A Run to Munising

My boat had been launched on March 24^th, 2010, after five arduous months of labor restoring her to a seaworthy condition.  I was able to get the big “two” times in that month.  Although the number of sailing days was not impressive, the Flying Fish was the first sailboat in the water out of Marquette Michigan.  I would not be joined by other mariners until sometime in April.  The lake was mine.

The first few voyages were used to get the bugs out.  It was immediately apparent, at least to my friend Tim; that my boat suffered from lee helm.  Tim had helped me with the restoration project and was an old salt when it came to sailing.  I unquestionably trusted his judgment in matters of a nautical nature.  I was a new comer to the sport and could use as much advice as I could get.

With an adjustment here and an adjustment there, the Flying Fish became fully capable and ready for duty.  Now her captain just needed the same.  Throughout the month of April and May I honed my new skill, until I was capable of operating my boat in a semi competent manor.

During these forays on the Lake, I thought about the up coming summer and what I wanted to do with my boat.  I knew I didn’t want to do circles in Marquette harbor; I wanted to explore and my boat was perfectly capable of doing so.  I soloed many times, but more often then not my friend Tim would join me for an afternoon sail. Tim and I would discuses many things, but always talked about where we could take our boats.  By this time, Tim had also gotten his boat in the water.

Tim had suggested that we sail to Munising and back, about a seventy mile round trip.  To that time I had only gone as far as Shot Point, a round trip distance of twenty miles.  I thought a trip to Munising was a great idea; I had gotten my sea legs and was ready to go.  We picked an upcoming date in May.  We would leave on May 20^th and return the next day.

The day of departure arrived and with permission from my wife; I set sail. I had enough food on board to survive for twice as long as I was scheduled to be gone.  I made sure that I was fully provisioned: extra cloths, batteries, music, and anything else I could think of that I might need.  You would have thought I was prepared to cross the Atlantic, not just sail to Munising and back.

I thought of this trip as my first real challenge sailing the Flying Fish; the first test of my, as yet, undetermined skills as a mariner.  The voyage would live up to my expectations. 

Tim and I set sail from Marquette at 10:30 AM and headed east.  When leaving Marquette Harbor you have to sail out past the break wall before you can set a true course to any other destination.  So we had to travel south for a mile or so until we cleared the break wall.  During this period of transition is when you make ready for the voyage.

To get the boat fully rigged is a much easier task with at least two people on board.  One person can steer while the other hoists the sails.  However, I was solo on this voyage.  Tim and I would sail together to Munising as a fleet, each of us piloting our own boats.

While motoring, Tim can rig his boat in no time, but I have found it more challenging.  This is due to the fact that my boat tends to have a mind of its own.  As soon as I let go of the tiller, the boat heads in whatever direction it wants.  If I happened to be close to something the boat could collide with, I always got nervous.  There’s nothing better then being in the middle of hoisting the jib, when you suddenly notice the sea wall or another boat closing fast.

I am happy to report that after a summer of intense boating activity, I have rigging down to a fine art.  It’s de-rigging that sometimes can provide a challenge.

The Fleet

Anyway, the fleet cleared the break wall and set course for Munising, heading out into the shipping lane or pretty much due east.  It would be two hours to Shot Point and who knows after that.  Supposedly, we could make it in around seven hours.

The conditions were calm, with 5 – 10 knot winds from the southwest.  The temperature was in the mid sixties and it was partly cloudy.  It was starting out as a great sailing day.   

We made good time and kept a close formation on the way to Shot Point.  Since Tim and I were both solo on the boats; the idea was stay close to each other in case of an emergency.  This worked in theory, but I question whether in would prove the case in a real event.  Simply because, during the any given point we could be up to half a mile apart and could not necessarily know if one or the other had fallen off the boat.

Tim has an auto pilot for his boat.  If he were to fall overboard his boat would continue on its course.  I do not have an auto pilot at this time.  If I fell in, my boat would do circles.  At least that would be a good indicator that something was a miss. 

When one of us got too far a head, namely Tim, we would alter course or turn around to close the distance between the boats.  Also, some light conversation would take place if we got with in a few feet of each other.

Ore Boat

One time, I actually patched Tim’s sail with a piece of duct tape during a close quarter maneuver.  Tim pulled up along side and said he had a small rip in his Genoa (large jib) near the foot (the bottom) and pointed it out.  He then eased off a little, pulling the boat back to a position where I could apply the patch.  His Genoa was blown right into my cockpit, with the Genius (Tim’s boat) about five feet to my port side and half a length behind me.  I grabbed the sail, applied the duck tape to both side, and that was that.

            About half way to Shot Point we noticed an Ore Boat approaching from the east.  Boat doesn’t aptly describe the vessel.  It was a ship about nine hundred feet in length with a displacement many thousands of times what our boat’s were.  In short a collision would not be a good thing, at least for us.  The Ore Boat wouldn’t even be scratched in such an event.
            We kept a close watch on the Ore Boat as it grew closer in case we needed to get out of its way.  As it closed the distance we could tell that it would pass well to the north of our course; probably five hundred yards.  That was close enough for my taste.
            I watched with great fascination as the Ore Boat passed on my port side.  It moved through the Lake with little effort; its massive engines driving it towards Marquette.  The ship was producing a large bow wave which I though might cause some major turbulence being this close.  I made ready to turn into the waves to avoid being hit on the port side.  Small motor boats had passed me many times, and their wakes would rock the boat.  I didn’t know what to expect from an Ore Boat generating a massive wake, but I was prepared to meet it head on.

The Ore Boat passed, but the effect was anti climatic.  I was expecting tsunami like waves, and was hit with a less than eventful obstruction to my course.  It seems that the Great Lakes Ore Ships were designed to reduce the wake created by their passing.  Thus, when the wave from the Ore Boat hit me it was less than anticipated.  This was a pleasant surprise.   

The small ripples from the Ore Boat careened into the bow of the Flying Fish, hardly making a distinguishable mark to her performance.  The boat sailed right through the disruption with only the slightest turbulence, and no need to alter her course.

The passing Ore Boat would be the most exciting part of the voyage for that day.  As our tiny fleet continued towards Munising the winds died down and the temperature warmed to the 70’s.  By mid-afternoon we were making about three knots.  It would take us around ten hours to reach our destination.

Sometime, during the voyage I rigged a remote steering device to my tiller.  I got tired of having to constantly hold it to keep on course.  Also, I had to attend to other pressing matters such as making food or getting stuff from the cabin.  As I’ve said, every time I let go of the tiller the boat would alter course, usually steering into the wind.  This was unacceptable and I had to address the issue.

Using a rope, a couple pulleys, and bungee cord; I fashioned a crude remote steering contraption.  Fortunately, my superior planning ensured I had all the required pieces of equipment on board.

I positioned a pulley on each side of tiller and stretched a bungee cord between the two.  The bungee cord was wrapped around the tiller to provide stability and prevent abrupt course changes.  I then used a thin nylon rope of about thirty feet in length.  I looped it around the tiller a couple times and tied a knot.  I then ran each end through one of the pulleys on each side and connected the rope ends with another knot.  There it was, my new remote steering device. 

My makeshift remote device worked great.  In fact, the bungee cord alone enabled me to maintain course for short durations without having to constantly adjust the tiller.  Usually giving me a window of about thirty seconds to attend to the rigging or grab something from the cabin.  With the addition of the steering rope I could now relocated to different spots on the boat.  I was able to sit in the cabin or on the bow and still maintain control.  This would prove very useful in the coming months and certainly enhanced this trip. 

Now all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride.  Hours passed as the boats headed east, both crawling along under full sail.  Every once in awhile Tim would come close enough to talk to me and suggest an adjustment to my sails.  I would adjust as instructed to get the best performance out of my boat. 

One particular time, Tim told me to sit up on my bow and steer the boat from there.  He said I would get the optimal speed out of the Flying Fish by doing so.  This was because my weight positioned forward would reduce the drag on the hull.  How?  The aft end would be lifted out of the water exposing the back foot or so to the air; reducing the surface area in contact with the water; thus reducing friction and increasing her speed.  Okay, sounded good to me.

I grabbed a couple beers, a cigar, and my steering rope and headed up to the bow. At first I sat with legs crossed leaning up against the cabin.  Soon though, I was sitting in the pulpit with my feet dangling off the bowsprit, the best seat in the house. 

At that point, an odd thing happened.  The Flying Fish started pulling away from the Genius.  The conditions and the reduction of drag favored my boat over Tim’s.  I was loving it!  For the first time I could remember, I was out sailing the master.  I could see Tim, adjusting his rigging, but no matter what he did he couldn’t catch me. 

“Don’t think you’re going to start doing circles around me, asshole!” He yelled at me, obviously annoyed that I was getting the better of him.

“Don’t worry, I’m just happy leaving you in my wake,” I yelled back.  Tim gave me the finger.

Grand Island

At some point late in the afternoon, we realized that we still had a good way to go.  The fleet had passed Laughing Fish Point, and was about half way across the ten plus mile gap to Grand Island.  We were also at the farthest distance away from shore we would get on the cruise; about five miles out give or take.  The decision was made to start the motors and expedite the remainder of the voyage.  We had already been traveling for over eight hours and were ready to call it a day.

Trout Bay

      We would spend the next two hours motoring around the north side of Grand Island.  During this period we used our radios to maintain communications and decide where we would anchor for the night.  The fleet ended up at Trout Bay on the east side of the island.  And after we picked a spot near the secluded beach, we killed the motors and dropped the anchors.
     Tim and I ate a dinner of brats chased by beer, and then settled down for the night.  We had tied the boats together with fenders placed in between them. This kept the boats from causing any damage to each other while at anchor.  It was nice to be able to move back and forth from boat to boat. 

Tim found an old bottle of rum in his cabin an invited me in for a night cap.  We had a couple drinks and then Tim passed out.  I went back aboard the Flying Fish and prepared to hit the rack.  I decided I would have one last beer and one more cigar before I went to sleep.  So I sat in the cockpit and enjoyed the last of the daylight and enjoyed the silence.

Suddenly, I heard a rumble from Tim’s boat.  The main hatch slide back and Tim scrambled out of his cabin.  He made a ‘B’ line for the railing and proceeded to vomit violently of the side of his boat.  Fortunately for me, he did so on the opposite side from where my boat was tied to his.

As Tim regained himself, I asked the inevitable question, “Are you okay?”  Tim explained that he had gotten sea sick while laying in his bunk and was lucky to make it outside before he redecorated his cabin.  I wished him a good night for the second time and then sought the refuge my own cabin would offer.

That night would be the first of many times I slept on my boat.  I remember that I didn’t sleep well because my feet were cold; other then that, my boat’s cabin was up to the task.  Subsequent stays on the boat would find me rested and ready for the next day’s adventure.

I can only describe it as either staying in a very long but low ceilinged tent or sleeping in a very small and low ceilinged RV.  My boat being a swing keel design isn’t much for head room, but is high enough to sit up in.  It is also big enough to accommodate four people, if they’re all midgets.  However, for one person, it is quite spacious, and I find it very comfortable.  Tim’s boat is much the same.

           The next day we were up early.  After a quick breakfast and a cup of java the fleet set sail.  Well,…..engaged the motors.  There was absolutely no wind.  Lake Superior was as smooth as glass.

Motoring back to Marquette

We continued around Grand Island and on past Munising Harbor.  At least we would be able to say we had gone around the island.  Tim was slightly ahead of me as we started to leave Munising, but that would change quickly.  He ran a ground close to the marker buoy where a sand bank extends several hundred feet out into the lake.  From that point on and until we were again in open water, he follow close behind me.  I had the GPS unit with the charts.

For the next three to four hours we motored back towards Marquette.  I did some cleaning and some other minor chores during the trip.  I managed to set my tiller on a straight course and only had to make minor adjustment every five minutes or so.  I also put my CD player up on top of the main hatch and was listening to music for pretty much the entire time.  Rock’n the boat, so to speak.

After about twenty miles my motor sputtered and quit.  I checked it out and found I was out of gas.  I had about a gallon left in my reserve tank which I switched to the main.  I pulled the cord, the motor started, and I was back under way. 

While I was refueling Tim had come up on me.  I asked him if he had any spare gas?  He said that he had about a half a tank.  I might need to barrow some when I ran out again.  I didn’t think what I had would get me back to Marquette, and I didn’t want to be stuck floating in the lake.   Tim suggested that if I ran out again he would tow me.  The gas would last longer if only one motor was running.  Worked for me.

The fleet continued on towards Marquette, another fifteen miles to the west.  We had been motoring all day with full sails.  The wind had picked up a little bit earlier in the day, but was not strong enough to allow the boats to make much headway.  We had cut the motors and found that we moved at the brisk pace of about one and a half knots.  At that rate we would arrive in Marquette by Tuesday of the following week.  That was no good; we would run out of beer by then.

With the motors running and making full use of the available wind we were moving at around five knots.  That speed if maintained would get us into Marquette in about three hours.  I didn’t know at the time that running out of gas would be the least of my problems.

Tim’s boat was ahead of me by a few hundred yards when I noticed him healing.  I thought it was just a slight gust.  Within seconds of seeing Tim’s boat; the wind hit mine, taking me by complete surprise.  The Flying Fish healed over violently, pitching my CD player into the water, my music along with it.  Lesson: never place your radio on top of your cabin unsecured. 

This was not just a surprise gust, this was an abrupt change in the weather.  The winds went from almost nonexistent to sustained twenty miles an hour with gusts up to thirty.  And I had full sails up! 

The Flying Fish pitched violently, healing forty five degrees and more.  I positioned myself on the windward side and held on.  This is where my inexperience really came into play.  I had been out in similar weather with Tim, but had never attempted to control the boat in these conditions by myself and this far from home. 

Control is a matter of opinion.  I was not in control, my boat was.  I would crank the tiller as far as I could against the wind and the boat would still turn up.  This happened over and over.  At one point the boat did a 360, with me barely holding on and almost being tossed into the lake.  There was too much power in the sails, but at this point I was not about to attempt to change the rigging.  That time had past.  All I could do now is hang on and hope I could weather the storm.  It wasn’t starting out too good.

At some point during the ensuing chaos I realized that this was a hazardous situation and could be fatal.  I put on a life jacket and tied myself to the boat with a lifeline.  The lake was still cold in May, but at least if I got thrown in I wouldn’t be stuck floating a mile or more from shore.  The only thing I would have to worry about is the boat doing circles and smacking into me as I was dragged along for the ride.  That and hypothermia.  At that point, I hadn’t figured out how I would get back aboard, but at least our fates would be shared (mine and the boat’s).

Tim would later comment that he was aware of my situation and was keeping an eye on me just in case.  Actually, while I was struggling to regain control of the Flying Fish; he was on board the Genius cooking brats for lunch, while sailing in the high winds.  Just goes to show the difference in experience levels.  I’m fighting for my life, and Tim’s cooking lunch.

I quickly figured out that I was way over powered.  I needed to have a storm jib and a reefed Main; not a 160% Genoa and a full Main.  I had to reduce the power and there was only one way to do that; let out the sheets.  I gave plenty of slack to both sails and that did the trick.  I was back under control.  The boat was still healing but I was able to maintain course. 

I positioned myself as far forward in the cockpit as possible and had a hand on the sheet controlling the Genoa, the Main, and the tiller.  It was a juggling act to maintain control.  For the next two plus hours I fought to get back to Marquette in one piece.

Once in a while I would glance at my GPS unit to check my speed.  The winds were now propelling the Flying Fish at up to seven and a half knots according to the unit.  Quite an increase in speed from the five knots I had been doing with the motor running.  At least I wouldn’t have to worry about gas any more.

Fortunately, the winds were out of the south which provided for calmer wave conditions.  Had they been from the north I would have had to seek sheltered water, a cove or something.  Maybe even attempting to beach or anchor the boat; hoping I could find a suitable location.  However, putting down the sails would have also presented a very real problem.  I would have had to head straight into the wind and take down the sails with the motor running; hoping my course stayed true while I was working on the rigging.  I have since done that exercise many, many times, but always find it somewhat nerve racking. 

My luck and the weather held and I made the last fifteen miles back to Marquette without incident.  I gained new respect for both sailing and the weather, and don’t take either for granted. 

Spending two to three hours with a death grip on my lines and making constant adjustments wore me out.   By the time I had made port and moored the boat, I was exhausted.  My arms were dead tired from the long tug and war with the rigging and hung limply at my sides.

My Mother-in-law just so happened to come for a visit and I proved to be less then hospitable.  Upon arriving home I greeted my family and her warmly and proceeded to pass out on the couch.

“Tired from having fun,” she commented as I drifted off.  If she only knew.