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Tales From the North Channel
Mythic
“...the word I really like is 'mythic', and people always think that means 'full of lies', whereas of course what it really means is 'full of truth which cannot be told in any other way but a story'.” --William Golding
I stopped by Toledo Beach one lovely October day to add a few finishing touches in sprucing up "Leigh Shore", which I had put on the market.
Leigh was a thirty-one foot Hunter sloop. Over the prior eight years she had lived a privileged life in the crystal waters of the North Channel. Alas, her final home with me, a large marina on the western shore of Lake Erie, was the first place we couldn't see the water's bottom. We couldn't even see a foot down.
But if that pristine world five degrees of latitude to the north were to have a downside, it would be the lack of human population--prospective boat buyers. Each of the seven hours in the drive northward from Toledo to the tiny Canadian village of Hilton Beach, where Leigh had resided, provided an ever increasing release from the stress of societal infirmity. But what I needed now was one of my infirm brethren to deliver the fifty large I was asking for Leigh.
So there I sat, momentarily resting on the aft section of her trunk (the raised part that forms the roof of the "salon"). And I listened to two fellow sailors, one on each side, having a friendly Saturday conversation across Leigh's stern.
The topic was the North Channel. Neither had ever been. They spoke longingly of it. I had previously heard similar talk by sailors who had also not been, and was reminded of the common thread in these conversations. This talk always categorized the North Channel as "mythic".
Few real things in our existence consistently are discussed as mythic, yet among those who have heard of it but never been there, the North Channel is one of those. They who have experienced it quietly know its magic. For the rest, all that can be done is tell a few stories.
“...the word I really like is 'mythic', and people always think that means 'full of lies', whereas of course what it really means is 'full of truth which cannot be told in any other way but a story'.” --William Golding
I stopped by Toledo Beach one lovely October day to add a few finishing touches in sprucing up "Leigh Shore", which I had put on the market.
Leigh was a thirty-one foot Hunter sloop. Over the prior eight years she had lived a privileged life in the crystal waters of the North Channel. Alas, her final home with me, a large marina on the western shore of Lake Erie, was the first place we couldn't see the water's bottom. We couldn't even see a foot down.
But if that pristine world five degrees of latitude to the north were to have a downside, it would be the lack of human population--prospective boat buyers. Each of the seven hours in the drive northward from Toledo to the tiny Canadian village of Hilton Beach, where Leigh had resided, provided an ever increasing release from the stress of societal infirmity. But what I needed now was one of my infirm brethren to deliver the fifty large I was asking for Leigh.
So there I sat, momentarily resting on the aft section of her trunk (the raised part that forms the roof of the "salon"). And I listened to two fellow sailors, one on each side, having a friendly Saturday conversation across Leigh's stern.
The topic was the North Channel. Neither had ever been. They spoke longingly of it. I had previously heard similar talk by sailors who had also not been, and was reminded of the common thread in these conversations. This talk always categorized the North Channel as "mythic".
Few real things in our existence consistently are discussed as mythic, yet among those who have heard of it but never been there, the North Channel is one of those. They who have experienced it quietly know its magic. For the rest, all that can be done is tell a few stories.
The North Channel
In July, 1831, Alexis de Tocqueville cruised Lake Erie from Buffalo to Detroit along the southern shore. He made note of the towering first-growth forests along the way as "a thick and continuous girdle around the lake", far from today's heavily industrialized shore that includes Buffalo, Erie, Cleveland, Toledo, and Detroit.
Three hundred miles to the north, along the uppermost section of Lake Huron, lies the North Channel. It presents a hundred miles or so of protected waters bounded by mainland Ontario to the north and the islands of Manatoulin, Cockburn, Drummond, and St. Josephs some twenty miles to the south. These waters, for countless centuries, were traveled by America's natives, and since the early 1600's by waves of European settlers including explorers and entrepreneurs, traders and troopers, missionaries and miscreants.
Unlike Erie, the Great Lakes' southernmost jewel, the North Channel has retained much of the pristine brilliance bestowed by God when these lakes were formed some three thousand years ago.
Commercial shipping on the North Channel is virtually nonexistent. Coast Guard vessel sightings are like unicorns. There are fewer than ten tiny to small developed harbors and two towns with barely more than a population of 900. Aids to navigation and man-made landmarks are few and far between.
The water is not only brilliantly clear and devoid of solids, but potable. There is no light pollution. On clear evenings the Milky Way is on full, blow-your-mind display. The Aurora Borealis, mythical in itself, performs often. It's not impossible to sail the North Channel for days without seeing another boat. The hundreds of uninhabited islands and the stunning waters make for a lifetime cacophony of wondrous moments with the ones we so love and enjoy.
In July, 1831, Alexis de Tocqueville cruised Lake Erie from Buffalo to Detroit along the southern shore. He made note of the towering first-growth forests along the way as "a thick and continuous girdle around the lake", far from today's heavily industrialized shore that includes Buffalo, Erie, Cleveland, Toledo, and Detroit.
Three hundred miles to the north, along the uppermost section of Lake Huron, lies the North Channel. It presents a hundred miles or so of protected waters bounded by mainland Ontario to the north and the islands of Manatoulin, Cockburn, Drummond, and St. Josephs some twenty miles to the south. These waters, for countless centuries, were traveled by America's natives, and since the early 1600's by waves of European settlers including explorers and entrepreneurs, traders and troopers, missionaries and miscreants.
Unlike Erie, the Great Lakes' southernmost jewel, the North Channel has retained much of the pristine brilliance bestowed by God when these lakes were formed some three thousand years ago.
Commercial shipping on the North Channel is virtually nonexistent. Coast Guard vessel sightings are like unicorns. There are fewer than ten tiny to small developed harbors and two towns with barely more than a population of 900. Aids to navigation and man-made landmarks are few and far between.
The water is not only brilliantly clear and devoid of solids, but potable. There is no light pollution. On clear evenings the Milky Way is on full, blow-your-mind display. The Aurora Borealis, mythical in itself, performs often. It's not impossible to sail the North Channel for days without seeing another boat. The hundreds of uninhabited islands and the stunning waters make for a lifetime cacophony of wondrous moments with the ones we so love and enjoy.
First Overnight
It was a glorious Northern Ontario early summer day for our first family cruise and overnight on the North Channel. East Grant Island was our chosen destination, a twenty-five nautical mile cruise from our modest home port of Hilton Beach.
We boarded from our slip on C Dock and after a few preparations were soon motoring northward out of the harbor then turning east toward the Channel.
About fifteen minutes out we turned Leigh to the south into the wind, still under diesel power. Into the wind, we comfortably raised the "main". It "luffed" in the fifteen knot headwind, dancing freely and happily. It reminded me of Vanny at six months after her hernia operation when she felt no pain for the first time in her life.
Once the main was set we eased off the wind back to the east and let the main out to the stays (the "side stays"--wire cables running from amidships to the top of the mast to keep it securely in place). We quickly picked up "way" (movement/speed) on a glorious "beam reach" (wind across the beam--efficient and comfortable).
Then came the moment every cruising sailor loves, when the engine is shut down. It's a glorious contrasting transition into the heart of nature, the engine giving way to God's breath. We proceeded to unfurl the head sail, picking up more way. Ahh.
Passing the easterly edge of St. Joseph's Island to the south, the water distinctly changed from a mildly milky teal to a stunningly clear Mediterranean blue--as dark a blue as there could be. This was the North Channel.
We soon passed Cedar and Birch islands to port, then Thessalon Island to starboard, and after a stretch of open water we passed Bigsby to starboard, followed by West Grant and tiny Middle Grant. Our destination lay before us, looming ever larger after some five hours asea. The sun and air had been perfect, clear and dry. The wind remained steady from the south. It could not have been a better cruise.
Dropping the main, still under sail power only, we gradually took in the head sail as we slowed to under one knot. East Grant, a horseshoe, was fully exposed to the west but perfectly protected to the north, south, and east. The waters were consistently about fifteen feet deep, yet so clear it looked like less than five. As we slowed, we turned upwind and then back west as we came to a near stop.
Wilson was prepared on the bow to drop anchor, and we had just enough way to let out chain and rode (rope) to a seven to one scope (7x anchor line to water's depth). Young Carson assisted in monitoring things to ensure our anchor was well "set". Then, time to relax with the fam.
The evening was as perfect as the day. We were all compelled to take a swim. Mom demonstrated her diving form. The clear water enabled us to see her distinctly as she swam to the bottom. Dinner on board, as always, was a delight. Somehow even in the worst weather, dinner aboard is as good as it gets.
But on this night the sky was perfect and the temperature just right. The late sunset was the most stunning I had seen to that point in my life, displaying every color I ever knew and many more. And I was with Karen and the kids, safe and protected in our tiny home. We slept well.
It was a glorious Northern Ontario early summer day for our first family cruise and overnight on the North Channel. East Grant Island was our chosen destination, a twenty-five nautical mile cruise from our modest home port of Hilton Beach.
We boarded from our slip on C Dock and after a few preparations were soon motoring northward out of the harbor then turning east toward the Channel.
About fifteen minutes out we turned Leigh to the south into the wind, still under diesel power. Into the wind, we comfortably raised the "main". It "luffed" in the fifteen knot headwind, dancing freely and happily. It reminded me of Vanny at six months after her hernia operation when she felt no pain for the first time in her life.
Once the main was set we eased off the wind back to the east and let the main out to the stays (the "side stays"--wire cables running from amidships to the top of the mast to keep it securely in place). We quickly picked up "way" (movement/speed) on a glorious "beam reach" (wind across the beam--efficient and comfortable).
Then came the moment every cruising sailor loves, when the engine is shut down. It's a glorious contrasting transition into the heart of nature, the engine giving way to God's breath. We proceeded to unfurl the head sail, picking up more way. Ahh.
Passing the easterly edge of St. Joseph's Island to the south, the water distinctly changed from a mildly milky teal to a stunningly clear Mediterranean blue--as dark a blue as there could be. This was the North Channel.
We soon passed Cedar and Birch islands to port, then Thessalon Island to starboard, and after a stretch of open water we passed Bigsby to starboard, followed by West Grant and tiny Middle Grant. Our destination lay before us, looming ever larger after some five hours asea. The sun and air had been perfect, clear and dry. The wind remained steady from the south. It could not have been a better cruise.
Dropping the main, still under sail power only, we gradually took in the head sail as we slowed to under one knot. East Grant, a horseshoe, was fully exposed to the west but perfectly protected to the north, south, and east. The waters were consistently about fifteen feet deep, yet so clear it looked like less than five. As we slowed, we turned upwind and then back west as we came to a near stop.
Wilson was prepared on the bow to drop anchor, and we had just enough way to let out chain and rode (rope) to a seven to one scope (7x anchor line to water's depth). Young Carson assisted in monitoring things to ensure our anchor was well "set". Then, time to relax with the fam.
The evening was as perfect as the day. We were all compelled to take a swim. Mom demonstrated her diving form. The clear water enabled us to see her distinctly as she swam to the bottom. Dinner on board, as always, was a delight. Somehow even in the worst weather, dinner aboard is as good as it gets.
But on this night the sky was perfect and the temperature just right. The late sunset was the most stunning I had seen to that point in my life, displaying every color I ever knew and many more. And I was with Karen and the kids, safe and protected in our tiny home. We slept well.
The Hidden Beach
Karen and I had a second home in Canada on the St. Mary's River, the artery connecting Lakes Huron and Superior. Our house overlooked an eastern split of the river, divided by long and narrow Sugar Island. The freighters traveling the Great Lakes passed along the western split. We couldn't see them, but we could hear their horns, especially on still, foggy mornings.
Our house overlooked a deep "reach" of the river with more than six miles of continuous opposite shoreline untouched by man since the beginning of time. We called this house "L'etendue, loosely translated as "the reach". My Parisian friend Michel demonstrated the meaning of l'etendue by simply spreading his arms and saying AHHH!
Interestingly, in 1945, Sugar Island was nominated as a potential site for the United Nations. This honored the long history of peaceful coexistence along the over five thousand mile unguarded border between Canada and the United States.
My father, his wife Susan, and my thirty-years younger step sister Julia paid Karen, the kids and me a visit on the St. Mary's. Given the fact that my father and I had, a few years earlier, shared a bonding experience while gaining sailing certification, it was only appropriate that we take a cruise on Leigh.
So while Karen, Savannah, and Susan remained at home, my father, Julia, Wilson, Carson and I set out on an overnight trip to East Grant.
My father had served in the U.S. Navy four years during World War II, commanding a sub-chaser in the Pacific theater. He saw notable action, including at the Battle of Okinawa. Interestingly, his crew was entirely African-American, some sort of Navy initiative, perhaps code for "segregation".
Nonetheless, my Virginia born and raised father had a great rapport with these guys, which he likened to the cast of the TV show "McHale's Navy". Apparently they performed their share of hijinks, trading supplies for booze and cigarettes, stealing jeeps from the army, and making the devious best of the wartime disquiet.
My father was a terrible sailor. At the helm, he was all but guaranteed of pulling off an accidental jibe (a bad thing). He was at his best lounging in the cockpit calling out orders.
We had a blast sailing out to East Grant, the boys and Julia catching up on things and hanging out with my dad. It was a quick run with a fifteen to twenty knot following west wind, great for making time but not great given the best anchorages at East Grant were fully exposed to the west.
I did not know the east side of the island, so dug out the chart and took a look. There were no true anchorages on the east side, just countless rocks rising to just under the surface. The shallow bottom was very rocky. But, what the heck?
We slowly picked our way toward a bend in the shoreline with Wilson and Julia on the bow tracking the larger rocks. Otherwise the depth was less than five feet, but we saw that the shoreline bend held a small but idyllic sugar sand beach. Sand beaches on the North Channel are rare and special. We had found a private oasis.
Suddenly, the rocks gave way to a perfectly pure sand bottom that ran all the way to the beach. We anchored a hundred yards out. It was spectacular.
I could attempt to describe that wonderful evening in paradise, swimming, beach combing, dining, and reminiscences among three generations. But it wouldn't do justice to the indelible image permanently lodged in my temporal lobe.
Karen and I had a second home in Canada on the St. Mary's River, the artery connecting Lakes Huron and Superior. Our house overlooked an eastern split of the river, divided by long and narrow Sugar Island. The freighters traveling the Great Lakes passed along the western split. We couldn't see them, but we could hear their horns, especially on still, foggy mornings.
Our house overlooked a deep "reach" of the river with more than six miles of continuous opposite shoreline untouched by man since the beginning of time. We called this house "L'etendue, loosely translated as "the reach". My Parisian friend Michel demonstrated the meaning of l'etendue by simply spreading his arms and saying AHHH!
Interestingly, in 1945, Sugar Island was nominated as a potential site for the United Nations. This honored the long history of peaceful coexistence along the over five thousand mile unguarded border between Canada and the United States.
My father, his wife Susan, and my thirty-years younger step sister Julia paid Karen, the kids and me a visit on the St. Mary's. Given the fact that my father and I had, a few years earlier, shared a bonding experience while gaining sailing certification, it was only appropriate that we take a cruise on Leigh.
So while Karen, Savannah, and Susan remained at home, my father, Julia, Wilson, Carson and I set out on an overnight trip to East Grant.
My father had served in the U.S. Navy four years during World War II, commanding a sub-chaser in the Pacific theater. He saw notable action, including at the Battle of Okinawa. Interestingly, his crew was entirely African-American, some sort of Navy initiative, perhaps code for "segregation".
Nonetheless, my Virginia born and raised father had a great rapport with these guys, which he likened to the cast of the TV show "McHale's Navy". Apparently they performed their share of hijinks, trading supplies for booze and cigarettes, stealing jeeps from the army, and making the devious best of the wartime disquiet.
My father was a terrible sailor. At the helm, he was all but guaranteed of pulling off an accidental jibe (a bad thing). He was at his best lounging in the cockpit calling out orders.
We had a blast sailing out to East Grant, the boys and Julia catching up on things and hanging out with my dad. It was a quick run with a fifteen to twenty knot following west wind, great for making time but not great given the best anchorages at East Grant were fully exposed to the west.
I did not know the east side of the island, so dug out the chart and took a look. There were no true anchorages on the east side, just countless rocks rising to just under the surface. The shallow bottom was very rocky. But, what the heck?
We slowly picked our way toward a bend in the shoreline with Wilson and Julia on the bow tracking the larger rocks. Otherwise the depth was less than five feet, but we saw that the shoreline bend held a small but idyllic sugar sand beach. Sand beaches on the North Channel are rare and special. We had found a private oasis.
Suddenly, the rocks gave way to a perfectly pure sand bottom that ran all the way to the beach. We anchored a hundred yards out. It was spectacular.
I could attempt to describe that wonderful evening in paradise, swimming, beach combing, dining, and reminiscences among three generations. But it wouldn't do justice to the indelible image permanently lodged in my temporal lobe.
Best Friends
The annual North Channel cruise with my oldest friends was drawing to a close. Our fifth night out was spent in a protected slot on the north side of the French Islands. The morning of the sixth day we made a plan to return to Hilton Beach. There, we would feast on all-u-can-eat whitefish and bloody Caesars on the veranda of the restaurant known to the locals as "the Hotel".
My friend Lewis weighed anchor and as we headed out I requested that he return to the cockpit (a matter of safety). Lewis, a lifelong contrarian, remained on the bow with his cup of sludge, aka our compadre Zap's intensely strong coffee.
As we emerged from the lee (protected side) of the islands and turned southwest toward home, it was clear this day would be an adventure. Big time steady seas from the east had us in a pitching and rolling motion that was precarious, exhilarating, physically challenging, and synchronously sublime all at the same time.
It didn't take long for me to make a call on the day's itinerary. As rousing as our ride was, I wasn't keen to sustain it for seven hours, especially with my "crew" (code for "victims"), lounging, milling about, and in mutinous defiance of my strict prohibition on drinking while underway. So we set as our new destination my old friend, East Grant. We'd make it an early day and enjoy the calm on the west side of the horseshoe.
Once we rounded the westerly corner of tiny Fishery Island which forms an extension of East Grant on the north side, we escaped the angry seas and slid into our retreat d'jour. Once our anchor was set, we commenced the sunbathing, libations, and rudely entertaining commentary.
As we listened to the rollers crashing on the opposite shore, a mere four hundred yards from where we sat in the cockpit of Leigh, I posed an afternoon challenge. "Guys, I know this amazing little beach on the opposite side of the island. It's not far. Let's hike across and check it out."
Only Zap was up for it. Our fourth, Phildo, had just mixed a batch of apple martinis and felt them to be the most appropriate expedient for his inebriate lounging. Zap and I set off in the dinghy to shore, then forged into the woods. All we had to do was follow the sound of the crashing waves. Easy.
Well, not so much. We weren't more than a hundred feet into the woods when we realized we were in the most dense thicket imaginable. In fact, it wasn't long before I looked down and realized the surface on which we walked was at least six feet above the ground. It was crazy.
Then, suddenly, I tripped and rolled into a small clearing. Looking up, I found myself surrounded by the most lush patch of bulbous, ripe red raspberries. Like a wide-eyed kid I gorged, and gorged, and then gorged more on this amazing gift of nature. It was better than tripping into an open vein of gold. I did not want to leave.
Alas, we had to move on, and thankfully it was only minutes before we emerged on the east side of the island, some two hundred yards north of that idyllic beach. We hung there a bit, took a swim, and then opted to follow the shore around the north side back to our anchorage. One trip through the thicket was enough.
Back aboard, and as the evening's round of cocktails began, a small sloop rounded Fishery into our private sanctuary. It was manned by a single sailor and his dog. He set anchor a couple hundred feet to the north, we exchanged friendly waves, and then observed a very cool event.
On the sailor's order, his dog jumped into the water, swam the three hundred feet to shore, and proceeded to search for a spot to relieve himself. Having done so he swam to the boat and climbed back in. Man's best friend.
Our neighbor hopped into his dinghy and cruised over to say hi. Of course, we shared our libations and had a lovely talk, as all talks on the North Channel are. He was a high school English teacher, unmarried, and often sailed alone with his dog. He was out for a few days of solitude. Phildo was enamored with the fact that he sailed alone, "single handing".
Phildo looked at me. "Bill, have you ever done any single-handed sailing?"
I looked at Phildo, his eyes glazed over, sixth cocktail of the evening session tenuously held in his right hand. A moment of silence passed...
"Phildo. What do you think I've been doing the last six days?"
The annual North Channel cruise with my oldest friends was drawing to a close. Our fifth night out was spent in a protected slot on the north side of the French Islands. The morning of the sixth day we made a plan to return to Hilton Beach. There, we would feast on all-u-can-eat whitefish and bloody Caesars on the veranda of the restaurant known to the locals as "the Hotel".
My friend Lewis weighed anchor and as we headed out I requested that he return to the cockpit (a matter of safety). Lewis, a lifelong contrarian, remained on the bow with his cup of sludge, aka our compadre Zap's intensely strong coffee.
As we emerged from the lee (protected side) of the islands and turned southwest toward home, it was clear this day would be an adventure. Big time steady seas from the east had us in a pitching and rolling motion that was precarious, exhilarating, physically challenging, and synchronously sublime all at the same time.
It didn't take long for me to make a call on the day's itinerary. As rousing as our ride was, I wasn't keen to sustain it for seven hours, especially with my "crew" (code for "victims"), lounging, milling about, and in mutinous defiance of my strict prohibition on drinking while underway. So we set as our new destination my old friend, East Grant. We'd make it an early day and enjoy the calm on the west side of the horseshoe.
Once we rounded the westerly corner of tiny Fishery Island which forms an extension of East Grant on the north side, we escaped the angry seas and slid into our retreat d'jour. Once our anchor was set, we commenced the sunbathing, libations, and rudely entertaining commentary.
As we listened to the rollers crashing on the opposite shore, a mere four hundred yards from where we sat in the cockpit of Leigh, I posed an afternoon challenge. "Guys, I know this amazing little beach on the opposite side of the island. It's not far. Let's hike across and check it out."
Only Zap was up for it. Our fourth, Phildo, had just mixed a batch of apple martinis and felt them to be the most appropriate expedient for his inebriate lounging. Zap and I set off in the dinghy to shore, then forged into the woods. All we had to do was follow the sound of the crashing waves. Easy.
Well, not so much. We weren't more than a hundred feet into the woods when we realized we were in the most dense thicket imaginable. In fact, it wasn't long before I looked down and realized the surface on which we walked was at least six feet above the ground. It was crazy.
Then, suddenly, I tripped and rolled into a small clearing. Looking up, I found myself surrounded by the most lush patch of bulbous, ripe red raspberries. Like a wide-eyed kid I gorged, and gorged, and then gorged more on this amazing gift of nature. It was better than tripping into an open vein of gold. I did not want to leave.
Alas, we had to move on, and thankfully it was only minutes before we emerged on the east side of the island, some two hundred yards north of that idyllic beach. We hung there a bit, took a swim, and then opted to follow the shore around the north side back to our anchorage. One trip through the thicket was enough.
Back aboard, and as the evening's round of cocktails began, a small sloop rounded Fishery into our private sanctuary. It was manned by a single sailor and his dog. He set anchor a couple hundred feet to the north, we exchanged friendly waves, and then observed a very cool event.
On the sailor's order, his dog jumped into the water, swam the three hundred feet to shore, and proceeded to search for a spot to relieve himself. Having done so he swam to the boat and climbed back in. Man's best friend.
Our neighbor hopped into his dinghy and cruised over to say hi. Of course, we shared our libations and had a lovely talk, as all talks on the North Channel are. He was a high school English teacher, unmarried, and often sailed alone with his dog. He was out for a few days of solitude. Phildo was enamored with the fact that he sailed alone, "single handing".
Phildo looked at me. "Bill, have you ever done any single-handed sailing?"
I looked at Phildo, his eyes glazed over, sixth cocktail of the evening session tenuously held in his right hand. A moment of silence passed...
"Phildo. What do you think I've been doing the last six days?"
The Storm Ahead
A few years ago my wife and I went sailing with another couple and our 9 year old son. We took our 31 foot sloop on a four day trip in the North Channel. If you're not familiar with it, the North Channel is a remarkable body of water at the very northern end of Lake Huron. Dotted with hundreds of uninhabited granite islands, this pristine oasis is considered the best freshwater cruising ground in the world. Great Lakes sailors who've been there talk longingly of its splendor. Those who've not been there talk of it in the same grand and mysterious terms as Atlantis or Babylon.
Our venturesome voyage commenced with a gentle cruise eastward from Hilton Beach and St. Joseph Island across the northwestern end of the Channel, past my sentimental favorite island, East Grant, with its horseshoe shaped anchorage exposed to the open water to the west--a surreal spot on evenings when the winds are easterly. The sunsets seem to last forever, displaying colors I didn't know even existed.
We continued on, south of the French Islands and into a stunning natural harbor on the south side of L-shaped Turnbull Island. This idyllic anchorage is surrounded by Turnbull and at least 60 tiny islands. We had a lovely evening, swimming in the crystal water and exploring nearby beaches and rock formations. Dinner on board tasted particularly good that night.
The next day was devoid of wind, our chosen method of propulsion, but otherwise perfect. We cruised west under diesel power through Whalesback Channel, through the extremely narrow passage called Little Detroit, across McBean Channel, then hooking south to pick up the hidden needle-thin secret side entrance into the natural harbor of The Benjamins--two pine-studded pink granite islands of indescribable beauty.
We dropped anchor in relatively deep water off the east edge of South Benjamin Island, at the base of a sheer 200 foot granite wall. The weather that evening was unusually warm for the North Channel--perhaps 80 degrees--and we took advantage of it, spending liberal time in the water, climbing the rocks, and exploring in our dinghy.
Our plan the next day was to cruise south and then west to Meldrum Bay, a tiny settlement of 60 year-round residents on the west end of Manitoulin Island--the largest freshwater island in the world. Taking pride in my seamanship, especially attention to the safety of my passengers, I started checking the weather on the VHF radio at 6 a.m. I listened to the same forecast at least ten times before we sailed out of the anchorage mid-morning. It was a bit cooler, winds were light to moderate, and seas relatively calm. There was no threatening weather in the forecast.
We sailed west across the northern end of Ennis Island, then picked our way south through some reefs toward the deep water along the southern side of the North Channel.
Approximately eighty by twenty miles, the North Channel is a sailor's sanctuary, surrounded by islands to the south and the mainland of Ontario to the north. In July and August the marine forecast more often than not warns of possible thunderstorms, but they seldom pose a problem and almost never are severe.
But this was a rare day. In spite of the featureless forecast that had repeated itself all morning, by early afternoon the outlook was quite different, and quite alarming. A very severe thunderstorm cell had formed to the west, and was headed our way. Soon, warning broadcasts were being aired on every channel at five minute intervals. The storm was big and bad, the likes of which the North Channel sees perhaps once every ten years. And we were heading right into it.
Sailors have a few options in situations like this. You can "run before the storm" (outrun it). For us this would have meant heading the opposite direction, and the storm was approaching at a speed that made this impossible. You can seek a safe harbor. But the North Channel has few man-made harbors and we were near none of them, nor were there any nearby natural harbors. Plus, the last thing we wanted was for the storm to catch us while navigating rocks and reefs into a safe haven. Our only sensible choice was the third option--get into deep water and prepare to ride it out.
As the storm approached I took down both sails. My "crew" was relatively inexperienced, so I wanted to make our impending joyride as simple as possible. We fired up the diesel and headed onward toward the storm. My friend Phil, an able helmsman, got decked out in the best rain gear on board, but I warned him that we were all going below at the first sign of lightning. That didn't take long. The lightning approached very suddenly, tentacled bolts spearing all the way into the water ahead of us--a rare occurrence. We put the engine in neutral (it's important to keep the engine running--a lightning strike can disable the electrical system and render you powerless), laid a hull, and headed below.
Laying a hull is the same concept as heaving to--a well-known sailor's technique for riding a storm. When you lay a hull you lock your wheel hard in one direction. The wind will catch the lighter bow and push it downwind. Once the boat gets "way", the locked rudder causes the boat to turn back into the wind, effectively stopping the boat. The process repeats itself over and over. The idea is that in giving up control of your vessel to the weather you take measures to prevent the vessel from moving at the rate of the weather, or "scudding". By laying a hull we were able to slow the movement of our boat to around 1.5 knots, perhaps less than one tenth the speed we'd have been moving otherwise.
You wouldn't do this with a power boat--the downside of laying a hull is that half the time the boat is broadside to the waves--which soon kicked up to 6-8 feet (that's a lot in the Great Lakes, where the waves are very close together). The boat was rolling severely. But while it was quite uncomfortable, I knew we would stay afloat, thanks to 3,000 pounds of lead in the keel (Weebles wobble but they don't fall down).
Anything that wasn't bolted down was flying around the salon, including Phil. I looked out the side porthole and noted our dinghy, which was being towed at the end of a 100 foot painter (a fancy word for "rope"), was now just off our beam. It was 15 feet in the air flying like a kite. At one point when the winds subsided I stuck my head out to check the wind-meter. It read 50 knots--in a lull! We were experiencing hurricane-force gusts.
The major part of the storm lasted perhaps 20 minutes. It seemed like 20 hours. Once back in control we beat against slowly subsiding six foot seas the rest of the way to Meldrum Bay. When we turned south to head the final two miles into the bay to the provincial docks, the sun reintroduced itself. By the time we tied up, the sky was gloriously clear and the once-fierce winds faded to a relaxing zephyr. Just another perfect evening in the North Channel.
I often reflect on the lovely dinner we had that serene evening on the veranda of the Meldrum Bay Inn, recounting our day's adventure.
A few years ago my wife and I went sailing with another couple and our 9 year old son. We took our 31 foot sloop on a four day trip in the North Channel. If you're not familiar with it, the North Channel is a remarkable body of water at the very northern end of Lake Huron. Dotted with hundreds of uninhabited granite islands, this pristine oasis is considered the best freshwater cruising ground in the world. Great Lakes sailors who've been there talk longingly of its splendor. Those who've not been there talk of it in the same grand and mysterious terms as Atlantis or Babylon.
Our venturesome voyage commenced with a gentle cruise eastward from Hilton Beach and St. Joseph Island across the northwestern end of the Channel, past my sentimental favorite island, East Grant, with its horseshoe shaped anchorage exposed to the open water to the west--a surreal spot on evenings when the winds are easterly. The sunsets seem to last forever, displaying colors I didn't know even existed.
We continued on, south of the French Islands and into a stunning natural harbor on the south side of L-shaped Turnbull Island. This idyllic anchorage is surrounded by Turnbull and at least 60 tiny islands. We had a lovely evening, swimming in the crystal water and exploring nearby beaches and rock formations. Dinner on board tasted particularly good that night.
The next day was devoid of wind, our chosen method of propulsion, but otherwise perfect. We cruised west under diesel power through Whalesback Channel, through the extremely narrow passage called Little Detroit, across McBean Channel, then hooking south to pick up the hidden needle-thin secret side entrance into the natural harbor of The Benjamins--two pine-studded pink granite islands of indescribable beauty.
We dropped anchor in relatively deep water off the east edge of South Benjamin Island, at the base of a sheer 200 foot granite wall. The weather that evening was unusually warm for the North Channel--perhaps 80 degrees--and we took advantage of it, spending liberal time in the water, climbing the rocks, and exploring in our dinghy.
Our plan the next day was to cruise south and then west to Meldrum Bay, a tiny settlement of 60 year-round residents on the west end of Manitoulin Island--the largest freshwater island in the world. Taking pride in my seamanship, especially attention to the safety of my passengers, I started checking the weather on the VHF radio at 6 a.m. I listened to the same forecast at least ten times before we sailed out of the anchorage mid-morning. It was a bit cooler, winds were light to moderate, and seas relatively calm. There was no threatening weather in the forecast.
We sailed west across the northern end of Ennis Island, then picked our way south through some reefs toward the deep water along the southern side of the North Channel.
Approximately eighty by twenty miles, the North Channel is a sailor's sanctuary, surrounded by islands to the south and the mainland of Ontario to the north. In July and August the marine forecast more often than not warns of possible thunderstorms, but they seldom pose a problem and almost never are severe.
But this was a rare day. In spite of the featureless forecast that had repeated itself all morning, by early afternoon the outlook was quite different, and quite alarming. A very severe thunderstorm cell had formed to the west, and was headed our way. Soon, warning broadcasts were being aired on every channel at five minute intervals. The storm was big and bad, the likes of which the North Channel sees perhaps once every ten years. And we were heading right into it.
Sailors have a few options in situations like this. You can "run before the storm" (outrun it). For us this would have meant heading the opposite direction, and the storm was approaching at a speed that made this impossible. You can seek a safe harbor. But the North Channel has few man-made harbors and we were near none of them, nor were there any nearby natural harbors. Plus, the last thing we wanted was for the storm to catch us while navigating rocks and reefs into a safe haven. Our only sensible choice was the third option--get into deep water and prepare to ride it out.
As the storm approached I took down both sails. My "crew" was relatively inexperienced, so I wanted to make our impending joyride as simple as possible. We fired up the diesel and headed onward toward the storm. My friend Phil, an able helmsman, got decked out in the best rain gear on board, but I warned him that we were all going below at the first sign of lightning. That didn't take long. The lightning approached very suddenly, tentacled bolts spearing all the way into the water ahead of us--a rare occurrence. We put the engine in neutral (it's important to keep the engine running--a lightning strike can disable the electrical system and render you powerless), laid a hull, and headed below.
Laying a hull is the same concept as heaving to--a well-known sailor's technique for riding a storm. When you lay a hull you lock your wheel hard in one direction. The wind will catch the lighter bow and push it downwind. Once the boat gets "way", the locked rudder causes the boat to turn back into the wind, effectively stopping the boat. The process repeats itself over and over. The idea is that in giving up control of your vessel to the weather you take measures to prevent the vessel from moving at the rate of the weather, or "scudding". By laying a hull we were able to slow the movement of our boat to around 1.5 knots, perhaps less than one tenth the speed we'd have been moving otherwise.
You wouldn't do this with a power boat--the downside of laying a hull is that half the time the boat is broadside to the waves--which soon kicked up to 6-8 feet (that's a lot in the Great Lakes, where the waves are very close together). The boat was rolling severely. But while it was quite uncomfortable, I knew we would stay afloat, thanks to 3,000 pounds of lead in the keel (Weebles wobble but they don't fall down).
Anything that wasn't bolted down was flying around the salon, including Phil. I looked out the side porthole and noted our dinghy, which was being towed at the end of a 100 foot painter (a fancy word for "rope"), was now just off our beam. It was 15 feet in the air flying like a kite. At one point when the winds subsided I stuck my head out to check the wind-meter. It read 50 knots--in a lull! We were experiencing hurricane-force gusts.
The major part of the storm lasted perhaps 20 minutes. It seemed like 20 hours. Once back in control we beat against slowly subsiding six foot seas the rest of the way to Meldrum Bay. When we turned south to head the final two miles into the bay to the provincial docks, the sun reintroduced itself. By the time we tied up, the sky was gloriously clear and the once-fierce winds faded to a relaxing zephyr. Just another perfect evening in the North Channel.
I often reflect on the lovely dinner we had that serene evening on the veranda of the Meldrum Bay Inn, recounting our day's adventure.
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
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