Cruising Lake Michigan

Part 1: The Long Awaited Departure

White Swan and I have left for Sturgeon Bay and the islands of northern Lake Michigan so many times this year that I have lost count. Warranty work, repairs as a result of warranty work, record cold, overwork and lethargy have all contributed to a number of aborted trips. The most spectacular voyage failure is recounted in the (soon to published here) article “Never Start A Voyage On A Friday”.

All of that is behind me now. I have the time off. I have the boat. I have the charts. I have no reason to delay. It is Thursday, July 20 and I am going sailing!

Maybe not.

As I looked out the window this morning, I saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then I raised the shade. Still nothing. Fog as thick as clam chowder had settled over northern Illinois and threatened to cancel my departure once again.

As I live 50 miles from my harbor in Chicago I wanted a more relevant check on the weather at the lake so I called my colleagues and asked them to look out at the lake.

“Whoa! Nothing but fog dude. Looks really nasty. I can barely see the street from up here, much less the lake,” my encouraging colleague reported.

“That’s dandy. Well, I guess I’ll put it off another day. We’ve got a lot to do today anyway so tell everybody I’m leaving home now and will be in the office in 90 minutes.”

“All right. Drive safely.”

I kicked my seabag around in disgust for a few minutes before going to change into more bankerly clothes. Before I could say pinstripe, the phone rang. It was another colleague.

“Tom, I just overheard your conversation. I checked the weather on the Internet and it seems to be clearing. I even checked the marine forecast and they said winds would be from the south. Skies should clear in an hour or so. Is that good for you? It even seems to be clearing a bit now.”

“That’s great! I am outta here. See you guys in a week!”

Do I work with great people or what? Checking the Internet for me. Thinking of my health and welfare. These guys are the best.

When I arrived downtown at the marina two hours later, I got down on my hands and knees and felt my way along the dock to my boat. Walking in fog that thick would have been downright dangerous.

I called the office again and asked what was going on.

“How long have been down here?” my concerned colleague asked.

“About ten minutes. When did the fog come back?”

“Must have been about 15 minutes ago. Well, you can stay on the boat at least.”

“No, as long as I am here I might as well come into the office.”

“Um….how are you dressed? I only ask because there are all kinds of important people here today so you might not want to come in unless you have a suit on.”

“When’s the last time anyone wore a suit around there?”

“They are umm… very important people.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you and the rest of the team for lunch and we can go over some new assignments and planning.”

“You’re breaking up Tom. Your cell phone must be bad. Have a good trip. I can hardly hear…..” Click.

Funny thing is, I was talking on a land line pay phone.

Although I am sure my team was lonely without me around, I decided to head out anyway and finally make the 180 mile trip to Sturgeon Bay. If only I could find the harbor entrance….

Once out on the lake, I found the mixture of fog and heat to be decidedly unpleasant. Either is bad enough alone but together is something else. I tried desperately to plot a course as far as the bow, which at this point was beyond my range of vision. Putting safety first, I reached for my radar reflector and came up empty handed. Whenever I stop at West Marine, I always forget something. At least I didn’t have to wonder anymore what I had forgotten this time.

I sat bobbing out there for a while listening to the unseen waves lap on shore. I thought of all my readings on safety and weather. I thought of the evil combination of sailboats and tight schedules. I thought of insurance settlements and sunken boats. I thought of the ridicule I would receive from my sailing buddies if I continued in these conditions. I thought that tomorrow would be another day, at least it would be if I didn’t do something incredibly stupid today.

I then recalled the powerful superstition against leaving port on a Friday. Tomorrow would be a Friday.

I think it was the heat and humidity rather than common sense that finally tilted the decision in favor of returning to port.

I was in such a foul mood after tying up that I decided to go into the office anyway. I really didn’t care if the whole Board of Directors was there when I showed up in a grungy t-shirt all soaked through with sweat.

Turns out there weren’t any “very important people” in the office at all but my team sure was having a blast. Until I walked in. That put a damper on the party.

Part 2: The Re-departure

What could be so bad about leaving on a Friday? I had done it before and suffered only a collision, a fouled prop, a grounding, seasick crew and $1000 of repair bills. What could possibly go wrong?

Truthfully, I had received a good omen. Upon returning to port on Thursday I found that I had left my driver’s license at home. While I did not anticipate being pulled over for speeding on the lake, I did require the license when I arrived in Sturgeon Bay. I planned to rent a car to return to Chicago since there was no bus or train service in the city. That would have been interesting without a license. I took this as a sign and merrily headed back to the marina for a Friday departure.

Another good omen was the complete lack of ominous clouds in the sky. I think. Can’t tell you for sure since I couldn’t see the sky. If yesterday’s fog was clam chowder, this was vanilla pudding. At least the temperature had increased a bit to help push the heat index over 105.

Rather than consult the marine weather forecast, I looked at the calendar and realized that what had been a doable but tough five day trip was sure to be an excruciatingly painful four day slog to windless. I love using the calendar to make my routing and weather decisions. The only thing better is using a watch to do the same.

I headed out of the harbor (I think) and took one last look in the direction of Chicago. Well, I took a compass heading and waved in that direction. Tendrils of fog wisped through my fingers.

At last I was headed north! I was ecstatic to be leaving behind the calm familiar, waters of Chicago. My comfortable slip, the great restaurants, the fabulous views, the deep water, the sandy bottom, the weekly fireworks were all history! I was headed north to shallow, rocky anchorages in fly infested coves far from comfort, security and medical services. Ah! The life of a sailor!

Twelve hours later, bleeding from countless fly bites, already sick of turkey and cheese sandwiches, dripping sweat, and generally in a mood not often expressed in the pages of Cruising World, I made landfall at Milwaukee Harbor. At least I think I did. I couldn’t see the largest city in Wisconsin through the fog. In fact, I hadn’t been able to see farther than ¼ mile all day. The incessant heat and lack of wind contributed to my gaiety.

At least I had arrived at a nice modern marina.


Part 3: The So-called Marina

Milwaukee has never been my favorite destination. The city itself is fine and the lakefront park is adequate but the sailing facilities leave a bit to be desired. I entered the harbor with some hope, however, since I noticed that they had upgraded the navigation lights on the breakwall since I had last been here four years ago. The red entrance light was now proudly shining at a full 40 watts. The green light was still burned out.

On my last trip, the port authorities played a few practical jokes on me by switching all of the navigation lights to the same flashing sequence. The humor was heightened by their choice of a signal phase that exactly matched the frequency of flashing traffic lights. They had also added a completely unnecessary but highly humorous (and uncharted) breakwall right down the middle of the entrance channel. You just can’t fault the cheeseheads for their sense of hilarity.

(Author’s note: “Cheesehead” is a purely descriptive and not the least bit derogatory term for Wisconsin residents. It is used widely throughout the upper Midwest.)

As I had already viewed these amusements up close and personal on my last trip, I was able to enter the marina without hitting anything until I neared the fuel dock. Although I stayed smack in the middle of the channel, no amount of tapping on my depth sounder display could stop its downward spiral. 12 - 10 – 8 feet it registered, coming close to my six foot draft (or ‘draught’ as they say in this brewery town). 7 – 6 – 5.9 – 5.8 bump bump bump. Reverse. Try again. Stick. Reverse. Stick. Twist. Stick. Plow ahead.

I finally came within 20 yards of the dock and shouted across to the fuel attendant.

“How much water you got there?”

As he started to spread his arms, I remembered the educational advantages of rural schools and corrected myself.

“How DEEP?”

“Oh. It’s nine feet here at the dock. I just measured it this morning.”

“Are you sure? I’m touching bottom out here and I draw six.”

“Positive. Nine feet.”

I approached cautiously and asked him to step back as I like to have a clear landing zone when jumping off a sinking boat. Five yards off the dock I started to churn mud in my wake and by the time I was two feet off I was well buried. I stepped off and walked towards the marina office to check in.

“Aren’t you going to tie up?” the attendant asked.

“Why bother? She ain’t going anywhere stuck like that.”

After checking in and being told that they had acres and acres of water near the docks, I returned to the fuel dock and the puzzled stares of fisherman watching the immobile boat.

I approached the dock kid because I just had to know.

“How did you measure the water depth?”

He looked a little insulted as he replied, “I took a weighted tape measure and put it in the water.”

“Where?”

“Right here at the edge of the dock.”

“Hmmm. I’m not positive about this but you might want to try measuring from water level next time.”

“Why?”

“Because the dock is three and a half feet above the water.”

“Does that matter?”

“Only to sailors.”

The dockside crowd pondered this concept for a few minutes as I stepped aboard White Swan and executed a nice corkscrew maneuver out of the mud and headed for my assigned slip.

The slips in Milwaukee require a bit of an explanation. These are fixed height docks. Now I know that some of you folks are used to fixed height docks and have used them without incident for many years. You probably still drive your Model T as well.

The Milwaukee docks would please you just fine. Not only are they fixed height but they are also high. Very high. In fact, they dwarf many of the buildings in the downtown area. I understand that fixed docks must be high to accommodate high water years. These docks could easily accommodate the year that levels rise enough for Lakes Michigan and Superior to join around Madison.

Unfortunately, I was thinking of the fixed docks as I headed across the acres and acres of water. Unfortunately I say because I should have been thinking about the decidedly fixed earth very close to my keel. Such wandering thoughts have built in self correcting features.

As I rubbed my jaw where it had impacted the winch when the boat slowed VERY quickly, I refocused my attention on my current precarious location. I was a long way from my slip and the water didn’t look to be getting any deeper. The tomato plants growing in mid channel were a dead giveaway on that account.

I gingerly picked my way through mud, sand, rocks, old automobiles and squishy things I did not want to think about. After an hour of this entertainment, I saw a nice, big Beneteau steaming at full speed in my direction. The skipper was smiling and waving without an apparent care in the world. As I knew the Beneteau drew at least five and a half feet, I wondered at his secret. As he passed by, he revealed it.

“Turn off your depth sounder,” he shouted. “It’ll just freak you out!”

The thick, brown stream of muck left swirling in his wake says volumes about the strength of Beneteau keels.

A few rocky minutes later I approached my assigned slip. I stopped the boat short of the slip and looked at it in wonder. The slip looked exactly like one that I would custom make for myself. Those of you who are aware of my legendary woodworking skills know that is NOT a good thing.

The dock was multilevel. The verandah level was conveniently located a good muscle pull above the deck of White Swan with overhangs conveniently arranged to snap off lifeline stanchions. The stairway (I kid you not) led a long ways up to the main level. By taking a transit sightline from the cockpit across the edge of the main level I could easily see Polaris high in the northern sky.

Amongst the nails, spikes and twisted metallic protrusions on the dock were a couple of sturdy docklines affixed to sturdy (and TALL) pilings with chains. The marina office had warned me about the lines.

“DO NOT USE SLIP OWNER’S DOCKLINES,” they had politely requested.

Looking at the ‘slip’ I knew there was no way I could dock singlehanded. Heck, I wasn’t sure I could do it with the eight arms of an octopus. Fortunately, there was a sailboat chock full of young lads and lasses in the very next slip.

“Could you give me a hand please?” I requested politely.

Predictably, they applauded. Cheeseheads.

I came in slow as I needed time for the myriad calculations to conclude in my head. I was busy figuring what sort of impact the forestay could take without either breaking or bending the mast. Normally this calculation is a child’s puzzle but I had to add the simultaneous equations having to do with side thrust forces on the shrouds. Basically, my rigging was set up to act as sky high fenders. I gave up on the calculations and simply started adding up damage estimates instead. The number ‘a lot’ kept coming up.

I finally positioned White Swan in the middle of the slip and with two long lines in each hand and one in my teeth, I leapt for the verandah level. Momentarily stunned by my success at landing on something semi-solid, I recovered quickly and lunged for the first dock cleat.

Apparently I would have to lunge all the way to Chicago to grab a cleat. This Rust Belt monstrosity of a dock had no cleats. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. The empty set. Well, not quite true. Later that night I stubbed my toe on a flag halyard sized cleat in the middle of the main dock. What its purpose was, I have no idea.

In place of cleats there were 2x4s nailed along the ‘dock’ at various inconvenient places. These were nailed with single nails so they could easily rotate and fall off if the need arose. Rather than use these breakaway posts, I finally elected to wrap my lines all the way across the dock and back underneath to get as much support as possible. Amazingly, White Swan just bobbed in utter fear the entire time and never touched anything.

Although I was not the least bit satisfied with my line arrangements, I decided to take a stroll ashore and see the sights. As I climbed the stairs and reached the main dock (gangway would be more descriptive), an earthquake struck! I threw myself flat on the dock until the shaking had stopped. I looked up and saw a Chihuahua standing on the dock about 100 feet away. He stepped forward and the shaking resumed. He took two steps and I started to say my prayers. Perched 40 feet above the water on a quaking piece of ancient woodwork is no place for those inclined to vertigo. At least the docks made up for their fixed vertical height with a considerably variable horizontal position.

I tossed the dog down into a boat where he landed several minutes later with a wet squishy sound.

I walked past a group of fellow mariners preparing a feast worthy of the monumental docks. Lobster, steaks, bratwurst and chicken were all sending forth delightful aromas as the 20 or so people settled in for a fine meal.

Knowing how friendly cruisers are, I slowed my pace in hope of an invitation.

“Private party,” a large man in a flowery apron scowled.

Cheeseheads.

I continued my stroll to the end of the docks where the promenade abruptly ended in a chain link fence. I looked for a way out but, short of climbing over the razor wire, I was stuck. Actually, I’d have been more stuck had I tried climbing over the razor wire.

I returned to Mr. Apron to gain some local knowledge.

“Hey sweetheart, could you tell me how to get out of here or do we have to spend the night together?”

“It’s all closed off. You have to dinghy over to the fuel dock if you want out.”

As I had no dinghy, I recalled the squishy things on the bottom and decided against a nighttime swim to freedom.

“Thanks a lot sweet cheeks. I’ll just go back to my big, manly boat and wait for you. Don’t be long now.”

I returned to find the party in the next slip picking up speed. A power boat had arrived with a 90 horsepower boom box and was slipping against the sailboat in rhythm with the ‘music’. I love the quiet anchorages cruisers enjoy. Fortunately, the music lovers left after an hour and I was able to hit the sack for a few precious hours of sleep.

I awoke in full terror as the world seemed to be doing its level best to end. Massive explosions rocked the boat and shook the dock. I peered out the hatch to see the wonderful fireworks blasting away immediately overhead. I buried my head in the bilge and prayed for silence.

When I awoke the next morning, I faced two Herculean tasks. First, I had to untie and retrieve the docklines without smashing the boat into fiberglass dust. Then, in what would surely be a serene state of mind, I had to navigate the uncharted (un)depths back to the fuel dock to return the key that did not unlock the chain link fence. I considered chucking the key overboard but then recalled the $300 key deposit I had left.

Using local navigation techniques, I covered my depth sounder and proceeded with all haste across the harbor. I think that particular trip counted as a dredging operation. I hope that I did not need a Corp of Engineers permit.

Arriving near the fuel dock, I left the boat in the mud and returned the key. I also checked the local weather radar display and confirmed that it was broken.

I returned and performed my classic corkscrew getaway and headed for the deep, inviting waters of Lake Michigan. I didn’t make it. Mid channel obstructions halted my progress rather firmly. Sensing my predicament, a fisherman in a runabout called across and asked if he could help.

“Thanks. I sure could use your help,” I replied.

“What should I do?”

“Urinate over the side. A lot. Call your friends and have them do the same.”

He laughed so hard that his boat started rocking and kicked up enough of a wake to set me free.

A few terrifying minutes later, I cleared the harbor entrance and took a long look south towards Chicago. Did I really want to abort the trip again? Was any of this worthwhile?

The roiling black clouds and streaks of lightning to the south reinvigorated me and gave me the strength needed to push on north. Into the fog. The thick, unrelenting, windless, hot fog.

Author’s Note: I have perhaps given the wrong impression of Milwaukee. For trailer sailors I actually think it would be a delightful (in a post industrial sense) place to sail. There is quite a bit to see both on land and in the harbor. The harbor itself is protected and large and is a real working port. The parks are nice but not at the level of Chicago’s park system. The marina also has a nice launch ramp. I would NOT advise overnighting in the marina until they complete their conversion to floating docks in 2003. In the interests of full disclosure, I should explain that I am not without self interest in this recommendation. I am currently penning a promotional song for the Port Authority entitled “I left my bottom paint in Milwaukee”. It will be in major record stores any day now.


Part 4: The Gates of Hell

There is an extensive narrative of the trip from Milwaukee to Manitowoc but, unfortunately, it is still undergoing literary review by the fine staff at the Psychiatric Unit of the Manitowoc Community Hospital.

Although I have not been allowed to reread my manuscript, the initial reviews seem positive. During my brief stay as a “guest” of their facility, I overhead several comments emanating from the Doctor’s Lounge.

“Stark, raving mad!”
“The delusional metaphors are stunning in their vivid disconnectedness.”
“This could be the case that puts us on the map!”
“Don’t miss the part with the talking fly! Pure psychosis.”
“The self mutilation is absolutely pure…in a pathological sort of way.”
“Jeffrey Dahmer would be proud.”

Part 5: The Idiot Sailor

Having spent a fairly comfortable night at Manitowoc Marina, I rose early to the not quite melodic voices of thousands of seagulls. After taking time to make everything shipshape I departed the marina at 0655. As the fuel dock did not open until 0700 I decided to forego the usual topping off of my tanks. After all, diesels are quite efficient and I had never gone through a full tank in a whole season, much less three or four days. Of course I had never traveled so far under power before either but how could that be relevant?

As I cleared the breakwater I greeted my friends the flies as they came to work. A few of them buzzed grumpily at having to get up so early so I gave them a bit of time off and contented myself with merely swooshing at them instead of swatting. We all enjoyed a reasonable facsimile of a late sunrise through the ever present but slightly thinning fog. The flies then lined up along the lifelines for morning inspection. After approval was granted by a big horsefly, they commenced their attacks. I set the autopilot and took up my role in the circle of life.

Today’s destination was Sturgeon Bay where I would leave White Swan for a week while I tended to things at home. Sturgeon Bay would also serve as my cruising base for the next month. A five mile leg straight east into the lake would be followed by a 42 mile open water passage to the entrance of the Sturgeon Bay ship canal. I looked forward to playing hide and seek in the fog with the 1000 foot ore boats. Five miles more through the canal would put me at the marina. I expected the trip to give me approximately 10 hours of quality time with the flies.

Neptune showed his beneficence this morning by allowing me a full mile of visibility. What a god. After making the turn north I was even pleasantly surprised to see actual clouds rather than ghostly apparitions. I suppose white and puffy clouds would have been too much to ask for so I settled for the dark and ominous ones. Even the water began to move a bit with a slight breeze from the south.

After wiling away a few hours watching the fishing fleet haul in some hefty lake trout, I decided to do a thorough systems check on White Swan. This consisted of lazily leaning over and looking the fuel gauge. The needle lay rather comfortably on E so I went back to my fly-ridden thoughts for awhile. E!!!!! What was going on here? My diesel was supposed to run forever with no attention whatsoever. Now it wanted fuel? One more high maintenance piece of equipment to worry about.

I took a look at the chart and marveled at the lack of deep harbors on this stretch of the lake. Quaint little fishing towns dotted the shore but nary a sailboat marina was anywhere to be seen. No matter, I figured, since large freighters called occasionally at some of these ports. Surely there would be plenty of deep water and diesel in abundance. Surely.

On the off chance that I was mistaken, I consulted my handy cruising guide and called up a few fishing marinas. Each of them assured me that diesel was readily available at any gas station due the abundance of large farm trucks in the area. Surprisingly, none of the farmers made a habit of fueling up at deep water docks. Perhaps this was due to the total lack of diesel fuel docks!

I still felt confident I could find diesel even if I had to walk to a gas station to get it. Three harbors (and two pretenders) dotted the shore but the harbormasters became confused when I asked if they had any transient slips with six feet of water. They simply could not fathom (ha ha) the idea of a boat that went six feet into the water. Apparently I would have to walk ON the water to get to that gas station. My confidence waned.

Fortunately, my boat came factory equipped with SAILS so I could ignore the dry, sucking sound of the fuel pump and simply throw some canvas up. The Sturgeon Bay Ship Canal was due north of my current position and the wind was blowing straight out of the south at a pleasant 10 knots. Could there possibly be a more perfect confluence of circumstances? I would harness the wind to get me within a few pints of the marina. This would almost be like real sailing.

Unfortunately, my boat also came factory equipped with a B&R rig. This neat invention allows for the elimination of the backstay and the consequent use of a full roach sail. Your local Hunter representative can entertain you for hours with descriptions of the advantages of the B&R rig. As far as I am concerned, the rig helps simplify sailing. The small jib forces a slightly larger angle to the wind when close hauled and the swept back spreaders prevent you from sailing dead downwind. Let’s do the numbers. You can begin sailing at 45 degrees off the wind and continue until you are 120 degrees off. That gives you a full 75 degrees of sailable semicircle. Given that a full semicircle is 180 degrees and 75 is considerably less than that, your sailing is simplified. You can simply plan on either not sailing more than half the time or not sailing in the direction you want to more than half the time. See? Simplicity itself.

Now the Hunter reps will tell you that their boats sail better gybing back and forth rather than straight down wind. I do not dispute this. The boats CANNOT sail straight downwind so anything else must, by definition, be “better”. Of course you do not give up much by gybing. Since you can sail at 120 degrees on either gybe, you only give up a total arc of, let’s see 180 minus 120 times 2 equals 120 degrees of eliminated downwind sailing!!! That’s one healthy gybe angle. Of course matters are simplified somewhat by the ease of gybing. After all, you only need to turn the boat a full 120 degrees while hauling in on a huge frigging full roach main while the autopilot screams in confusion and you pray that the lack of a backstay will not result in a lack of all stays, shrouds and spars when the sail slams over. After you open your eyes and look at the compass, you are greeted with the inevitable news that you are still not going anywhere in the general direction of your intended destination.

But I digress.

The point here is that the wind coming from the south when I wanted to go north was a BAD thing. Try and explain that to powerboaters. I have enough of a problem explaining it to myself.

I put up the sails anyway. I also headed in the general direction of Michigan which, though it was 65 miles distant, was at least in a direction I could GO. This made me feel somewhat in control of my own fate. That’s not necessarily a good thing.

I soon began to doubt my strategy of crossing the whole lake. After all, the reason I decided to cross was that I was OUT OF FUEL. Brilliant decision making. I then began to play a little game with the boat. I would look at the chart for awhile and calculate the distance to Sturgeon Bay. I would then produce a wildly optimistic and totally baseless estimate of my fuel consumption rate. Feeling confident in my analysis I would sneak a peak at the fuel gauge. E for empty. I would then calculate the distance back to Manitowoc (which was much closer) and add up the total time I would “waste” in returning for fuel. Totally depressed by the calculation I would again sneak a peak at the gauge. ¼ full. What was going on here? Was it empty or a quarter full? I calculated the fuel necessary to make Sturgeon Bay again and was confident that a quarter tank was more than enough to make it. The gauge would then read empty. Plotting a return course to Manitowoc would again bring it up to a quarter.

If you think that reading the last paragraph was maddening, think about my state of mind out on the lake as I sailed for an hour in a direction I did not want to go while doing calculations that relied on the accuracy of a demonic fuel gauge!

I finally decided to chance it and dropped the sails in order to head straight for Sturgeon Bay. What’s the worst that could happen? I could run out of fuel in the narrow ship canal with a 1000 footer bearing down on me. In the fog. How bad could that be?

I wisely tested my whistle to see if it was loud enough to warn a freighter. While I doubted the sound would carry over the thunder of a couple gazillion horsepower freighter engines, the concept was amusing enough to send the flies rolling on their scaly backs laughing their heads off while clutching their blood swollen bellies with all six legs.

I turned back to Manitowoc. The fuel gauge pegged itself on Empty. What was happening? It was supposed to read a quarter full now. I grabbed the chart and plotted my new position. I had sailed far enough north to be out of engine range of Manitowoc. Manitowoc was south of my position. Right into the wind. That stopped the fly laughter.

I turned up the VHF and waited impatiently as the Coast Guard rudely took over the hailing channel to broadcast a severe storm warning. Now why would they do that? We have small craft warnings all the time. If you want to hear them then turn to the weather channel. There’s certainly no need to interrupt all the interesting chatter on channels 9 and 16.

Wait a minute. This was not a small craft warning. This was a storm warning. A SEVERE storm warning. How bad could that be? As I recall, the broadcast was as follows:

“The National Weather Service has issued a severe storm warning for central Wisconsin and all waters between Sturgeon Bay and Manitowoc (Did they have me on radar or something?) Damaging winds in excess of 60 knots can be expected to occur without warning. Water spouts are expected to form in the area. Severe lightning may be accompanied by large hail. The center of the storm is expected to strike the town of Kewaunee. ALL VESSELS SHOULD SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.”

With the fuel gauge obstinately stuck on E, I immediately raised the mainsail and headed off on a broad reach for shore. That reference to “all vessels” was curling my toes and making me question my normal practice of heading offshore to weather a storm. I wanted to make a valiant attempt at making port. Since the winds would be offshore I could always drop sails at the last minute and run under bare poles if I came up short.

Finally thinking like a sailor, I grabbed my charts and navigation notebook and took down my position, heading and speed. If the GPS was fried by lightning I wanted to be able to have some idea of my position. I lay a course to the only port I had a reasonable chance of making.

Kewaunee.

The flies packed their bags and left.

If you have ever listened to marine weather reports, you know that they are updated every four to six hours. For the better part of a day you can listen to the same recording forecast clear skies as it is raining. While the forecasts may be less than useful, their constancy is reassuring in some strange way.

The weather broadcast I was listening to was live. While that might be comforting to those out of the path of the storm, it sure wasn’t making me feel any better.

White Swan flew across the water at hull speed as I started to worry about the wind shift that would occur as the storm pushed through. If I didn’t make it in soon, I would have the wind on my nose and no fuel to fight it with.

I called in to a fishing marina and asked if they had a slip that would handle me. They said they had one and the depth was fine in the slip but the channel was questionable.

I sailed through the harbor entrance just as the wind began to come around. I started the engine and dropped the sails faster than I have ever done before. I took a look at the harbor chart and found the charted depths too depressing so I tossed it below and reached for the radio. I asked which part of the channel was deepest but no one seemed to know so I headed down the middle. I then asked if the bottom was rocky. A fisherman came on and said he thought it was mud. I revved up and tried to ignore the depth sounder as it ticked down through 10 feet then 8 feet then 6 feet (my draft!). With a hundred yards to go I hit the mud and stopped. I threw the engine in reverse and backed straight out to try a different course. Several people were on the dock watching as I left a muddy path through the water.

I saw that the empty slip was not a port side tie up as I had been told on the radio so my lines were on the wrong side. The roiling black clouds and the roiling brown mud left me no choice but to go in without lines rather than taking the time to switch. Backing in was not an option given the adrenaline surging through my bloodstream.

The wind hit as I pivoted 180 degrees to get in the slip. I shouted for everyone to stand back and I am sure they thought I was going to crash the dock. Actually I just didn’t want a bunch of strange hands grabbing the boat and throwing me off course at the last second.

I came in perfectly and then performed the most acrobatic feats of my life jumping back and forth across the boat and on to the dock with fenders and docklines flying every which way as I secured the boat while not letting it drift away. As I cleated the last dockline, the harbor master started clapping. He dubbed me “spider man” for the web I had woven.

Less than a block away an ear splitting scream came from the firehouse as the tornado siren was activated.

Part 6: The Town That Time Forgot

Kewaunee, Wisconsin is not known as a sailing destination. The harbor is merely a wide spot in a shallow river and there are no chandleries. If you are looking for $800 Henri Lloyd foul weather gear, look elsewhere. If, on the other hand, you need a dozen treble hooks in various sizes, they can be had at any gas station.

Although I’ve driven through Kewaunee dozens of times, my true introduction to the town came as the horrific storm whipped through. The harbor master and his wife ran through the whole marina and checked the lines on every single boat to make sure they were secure. We’re not in Chicago anymore, Toto.

After the storm, the harbor master came down to check on me. Note my use of language. He did not come down to “check me in”. That could wait. He just wanted to make sure everything was all right. Since our initial meeting had been rather abrupt given the tornado warnings, I thought a formal introduction was appropriate.

“Are you the Harbor Master?” I asked.

He paused for a minute and seemed to ponder the question.

“Well, I’m the owner hereabouts if that’s what you mean but I don’t reckon I need any high falutin’ title. My name’s Fred.”

Kewaunee is one of those increasingly rare places where the residents still ponder and reckon. They also still use phrases like “high falutin’ “ without a trace of artifice. They probably do not use words like “artifice”.

Coming from Chicago I was a bit surprised at Fred’s directness. If I asked my Harbor Master (and you had better capitalize it when you say it) in Chicago for his name, he would undoubtedly respond differently.

“Why do you want to know my name? I didn’t do anything. Who are you going to talk to? What business of yours is it anyway? You know, my brother-in-law’s sister’s boyfriend is a lawyer and a damn fine one. He’ll get me out of any trouble you try and put me in just like he did with that ‘misunderstanding’ about LeRoy and the pointy end of my knife. What’s your slip number? Who the hell are you anyway? I’m calling my union rep. I don’t need to put up with this abuse.”

I don’t know the name of my Exalted Harbor Master. I just call him Sir.

Fred was a bit more easy going.

“How long will you be staying?”

“I wasn’t really planning on staying. I just need some diesel and I was hoping I could find a gas station nearby.”

“Do you have any cans?”

“No. I guess I’ll just buy one and make a couple trips if it’s not too far.”

“Nonsense. You just stay here and relax. I’ve got a couple cans up in the garage. I’ll run over to the station and get you some fuel. I’ll be back in a bit.”

I was dumbfounded. I thanked Fred and he asked me if I was looking to head out right away. A quick look at the still ominous sky and this pleasant and snug marina made the decision easy. I told him I’d stay for the night.

“Well, in that case I’ll be back in awhile.”

Time in Kewaunee is measured differently than in Chicago. Ask someone in the Windy City when they will do something or be somewhere, and they will invariably answer with a certain number of minutes. In Kewaunee, “a bit” and “awhile” are sufficiently different to get across the idea of time. Any finer precision is apparently unnecessary.

I expected to see Fred get in some old pickup and head over the bridge and into town. In fact, I would have been disappointed if he had driven over in a shiny new SUV. Neither image was close to reality. After a bit but before awhile I saw Fred pulling a dock cart across the highway bridge and into town. The gas station was about half a mile away and it took Fred a long time to get there since he stopped to talk with every person on the street. Sometimes he just paused to say hello while other times he sat for a bit. No doubt he was swapping yarns.

Eventually Fred meandered back to the marina with two five gallon cans of diesel and the day’s news. He sat on the dock while I filled the tank.

“Seems you were the last one off the lake,” he said. “Couple of folks out near the breakwall when the storm hit said the lake got churned up something good. They didn’t see any water spouts but I don’t doubt there were some out there.”

“I’m just glad you had a spot open. I could have headed offshore under sail but it would have been mighty unpleasant.”

“I reckon it would have been. How’d you run so low on fuel, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I was just stupid. Rushing to save time. Saved five minutes and lost a full day.”

“Yup. Rushing around ain’t my style. That’s why I like it here. Nice slow pace. No worries.”

I finished with the fuel and handed him the empty cans. I told him I really appreciated his help and he just waved me off. When I asked how much I owed him, he said his wife would figure it up later but it wasn’t much.

I was impressed with Fred. Not only did he take the time to do me a favor but he also made sure, in the most polite possible way, that I knew how close I had cut it with my rushing around. As it turns out, Fred was a bit more impressive than it seemed at the time.

I was walking through town later that afternoon when a couple came up to me and asked if I was the skipper of White Swan. I wisely resisted giving the normal Chicago response of “depends on who’s asking” and instead replied in the local vernacular.

“I reckon I am.”

“We heard you on the radio as you were coming in. A bunch of us were listening and we got mighty worried about you.”

Quite honestly, I had not thought it all that big a deal at the time. Sure, it was a bit scary but I certainly did not imagine that other people were listening in as if it was some drama.

“You should have seen Fred move when your call came in.”

“What do you mean?”

“He tore out of the office like a madman and got the boat out of your slip.”

“I don’t understand. What boat?”

“There was a big sport fisherman in here. Fred thought this was the only slip deep enough for you. He had to move the other boat by hand since he couldn’t get in to start it. You should have seen him dancing along the transoms of the other boats with three lines in his hands. I don’t know how he did it. That’s a pretty big boat to manhandle,” the woman said indicating a 40 or 42 foot sport fisherman.

I could not imagine laconic Fred dancing along transoms or hurrying with anything.

“Fred and Peggy were pretty worried about the fleet when the storm warning came through. They always know where everyone is and they made sure they got a radio response from every boat that was out. Got them all back in time too. You were the last one.”

“Are we talking about the same Fred?” I asked, recalling how I had asked him to step back when I came in out of concern that he might not know how to handle a dockline properly.

“Don’t let that laid back act fool you. He moves pretty fast whenever there’s a need for it. He’s a workaholic too. He and his wife maintain the whole marina by themselves and it’s in great shape. They’re also here every morning at 4:30 to help with the early fishermen.”

Nice slow pace. No worries. Maybe for the customers.

I continued my walking tour of town and tried to stop flinching every time someone surprised me by saying hello as they passed by. I noticed that all of the businesses except for the marina and two gas stations were closed. I asked the next person I ran across about this.

“Why is everything closed?”

“It’s Sunday,” he said with a puzzled look.

“Isn’t anything open?”

“Sure. The churches are open. If you’re looking for someplace to eat, I’m sure one of them has a dinner of some sort tonight. I’d be happy to check for you.”

“No, that’s fine. I’m all set. I do have a question for you though. I was wondering how exactly you pronounce the name of this town.”

The puzzled look returned as he said, “Just like it sounds.”

As I walked back to the boat, I regretted not taking the man up on his offer. It would have been interesting to go to a spaghetti dinner at a church in Kewaunee. I am sure the congregation would have welcomed me.

If you are ever in this area, make sure you stop for a few minutes. The town is a bit north of Manitowoc and a ways south of Algoma. Be careful not to miss it entirely. You see, Kewaunee is so small that McDonalds and Walmart probably don’t even know it exists. I reckon that suits folks around here just fine.

If you happen to come by water, stop at the Kewaunee Marina. The guy standing at the end of the dock as you come in is named Fred. Toss him a dockline. He knows what to do with it.

Part 7: The Final Approach

Following the harrowing experiences of Sunday, I decided to listen very carefully to the marine forecast before heading out for the final leg of this delightful repositioning cruise. The forecaster dramatically issued predictions of bands of thunderstorms with unpredictable winds and occasional waterspouts.

I opened the hatch and watched the sun rise into the clear blue sky.

On the planned final day of this epic voyage, I would be a fool to ignore storm warnings.

I cleared the harbor light at 0530.

I did not make this decision to proceed without a great deal of consideration. I considered the fact that Kewaunee was more likely to have a donkey rental station than a major car rental company. I considered that I had already met everyone in town. Twice. I considered that the water wasn’t getting any deeper and that sudden evaporation might leave me stuck for years to come. Finally I considered that, regardless of the forecast, I might be able to outrun the storms if only I could get on the lake before the heat built the thermals.

I did not consider the report that the thunderstorms in question were already firing 60 miles away and thus obviously had no need for midday heat. They packed their own heat.

As I cleared the final lighthouse, I punched in the safe course for Sturgeon Bay and sat back to enjoy the rare, visible sunrise. The fog rolled in right on time before old Mr. Sun had a chance to make much of a show.

The flies were not as bad today since I was up so early. One actually slept on my arm for a while and others kept falling over from exhaustion. The mosquitoes, however, more than made up for the late rising practices of my bug eyed friends.

Very little happened on the 20 mile short hop to the vicinity of the Sturgeon Bay lighthouse. Flies, hunger, fog. Flies, hunger, fog. The usual cruising activities. I say vicinity because things got a little dicey within some indeterminate range.

A bit of local color is required to understand the next events.

The Sturgeon Bay Ship Canal is a manmade waterway (ditch) that cuts across the Door Peninsula of Wisconsin. The canal allows large ore and grain boats to avoid the pleasant and scenic trip through Death’s Door further North. When I say ‘large’, I am not talking about big ships. Those I leave to you salty ocean sailors. These are not really large in that sense. They’re ENORMOUS! The typical length of a modern ore boat is 1000 feet. If you put all my boats end to end, you would not reach that far. That should tell you something. The ships are also tall when empty. Really tall. So tall they could dock with ease at the fixed height pleasure boat docks in Milwaukee.

The older freighters had pilothouses at the bow and crew quarters at the stern. The pilothouse offered wonderful visibility out front as well as down. Most of the current fleet has the wheelhouse at the rear of the ship, much like a container ship but with less visibility. I always thought this was an odd choice for Great Lakes freighters since they spend so much of their time maneuvering in tight quarters, usually without the assistance of a tug. A docent at the local maritime museum cleared up the confusion for me. Apparently the helmsmen on the ships were getting all depressed every time they ran over small boats. Since it is unwise to have a depressed sailor in charge of steering 1000 feet of rather hard steel, the shipping industry thought it would be much better to relocate the helm to a position where it is impossible to witness the carnage occurring at the bow. The helmsmen are a much happier lot these days.

In any case, these big boys come barreling down the ship canal trying to clear it of all pleasure craft. The canal is wide enough to accommodate the freighters but narrow enough to allow young lovers to paint graffiti on the hulls as they pass by.

As I had no desire to debate the finer points of the Rules of the Road with a ship’s captain facing me down in the canal, I wanted to make sure no ships were transiting at the same time as myself. At a minimum I wanted to be able to see down the length of the canal. Of course to do that I would first have to be able to find the canal or even the giant lighthouse at its entrance.

I had looked forward to this moment all season. Sighting the lighthouse would mean (I naively thought) that I had arrived in the north and that I was a true cruiser. I looked forward to it in May and June. I thought of it often on the trip north. This one potentially shining light had kept me going through the long hours, the delusions, the dementia.

I really looked forward to seeing it now that I was supposedly less than a half mile away. Of course, I would have been happy to just get a glimpse of Wisconsin.

The fog had joined forces with the clouds and eliminated all visibility.

Not to worry! Some deity had foreseen just such an event when sculpting this particular piece of Earth and had provided natural aids to navigation. The deep waters of Lake Michigan rapidly shoaled near the canal entrance in a V shaped pattern. If a ship somehow got off course, terra firma would warn the captain of the error by rolling his ship over on its side. To further avoid any confusion about depth and contours, the bottom in this area is pure granite. No soft sand to cushion the wayward navigator.

After spending a hundred years locating the ship canal by taking bearings on rusting hulks, the captains changed their methods and began using radar. This allowed them to clearly distinguish land regardless of the weather and avoid the embarrassment of landing on someone’s patio. Unfortunately, I did not think the radars were powerful enough to pick up a return from my radar reflector since it was sitting on a shelf in the West Marine store in Chicago.

As I tried to make out the entrance to the canal, I heard a great deal of ship traffic behind me. I am not at all sure that the ships were actually there but I could hear them in my mind quite clearly nonetheless. In fact, several times the tremendous blast of a ship’s horn nearly scared me into the next world. No horn actually sounded but the fear of it happening was enough to make me jumpy.

With a quarter mile to go I finally sighted the lighthouse. Surprisingly it was exactly where the GPS had predicted and nowhere near where my intuition had placed it. Fortunately the autopilot had disobeyed a direct order to hand over control an hour earlier and brought the boat straight to the light. The light was turned off and no fog horn was blowing. Such was my welcome to Door County.

Part 8: The Flora of Sturgeon Bay


As I entered the ship canal, all my worries melted away. There were no ships in sight and all I had to do was run another four miles through the canal, go under two bridges and through Sturgeon Bay itself and tie up at my snug little berth.

I passed the Coast Guard station at the canal entrance and waved to the three brawny lads standing on the lawn. It was so nice to see them away from their duty stations and enjoying the fine summer weather.

I continued on through a forested area and thought how nice it was to bring White Swan so close to the trees without having to violently ground her first. I deeply inhaled the pine scents and only choked a little on the diesel exhaust.

As I cleared the end of the canal and entered the bay I took a look at the charts to make sure I stayed out of the shallows which ring the whole area. As long as I stayed in the buoyed channel I would be fine. I also noted the presence of floating weed beds that a power cruiser the night before had warned me about. He told me he had to stop three times to clear his props. I had congratulated him on his foresight in buying hydraulically pivoting lower units.

The first bridge carries the only major highway in the area. For some reason this bridge is an on-demand bridge rather than having scheduled openings. When I was five minutes away I hailed the bridge tender on the radio and requested an opening. She told me to signal when I was closer. Four minutes later I signaled for an opening with my horn. Nothing happened so I signaled again. Still nothing. Finally I got on the radio as I began to do circles in front if the bridge.

What follows here are the actual radio transmissions as best I can recall them. These are NOT exaggerated. W refers to White Swan and B refers to the Bay View Bridge tender.

W: Bay View bridge, Bay View bridge, Bay View bridge. This is the sailing vessel White Swan. Over.

B: Go ahead White Swan.

W: I am the sailboat directly east of you. I am requesting a bridge opening at this time.

B: How tall is your mast White Swan?

W: 50 feet Bay View.

B: We currently have exactly 50 feet clearance to the water. Please proceed.

W: Bay View bridge tender, I have a wind instrument on the mast I’m rather fond of and would like to keep it intact. Please open the bridge.

B: Negative White Swan. Please proceed.

W: Bay View bridge tender, I feel that is an unsafe choice and I again request an opening. If you would prefer that I wait for a scheduled opening please advise me of that.

B: We do not have scheduled openings White Swan. Please proceed.

W: Negative bridge tender. I will not proceed under a closed bridge.

B: Fine. Stay where you are.

W: Any vessel in Sturgeon Bay, any vessel in Sturgeon Bay. This is the sailing vessel White Swan requesting a witness to this conversation.

Unknown Vessel: Sounds pretty entertaining to me. Can’t wait to see how it turns out.

B: White Swan, be advised that I am preparing to open the span. Please proceed as quickly as safety allows.

W: Thank you bridge tender.

At this point I had been circling for quite some time. I was very near the bridge and ready to proceed. The wind was calm and there was no current.

The bridge opened and I proceeded forward.

As soon as I came under the bridge, two things happened. First, the siren of an ambulance sounded as he came onto the bridge. Second, the weeds grabbed my prop and stopped me dead in the water.

I quickly lost all momentum and floated immediately beneath the bridge. Just sat there bobbing gently. No forward motion.

I tried revving the engine but it refused. I tried speeding up and slowing down but I was stuck good.

The conversation resumed.

B: White Swan, where are you?

W: I am under the span and choked with weeds. I have no forward motion. There is no wind so I cannot sail out of here. Please stand by while I drift out.

A full 10 minutes passed without me moving a foot. Ten minutes is a long time to float under a bridge. Ten minutes is a VERY long time to listen to the siren of an ambulance stuck on the bridge.

The tender came back on.

B: White Swan, what is your mast height?

W: 75 feet!!!!! 75 feet!!!!! Do NOT lower the span. I repeat, do NOT lower the span.

B: I cannot wait all day.

W: Any vessel, any vessel. This is White Swan at the Bay View bridge. I am requesting immediate towing assistance.

There was no response. This in a very busy harbor.

Another full ten minutes passed until I finally inched out from under the span on a slight breeze. The bridge came down fast without warning as I sat bobbing with my mast no more than a foot from the bridge. The breeze then started to inch me along the bridge towards the shallows. I was so close that a small powerboat wake would have resulted in my mast hitting the span and dropping to the deck.

As I had no luck with either commercial towing services or other boaters and I felt myself in a rather dangerous situation, I made the call.

W: Coast Guard Sturgeon Bay, Coast Guard Sturgeon Bay. This is White Swan, over.

No response. I was less than two miles from the station and I was getting no response. I made the call twice more on channels 9, 16 and 22 with no response. Finally I changed tactics and made the most memorable radio call of my sailing life.

W: Hum de dum, hum de dum, hum de dum. Coast Guard Station Sturgeon Bay this is White Swan calling. I know you aren’t there right now but I would appreciate it if I could leave a message so you can get back to me at your convenience. I am stuck at the Bay View bridge and I need a tow due to weeds clogging my prop shaft. Please advise me on the availability of local towing services.

C: White Swan, this is Coast Guard Sturgeon Bay. What is your location?

W: I am located 6 inches west of the Bay View Bridge.

C: Please stand by.

W: If I could do otherwise, we would not be talking.

After a minute of silence, the Coast guard came back on.

C: White Swan, have you tried reversing your engine?

At the time I heard this a bizarre image flashed through my mind. I honestly thought for a second that he wanted me to physically turn my engine around. It had been a long day.

I threw the engine in reverse and watched with amazement as weeds and smoke and oily stuff came spewing out. The prop then caught and nearly threw me back into the bridge. I quickly switched to full forward and finally moved away.

I had only three tasks remaining. First, cross the bay (more like a wide river) while staying in the channel. Second, successfully pass through the final bridge which would only open on the hour. Finally, dock the boat.

The first task was relatively easy. I only had to power a mile or so to the next bridge (which had a clearance of only 14 feet so there was no doubt about it opening) without fouling the prop again. Of course I fouled it three more times in ten minutes. I was able to clear each time by using reverse.

I reached the next bridge with 40 minutes to spare so I started doing circles. I tried to avoid the floating weed beds but still got caught every three or four revolutions. I began to realize that I was not safe yet as the wind started to pick up. If I completely fouled the prop, the wind would push me ashore. Anchoring was not an option as the bottom was doubtlessly foul with weeds. Having little else to do I began to plan my own demise.

I thought about putting some sail up but there was little room to tack in the channel especially in the light winds. Given the wind direction, it would also be difficult to get through the bridge under sail.

I looked ashore and picked my spot. There is a large freighter permanently tied to shore close to the second bridge. It has rough, towering steel walls with skid plates in strategic locations to rip your boat to shreds. I put out all my fenders and adjusted my circling to put me in position to blow down on the freighter in an emergency. I knew I would trash my boat but I would likely survive intact as long as the mast did not come down on me. I tested my emergency plan by shifting to neutral and sailing the boat sloooowly under bare poles. I actually had some control even without any sail up. I thought I could at least pick my point of impact so I began to look up and down the ship to find the least damaging place.

Then I spotted my salvation.

Palmer Johnson (yacht yard to the stars) has their main facility between the ship and the bridge. A series of fine yachts were tied along the wall. I spotted a beautiful, large, custom looking yacht tied up alongside the middle of the wall. This was a dream boat. A cap to some successful career. A babe magnet. I took aim.

Now lest you think I am simply an evil SOB, let me explain my reasoning. If I hit the ship, no one would notice until they scraped me off the side before the next paint job.

If I even came within eyeprint (thank you Charles for that metaphor) distance of the yacht there should be a dozen yard hands ready to fend me off.

As I came closer to the wall I still had some engine control but it was getting iffy. A yard worker called out to me when I was 25 yards away and asked what I wanted.

“I plan to raft up to this boat if my engine fails,” I shouted reassuringly. (I felt “raft up” sounded better than “collide”)

“Fiddlesticks!!!! (or something to that effect) ,” he screamed.

The worker ran off in search of the expected fender offers and they came running back with boat hooks in hand. I swear some of the hooks were sharpened. Meanwhile I had started on another wide circle at very reduced RPMs.

As I came around, I spotted a better target.

Everyone was still lined up but now in the wrong place.

“I’m going for the Hinckley now!” I shouted, pointing to a beautiful Hinckley Picnic Boat.

They ran over to the Hinckley as I circled again. I changed targets again and decided to be nice and aim for the haul out slip next to the Hinckley. I actually intended to bring it in now regardless of whether I had control since that would be safer than any emergency situation. I took aim with the engine barely moving the prop.

Just then, the travel lift appeared from the inside of the building and carried a big commercial boat straight out over the haul out slip. Neptune was having fun with me.

At this point, the wall was lined with workers just as I had planned. Unfortunately, I was distracted by a loud horn that I took to be a warning. Lot of good that would do them I thought as I started into the final circle. Just then I heard shouting from behind me.

“Hey! Aren’t you going through the bridge?” called out another sailor who had been waiting on the other side and had just crossed through!

I looked over my shoulder and saw the bridge begin to come down! I laid on my airhorn for all it was worth. First, I gave the bridge open signal. Then I gave the five blast emergency signal. Then I just started making up stuff as I raced for the bridge with the engine choking and sputtering.

This was an old trestle bridge with barely any clearance except when full open. I was going through whether it was open or not.

Apparently the bridge tender believed this as well and started to reopen the span.

I made it through with just inches to spare as the engine quit.

This time I had momentum and I allowed it to carry me over to the marina (right next to the bridge), into the second row of docks and straight into an empty slip. I threw the docklines at the cleats (Real ones! On floating docks!) and stepped off. I would have been perfectly content to never step aboard again.

The marina manager came walking down the dock with a smile on his face.

“Are you White Swan?” he asked.

“I guess I am.”

“Well, I see you found your slip all right. How long will you be staying?”

“I may never go back,” I said as I walked away and headed towards the bar at the entrance to the marina.

The bar went out of business last October.