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.