Mark and I went on a trip this fall that was so magical I hardly dare to write about it for fear of breaking the spell.
In late summer we dropped our younger daughter Lamar off at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, officially entering the “empty nester” status. Mark had a full slate of trips scheduled in the next month, and I kept myself busy at home, so it wasn’t until we ended our charter season and took off on September 25 that we felt the full blast of the empty home—and for us, it was the empty boat that stared us in the face. Not since our first year of marriage (our honeymoon) had we gone on a trip like this together by ourselves. First it was with babies, then children, then young adults, then trip participants of all ages, often with our growing daughters. How would we like each other, after all these years of taking other people sailing?
Our trip was delayed almost five days due to the wind. “We wait for weather windows longer than most people’s vacations,” Mark used to say—but we had not had to live that reality for many years. Would our trip be over before it began? We emptied our calendars for another week in October to release Mark from the pressure, felt constantly on charter trips, of having to get back on a certain date. We took off from Grand Marais in the dark (fall sailing—much shorter days) into a big northeast swell and a decent southeast breeze. I was woozy for the first and last time of the entire trip. By mid-morning the wind increased to offset the bobbing motion and the clouds were lifting. We sat in the cockpit eating a second breakfast and listening to music. On cue, I started to feel the emotions rising.
“I’m going to need a hankie,” I said. Mark immediately understood—“we’re consecrating the girls’ departure,” he said as he put his arm around me. It felt great to cry and I felt like it would never end. But, after that morning, it did. We had felt the weight of the situation in its fullness and were ready to embrace the present and look to the future.
And not a bad future it was! Though I am still ridiculously excited about every interaction we have with Cedar and Lamar (and lucky for us, they live eventful lives), we realized that being a couple together with no one else to care for (my sister was staying with my parents in Two Harbors, so even those concerns were covered) was a heck of a lot of fun.
We luxuriated in an enormous amount of space for two people. Our books, shoes, and raincoats strayed from their designated compartments and were tossed recklessly on the saloon. We worked our way through several books and magazines, and discussed the contents. Sailing was brisk and if the winds were adverse, we waited it out. We were alone on Isle Royale during the height of the fall colors and also during an unusually warm fall week. Hiking and swimming, kayaking and reading, and oh yeah the food! How many couples get to embark on a wilderness tour with very little planning (Mark acquired all permits ahead of time) and all the comforts of home? Physical activity, but no sore backs or blisters; at our age, that’s a bonus! We’d brought along “treat foods” (pesto, potato chips, bacon) and had a huge pile of fresh vegetables and eggs from local farmers. We ate healthy but delicious. We watched downloaded movies or played cribbage in the evenings. We left Isle Royale and the US while the weather was still mild and the wind was still south, pushing us north.
At Loon Harbor we reminisced about the times we’d been there—with Sea Change, with little girls—during fall and spring gales. We kayaked to ancient “Pukaskwa pits” and raced back in an impending thunderstorm. Every day, whether cloudy, stormy, or crisp and clear, was spectacularly beautiful and I felt my sailing mojo come to life.
At Loon Harbor, fall arrived via a 24-hour northerly gale, ushering in a 40-degree temperature drop. The wind howled through the night. We set our alarm for 6:00 am, hoping to pull up anchor as soon as it was light enough to see and head south to Thunder Bay. When the alarm beeped it was spitting rain, pitch dark, and winds still rocked the boat. I snuggled a little deeper under the comforters (we had two by now) and thought, “maybe not.” But Mark was confident in the forecast, and from long habit we’ve learned that Action really does Conquer Terror. (ACT) So we got up and dressed as if heading out into a cold windy sea was the natural thing to do, and had the anchor up just as it was light enough to see.
What followed was one of the most blisteringly fast 52 miles of our entire sailing life. The winds were north which meant they were comfortably behind us but still coming off the land. So the swells didn’t grow. Down below, I watched the GPS hit 7.5, then 8.3 knots. It topped out at 9.4 knots. I poked my head out. “We’re going over 9 knots,” I commented helpfully, with a telltale shake to my voice. He remained confident. “It’s all under control,” he said, and I returned below, certain that I will never sail with any less of a sailor than my amazing husband. We passed the magnificent Sleeping Giant peninsula in full color and sun by late morning and came into Thunder Bay.
In Thunder Bay we burst our bubble and invited our niece Amber for dinner, which was a treat all in itself. The next morning, with northerly winds predicted into the indefinite future, we headed home for real. Water temperatures above 50 and sometimes 60 kept the air relatively warm compared to what we were used to with May sailing, though it frosted at night away from shore.
Translation: if we wear our long underwear, several layers, stocking cap, neck gator, and all foulies, and drink plenty of hot liquid, we were plenty warm.)
We sailed straight down to Grand Portage’s Wauswaugoning Bay on the US/Canada border. Though entering Canada was effortless with our Remote Border Crossing, re-entering the US took Mark an hour with his phone, wifi, and a Border Patrol website.
Cold and dark is really different than warm and dark. All that night, anchored ¼ mile from shore, furious (“williwaw”) gusts blew down on us from the cliffs surrounding us, rocking the boat. Again that morning I had to put mind over matter. As we headed out of the bay Mark later confessed to having a few butterflies in the stomach himself, and I was close to suggesting that we raise no sail at all since we seemed ready to blow over with bare poles. But good sense prevailed (for Mark, who is able to rationally calculate the difference between a 25 knot wind and a 30 knot wind, and who could also look at the shoreline and guess that what we were experiencing was local). Once we turned into the open lake, the winds moderated and the double-reefed mainsail and staysail he had raised kept us rollicking forward but maintained stability during gusts.
We sailed all day and then through the night. Mark was eager to end his season with a true passage. Once he promised to take the 6:00 p.m-6:00 a.m. watch (i.e. do all the sailing in the dark) I agreed, with some trepidation because of the 30-knot gusts still predicted overnight. As it turns out, the winds were much calmer. I cozied up in Cedar’s bunk and had deeper-than-dozing dreams, with one snack break at 1:00 a.m. (another long-learned lesson), and Mark had a blast doing what he loves the best.
By 6:00 a.m. he was ready to sleep, however, and so I took over as dark merged into a gray dawn, feeling safety and civilization close in on us after two weeks of high adventure.
We got back to Knife River by late morning, having not stepped off the boat for three days. Perhaps deeply satiated for once, Mark was ready to move into the next season, painful as it always is to haul out. With a northeast gale pending, he had Amicus II out of the water within 48 hours.
I highly recommend marking big transitions with a symbolic trip. In this one, we ended a 22-year family chapter and celebrated 13 years of our charter business as well. With a vacuum of responsibility and worldly distraction, we also contemplated, without pressure, the next chapter of our professional and personal life.
Vacations, I’ve decided, should be just that—vacations. Vacating the norm for a time. We would not have enjoyed the space had we not been packed into the boat in groups of 6-8 dozens of times. We would not have relished that bacon if it was part of our normal diet. I would not have thrilled in the swimming if I could do it year-round. And yes, the world can live without Mark and Katya for two weeks. What a relief!