At long last, a dream come true. We embarked on our first Operation Bill Tilman trip: eight on board plus four stuffed animals. Here’s how it came about:
Our vision as a family, and as Amicus Adventure Sailing, has always been to take people sailing with us—two hours to two weeks, as we say. Of course there are many more people who want to sail for two hours than for two weeks, but what is closest to our hearts is to eat, sleep, and live on board as a tight group as we sail to remote anchorages together.
Another factor in our dreaming was my history. During my childhood years, my dad—Dan Goodenough--took a slew of young adults backpacking in the Rockies of Wyoming and Montana. They called themselves Operation John Coulter (OJC). I went on half a dozen of those trips, starting when I was ten years old. Everyone paid their own way and for many of these young adults—not to mention us children—they were not only a blast but seriously life-changing. Mark and I both feel passionate about the wilderness as the setting for group experiences. How could we carry on this tradition?
Thence was born Operation Bill Tilman (OBT)—named after the sailor and climber of the 40s who took intrepid young men voyaging to the far reaches of the world to scale remote mountaintops. Our mission: “Sailing with adventure and wisdom.” We would head out in June, a time of fickle, ever-changing but certainly chilly weather, on a low-cost adventure for our family and four young people. We let our friends know, and they let their friends know, and within a couple of months we had our four brave young people—all from different areas, all signing up on their own. Great! Now we just had to pull it off.
June 1 dawned unusually sunny and warm. Mark and I were recovering from a harrowing weekend in which Mark had his worst fears realized—a major, essential repair was needed, and now. Our dripless seal—the crucial and potentially fatal intake of water through the hull—was leaking, old, and needed to be replaced. We had Amicus II hauled out of the water and Mark spent the entire weekend in the bowels. He was kissing every monster on the nose at once, but he was never alone. With three loyal friends (a mechanic, an engineer, and a welder) they lifted up the engine and hung it in the air, replaced the dripless seal below, and got it back in the water by Sunday.
Meanwhile, the girls and I packed food and planned menus, cleaned the house and prepared to leave. By Wednesday we were essentially ready and moved aboard, just in time for Brittany and Rebekah, our first arrivals, who after a 45 min. drive together were giggling and laughing as if they’d been friends for years. David came later in the day. Jackson showed up the next morning while we were eating our first breakfast of oats on board.
True to form, we started our trip with a circle. Mark and I did most of the talking, covering the basics like safety and personal responsibility. The winds were NE and getting stronger every hour, so we had a hunch we weren’t going far that day.
We headed out for a sail, and if Mark had asked for a way to put the fear of God in us, he could not have succeeded better. (Brittany had confessed just before take-off, “I’m afraid of water.”) Every detail he had mentioned about safety came into play immediately. The waves were a solid three feet, the wind was 15 knots at least, and we were heading straight into them. The bow crashed up and down and water splashed all over the dodger. Cedar and Lamar, sheltered in their customary spot under the dodger, chatted cheerfully while the rest gripped their seats, shivered in the icy wind, and gazed wide-eyed at the waves roiling under them. Mark, Jackson, and David got themselves harnessed up to go out and hoist the main. Mark was jovial, even lighthearted. His instructor instincts were kicking in. They ducked under the dodger and went out there. In a few minutes they were back and we gave them a cheer, which was short-lived because Jackson soon leaned over the side to heave—following Mark’s earlier instructions of “downwind and far away” to the last detail. Brittany looked chilled and woozy too, and pretty soon the little girls succumbed. Rebekah, on the other hand, seemed to be gaining energy the longer we were out. “I’m so psyched not to be seasick!” she declared as she pulled in lines, harnessed herself in to go out on the bow, and then took a turn at the helm. She fetched crackers, took pictures, and chatted with Cedar. She appreciated the sparkle on the waves. David was quiet and observant. He went below to get his rain pants on and then tried steering. By the time we turned around and he and Mark went out to drop the main, he was happy enough to stay out there. A slow smile had crept into his face; he was getting comfortable and coming into his own.
We returned to the safe dock, bringing Brittany back to life. “I need to get out on the boat more,” said Jackson, undaunted by his earlier stomach upset. I breathed a sigh of relief. There was no terror in his eyes, just a wry smile and a few choice words.
Everyone quickly learned the number one lesson in sailing: the weather is in charge. We weren’t going anywhere that day—or the next. Storm after storm passed over us. We glimpsed two waterspouts and marveled at the intense fronts passing over us. We hiked and Mark taught classes in navigation and boat parts.
June 4 We left at 5:30 a.m. in a slight swell. David and Rebekah, who volunteered to sleep in the cockpit, were the early risers. They were up with Mark. Brittany and Jackson, on the other hand, didn’t budge for several hours, unmoved by the swishing going by just inches from their heads, the clanking of bowls and pots, and the lively chatter of the girls. By the time they were up we were sailing and the wind was directly behind us. We sailed wing-and-wing all morning with a steady breeze behind us. The motion was sloppy. Brittany sat facing out of the cockpit, where she stared for hours and took no food. Jackson, on the other hand, seemed much better this time. By lunchtime Brittany ate a tuna sandwich and reported that she was feeling much better. She lay on the side of the deck all afternoon and commented with Cedar who sat faithfully by her side.
Mid-afternoon, the winds switched to NW, and were warm instead of icy. The temperature rose and everyone looked up. Mark hollered with gusto, “All hands on deck!” Everyone jumped up. Soon they had the whisker pole down and we were flying at a beam reach. We set our sights on Grand Marais and sat back to enjoy the ride. Everyone was fairly adjusted to the motion and we ate chili for supper, prepared mostly by Rebekah. She even baked corn bread. We came into Grand Marais by sunset.
It was a blessing that we’d been able to take such good advantage of the westerly wind, for it was not to come again for a long time. The next day we sat in Grand Marais. People did their own thing and we lost some of the group momentum. Bright and early on June 5 Mark got up, only to find storms threatening in a distinctively NE wind. We decided to take off anyway. We could always go for a sail and then come back if we had to. Within a few minutes of getting out there the squall on the lake hit us full blast. Brittany and Jackson, asleep on their bunks, missed the whole thing. It cleared up and soon we were tacking into a NE breeze. It never got over 10 knots, but it never budged from the NE either, and remained fully on the nose. We tacked until it calmed down, then headed straight into the wind with the motor, which got us all the way to Isle Royale by suppertime.
It hadn’t been easy to get there, and we’d had to wait a lot, but the tone was set. The “old kids,” as I call them, were all able and willing. All had different strengths. Rebekah was the queen of the kitchen when we were moving; she had an iron stomach and enjoyed taking care of things. David was eager to learn to sail and never missed an opportunity to practice. Brittany truly appreciated every thought and comment of the “little kids,” especially Cedar who had so much to say, and was a delightful playmate during the long hours when nobody else had energy for them. They even did a puppet show for us, incorporating every stuffed animal. Jackson was the willing dishwasher, sailing apprentice, and musician. He pulled out the guitar frequently and played/sang background music to us, hour after hour, that soothed the soul and brought everyone together in the evenings. We were all still feeling each other out, but I sensed no personality conflicts. Could things stay this good? I wondered.
Isle Royale
Well as it turns out, it really could. Once we hit Isle Royale we slowed down the pace. The winds were still out of the NE, the direction we were headed, but they were light and the days turned sunny. Most mornings David got up soon after the sun and went kayaking or hiking, or snuggled down under his bugnet in his sleepingback in the cockpit to read about Bill Tilman. Mark and I were the next up, or Rebekah who also read quietly in the cockpit. We took quiet trips to shore and turned the heat on under the oats. Soon the girls were up, and I watched our late risers to see how long they could hold out. They were amazing sleepers—or maybe they just struggled with rising. If there were bad moods, you’d never know. People kept them quiet. We ate breakfast and figured out our day. Most days we went for a group hike and/or sailed up to the next all-weather anchorage. With light winds and without the massive NE swell we were used to down south, we could usually tack to our destination. Most days at least one person dipped in the lake—sometimes everyone did. Rebekah and David took flying dives off the bowsprit, came up for air, and silently leapt for the ladder before they could gasp out a reaction. David also swam to the boat from shore once in water that was about 40 degrees, which impressed us all. “How was it?” I asked. “Took a lot of energy,” he replied, never one to overstate.
We had spent a lot of time thinking of the best place for everyone to put all their stuff. Would it all fit? Would the settees be continually covered with stuff? After all, everyone had layers, raingear, sleepingbags, pillows, clothes, books, toiletries—miraculously, they kept things tucked away almost always. It was only at the very end that things, as Brittany said, “unraveled.” If anyone was leaving things around, it was us--the Gordon family. With little fanfare, it soon felt normal for eight people to be living in and around our cockpit, cabin, and cabintop. We learned to pause before opening the bathroom door (since someone was probably on the other side of the door, pulling our personal belongings). We learned to wait a few seconds to move into the galley area which could hold one or possibly two people at once. The girls had their bunks to crawl into, and Mark and I had the v-berth. The rest learned to create a space for themselves. There were always corners to hide in and read or write, and soon even Brittany and Jackson could read below while underway—which was handy, since the sailing was almost always extremely chilly. People have lived since the beginning of time in small spaces together, and now I know how. It’s really not that hard as long as people are considerate and take a few seconds to put stuff away. We all need a place to sleep, a place to eat, and a place to live. But we don’t need these all at the same time.
It also helped that they were extremely flexible sleepers. Oh, to be 20 again! David and Rebekah seemed to prefer the cockpit under their bugnets, even in bad weather. Brittany slept on the cabintop more than once, and Jackson tried it too. They could sack out anywhere. “What about the bugs?” I asked Brittany. They could be intense at dawn on the calm mornings. “I just snuggle down in my bag,” she answered. We Gordons stuck to our regular beds.
One morning Cedar looked haggard. Living the young adult lifestyle was starting to take its toll. I knew there would be trouble when Mark determined that a randomly found headband should be shared—devastating news to Cedar who had claimed it as her own. She raged up and down the deck, furiously pushing her unruly hair back and disowning her sister. Lamar unraveled under the stress and cried in her bunk. This was all pre-breakfast, of course. Once there was food in stomachs, things improved—slowly. Cedar finally set out in the dinghy for some lone time. She rowed round and round the boat, quieting with each stroke. I gave the big kids a few sidelong glances to see how our parenting skills were measuring up for them. I was so judgmental at that age! But throughout the entire saga they quietly, unobtrusively, did their own thing. They did the dishes, they read their books, they stayed cheerful. Mid-morning, we gave up on the hope of a group hike and they headed out on their own—the big girls for a kayak/portage adventure they had scoped out the night before, and the boys to hike around. It was sobering for Cedar to learn that, though she always wanted to be with the big kids, they sometimes needed a little space to themselves. Lamar needed her space too, and spent a lot of time playing with “Deerie” on her bunk.
We, the Gordons, set out on our own that day to regain a little family traction. A pattern had arisen that we seemed unable to shake, and it went like this: Mark and I envision a family hike. Lamar is game. Cedar is miserable at the thought and automatically protests until we either give in and stay back, or until the hike is ruined and everyone is grumpy.
How to break out of this pattern? I knew that if anyone needed to change, it was Mark and I. We were the adults here. I put myself into Cedar’s mind and meditated. I could sympathize with her intense need to have a say in her life. It made her crazy that, while everyone else had a choice, (“Shall we go hiking?”) she really didn’t. Which was true. Mark and I could not fathom hanging out on the boat all day while everyone else hiked on shore. I formulated a plan in my mind that presumed two things: 1. that Cedar really does like to go on expeditions, and especially likes to be part of the gang, and 2. that having a choice is absolutely number one priority.
Later that day I explained the new policy to her. 1. she would never be forced to hike. (Mark or I missing a hike or two would be worth the cause, I figured). 2. If she fussed and complained, she would not be allowed to go on the hike. “Okay,” she said cheerfully—relieved, I believe, of the burden of the unhappiness of having too much power but too little choice. My challenge was to stay truly neutral (and unresentful whatever her decision) while she debated what she wanted to do. Even encouragement was likely to lead to an argument. Only once, in the next planning session while everyone was gathering water bottles and gorp, did she start to fuss. Mark told her that was a Strike 1, and she immediately shut up. “I think I will go,” she finally uttered, and, thrilled with the new freedom, started packing her daypack. So we didn’t even have to stay home to call her bluff! Later in the day, when she started moaning about the distance while her pace slowed to a shuffle, I simply said “I will take you back anytime you want and if you start fussing we’ll go back automatically—“ she replied quickly, “I’m not fussing!”
Meanwhile, we were still growing together as a group. Somewhere in there we started to get comfortable. I don’t know when it happened, but the energy change was palpable. We went from considerate to goofy, or thoughtful. Topics of discussion deepened as we hit the basics: finances, family, futures. At the beginning of the trip we’d introduced a circle question each night at supper (“Who is your hero/heroine?” “What’s the most important thing you’ve done in the last year?”) which eventually fizzled out, replaced by informal genuine discussion. Mark told story after story, gruesome and hilarious, about everything from being thrown up on by a kid to getting chased up a tree by a bear. Solo reading time dropped and the big kids gathered religiously for long card tournaments, often late into the evening and punctuated with almost perpetual, muffled laughter. On warmer nights they played in the cockpit. Cedar played “Oh Heck” once; she came running to tell Mark and I that she had MADE her first round! Skipping euphorically, she returned to the game, only to come crawling back an hour later to report that her beginner’s luck ran out and she hadn’t MADE since. Jackson knew a very simple and excellent card game called “Golf” which he taught to the little girls. They begged for players multiple times a day and someone usually took them up for a round or two.
Only once was there any safety concern—and that very mild. Mark and I, accustomed to assuming responsibility for notoriously irresponsible teenage kids, were learning by practice what it is to lead independent young adults who are strong, flexible, smart, and not always completely aware of the implications of their adventuring. How to honor their thirst—their need—for self-reliance and independent adventuring, without forgetting that in the eyes of the law (and probably their parents) we are still the ones responsible if something happens? One night the big girls went kayaking with headlamps, presumably planning to return after dark. I knew about this and briefly wondered, “Should I put any parameters on this?”—but didn’t think about it until dusk arrived and they weren’t back. Suddenly things were really dark. I told Mark that they had headlamps, but felt apologetic when he showed concern. I hadn’t been very proactive. He went out and called as loud as he could—no answer. He decided to go find them. He wasn’t worried, but he thought if they were out after dark they should be able to see the boat. Getting lost in a bay was his concern. The wind was completely calm. By the time he had his lifejacket on we saw their headlamps coming around the bend.
We talked about it the next day. I told a story I had never forgotten: when I was 12 years old, two guys on an OJC backpacking trip planned an overambitious dayhike across a range of 12,000 foot peaks. My dad asked them to be back by suppertime. Well, they weren’t back by suppertime—and they weren’t back by dark either. Despite the full moon, they weren’t back all night and in the morning dad and another guy went out searching for them or their bodies. The two guys had gotten stuck and were forced to head down into another mountain range. By the following evening we were together again—but I doubt any of us there will ever forget that night and day. And of course, there’s my brother Danny who did fall fatally in Wyoming near an innocent-looking stream. Things happen. So when we talked about it on OBT, Mark simply asked them to humor us by being back in sight and sound of Amicus II by dark, and they were fine with that. Never, in fact, did anyone do anything to question our safety parameters. I know how much of a pain it is to put on a harness, or a lifejacket, so I greatly appreciated their respect and maturity. They really looked up to Mark. Once when someone looked to Mark for guidance I had a strange flashback and thought I heard him say, “Dan?”
Winding Down June 12-15
With four days to go we came to the east side of the island. We sailed around the tip and christened our journey with a man-overboard drill, tossing a life preserver into the waves. Mark sat behind the helmsman and hollered directions. One person was at the wheel, two were in the cockpit controlling the sails, and the fourth was on the bow with the boathook. We got our life preserver back three times out of five. Only once did we ride right over it. (“Now we’re doing a body recovery,” remarked Jackson). The little girls watched it all from the cockpit and provided snacks. The light breeze turned brisk soon afterwards and we got serious about heading into the myriad of islands at the north end of Isle Royale. They sit in obvious formation once you are inside them, but look like a maze of confusion when trying to figure out where to enter from the side. David, at the helm, steered us faithfully as close to the wind as we could until we dared fall off and slide into the protected mass of islands at a wide opening.
June 14 we headed back to Washington Harbor. Our food was holding out well, with a few surprises. We ate so much peanutbutter that the big tub threatened to empty and I put restrictions on it. Tuna was also a big hit, and coconut curries with rice. Sweet potato dessert didn’t ring many chimes, but brownies did. One night Jackson and Brittany endured a lengthy preparation while their potato-lentil-goulash cooked painfully slowly on the tiny burner. The result was gobbled up at dusk, with eggs fried on top. Hot sauce was a regular and we used up three bottles. No one ever complained—even about the endless oats, which everyone dressed with their own mixture of peanutbutter, raisins, gorp, granola, and yogurt. I basked in the luxury of not having to cook when I was feeling woozy. If things were bad, I could always call on Rebekah who not only had the iron stomach but was completely at home in the sparse kitchen—and the kind of cook to whom I could call, “Throw in any leftovers that look compatible, any vegetables you can cut up, and some of that yogurt in the bottom of the frig!” “Sure thing!” she’d call back cheerfully and ten minutes later emerge with hot soup for everyone. Brittany confessed in the last days, while chowing heartily on some un-heard of dish, that this was a complete and total dietary change for her—one she would have refused point blank as a child but which she was actually finding surprisingly good. Jackson, too, expanded his repertoire of edible foods and never failed to thank the cook for the winner tomato soup or the simple burrito. David ate everything; between him and I, the few leftovers we had never lasted long.
June 15
Our final day back to Grand Marais was a glorious one. We sailed wing-and-wing again with a 10 knot NE wind behind us. We were rolling by mid-morning. I pulled out the Widji songbook which became a springboard for every song that anyone had ever heard of or remembered from bygone camp days. We branched off into crazy directions, giggling like kids. Mark let loose with a few oldies, with a verse that included “crying ice cubes,” that I’d never heard from his lips before. Cedar and Lamar were in heaven, with a boisterous chorus for every song they had ever heard and a few more besides. This got us through a cold morning until it was time to eat again.
By afternoon the winds were 15-20 knots, and we sailed downwind in growing waves. There was a woozy phase—naps, quiet, sipping Ramen—and then in the later afternoon everyone came alive again. Adjusted to the motion, there were card games below, maybe even some music. David and Jackson both steered for hours, feeling the thrill of a rocking sailboat heading downwind. We came in just as some dark weather rolled in from the south. Mark and the old kids were poised on the cabintop to pull the main as soon as we were in the harbor. David, with wind whipping and dark clouds closing in, ably steered us into the harbor under sail and turned us up into the wind where the cabintop was suddenly a flapping mess. The sails came down and the bumpers were put to use for the first time in over a week. Getting into our slip was going to be tricky, Mark knew, so we called the Folk School for help. Two of their staff came out to grab our lines and pull us into the dock before we blew into the boat next door or ran aground.
We hopped out in the stiff breeze and gave each other wobbly grins. I couldn’t stop hugging everyone. What a trip! We were hardened, freshened, and tight. It was early for supper, but we’d started our day early. Soon we were diving into a mountain of tuna wiggle. Dishes were cleaned while Mark got ice cream and root beer at the store. We ate root beer floats and de-briefed the trip. What to say? Once the thoughts started flowing, it was hard to stop. Everyone had learned something new. Mark and I had been deeply fed by this trip, and this group, and knew beyond a doubt how worth it it is to pursue a dream. They had taken a risk with us, just as we had taken a risk with them. I felt fulfilled for my kids, knowing how richly their lives were being impacted. Their complaints about food, after falling flat on the first day, had never surfaced again (other than Cedar’s perpetual cravings for Ramen). They had learned, purely from imitation, that when someone asks you to do something, you say “Okay!” cheerfully and then do it. What more could a parent ask than to be guided by mentors such as these?
It was about sailing, but just as importantly, it was about living together. It was about long evenings of cribbage and rummy. It was about learning to cook for 8 on a tiny galley stove. It was about an endless stream of dishes and the constant layering and delayering of clothes. It was about leaps off the bow into shockingly cold water, and magical sunrise/sunset kayaks along a glassy shore. It was about moose swimming through water, and loons. It was about taking responsibility when the pee bucket overflowed (that only happened once). It was about letting myriads of small discomforts or annoyances slide right off our backs. But most of all, it was about each other, and the magical bonding that occurs when people get together with a common purpose and the motivation to make it happen. “We’re having way too much fun together,” said Jackson. I wasn’t sure how we could live without them. Amicus II suddenly seemed way too big for four.
The evening was getting on, but the little girls had longed for a game of charades the whole trip, and the old kids kindly joined in before settling down to their nightly round of cards. Pretty soon Jackson was aping around like Curious George, David gallantly became both Prince Charming and Winnie the Pooh, Rebekah ferociously played the Beast, and Brittany put Cedar’s hair into Pippi braids. It was a late night after a long and exhausting day, but the old kids (after taking showers) gathered round the cockpit table one more time with their headlamps, cards, and cribbage board to even their scores and best each other until long after the Gordons had bedded down.
JUNE 16 The next morning we ate breakfast burritos—splurging on the last of our 14 dozen eggs which had been used sparingly the whole trip—then did some cleaning and organizing. The big kids packed up their stuff and loaded the car. Then, for reasons that only Cedar could define, we found ourselves on a group trip to the thrift store. When we returned from that, there was no more delaying. Soon our big kids loaded up in Brittany’s car and were off, all for different destinations. And we were left standing forlornly in a chill breeze, watching them go.
I was prepared for a letdown but was surprised at its extreme. I thought the girls would suffer the worst but they were quickly absorbed in the Wooden Boat Festival that was gearing up at the Folk School. They took part in it all, including the fabulous pageant which drew a thousand people two days later.
As for me, first thing I did was sit down in a stupor. I could barely think, let alone accomplish something. I was in a total void, the aftermath of a peak experience. What does one do after watching a dream come true beyond expectation, of seeing all our skills and strengths come together and be matched by the energies of four others? Why did I just want to crawl into my bunk and sleep the day away, convinced that nothing was worth living anymore? Mark too was at a loss, stunned into inactivity by the absence of interaction and responsibility. In a quiet moment that evening it finally came to me, simple and straight-up—“You love them and miss them.” Of course. Bereavement was what Mark and I were suffering from. “If this is what sending kids to college is like, count me out!” I thought. “This is horrible!” It took me a full day to rise from the void the loss of these precious people in my life had caused and regain some footing in the world.
We were lucky because there was much to occupy us. Preparing for the next trip, for one thing. The girls and I had to move out. Amicus II needed re-provisioning. And, there was the Folk School with its Festival right off the dock, and a myriad of interesting things to watch, and a presentation to give. Friends to chat with. And the weather to watch. We decompressed and enjoyed ourselves as best we could while the trip slowly moved from the present to the past. Thankfully we did not have to pick up the details and responsibilities of our real life for several days.
So to all you readers out there and especially the families of Rebekah, David, Jackson, and Brittany—thanks for your support in this venture, thanks for your amazing and delightful young adult children, and let us know (if they don’t) what they are doing with their interesting lives. Check out the photo album, which will grow over the next month, and stay tuned for next year.
