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