Leigh and Me, Asea

Rapturous, asea.
Time slows.
The mind settles.
Wind weds canvas
in God’s rhythm.
A sublime mechanism
purely in sync.
All things align.
Exquisite focus.
Man and vessel,
one with wind and waves,
one with God,
one with time.
Time is naught.

I looked over at her and felt a rush of regret.

It had been ten years since our last cruise, our last trip together. We sold Leigh Shore the following summer, our lives with kids and careers having changed so much. We stopped taking time to ignore time.
I needed this trip to be meaningful, just Leigh and me together on the water again, and for the first time with no kids, friends, or other distractions.
I had arranged a bareboat charter out of the village of Gore Bay, a modest thirty-one foot sloop not unlike Leigh Shore, along with a requisite dinghy so the two of us could relive some of our most memorable island explorations.
We had towed our own dinghy behind Leigh Shore on our adventures for eight summers, exploring the uninhabited pine studded islands, picking wild blueberries, hiking, and climbing the pink granite precipices that rose hundreds of feet above the water; absorbing the singular, stunning, truly mythical beauty and grace that was the North Channel.
The trip to Gore Bay was long, but it gave Leigh and me time to look back on our decades together; the time we first met, that shy, sweet, pretty eighteen year old; our thirteen years of adventure and travel before Tip was born; and all the subsequent years focused on our ever changing family. It was nice to have that time of reflection on our temporary island of “Chevrolet”.
We arrived in Gore Bay at dinner time. The offshore winds had quieted to a light sea breeze. I love the dynamics of the evening sea and morning shore breezes, a coastal sailor’s tactical pleasure. It had been an unusually warm day. With the consistently cool water to the north, the cool air at its surface gently flowed under the rising warmer air on shore. Voila! Sea breeze.
Leigh and I took advantage of the perfect evening with a casual dinner of our favorite, Lake Huron whitefish, on the veranda of the modest Buoys Eatery overlooking the marina.
Our vessel was ready and waiting on C Dock, slip 18. Leigh and I loaded our gear and provisions. We got settled, enjoyed the evening sky from the cockpit, and then turned in.
I awoke early the next morning, anxious to prepare to disembark. Leigh had always been an early riser at home, getting out to the horses she cared for by sunrise. But on vacation she slept like a kitten, as in constantly. I quietly hopped onto the dock to do my favorite thing in Gore Bay.
At the local ship’s store, through the back door along a wide hallway with windows to the right, the wall on the left contained a series of well used nautical charts, showing the hundreds of uninhabited islands dotting the waters of the North Channel.
And for years, if he wasn’t otherwise on the water cruising, the “old man” hung out by the charts all day, a time-worn boonie hat haphazardly perched on his bald head, chatting with sailors and powerboaters alike. This man had sailed the North Channel the majority of sailable days over his lifetime.
His cracked, well-used hands and deeply chiseled crows feet were those of a man who had joyfully braved the wind, waves, and sun of decades of sailing. He was the local authority, and many sought him out. Sadly, I learned the old man had passed away the prior winter, no longer in the loving arms of the “glory of purple and glint of gold”.
I changed our float plan for the first day, to set sail for a gunkhole the old man had recommended many years before. Having never made it there, I thought it fitting to visit it with Leigh and honor the old man’s memory.
It was a lovely and somewhat rousing first day out, beating into solid two-footers all the way to the west side of the Benjamin Islands, the Benjamins; two smooth pink granite islands that were the highlight of any first-time North Channel cruise. As we skirted by we reminisced about our last visit, our onshore adventures, our fun swimming in the crystal waters, and the great conversations with our friends.
Continuing north, we worked our way in and around the islands the old man had pointed out years ago. I was careful to go very slowly as we picked through the underwater rocks. A first lesson of gunkholing is “if you’re going to run into something, do it slowly”.
Sooner than I might have hoped we reached the small vee shaped inlet the old man had recommended, and as we were on the leeward (protected) side of the island that afternoon, anchoring was quick and easy. It would be a quiet evening.
Dinner was simple. We had a perfect view of the technicolor sunset; the yellows, oranges, reds, and purples; God’s prism. We took in every bit of it. The topics of conversation started with the time I first laid eyes on Leigh, two years before formally meeting her. If there’s such a thing as love at first sight, it happened that afternoon on the breakwall at my family’s lake house. Leigh had tagged along with our mutual friend Lynn. She stood in the distance, too shy to come forward. She was sixteen. I was in love.
The next day, the weather got harsh. It didn’t stop us from proceeding, but we battled the waves with a following easterly wind as we headed due west, on a run (downwind) with a full headsail and no main. This made the ride more comfortable.
We cruised past Shoepack Bay as we approached Little Detroit, a small passage between two granite islands, so narrow that vessels made sure they passed through one at a time.
We continued west past Whalesback, a giant smooth granite hump that looked like the back of a whale. On a clear day it could be seen from the opposite side of the Channel twenty miles to the south.
A bit farther west we turned sharply left and left again into the idyllic anchorage framed by L-shaped Turnbull to the north and east and perhaps sixty tiny islands and rock outcroppings surrounding the rest of the harbor.
This was a happy spot. Five other vessels lay anchored in the harbor, all sailboats. The harbor was generous and we eased to a lovely, private spot. We dropped anchor and proceeded to do the stuff sailors do to ensure a safe, well-set anchor in the pristine fifteen foot deep harbor.
Leaving Leigh to her own devices, I jumped in the dinghy and set off for one of the great rituals of the North Channel; hopping from vessel to vessel, visiting each of our evening’s neighbors. Each stop netted a beverage and friendly conversation about the day’s voyage, home ports, and, of course, “her”, as in the vessel I was visiting.
Conversation never drifted to politics, current events, jobs, or matters beyond our watery milieu. Yes, there was talk of the weather, but only as related to recent exploits and the next day’s adventure.
We all decided to meet ashore at sunset, have a small fire, and share our favorite sailing stories. Here I was, and Leigh the same, the most antisocial person I know, dreading parties and most any gathering, galavanting from boat to boat to interact with neighbors, introducing myself, and then arranging for Leigh and me to join the evening’s party; loving every bit of it.
After some time to relax and plan the next day’s leg, we made our way to the gathering. As we slid the dinghy ashore, we were graced by a most amazing surprise. One of the sailors that evening had bagpipes, and he knew how to play, truly how to play.
As the sun quietly set to the northwest he stood on the bow of his sailboat in full Highland Dress including Piper’s Plaid kilt, knee socks, and ostrich feather bonnet. He piped the sun down with the most rapturous, hypnotic, ethereal, soul-bending song. As we listened, I held Leigh in my arms in a way I had not done in years, many many years. I could feel her heartbeat. And with the music and emotional release, I quietly wept. Bagpipes did that to me.
The evening was perfect. The music was God-given. A flood of past memories with Leigh raced through my mind, from times that were so much less hectic, times when we focused on each other, knew each other’s thoughts, and shared the purity of young love.
And when I held her as I was holding her that night, I never wanted to let her go, never wanted to be away from her for an instant; thinking about all our useless possessions, our houses, cars, country club memberships, all the luxuries, all the STUFF, stuff that mattered not one bit; stuff I didn’t want to have anymore.

Before I met you,
chaos grew.
Blinding white light.
Nothing in sight.

Through your clear eyes,
I became wise.
Color appeared.
Blinding light cleared.

You are the prism to my heart.

We had found a place where minds could settle, worries subdued, with pines tall and straight, water pure and warm, and infinite stars floating in the virginal sky.
It was just another perfect night in the North Channel, with a surprise midnight show from the northern lights. Leigh slept. I again wept. The northern lights did that to me.
Our third day out found us headed to Tolsmaville, a private village on Cockburn Island to the southwest. Cockburn had been primarily a logging site in the prior century. In the fifties, the government built a concrete pier and breakwall along with floating provincial docks.
The island had no governmental authorities present other than rare visits by the coast guard. The village was made up of a handful of cottages and no commercial establishments. An overgrown parking lot by the aging pier held a crazy mix of older vehicles left by the periodic seasonal village residents. There was no crime. It was a unicorn of a peaceful haven.
We pulled into the harbor and picked a spot on the second floating dock, tying to port near the outer end. We were the only transients that night. A happy looking gray-haired lady soon approached, down the long main dock edging the breakwall. Her name was Norma.
Norma was the village’s unofficial harbormaster, always on the lookout for transient vessels. We had a nice chat as she collected the thirteen dollar dock fee. Norma was also the harbor’s resident green thumb. Tolsmaville in summer always glittered with a bright and colorful array of annuals at the land entrance to the docks.
Our evening’s festivities included a steam in the wood-fired sauna on the west edge of the harbor, a short walk along the shore. The locals kept it immaculately clean, and stocked with kindling and firewood and a bucket of water with a ladle; another step down memory lane.
Some pretty heady weather rolled in the morning of our last leg, the run back to Gore Bay. Winds were from the northwest. The waves maxed at nearly four feet, quartering across our stern.
The vessel bellied up and down, but the ride was not brutal as we surfed the waves and winds heading east. Leigh sat safely in the forward section of the port cockpit, wrapped in blankets, as I stood at the helm.
About halfway to Gore Bay rains came, gigantic droplets suddenly pounding the seas around us. The rain was so hard and heavy, within minutes the rough seas were beaten flat. Leigh and I remained relatively dry under the generous Bimini top overhead. It was one of those surreal moments on the water, one moment riding the large waves with a sturdy wind, the next moment everything deadly still. I felt as one with both, and with Leigh.
When the rain stopped the sun gradually appeared and a light breeze kicked up. To maintain our schedule I fired up the diesel and we motor-sailed the rest of the way.
Leigh and I reflected on our wedding at my grandfather’s house in Virginia. My grandfather was ninety-five and still fully alert, maintaining his wry sense of humor. As a Presbyterian minister he had wed over five thousand couples. Leigh and I were his last, with a gathering of twenty-two of our family and friends. Leigh cried through the entire ceremony, tears of joy.
As we approached Gore Bay, I pondered our four days together and the opportunity to reconnect with the love of my life, sorting through how things had gradually spun out of control over a period of decades with work and all the distractions, and how it had disrupted our lives and bruised the heart of our marriage. As Leigh rested in her cozy spot I again quietly wept, tears of joy.
After turning in our vessel, reality returned and we were in the car and headed home. I powered on my phone for the first time in four days. As expected there were messages from Lily, the official family watchdog.
I called her. “Dad!” she answered. “You said you were going to keep your phone off, but I didn’t believe you!”
“Yes, all forms of cellular communication remained in the car. How are you sweetie?”
“I’m fine. We’re all fine. When will you be home?”
“I’d guess early tomorrow afternoon. It’s a haul, it’s already late afternoon and we’re just leaving.”
“Okay, just don’t be any later. Grandma, Baba, the boys, and I will all be at the house for dinner. I got candles for the ceremony. We’ll light them after dinner and each say something. And then we’ll spread mom’s ashes in the pasture.”
“That will be nice. Mom will love that. We had a lovely trip. Love you, Lily.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
And as we drove south, I reflected with melancholy warmth on the certainty that Leigh would forever be enjoying pines tall and straight, water pure and warm, and infinite stars floating in the virginal sky.
And I hoped God would ultimately invite me to share this glory by her side. I thanked Him for enabling me, on this our last trip together, to see and learn so many loving details about Leigh for the first time.

Asea, where other worlds are distant thought.
Asea, where love renews and time is naught.
Asea, where minds are clear and life is known.
Asea, where souls are free but ne’er alone.

In memory of Karen Leigh