The Tao of Walking Ridge

Each day of my singlehanded journey was decided by the weather and whim.  After a day at Beardrop, I decided to check out a little cove around the corner.  Only big enough for perhaps 2 or 3 boats, at this time of the off season I had Long Point Cove to myself.  The log reads:

9/3/92 - Long Pt Cove - 11 NM, (10:40 - 17:20), Winds 25 SW

It wasn’t far, but I spent some time sailing about before finding it. I anchored in the cove for the evening and awoke to the luckiest event I’ve ever had while sailing.

I woke up and looked out the side window to notice a large rocky outcropping drift by.  Startled, I went topsides and discovered my anchor was dragging.  I’d rested easily all evening, but the wind had picked up in the morning and I had drifted directly out the opening of the cove.  What are the odds?  I lifted the dragging anchor and faced with the decision of waiting the appropriate time to vent gas fumes before starting the engine and crashing into some rocks, decided to hit the ignition.  It started, and I was underway perhaps 20 seconds before going aground.

Now I was there.  I had arrived.  I was in the North Channel.  Now I could live according to whim and the rhythm of life.  One destination I definitely wanted to see was Beardrop Harbor.  Beardrop is about a quarter mile wide and a mile or two long.  It has a very narrow opening, making it a great place to sit out a storm.

I was actually able to sail to Beardrop in strong winds of 25 plus knots.  I kept the sails very short, sailing jib only so I could control it better.  The Tartan 34 is not rigged with roller furling and is not ideal for single handing.  But with an autopilot, I’m able to be captain and crew and, by sailing it conservatively, sail safe.

The log reads:

9/2/92 - Beardrop Harbor - 26 NM, (9:05 - 14:29), Winds 25 - 30 knots E

After sailing such long legs to get here, the 5 1/2 hour passage went by quickly.  Sailing short sailed I made over 4.5 knots!  The wind was loud in my ears.  The waves were short and choppy as the North Channel is relatively protected compared to Lake Huron.  Upon arrival at the opening to Beardrop, I found the markers to line up with the entrance.  A book that describes the local navigation marks is pretty much a necessity in the north channel.  It isn’t uncommon to line a rock up with a white mark on a cliff face.  For Beardrop, I lined up the marks, took the heading, and thought I was going straight into the cliff.  But an opening appeared and I motored through.

As I entered Beardrop the wind dropped and the waves fell to calm in a matter of seconds.  Once again, the contrast with the hours during the passage was dramatic.  The calm was intoxicating.  The Tartan had a dingy on davits off the stern, and I lowered it into the water and explored the harbor.  It was a great place to explore with a dingy.  Very protected, with lots of rocky outcroppings to climb on and explore.  A great mix of big boating and small boating.

While there, I continued to bask in how remote the area was.  I could go hours without hearing or seeing another boat or airplane.  It did occur to me that if anything happened, it was likely that no one would even respond to a marine radio call.  Perhaps the Canadian Coast Guard was monitoring channels, but I certainly saw few signs of life.  Self preservation was definetly a priority.

As I settled in for the night, I had my most unsettling encounter of the trip.  A small outboard skiff circled my boat and I heard someone call “Hey, Captain!” a few times.  I saw no spot light, heard to official identification, and assumed it was likely to be one of the locals that are known from time to time to become a bit intoxicated.  Frankly, I was scared.  I stayed below and they left after a few minutes.

The log for the day reads:

9/1/92 - Arrived Meldrum Bay - 46 NM, (8:40 - 16:30), wind 12 knots, NW engine on 8 hrs, 40 min

It was another day of motoring.  As I approached the gap between the Manitoulin and Drummond Island there was great anticipation.  This was the gateway to the North Channel.  But I still had more than an hour of motoring to go before I was able to weigh anchor.

As I arrived in Meldrum bay, the contrast between the day of motoring and the conditinos in the bay were dramatic.  The trees surrounding the bay blocked the wind.  So I went from waves, wind, sound to nearly dead quiet.  Remote.  Off in the distance, a lone motor was heard.  It belonged to a single engine aircraft probably 3 miles away.  That was it.  The peace and quiet overcame me like two stiff shots of 16 year old single malt scotch whiskey.  This is why I made the trip.  (I am actually writing this in 2008, recalling the arrival, and the memory is still vivid).

The procedure for passing customs is to find a phone and call in upon arrival in a Canadian port.  So my first stop was to the dock at Meldrum Bay with some gas docks and a building.  The building looked to be on the end of the road (about 7 miles?) that runs from end to end through the Manitoulin Island.  A sign on the gas docks said “For gas call xxx-xxxx).  The place was unattended.  The “lodge” was unlocked.  Inside was a payphone, I called customs, returned to my boat, and anchored out in the bay for the evening.  I never did actually see anyone.

Once back on dry land, recovery from sea sickness was a bit slower than I’d have liked. I remember eating dinner and having German chocolate cake because not much tasted good. But after a day of rest I was able to head on up the coast. The log book reads:

8/31/92 - Harrisville to Presque Isle - 44 NM, 9.8 hours (9:21 - 15:10), 4.49 knots avg, motoring, winds 21 knots apparent NNW, waves 4′ to 6′

I remember that the 6 footers seemed tame, and it was a pleasant run.  Motoring was pretty easy, as I didn’t mess with the sails.  As luck would have it, I have headwinds when headed north and would have headwinds often when headed south.

When singlehanding, you do become aware that there is a very bad failure mode should you fall overboard.  Though I’ve never fallen overboard when sailing anything over 20 feet long, I have come close on a couple of occasions.  Should I go in the water when motoring the boat will keep going.  My life preserver would just delay the inevitable.  So I used a harness any time I was out of the cockpit and trailed a long painter (line dragged aft) with a knot on the end to grab as a last chance option.

The Tartan 34 in port. -  1971 hull, LOA 34′ 5″, LWL 25′, Beam 10′ 2″, Displacement 11,200 lbs, Atomic 4 gas power, Draft 3′ 11″ (board up) 8′ 4″ (board down)

If the internet had existed in 1992, I’d have logged this trip in real time. But I did take some notes and some pics, and so I decided to log it post dated.

I left on August 29th. My boat co owner and I sailed from Mt Clemens to Port Sanilac in a Tartan 34. Here are the log book entries:

8/29/92 - Mt Clemens to Port Sanilac - 61 NM, 12.9 hours (6:15 - 15:10), 4.72 knots avg, motorsailing, wind 21 knots apparent, WNW, waves 4′

8/29 - 8/30/92 - Port Sanilac to Harrisville - 89 NM, 13.8 hours (15:25 - 9:15), 6.4 knots avg motorsailing. Wind fell after midnight, climbed 1:30 to 3:00. Gale force winds from 3:00 to 9:15. 40 knots gusting to more than 55 knots SSW, waves 8′ to 12′ Dropped off company.

The “company” was my co-owner, a very experienced sailor, especially on the great lakes. A single handed passage up the St Clair River is quite difficult, so the idea was that the two of us would get the boat up the coast and I’d have maximum time in the North Channel.

Hurricane Andrew created some excitement. Though the weather was dead calm as I went down below on August 30, I woke up at 4:00 am as I recall. My co-owner was tired and needed a break. I slept soundly through 12 foot waves and winds of 65 to 70 mph! And that wind speed is just what I observed, I didn’t spend much time looking at the anemometer.

Having been awakened, I now became aware of being thrown from side to side in the cabin. And I was cold. Very cold. I put on my foul weather gear and went top sides. By a stroke of luck, only the job was up. My partner loved to run the main even when it was calm to keep the boat from rolling. But the wind had gotten so calm before the storm, he had dropped it. Such is how life and death luck happens sometimes.

We agreed to stay in the cockpit and not go forward. I guide the boat basically along a coarse that the waves allow. I get so cold I leave the autopilot on and stand on the steps of the cabin. BIG mistake. Sixty seconds later I am over the rail. The one and only time in my life I was actually sea sick. I did not feel as bad when I later learned that the waves were worse than the mid 1980s Port Huron to Mackinac race that sank a boat called Tomahawk and dismasted several others.

Suddenly I see in the very very early morning light that the stays of the mast are going slack and flopping about. We had just bought the boat, and the previous owner hadn’t locked all of the adjusters. I clipped in my harness and went forward before we lost the mast. It wasn’t the mast I was worried about at that time so much as the effect it would have if it went overboard. It was likely to float for a time punching holes in the hull along the waterline.

After about 4 hours, the sun began to rise, and around 8:00 am or so we got closer to shore and the waves began to abate. Finally, I went forward to lower the jib. I tried to be very careful, but caught a foot in a line, the boat lurched, and I went face first to the deck unhurt. It was really comical. I’d survived 12 footers, and tripped in perhaps 8 foot seas.

Saginaw Bay is often used by fisherman in small boats. The weather forecast missed the storm, the forecast was for calm all night. These 12 footers were no place for an 18 or 20 foot powerboat. As I recall, five boaters lost their lives that night, most wearing life preservers. The rough water and cold conditions meant survival time was short.

I would never intentionally sail in such weather. But there is a sense of satisfaction at having the seamanship to be able to survive such conditions.