Sault Ste. Marie-Houghton, MI

May 23-24 Sault Ste. Marie-Houghton, MI

Our early departure out of the Soo was stalled when we woke up to thick fog.  We changed gears and Mark started making pancakes.  Tom took the girls out for a run-around and returned ½ hour later with the distinct aura of “something went wrong.”  Tom and Lamar were quiet and Cedar trailed behind, showering her general discontent and sobbing loudly.  She didn’t want consoling; she didn’t even want an ear.  Some inconsequential conflict had apparently released the watershed.  She paced the docks and cried out her litany of griefs, mostly revolving around everything she was missing this month in Two Harbors (a big list, I had to admit).  We stood by helplessly.  Pancakes were no fun anymore; and when she finally ate, it didn’t solve her problems.  I felt a great mix of emotions, including the humbling realization that this trip has been difficult for Cedar and that Mark and I can’t necessarily plan trips with consideration only for ourselves anymore.  Our children have lives now.  The fact that we hadn’t stopped for more than a day in the past week, and that most of our nights were disrupted and that she had spent much of this trip lying seasick on her bunk, did not help my conscience. 

 

However, once all this sadness was out, Cedar was more able to see the silver lining.  She was quiet but cheerful—a big change from the whiny-and-loud that had been building for days.  Somehow finding the most stable part of the hull (low and center), she wrote a note:  “Cedar is sleeping under the table—do not disterb.”  She lay there for a long time, quietly, getting more attention than she could have dreamed of getting through all her fussing.  I even took pictures.  Everyone’s sympathy helped too—Tom listened to her stories, Lamar stuck close to her side, and Mark and I thought of things that would help.   However, we couldn’t help with the basic fact that we were about to leave for another long leg of our journey, and it wasn’t likely to be smooth.  By 9:30 the fog lifted and we headed into the single lock that was between us and Lake Superior.  Cedar helped with the bumpers—her job with Tom.

 

This lock was as benign as the Welland was difficult.  I couldn’t stop the feeling of dread in my gut as the locks closed behind us and it was just Tom, Mark and I against the wall.  Then we began to rise, almost imperceptibly, and a firm push on the boathook kept the boat neatly in place.  By the end we were chatting with the lockmaster even as we were rising.  We motored out of there—into the infamous Whitefish Bay which had pasted us every time we’d been through.  We had a fabulous forecast—SE winds, strong but not too strong, for the next 36 hours.  If it did anything like that we would have the sail of a lifetime.

 

Of course, it wasn’t QUITE like that, in the end.  The wind shifted around, grew and petered, and threw in some curve balls.  But still, we sailed through Whitefish Bay and headed west to the Keewenaw Peninsula 170 miles away, sailing almost the entire way in waves less than 4 feet.  We passed all the places we’d stopped to rest on our other journeys, flew by the “graveyard of the Great Lakes” (a 50-mile section with no protection and the full brunt of the NW wind).  In the evening the wind picked up and moved forward of the beam—not great timing, with the dark coming on.  Until we adjusted sail and direction, there was chaos.  Huge blasts of hot air came straight from the shore, overshadowing the steady wind.  Cedar was exhausted all day and lay around, dozing and with little interest in anything.  I thought of the presumably bouncy night coming up and my heart ached for her.  Thankfully, when it finally began to get dark (around 9:30-10:00), the winds moderated.  Lamar and Tom were asleep, and Cedar asked to stay in the cockpit for awhile.  She dreaded going below.  I knew the feeling only too well.  So we bundled her up well and sat in the cockpit and I sang to her while the darkness came in.  Very late, we went to bed together on her settee, the lee cloth keeping me on the bunk, and Cedar falling into me on the rolling.  In the wee hours the wind all but died, and we motored until dawn when they picked up again. 

 

When I gave up on sleeping and got up to sit with Mark in the cockpit, we were engulfed in thick fog.  Everything was dripping wet.  The sun was rising and we’d heard of record high temperatures on shore, which explained the fog that never lifted until we came close to shore late in the afternoon.  The girls were up early again, wanting to get back in the cockpit.  We bundled them up and put a sleepingbag on top, and sang songs.  We were all lethargic.  Cedar had barely eaten anything the day before and Lamar had a big bug/spider bite swelling her eye.  Eventually I cooked them Ramen, the ultimate treat for them, and a few smiles emerged.  Once they had food in their stomachs, things started to look up.  The motion really was not bad; we were on a broad reach and the fetch was never more than 20 miles.  We were in the middle of nowhere and Mark didn’t even turn on the radar, despite the fact that we couldn’t see a darn thing.

 

It was one of those days that contained many days.  In the afternoon we drew closer to shore.  The fog lifted.  The wind died and we motored.  It was hazy and sunny.  We took off our long underwear.  The flies came out.  We took a sponge bath, feeling unbearably grimy.  We changed again—now into shorts and t-shirts.  At suppertime we came into the canal leading through the peninsula, and gaped at people wearing bathingsuits.  We still had 10 miles to go.  Unbelievably, the temperatures soared even more.  It was at least 90 degrees.  We were exhausted and probably dehydrated.  Our faces burned; in the thick fog, we’d forgotten about sunscreen.   Is it possible that this morning we’d been wearing all our layers?  We docked in Houghton amid a flurry of action on the water, unprecedented for May I’m sure.  Jet-skis, swimmers, pontoons, ferries.  Everyone was out.  Sweating in the cockpit, we ate a hot dinner that I wished desperately I’d made cold.  Despite the fact that we’d hardly eaten all day, no one was hungry. The girls and I went swimming beside the boat; even that barely helped.  The girls were up past 10:00, reading aloud to themselves until Mark finally told them it was time to go to sleep.

May 25—Houghton

I took the girls window-shopping (shopping without buying) this morning in downtown Houghton—their favorite pastime.  I tried to go as slowly as they wanted, and not cut anything short.  Every trinket shop was more delightful than the last.  It was time to do what they wanted, for a change. 

 

We are considering our next move.  The winds turned westerly and a big thunderhead rolled in in mid-afternoon, making our decision to stay put for the night easy.   Houghton has always been one of our favorite places to visit.  There is a city dock located in the heart of everything with a walk/bike trail running alongside.  Interested and interesting people often stop to chat with us and offer rides.  A library is just feet away, and a huge playground with 30-foot slides is just a quarter mile away.  We took full advantage of both the playground and the adjacent swim beach in the afternoon.  By the end of the day both girls were tired and happy, bodies cooled and stretched.  Cedar was quite recovered and excited about the possibility of sailing to Grand Marais on the way home to play with her friend Olya.

 

 

The most significant that happened is that Tom once again saved the day by randomly discovering some kind of bearing, just sitting on the bow.  Mark harnessed up and climbed the mast (attracting the attention of the local newspaperman, who took pictures and promise a story in tomorrow’s paper) and found that without this bearing, the roller furling would eventually have worn right through the headstay, possibly bringing it down at some point. (For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, there is the potential that the mast would have fallen down).  The lucky coincidence of it dropping straight down onto the bow, and Tom finding it, leaves me breathless.  What a trip this has been!   Not only are things not breaking, some things are fixing—like the speedometer, which was on the blink when we bought the boat, and has since started working too.

 

Which brings me to my final comment for today, which is how blessed we feel to have Tom with us.  He is such a great match for our family, and his skills on the water and his dependability are invaluable to Mark—especially at night.  His presence has allowed Mark to push the envelope and learn quickly in sketchy conditions.  It has also allowed me to regain my sea legs, parent, cook and housekeep, at a manageable pace.  We are learning fast how easy it is to sail with a first mate, how much bolder we can be.  Tom came on board at the last minute through a family connection, so it’s not like we had it all planned out.  His cheerful demeanor and easy needs (he claims to enjoy beans more and more!) are something we will miss sorely in the future.  Mark’s ideas of taking young adults on sailing trips really takes hold when I watch the two of them working together.  Just on this last stint, they reefed and un-reefed the main so many times I think they could do it blindfolded.  I just hope that Tom is getting as much out of this trip as we are.