The Wind was blowing out of the North as I rounded the light house and slide down the coast to the south. The seas were angry but spirits were high as I surfed the hop around the top of the thumb heading for Harbor Beach. It's a reef and boulder mine field. Staying several miles out at the 40 ft depth mark is the common rule of thumb. I chose to use the southern entrence into the big ass harbor. The Northern entrence cuts off 2 miles but is shallow and shifty. only the locals know the secrets to safely use it.
Harbor Beach is the largest freshwater harbor in the world. Huge frieghters turn around within her delivering coal to the power plant. The tall stack of the power plant stretches to the sky. It is visable over the horizon hours before town when sailing in.
The Dow Agro plant next to the marina is the largest producer of Soy Sauce in the world. When the wind blows from the south the marina smells like a chinese restaurant. Town is centered to the main harbor and the marina is squirreled in the northern tip a full mile from the harbor entrance. The seawalls are impressive and are guarded by thousands of screaming Gulls.
The marina has a curtesy shuttle during the day as the uphill walk to town is exhausting. I have found the best way is to bike up to town, do your business then hit Hunter's Bar for a big greasy burger with Chive fries and a few beers. Then it's a white knuckle ride down the hill on the gravel shoulder to the boat. Once you get rolling gravity takes over and things get animated. They have since put in a kick ass rail to trail path that makes the ride really cool.
The weather was forecasting to kick up over night. That worried me but the rudder repair was gaining my confidence. I strapped the bike down on deck and got some sleep. I was running out of vacation days with a hundred miles to go. I had two days of sailing left and 3 days to do it in. Leaving me one spare day should weather or misfortune find me.
I was jealous of the other sailors talking about hopping two or three marinas up the coast in a days time in their larger boats. My slow little sailing bathtub could only hop one at a time. The next two days will be crap weather from the North with big waves. I have to pick one of the days to sail in due to time restraints.
Morning came cold and wet. Strong Northern winds on the front of a gail coming down the big lake a day later. 10 ft waves expected. In a 22 ft boat 10 ft waves is not fun. The waves would be coming from behind and push me all day.
I decided to get it over with before the real bad storm rolled in. I checked my gear and made it fast. with everything tighted down and the 6 gallon gas tank full I pull the starter cord on the 1959 Johnson outboard and eased out of the marina.
The winds were already blowing hard. I got all the sails up while still in the protection of the harbor walls. I was wrapped in my rainsuit and had a chest strap tethered with a 6 ft strap to the boat as long as I was in the cockpit. I let the dingy out about a hundred feet on the bridle line so I would have a second chance of grabbing the raft should things go real bad and I get trown overboard.
I took a deep breath, killed the motor and pointed her for the mouth of the harbor with the foresail reffed in at half furl. The closer I got to the opening in the breakwalls the bigger the waves were growing. Every bit of 6 footers cresting angerly throwing foam into the air. A heard a small voice in my head telling me to turn back, or it might have been the Coast Guard's small craft warning coming over the radio down below.
Like cresting the initial climb on a roller coaster once I passed the light house into the open water everything took off like a bullet. It was do or die at that point as my motor could never fight these waves and wind to get me back into the harbor.
The tiller sawed back and forth as I surfed up and down the waves. The autopilot was unable to handle it and was quickly stowed. I would pull the tiller fighting to keep the bow from rounding up letting the boat to flip. Then push the tiller with all my stregth as I slide back down the back of the wave. The wind was out of the North East pushing towards coast that ran north and south.
Using the small GPS I kept track of the dot on the screen that represented Port Sanilac. This is before chart plotters and the technology was just a small silver screen with a dot in the middle representing the current position and any other dots you add by entering map coordinants. I used charts to to get the waypoints of reefs and destinations. It resembles a minature Etch-a-Scetch. I watched the end dot wishing it would move down the screen faster.
I decided the take a heading that took me farther offshore. The waves looked to be cresting less in the deep water and I wanted to keep Port Sanilac dead downwind should I run into trouble. It is a 40 mile hop between the harbors of refuge. It was looking like a world away from the tiny bucking cockpit o'doom.
The waves built up to 10 footer after I was well into the battle. Somewhere far behind me the dingy was fighting the waves and filling with water. Once I got lined up with Port I had to change course and head straight down wind. Each wave was an entity of it's own. Each wave attacked me with a vengence I had never witnessed before. As I adjusted my course the winds were blowing at 35 knots and the waves were growing to 15 feet tall.
At the bottom of the wave I was surrounded by an angry bowl of water. The water was higher that my mast and blocked out the light. Then the next wave would pull me to the top of the wave where I could see for miles high above the churning sea.
The little boat was moaning and groaning. She was making noises I have never heard from her before. The swing keel was slamming at the end of it's cable and the sails were beyond their rated safe zone. I kept hearing a nasty cracking sound I feared was the hull seperating but I eventually realized it was the line from the dingy straining from the waves trying to swallow the little raft under. The dingy was a wave behind me and the taught line cutting through the waves was the only way I knew it was still with me.
I was exhausted. six miles from shore and six miles North of Port Sanilac, dead down wind. The water in Lake Huron is cold enough that in calm waters a person will die of hypothermia a mile offshore trying to swim in. This was a no bullshit, pay attention to every move life or death situation and getting worse. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep the nose pointed with the waves. I was losing the battle and to turn sideways to the wave would mean a breach flipping or swamping the boat.
I made the decision the fire up the motor and use the extra push to gain steerage. This worked just enough to keep me going while I rowed the tiller back and forth up and down the waves. I was right on the edge of disaster.
I should confess that I like running the ragged edge, Pushing that edge where every dicision is bigger than life. I like the clarity of mind it produces. Everything in your life dissapears and that moment is everything. Fear is suppresed and every one of your senses are alive and working to their fullest. That being said, I was really wishing I wasn't there.
I got everthing straight, the motor was the trick. I settled into the repetative work of surfing the waves one at a time. The dingy popped into sight once in a while when I was at the top of the waves and the devil laughed waiting at the bottom of the water canyon knowing you would be back. The noise of the wind and waves was deafing. I had picked up the video camera for a second to document the moment in one hand and the tiller in the other. While looking at the camera I saw the wall of water in the camera's screen. I put down the camera and looked back at a 20 foot high wall of churning water. That's when over the screaming seas I heard a loud crack.