, frustration, accomplishment, doubt and confidence, and for good measure throw in a little superstition. Success depends on consultation and debate. It depends on flexibility and on engineering. It did not need to be exaggerated by the counter clockwise rotation of the stationary front to be memorable, but there it is.

Serendipity

Published in The Good Old Boat December 2009 online newsletter.




Our boat, Carrie Rose, lives a solitary life on a mooring at the mouth of Montrose Harbor in Chicago for most of the summer. As we approached the middle of October and boats begin their fall exodus, the harbormaster asked if I would like to move to a berth. A berth is a nice place to be when doing chores: winterizing engines and plumbing systems, and once-a-year maintenance such as changing oil, cleaning the bilge and replacing fuel filters. It is easier to walk rather than row up to the boat with all the tools and the gallons of fluid necessary to complete the work.

I understand that these are mundane concerns, but for a mechanically minded boat owner (read geek) the process can be exciting. First we have to get the boat to the dock. Again, this may seem mundane. That is unless you have ever tried to put an inherently un-maneuverable craft into a tight space. It is like asking a suburban teenager to parallel park on the corner of Belmont and Clark. We who spend our time on moorings find parking in a berth intimidating. On the best of days, without wind and waves, things can go wrong. Many a relationship has ended at the end of a misapplied dock line.

And then, once we are firmly attached to the dock, there is another sobering realization. We have neighbors. Neighbors with kids and dogs and music systems playing the best of the 1970’s, neighbors that can walk right up and talk to us. On a mooring most conversations take place with one party treading water in their dinghy while the other sits comfortably on their boat. Such situations lend themselves to concise discussions of relevant subjects.

On a more uplifting note there is unlimited electricity. This comes in handy when the temperature drops to 38 degrees. We have two space heaters and a down comforter, but these only just keep up with the seeping dank cold. A dock also makes a good transitional space to acclimatize before spending winter on the flat stable earth, and in that, it is to be blessed.

The last several years we have tied up to pier M in a departed (for the winter that is) friend’s spot. It is conveniently located near the pump-out that sits at the far end, bordering the central channel of the harbor. This has not much to do with the story other than before leaving for the year, most boats have to pump their holding tanks dry, and in doing so I get to watch them come and go.

The diversity of the boats and their owners make for hours of cheap entertainment. I sit and watch from my pilothouse, and sometimes I am compelled to reach out and help. There are all types of boaters: from competent to incompetent to down right pathetic. I have been all of these at various stages of my watery career, so let’s just say I can relate.

On this particular Sunday a competent single-hander in a beautiful sailboat pulled up. Never being one to miss perusing an interesting boat, I put my book down and went out to help. Once I secured his forward dock line I complimented him on his boat and mentioned that I have always wanted to sail on one. To this he responded that he was going to sail out to the Harrison-Dever Crib and I was welcomed to join him.

My wife Charlotte gave me leave (a little too easily I thought), and I grabbed gloves, stocking hat, sweater, and a heavier coat before I jumped aboard. He was already hoisting the main sail and soon we powered through a fleet of Rhodes 19 sailboats out into a southwest wind. This southwest wind, as southwest winds are apt to be, was gusty and strong. The lake was as blue as the sky and flat, with just the subtle ripples caused by 15 to 20 knot winds. Being so close to shore the wind did not have time to build waves commensurate to their strength. These ripples will gain height as they glide across seventy miles of open water, eventually pounding into the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan’s eastern shore.

After a quick tutorial, we let the genoa fly, sheeted it in and heeled some thirty degrees to the first of many strong gusts. I sat quietly on the high side letting my senses take in the transition between water and wind, and sail and fiberglass, and well … what else is there to say. This magnificently balanced implement for moving through water sprinted quickly and quietly to 6, 7 and then 8 knots. Wow!

A phone rang and I found myself, a little timidly at first, at the wheel. But you cannot be timid with such a thoroughbred. It pointed higher and higher into the wind, and now with her captain off the phone and back in the cockpit, a strong gust tilted us more and more. Sensing my trepidation he calmly instructed me to fall off some with the gust and then ride the acceleration higher into the breeze.

I would have to be a much better writer to describe the feel of my muscles as I held the wheel, the feel of the water rushing over the rudder, the sound of the windward rigging tightening to the forces acting on the sails and the feel of how this translates into forward motion. I lack the vocabulary to put these sentiments into words.

We flew out into the lake with Chicago’s muscular skyline off our starboard bow, and as the wind settled our tongues loosened and we talked of boats and planes and relationships, and the fact that there are two types of people in the world. The ones that get it and the ones that don’t; and on this day we were of the former.

http://www.goodoldboat.com/newsletter/09_decnews69.php#9

Pizza On Board

The following is a link to my article, Pizza On Board, published by PassageMaker Magazine in their September 2009 online Newsletter #2:
http://www.passagemaker.com/component/k2/item/1005-the-sea-of-cortez

Thunder

Holiday Letter 2008

Between the demise of my hospital, initiating and completing a job search, and my mothers worsening dementia our cruising plans were put on hold for another year. I did this reluctantly. You see, since passing fifty I have begun to feel a certain urgency to life: summers pass quickly and spring arrives reluctantly.

In a sudden urge to burn diesel, Charlotte and I hatched a plan to take Carrie Rose, our 32-foot Nordic Tug, forty nautical miles north to Winthrop Harbor on the border of Illinois and Wisconsin. Now in the annals of cruising literature this is hardly an epic voyage and Winthrop Harbor, though nice, is not a place where dreams are made, but in the truncated world of cruising around Chicago, it's not bad.

Winthrop Harbor was created in 1990 out of the last pristine wetlands of Northern Illinois. Upon viewing the plans of the Illinois Department of Natural Resources for the new harbor some years before it was built, we surely thought a hue and cry would surface and prevent the thousand-boat marina from ever being realized. None did and so there it sits, quietly isolated from the real world, surrounded by an incongruously green space in the company of toxic waste sites and a decommissioned nuclear power plant.

Charlotte has a connection to Winthrop Harbor in the form a retired colleague and a commuting buddy. Both have large powerboats: one enjoyed with two big lovable dogs and the other maintained in a state of Purr-fection, as its name implies.

A more tenuous thread to the harbor exists for me. I garnered from the Nordic Tug chat room that several tugs spend their summers there, so before we left Chicago I announced via email that Carrie Rose would be in Winthrop Harbor and left my cell phone number as a contact.

We had an uneventful ride north. In boating circles “uneventful” is much preferred. This is contrary to what most yachting literature purports. Of course sailors and power boaters will differ on what constitutes an adventure, but I believe most would opt for a beautiful day with steady winds, calm seas and billowy clouds to hellfire and damnation. Maybe this is just my middle-aged bias speaking, but so be it.

From the moment we secured our lines at slip B-3 we were surrounded by our new made friends. We invited them aboard and gave them a mandatory tour. They reciprocated and by the end of the weekend we had inspected five other boats ranging from twenty-six feet to over forty.

Carrie Rose was moored next to the main walkway and whenever I looked up from the pages of a book or from the task at hand, people stopping in cars, bikes or on foot would just be staring at us. Several even asked to see the boat. I strode up to the locked gate and ushered them into our world, but not before warning Charlotte of our latest intruder.

When we first investigated our boat, the couple we bought her from cautioned us that if we were not gregarious types we should look elsewhere for another little ship. They had spent two years living aboard her while traveling over six thousand miles around the Eastern United States, all the while feeling like an exotic bird on display.

Now, having assumed responsibility for Carrie Rose I can attest that they spoke truth. Because of her we had breakfast, drinks and dinner with different groups of the Winthrop Harbor boating fraternity all weekend.

Sunday afternoon came and suddenly we had the harbor to ourselves. After a quiet dinner and a glass of wine we were finally able to settle in and read one of the hitherto ignored books we brought with us.

Monday awoke with a literal bang. The sky opened up with rain, hail and thunder. This did not bode well for our trip home. We had had three beautiful days and that is really all you can expect from the Midwest’s tumultuous weather. When the rain lightened we scurried to the wi-fi of the yacht club with my ancient Apple laptop. There amongst the flags of local yacht clubs we reviewed the radar and seeing only red, determined to stay another day.

At times like this I try to fight the urge to get home. I understand, through hard won experience that worse awaits you on the water than whatever the repercussions a missed day at work might bring. That said we had gotten as far as standing by the boat with dock lines in hand and engine running before calling the trip off.

This tie to home must be why it is so hard to leave on a protracted voyage, but that is a topic for another time. With the quiet patter of rain on the deck we ate lunch and tried hard to read, but alas mostly napped. At about three o’clock the clouds cleared and I managed enough energy to check the radar again. I saw an opening in the weather large enough for the four hours it would take us to get home, so we left.

Nine miles south of Winthrop Harbor with Waukegan three miles off our starboard bow we listened to the weather radio again. The updated report sounded grim. The horizon ahead was clear. Simultaneously we turned and saw a darkening sky behind. Charlotte yelped, "Go faster!" and I obeyed.

Pushing the throttle to 2400-RPM Carrie Rose answered with a knot and a half more, and this shortened our time of arrival by twenty minutes. The sky was getting more biblical as we bounded towards Chicago; the overtaking clouds created shafts of light that radiated down, illuminating us with an eerie glow. Noticing I was grinding my teeth, I took a deep breath and concentrated on the path before us.

With what turned out to be twenty minutes to spare we roared around the east breakwater and into Montrose Harbor. After retrieving the dinghy we elected to head for our mooring and as Charlotte grabbed the first of its two lines the wind veered, rain started to pelt and bizarre sirens began to blare.

Again we turned the weather radio on only to hear more alarms and reports of 80 MPH “cyclonic” winds sweeping through downtown Chicago and coming our way. We closed the boat up tight and for the first time in my boating career donned life preservers while below deck. Being forever curious, and against Charlotte’s advice, I opened the door and looked south. There at the harbor mouth was a boiling ragged horizontal cloud that looked like it had our name on it.

Lets just say this was getting a bit out of control. I caught a glimpse of the chaos around us as the wind hit: sailboats swinging every which way with their bare mast severely heeling in the gusting wind. The rain hit, the water boiled as lightening struck all about us, and then it was over.

We had made it, but just barely. I know that you get in the most trouble heading for home, so I find it hard to comprehend why I did not heed my own advice. Lesson learned. . .I promise.

Cool Tools

Guide to sailing & docking
Single Handed Docking and Sail Trim with Captain Jack Klang


I have been on the water in one fashion or another for over 40 years and this is the first comprehensive presentation I have seen on how to dock in all types of conditions and situations. Captain Jack, in a mere 53 minutes, covers the main topics that drive sailors nuts: docking and sail trim, especially spinnakers. First he uses models to describe the maneuvers and then we see him on his own boat demonstrating in real time. He shows how to maintain control of your boat with the wind on the bow, on the beam or aft. He covers situations with adverse currents. What I found most intriguing is how he backs his boat into a slip to keep the bow into the wind. He demonstrates a few basic concepts, like prop-walk and spring-lines, and shows how to use a single spring line (a line attached slightly midship) to control the boat's movements. He does this not only singlehandedly, but without jumping off the boat. Much safer.

I had seen Captain Jack many times at boat shows and was actually looking for a book by him so I could review the information he provides during his condensed presentations -- I was pleasantly surprised to find the DVD. I wish I would have had this video when I was beginner. It would have saved a lot of hard knocks while docking and would have saved my having to unlearn many of the bad habits I picked up trimming sails.The interface between the land and sea is often the most challenging aspect of boating. This is especially true as marinas get tighter and tighter as they pack more and more boats into them. I still sail, but four years ago sold my sailboat and bought a Nordic Tug. Docking has always been a challenge and is even more so with the tug. The tug idles much faster, so everything happens faster. It is also much less maneuverable. Even if you are a power boater, the first half of the DVD concerning docking is still well worth the price. Just fast forward through the sail-handling parts or watch it and be inspired to go sailing.

-- Dean Raffaelli

Singlehanded Docking and Sail Trim with Captain Jack Klang
$25
Available from Captain Jack Klang
http://www.captainjacksailing.com/saleitems.html
www.kk.org/cooltools/archives/002688.php

Wet Behind The Ears

Good Old Boat Newsletter April 2008


I began my sailing career at the tender age of 11, Jerry, the father of a juvenile delinquent friend of mine, had a 26-foot East Wind named for a Vietnamese sea goddess. Due to his son's growing predilection for mischief, he asked me to crew on his boat. Not knowing what I was getting myself into, I quickly agreed.

It turned out that Jerry was to be feared once he set foot on his little plastic kingdom. A couple of his buddies, his deified girlfriend, and I made up the crew. For the first few weeks of our relationship, I rode my single-speed bike down to the harbor to go out on practice sails.

It turned out he was training me for my first race. The race would be off Jackson Park Harbor on the south side of Chicago, some 20 miles from our home port, Montrose Harbor. These training sessions, as I was to find out, were tame. The whole gang would have a couple of beers, go out sailing for a few hours, and make his girlfriend blush for the rest of the evening.

Times were different then. My parents did not drive me anywhere; they were too busy working. If I wanted to go somewhere, I got there myself. Nobody was too concerned about my whereabouts. Cell phones and GPS would not be invented for decades, so my location was not monitored, nor was I expected to call in. I never pushed my limits, so I never got limited.

After a couple of weeks of training, race day arrived. We drove south down Lake Shore Drive, past the Museum of Science and Industry to Jackson Park. For a Northside kid, this was exotic territory.

Down south, everything seemed different to my pre-teen brain. At first, I was overwhelmed, but not for long. I had had enough training so that — like any waylaid sailor in a foreign port once his ship is in sight — I had the comfort of knowing that home awaited me.

Even though Jerry’s boat was not a racehorse, he was very conscious of any extra weight. This meant that most of my possessions were relegated to the trunk of the car that had brought us. With the bare minimum on board (that is, except for the beer) and the skipper's meeting concluded, we threw off the lines and headed for the lake.

It was then that our captain’s true nature was revealed. The farther we traveled from the dock, the edgier and louder he became. Once through the harbor mouth, I was informed of two aphorisms: one hand for the boat and one hand for myself and throwing up on his boat would result in promptly being thrown off.

These revelations, together with the fact that a nor’easter was blowing white caps down the 300 miles of Lake Michigan, made my semicircular canals immediately revolt. Mal-de-mar was new to me and — as we ran the starting line, jockeying for position — I felt more and more like I had the stomach flu until finally, remembering Jerry's edict, I flung my head over the lifeline and emptied the contents of my stomach into the lake.

Due to his propensity for prematurely reaching the starting line, I did not have much time to ponder my fate. Being much more afraid of him than I was sick, when I was ordered to start tailing the leeward jibsheet, I jumped to the task and my illness was curtailed for the duration of the race. I remember sitting on the rail during the long windward tacks, feeling alone with the wind and the waves . . . until we approached the mark when suddenly we were surrounded by the entire fleet. The shouts of “Starboard!” during the tacking duels still ring in my ears.

I also remember the anguished cry of my fellow crewmate when a sudden lurch of the boat landed his derriere on the lifeline. Inquiring as to his well-being I learned a few new expletives and a valuable lesson about hemorrhoids.

Once the race was over, I reverted to my pre-race condition and turned green . . . and greener still when I learned we would be sailing, not driving, the 20 miles home. I knew not to complain and, maybe because of this, I was treated humanely. Pretzels and water were provided and Jerry took me below, threw me into a snug corner berth and instructed me to keep my eyes shut and get some sleep.

Time passed quickly with minimal discomfort and, now a fully vetted member of the team, I was summoned hours later as we entered our harbor. I sailed with Jerry for many seasons, until I grew up and he bought a larger wooden boat and hightailed it to Florida, never to be heard from again.

When I am out on the water, turning green or not, I often think about my time on his little sea goddess and wonder what my life would have been like had I never accepted his invitation to go sailing . . . depressing thought that!

Gunkhole

Holiday Letter and Messing About in Boats 2005

Most people have a vague idea of what a gunkhole is. The best description of one is a snug, secluded and safe anchorage. It is the type of place that Captain Kid would hide out in.

For boaters the word conjures up thoughts of tropical paradises that the likes of Conrad and Melville wrote so convincingly about. It brings to mind the famous cruising grounds of the Bahamas, the Chesapeake or the San Juan islands in the Pacific Northwest, but here on the southern most spot of the southern most Great Lake we have to settle for what we can get.

The Great Lakes do offer several world class cruising grounds: Door County in the northwest corner of Lake Michigan, the Apostle Islands of Lake Superior, and probably the most herald, the North Channel and Georgian Bay on Lake Huron; some 400 miles of open water north of Carrie Rose's mooring in the mouth of Montrose Harbor.

I have never made it to any of these Great Lake's treasures. A lapse in my forty years of boating that I find hard to forgive myself for. Time and again I have heard of the wonders of cruising in the North Channel and Georgian Bay from yachtsmen that have sailed the world, but on my first futile attempt to reach the gunkhole of gunkholes last year I petered out about a 100 miles short and headed for home.

This year though, this year of a new pope, continued war in Iraq, Michael Jackson's acquittal, rising gas prices, terrorist attacks in London and Hurricane Katrina, Charlotte and I started out with great expectations of a leisurely journey up the western coast of Lake Michigan to Trawler Fest. Yes, I said Trawler Fest. Who in their right mind would think that any self-respecting wife would consent to such a trip let alone accompany her husband on it, but off we went.

By now I think you all know we have a Nordic Tug 32 called Carrie Rose, named after Charlotte’s grand mothers. She is number 32044 to be exact, a very important factoid for all Nordic Tug owners. The last boat built at the old facility and one of the last to be built with lots of teak as opposed to lots of aluminum. This makes Carrie Rose distinctive, but a challenge to maintain. After much preparation and sweat we were ready to head out when I noticed an odd occurrence. The tachometer would not move when the engine was started till I goosed the throttle a bit.

I have trained myself over the decades not to ignore the little voices that talk to me. You know, the gremlins that sit at the back of our craniums and as the oracles of old, predict the future. Predictions that, like most of Greek mythology, consist mainly of dread and not useful recommendations for which stocks and mutual funds to buy to help pad our 401K's.

During my Internship I learned never to disregard these subtle hints, but admit to ignorance this August 13 of 2005, the day we departed. After pumping the head and filling the water tanks, we motored out early in the morning into a northeast wind with white caps and spray crashing over our bow heading for Racine, about a five-hour trek racing along at 10 mph.

Somewhere out on the lake, an hour in route, the gremlin's predictions materialized as my voltmeter drooped and the tachometer started doing the jig. Unable to ignore this obvious tomfoolery on the part of the boat, we headed for the first viable harbor up the coast – Waukegan. We altered course because any thing on a boat doing the jig, except maybe the captain and the first mate, is cause for concern. Weighing our options we decided to head for Larsen Marine, a large boat repair and storage facility.

Please bear with a little background information here. When you begin to consider where to pull in for the night on a boat there are various references that are studied listing types of accommodations and amenities available. In boating circles this refers to transient slips numbers: gas, diesel and pump out availability: service, parts, and in dire circumstances haul out facilities and lastly how to contact the marina.

It once was when you were just outside the harbor entrance, you'd call the marina using the VHF radio on Channel 16, but as with every thing else in life these days this simple task has become more complicated. The Coast Guard recently reserved Channel 16 only for emergency and official communications, and Channel 9 for hailing other boats and the marina as in this case. You are still to monitor 16 at all times in case of an emergency, but if you only have one radio and are to be getting a call from a boating buddy you would be listening to 9 not 16. Needless to say it has caused some confusion.

At this stage of my life I am blessed with not one but three radios and hence monitor all channels. This means I get to listen to all types of dribble while waiting for one caller in distress. But it also means I have been able to rescue a few folks in my time after hearing their cries for help.

To get back to contacting marinas, we would in the recent past hail the marina on 16 and then switch to another channel to talk, but now in many cases we find that no one is minding the store. Our tactic is to try 9 first, then 16 and if both garner no answer start the search for the phone number. Of course to complicate matters further all the area codes have changed several times since our references were published.

A cell phone is a remarkably fickle device out on the water and should never be relied upon to save one's skin, but seems to be the only thing reliably answered by marinas these days. Once we get through to the harbormaster and our slip (33 feet with starboard tie up) is reserved, we head in.

Harbor entrances with their “red-right-returning” light to the starboard and green light to the port are simultaneously comforting and disquieting. Comforting to go from rolling in the waves and being prey to the hyperactive weather on Lake Michigan to the quiet protected water of the harbor and a drink. Disquieting to suddenly have waves, currents and trolling fishing craft converge with unfamiliar shoals and rocks.

So as we carefully approached the entrance to Waukegan Harbor with the tachometer wildly fluctuating and cross the boundary of the harbor mouth that separates the watery world from a land focused one, the miscreant gauges assume their proper place, but are never to be trusted again.

Remember this is a story about gunkholes and a gunkhole we inadvertently stumbled upon while waiting for the parts to fix our ailing diesel. Granted it was within spitting distance of the first Super Fund site, in the midst of large boat moving equipment, enormous grey work and storage sheds, and what seemed like an infinite supply of golf carts, all in constant motion and named for their drivers.

We floated there, tied to a working pier watching all sorts of expensive craft being lowered or raised into and out of what had become our home. We waited in relative peace while hoping for one of the aforementioned carts to veer towards us bringing news of delivered parts from far away places. After 4PM we shared our world only with Dan, the night guy who lives in a trailer perched in the middle of the asphalt parking lot that seemed to be baking even on cool days.

This was our world for the first four days of our summer vacation this year. Not a friends apartment in the Latin Quarter of Paris, nor anchored in a bay off the Bitter End Yacht Club in the BVI, not in a traditional inn in Takayama looking up to the snow covered Japanese Alps, no not even in the Tuscan hills out side Florence sleeping in Alberto's ancestral home guarded by Penny, his handsome German Shepard...but not bad.

Wind

Messing About in Boats as "Lake Michigan Wind" 2004

I was first introduced to the winds of Lake Michigan at the tender age of eleven while going out for my first sail. It was also my first race and it took place in the waters off Jackson Park Harbor in Chicago. Having just retched over the side, the race began with cries of starboard as the captain, my juvenile delinquent friend’s father, careened his 26 foot Eastwind across the starting line, dodging the bow waves of the entire fleet due to his mistimed start.

At that point, being too scared to be sick, I settled into the long race, listening to undecipherable commands and being helped by an older gentleman who interpreted for me and made sure I pulled the right line at the right time.

But this essay is about wind and that day the lake with its low clouds and white-capped 4 to 5 foot waves was riled up due to a northeaster. A wind that I had experienced as a landlubber but never fully comprehended till that faithful day off of Jackson Park.

Wind and water is a combination that tends to make up many of my dreams. Over the years as spring approaches and fall recedes, the expectant winds are awaited and as the wind clocks around from northeast to southeast, so to does summer follow winter.

For those who have no experience with Lake Michigan, she lies mainly north to south for approximately 350 miles and probably averages 60 miles athwartships. Chicago snuggles the southwest corner, in the shallower reaches of a lake that dives to 900 feet beneath your keel at its deepest center. The weather on the lake is, lets just say, abrupt.

While living in southern Florida on a rusting 33’ Mason designed sloop, I reveled the gradual nature of the weather. With the exception of a few squalls, the weather came in slowly; politely introduced itself and then proceeded to hang around for weeks on end. This is not an option on the Great Lakes. If I can anthropomorphize; the weather on the lake tends to be vindictive. I forever find myself looking over my shoulder, searching for where the next blow will come from and it usually does come.

We in the Midwest happen to live at the convergence of two monumental weather systems that collide and do battle over our heads. Great masses of cold dry air from Canada regularly meet the warm moisture laden air from the Gulf of Mexico, to which the added vagaries of the jet stream make one paranoid as hell about the weather. The winds that concern me here are not from the cardinal points of the compass but from the edgy combinations of NE, NW, SE and SW.

First let me talk about the most benign of these winds – the southeast. Warm gentle breezes that are so steady you barely need to man the helm. Great sailing winds, the perfect wind to invite your mother-in-law out for a sail.

A few summers ago these SE winds predominated and oh what a glorious summer they made for. While we sweltered onshore, a mile out in the lake the thick polluted air gave way to 10-degree cooler 15-knot breezes. We just left the diesel on a little longer to reach the blessed wind before raising our sails for peaceful close reaches all summer long.

Even in the most perfect of summers the blustery southwest winds occur. Stirred up by traveling over the entire south side of the city and hitting the shear cliffs of downtown Chicago’s skyscrapers, they sweep sheets of 20 to 30 knot winds out onto the lake like the drying sheets flapping on the clothesline in your mom’s backyard.

It took years of coast hugging agony to realize that if I just sailed five miles further out, the wind would be strong but no longer gusty; the perfect combination for my heavy 31’ Swedish sloop. The dreaded southwest winds on summer afternoons became welcoming. These same winds are also responsible for the unseasonably warm weather in the spring and fall and on an occasional winters day, make it feel like spring.

Then there are the northwesters. On a couple of late season cruises they blew in and left the boat covered in snow. The barometer usually drops in anticipation of these winds. And as opposed to the southwesters blowing over a hot turbulent city, these winds come across the Great Plains and the Canadian artic.

Due to Chicago’s location on the western shore, the lake remains flat even with the high velocities of the northwest and southwest winds. As I man the tiller, I watch intently the darkening surface of the rippling blue grey water as the wind churns up the wavelets and I await its effect on the rudder. As the gust hit the sails the reason for the term weather helm becomes obvious.

Finally there is nothing like a northeaster out on the lake. Waves roll in from Beaver Island some 300 miles away and the wind that has been unimpeded for all that distance hits full force. No wavelets here, no gusts, just grey white-capped rollers breaking with wind blown spray. These are the winds that cause you to double reef and keep you hoping you can get the boat into the lee of some outreaching headland.

My father had multiple barometers hanging around the house that he would tap once or twice each day. He never bothered to explain it to me and I never bothered to ask, but nonetheless, now at fifty, I find myself doing the same thing. Tapping away I have noticed that commencing in the late spring and ending in the early fall, the barometer is stuck, unmoving and hovers around 30. Then one day in September I will tap the glass and the needle will abruptly drop. It is then that I start to plan for winter.

Having been lulled into complacency by the heat of August, I begin to realize that it is all over for another year and await the first northeasters of the upcoming dreaded winter season to appear. While winter negotiates between the northwesters and the northeasters, I start ruminating on arcane subjects, such as the wind - fair winds to one and all.