Shakedown Sail--Tuesday May 17--
Finally, after 8 months of waiting around, we were on our way again—with a renovated cabin, several new sewn bags, repaired sails, and a 10-yr-old friend, Mahalia, who was up for an adventure with the Gordon family, to the inexpressible delight of Cedar and Lamar. We were headed for the Apostle Islands, due NE from our home port in Knife River. We got off to a very early start, due to the forecast of NE winds as far as the forecast could foretell, but quiet in the morning. We soon lost the gain of our early start when we realized that we’d forgotten all the documentation on our boat and ourselves! (My super-cleaning Mark’s office and neatly putting it out of sight had its downside). We briefly considered hightailing it from the Coast Guard every time we saw them, and then decided to detour to Two Harbors. Mahalia’s mother and little brother gamely biked to our house, picked up the missing documents, and biked out to the pier to hand them off to us, just as the flat calm of the morning gave way to a nice NE breeze. We decided that rather than head straight northeast for the Apostles, we would veer southeast towards Port Wing. Neither of us relished the prospect of pounding into NE waves. We set sail and the wind kept itself under control. It was a nice sail.
The three girls were busy adjusting their social dynamic to accommodate three on board. Mahalia, as the oldest and most coveted, had her hands full with two devoted, competing sister friends who forgot how much they had loved each other in former lives, before Mahalia was available. Cedar in particular vacillated between ecstacy at her dear friend’s proximity, and rage or despair that everything wasn’t going exactly as she liked. It was a rough day socially, and we determined to head off problems with “lone time” breaks as frequently as necessary. Cedar protested these breaks LOUDLY but they provided us all with a needed respite. We came into Port Wing just as the NE winds were getting serious and discovered to our joy that Port Wing is not too shallow for us this year. (With such low water levels and our new 5 ½ ft. (at least) draft, we are a bit edgy). It was a gorgeous afternoon but unfortunately with the strong NE wind it was too cold to do much. We walked to town and argued over who should walk next to whom. A hat was left in town and Mark hightailed it back. Clearly we had yet to come into our stride.
Wednesday, May 18--The blistering winds continued the next day, so we stayed put. Before they got too strong we set up the dinghy and lowered the kayaks into the water. Presto! Fun times. Cedar was the veteran, Lamar held her own, and Mahalia eagerly picked it all up quickly. They took turns and managed to be “together” in all combinations. Three really is a crowd, but if one Gordon girl could take some of her own space, it worked out. We went deep into the estuary, ate a leisurely snack in the windless sun, and returned home for a late lunch. Mahalia gamely ate everything I put in front of her without complaint, and often with a polite thank-you. Lamar was busy following suit in the manners realm, but Cedar was preoccupied with the impossible and mutually exclusive prerogatives of maintaining her own, leading the crowd, and dissing her mom’s food.
Thursday, May 19 began at 5:00 for Mark. Little did he know he was going to have to deal with water in the bilge, leaking oil, and running aground, before it was all over! Thankfully, he didn’t know all this, but started out in good spirits in a very light NE wind. We motored NE as quickly as possible, aiming to get into the islands before the winds picked up. We made it, too, though not before Mark discovered oil leaking from the engine filter and water in the engine bilge. Not one to let water accumulate in the bilge without known cause, he pulled apart the back hatch to check on the dripless seal. All findings were indeterminate but there wasn’t a lot of water and soon we were in the islands with almost a dead calm. We stopped to fill the water tanks, then pulled into Raspberry Island and took a trip to the Lighthouse. It was a strange weather-day—occasional splashes of sun had us quickly delayering, but any exposure to the NE gusts, however light, brought on the shivers. The girls danced on stone arches and actually inspired their parents to do our much-limited performances as well. We were back on the boat by mid-afternoon, heading for Oak Island.
Half an hour later, motoring merrily along Oak Island (not that close to it), we suddenly ground into the sand and came to a halt! Oh that sinking feeling. I hopped out into the cockpit; Mark was swallowing his sandwich and turning the engine down to idle. The impact was relatively gentle; clearly we’d run into sand and not rock. The girls didn’t pause from their drawings inside; only Cedar came out a few minutes later to yell out, “Did we run aground?” I glanced at the chart to see that there was indeed a shoal off of Oak Island, though not nearly as shallow or as far out as we were. Well! Things have changed out here! As usual, Mark saved his chagrin for later when he had time for it. In minutes he was in the dinghy rowing around to check depths around us. We were solidly aground, but any direction would get us out, at least temporarily. “What’s going on?” Mahalia was asking, a twinge of worry in her voice. Cedar and Lamar were enlivened by the whole thing; when I granted them each 3 pictures to record the event, Cedar made sure to save one of hers “for the Coast Guard” in case we had to resort to rescue. I explained a few things but asked them to just watch to have their questions answered.
Meanwhile, we were mentally assessing. The winds were extremely light; in fact it had just warmed up and we were out in our lightest layers yet. We were protected and near the Park Service. There was no worry that we’d damaged the hull. The only question was, could we actually get 25,000 pounds of steel off a sandbar without help? We set out to try.
First we tried reversing at full throttle. Then we swung the boom out and Mark shinnied out to the end of it, attempting to heel the boat over. That had worked once with Amicus I; but Amicus II is 10,000 more pounds and it didn’t look to me like she even noticed. Then Mark got our second anchor off the bow and dinghied out behind us. He dropped it in the water and set the line off the stern. He wound it until it was so taut it looked like it might break, then we tried reversing again. And again. Nothing. Meanwhile, the girls had gotten bored and gone back inside. When they were out we made them sit on the stern, all 150 lbs of them. We saw a Park Service boat close by and radioed them. They said that they were not able to help us but would contact the Coast Guard. In between leaping on and off the dinghy, throwing heavy anchors around, and reversing, Mark chatted with the Park Service and then the Coast Guard, who couldn’t seem to get us on our handheld radio outside. We told them our phone number. The Park Service radioed us again 20 minutes later to tell us that the Coast Guard couldn’t get us on the phone. Mark—always polite—“I don’t think there is coverage out here.” He went down into the cabin to tell them how many children we had, and that we were working to get ourselves off but would contact them soon if we couldn’t do it on our own.
Finally we tried kedging an anchor out to the side. We attached the anchor rope to the main halyard, so that once it came taut, it pulled on the top of the mast. Amicus II actually started listing to the side. We cranked it as tight as it would go, then I held it there at the mast while Mark went into the cockpit and reversed the engine. We budged! “We’re moving!” I shouted. We swirled around a little bit, headed up for the anchor, and were soon aground again—but barely. Full of new life, Mark and I sprang into action. This time, I believed it would happen. We reset the kedge anchor and cranked again. It didn’t set so well so we tried a third time. It still didn’t list over as far, but we were only “soft aground” as Mark had explained minutes before to the Coast Guard. Soon we were moving again. “Should I let it go?” I bellowed to Mark, who had once again gone below to reassure the Coast Guard that we were here but very busy trying to get ourselves off! When he reappeared he nodded and I let the anchor rope go from the main halyard. Mark had had the foresight to attach a small orange mooring buoy to the end of the rope so that we could come retrieve it later, allowing us to detach from the anchor in a hurry.
And that’s all it took! We were off, and Mark slowly motored us into deep water. Then he was off one more time to dinghy over to the anchor and pull it out. The girls took lots of pictures (none of which do justice to the drama, of course), sang and leaned over the stern, and timed the whole event—they tell us it took about 90 minutes. We motored to the Oak Island anchorage and dropped the hook on the warmest evening yet with barely a breath of wind. I cooked supper and felt proud of us, while Mark explored the bilge once more for causes of the water in the bilge. There were too many possibilities—a leaky gasket on the extremely full water tank, a leaky pump for the outside intake, and somehow, inexplicably, the holding tank which, though unused, registered ½ full. And of course, the dripless seal was always suspect. Eventually he relaxed, admitted that the possibilities were endless but they probably wouldn’t sink the boat tonight, and we ate supper outside in the setting sun. The girls had a fabulous evening dinghying and kayaking to the beach and along the shoreline—racing, dancing, and rowing with all their might. It was a perfect May evening and I knew we might not see weather like this again.
Friday, May 20--I had hoped the fun might continue in the morning, but the breeze was supposed to pick up and Mark was anxious to find better protection before all hell broke loose, as it was supposed to do in the next couple of days. We slowly meandered towards Stockton Island in a few breaths of wind—always on the nose. Down below the girls and I “did school” and then went outside to spit off the edge and see if we were going anywhere. “Are we moving?” Mahalia asked. “I’d call us dead in the water,” Mark replied. She looked up, startled, but he was smiling so she figured it must be all right. You never can tell what’s going to happen next with these Gordons! No one seemed concerned, so she went back to her important business of keeping peace between a doting Lamar and a touchy Cedar.
Sometime around lunch it came on like gangbusters. “You girls better come back off the cabintop,” Mark called, a big hint to me, super-cleaning in the cabin below, that things were changing fast. Soon we were heeled over mightily. One reef in the main, then a reefed jib, then another reef in the main. Finally we put on our staysail and tacked. The winds were, of course, dead on the nose. I predicted that these north and east winds would not stop until we were trying to come back, as we were almost as far north and east as we could come on this trip. (Sure enough, we heard that night of westerly winds coming in a few days later). The girls adjusted to the sharp heel inside the cabin; Mahalia even rescued a mug that had fallen out of an unlatched drawer. Mark and I had fun heading into the wind with the stay sail. By the time we reached Stockton Island dock there was a small craft advisory out. We anchored just outside the entrance and Mark dinghied in to check depths. We’d never had problems before, but an entire shoreline that used to be under water was now above ground and we weren’t taking any chances. We did hit bottom, just for a second, on the way in, but otherwise it went smoothly and we enjoyed the security of being as far NE as we could get with a big NE wind coming in. It was south or west all the way home.
Stockton Island is like our home away from home. We remembered previous visits, noted the construction on the bathrooms, looked around for neighbors (none came to the dock), and I went for my customary run to Julian Bay. We ate our last meat for supper and I prepared yet another big pot of beans for tomorrow. Eating oats at 7:00 meant that everyone was starving by 9:00. Beans were the standard second breakfast. We were discovering that at least part of Cedar’s struggle to cope with the difficulties of life was probably due to the fact that, after weeks of picky eating culminating in a week of being sick and eating virtually nothing, she was thin as paper and probably growing now too. Her appetite was amazing. She ate two bowls of oats, hard boiled eggs, and another bowl of beans before begging for an early lunch. She ate a full supper and then, an hour before bed, another egg and the last of the bread. I was kept busy feeding her but was glad to do so after the previous weeks’ internal anguish of seeing her fade away from lack of nourishment. She still turned her nose up to peanutbutter but ate almost anything else. Unfortunately I had forgotten yeast, which meant we ran out of bread after two days. We ate lots of oats instead, and I fried up the leftovers with a little flour, baking powder, syrup, and butter. We had tortillas and a tortilla maker on board so I knew we wouldn’t starve. And of course, there was always rice-and-almonds, everyone’s standby.
That night Mahalia confessed to feeling homesick. She cried a little and I hugged her and reminded myself that she’s only 10 and needs lovin too! Despite her unfailing cheeriness, she really missed her family—surprise surprise—and I’m sure the new diet, bedspace, and general rhythms took their toll eventually. When asked if there was anything we could do, she cracked a little smile and said “Chocolate?” The next day we ate malt balls for snack and she was back to her happy self. Cedar and Lamar were shocked to realized that Mahalia was a real live child with actual needs. They were more respectful after that when Mahalia’s needs factored into our family life.
Saturday, May 21 dawned windy and stormy, and only got worse as the day wore on. In the morning we managed to go out to Julian Bay, identifying plants and noting the cycles of composting trees, bugs, and earth. Cedar was unbearably tortured with walking along the bouldery shoreline, but her mood improved after Mark walked the trail with her for 5 minutes and they were able to come out to the shoreline again. Plus, she’d remembered her security blanket—a personal stash of non-chemically beef jerky which she’d bought at the Midwest Expo a month before. What a good decision that purchase was! She is like her maternal grandfather in her craving for protein, and when I told her how important beef jerky was to my dad on our backpacking trips, she contently pulled them out at every chance for a quick bite, commenting that “No one ever brings NEARLY enough food,” and communing with her grandfather. “He can’t go on even the smallest hike without a square of dark chocolate,” she mentioned happily to anyone who would listen.
Back at home, we set out to spend the afternoon inside as the rain closed in on us. Thankfully, the social trio had worked out a manageable dynamic: Mahalia suggests and leads, Lamar follows gladly, and Cedar does her own thing which occasionally merges with the others. Everyone seems happier and while it still breaks down occasionally, it is much better than before. Mark and I give Cedar extra attention to make up for her loss of company. We spent the afternoon reading aloud, learning parts of the boat, painting, baking muffins, and (for me) writing this blog. Now Yachtzee is going full-scale and tuna wiggle is on the stove.
Sunday, May 21-- we hoped the weather would improve, but that was wishful thinking. In the morning we got out on the beach but by afternoon we were crouched in the cockpit watching severe thunderstorms pass by to our south. I had sewn together these side covers for the cockpit and we were pleased to discover that even in a driving rain, the cockpit stayed essentially dry—good news for people sleeping out in the cockpit in a couple of weeks! Mark and I did some planning for our Bill Tilman (young adult) trip which starts in a week which was very fun and got us psyched. Cedar of course chimed in with her opinions regarding the dish schedule and the opening circle. She is writing an outline for her part in the initial cabin tour—her bunk.
Monday, May 23-- we woke up in a thick fog. Two girls schooled and Mark or I took the third kayaking along the eerie, glassy shoreline. That got us through the morning and in the afternoon it all broke loose, the sun came out, and the first westerly of the trip came in. We prepared to leave but right as we were readying the dock lines Mark shook his head. He had carefully dinghied around at the entrance because we’d touched bottom on the way in. He had discovered there was no good way out. Good vision was essential. To complicate things, a big powerboat had arrived and was parked in the entering channel, close to our planned route. With even small waves rolling in, visibility was down. We decided to wait, again. “We’re not leaving after all,” I called down to the girls. “Okay!” they called back cheerfully and hopped outside to go back to making their sand goodies. Ever-flexible, they were.
An hour later, the freshening wind had mellowed into an afternoon breeze and Mark felt better about maneuvering around in there. We took it slow and he got us out without even a brush with the sand. All that stress of getting out—over in one minute! The wind had already swung more to the north so we were able to sail due west until the wind died and we motored the last bit to Oak Island, arriving by suppertime.
Still perplexed by the water in the bilge, Mark was vigilantly checking the engine after we’d arrived, and I was making supper, when I sensed some intense anxiety. Muttering, and with furrowed brow (two very bad signs), Mark urgently ripped off the hatch steps and tore up the back so he had access to the entire engine. I cooked dinner and didn’t dare ask. He’d found fluid in the bilge this time, and it could be transmission fluid. That would be bad. The girls and I ate dinner while Mark peered around and checked things. He determined that it probably wasn’t transmission fluid, much to his relief. But it was something, and there was plenty of it. Diesel? After choking down dinner, he had me start the engine. After about 5 seconds he told me to turn it off. “Well now we know what the problem is,” he said. The fuel pump was spurting diesel.
Because our engine is European, he hadn’t been able to find a replacement diesel fuel pump over the winter as a spare. So he’d had this one rebuilt, to avoid this very eventuality! How unfair! That’s what I thought, anyway. The girls and I spent the evening on the shore. They played runaway children and I gazed at the horizon and listened to the distant echo of Mark talking on the cell phone in the cockpit. It started to sprinkle and we returned home. Mark was deep into conversation with his mechanic brother Steve. We climbed over the exposed engine, taunting us with its dominance over our lives, and I put Lammie to bed just inches from the thing. Cedar and Mahalia cuddled in the v-berth until Mark decided he was done with the engine for the night. Then we went to bed. Mark and I discussed our options. None of them were great, but with a best-case scenario we could sail down to the Bayfield area and start solving our problem. Maybe get a ride home if we had to get the fuel pump rebuilt in Michigan again. We didn’t even mention the sails we had scheduled starting on Wednesday, or the $40/night marina fees in Bayfield. All that was secondary, anyway, to being in an exposed anchorage without a working engine. When the wind blew hard in the middle of the night we lay there, listening. Where was that wind coming from? As long as it was northeast, we were okay. It was. But the night had a stressful energy, and even the girls could feel it. Cedar woke and was scared to go to the bathroom, of all things, and Mahalia had another little bout of homesickness. I reassured and escorted to the potty, and they were quiet for the rest of the night.
At 6:00 a.m. the guy who had rebuilt the fuel pump returned Mark’s call. I thought that was friendly. He didn’t have much to say, other than to send it back and he would fix it again. Before 7:00 there was an easterly breeze and we sailed right out of our anchorage, easily avoiding shallow areas and heading directly for Bayfield. By 7:30 Mark was on the phone with his local friend Ted, who gave him the number of Walkie, the mechanic who had helped us out tremendously before our big trip on Amicus five years before. We knew that nothing was sure until Mark had talked to Walkie, and with a huge stroke of luck, they were talking by 7:45.
After that, things moved fast. Walkie in his traveling shop, suggested we pull into this little marina just ahead since he was driving by anyway. Within the hour we’d pulled in with only about 2 minutes of engine use, into Roy’s marina. Immediate crisis over! We were in good hands. And, as always seems to happen with Walkie (Cedar calls him the “Miracle Mechanic”) deep hopeless problems suddenly looked quite solvable. “So you want to get to Knife River?” he commented. “Perfect wind for it today.” He took a look, opened up the fuel pump, found a hole in the diaphragm, found a working one in his traveling shop, and we were soon good to go! He also promised to order Mark a repair kit for the pump, showed him what had gone wrong with the rebuild, and suggested buying a quick electronic backup filter at Napa for emergencies.
To go from complete disaster to back-to-normal was so disorienting that it took Mark and I awhile to adjust again. No, we didn’t have to cancel our sails. No, Mark would not be stuck with a big engine problem when we arrived in Knife River. No, we didn’t need a ride home, and then a ride back to sail the boat home. We set off again in a daze. It was late morning and the wind was gloriously easterly. “Can we start a Walkie fan club?” I wondered. The best we could do was take his number and broadcast it to everyone we know—715-209-3550. Boy are the Apostle Islands lucky to have him.
In a couple of hours we’d cleared the Apostles. Mark checked the bilge once again and discovered oil! He was chagrined, but somehow it all didn’t seem so bad. We’d been to the edge and over it and survived. Mark said a quick prayer and let it go. He was doing his best. The wind had mostly died but was forecasted to remain light and easterly. We would get home, even if not until the wee hours or possibly tomorrow. As soon as he had cell phone coverage Mark called Walkie, who suggested blocking the hole in the fuel pump with a toothpick! He assured him that the hole was unnecessary and that the worst result from running the engine would be a little bit of oil in the bilge. Later he called Mark back to check in and to give him more details about how to fix it, and what was up with this pump. I don’t know which is more valuable to Mark—his know-how, or his willingness to explain, teach, empower, and “be with” us through thick and thin with the engine.
It was just time for things to go our way, I guess. Soon after the phone call with Walkie, the wind picked up from the back quarter behind us and blew a steady 15 knots for the next 5 hours! (15 knots is the perfect wind speed in my opinion—enough to sail at full speed without having to reef). A steady 15 knots is rare, but it never died, and the waves never built past 3 feet. We flew home, going over 7 knots, which still strikes us nothing short of miraculous. Mahalia was tickled that her intense desire for her mother might be fulfilled by bedtime after all. I read stories and fed everyone hot Ramen noodles, hot corned beef hash, hot rice, hot soup, all day. Mahalia and Lamar chatted with their stuffed animals and Cedar listened to the Widji song tapes, songbook in hand, determined to memorize both “Madeleine” and “Vive la Companie.” By the end of the afternoon she had all of us following her lead—she sings one line, we sing the next. I told her she was a born Widji counselor. It was COLD, and the most rockus sailing of the trip. Mahalia watched the waves nervously but with Cedar and Lamar cheerfully bouncing around, it was clear there was nothing to fear, and by the time the sun was going down, we were all adjusted to the motion. Other than a few looks between us, Mark and I kept our internal marveling to ourselves. We sailed right up to the entrance of Knife River in the growing dusk, and coasted into our slip, easy as pie. Frost warnings were out and we could feel it.
We decided at the last minute to leave the boat that night. Mahalia was already packed and it only took the rest of us 10 minutes to throw the dirty clothes in bags and fill the car. A bit anti-climatic for Amicus II, to be left in such a hurry—but we knew Mark would be back first thing in the morning, and we needed the week to prepare for our Bill Tilman trip coming up, much to our excitement! Leaving June 2—stay tuned. Pictures coming too.
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