I am sure there is a gospel song called “Crossing to the Other Side” but that is not what I am about here. I am about crossing Lake Michigan from west to east. It is always a judgment call when to leave and I usually get a case of irritable bowel syndrome before setting off. It shows I take the venture serious.
The best times in the past have been the morning after one of our hell raising storms. The world, or at least the atmosphere, calms down for about three days; its energy spent. Then the cycle begins over again.
At times like this the lake is flat and oily. Not much good for sailors but just right for Carrie Rose to glide along soaking up the miles at 8 knots. And there are a lot of miles to soak up on Lake Michigan. The shortest crossing is about 45 miles, the longest 100 plus. I wonder how many Chicagoans have crossed the lake in small boats. It must be thousands. We should have a club like the circumnavigators do, but this is a topic for another day.
Once I get there, mid lake is an interesting place, or maybe phenomenon is a better word. It has a crystalline quality as if the air has had all contaminates scrubbed out. It is sweet and it glows.
As with most things there are rituals involved with casting off. If I am not coming back for a while I take the bridle off my mooring. Otherwise, by the time I get back it will be covered with green slime, ugh! I make a note of the time and the engine’s hours. The GPS’s are warmed up with the appropriate waypoints entered. Carrie Rose passes her neighboring sailboats and heads out between the green and red towers at the harbor mouth. Once clear I increase the RPM’s to 1700 and off I go, trailing Chicago’s skyline.
It takes a long time to lose sight of its cliff face of buildings but after a cursory look, I look forward. Depending on the time of day I negotiate through a gaggle of sailboats and then pass the defunct Wilson Ave. water intake crib with its contingent of cormorants patrolling the surface of the lake for tasty morsels.
In deeper water, some 5 to 10 miles out I catch up (pardon the pun) with the fishing fleet. When I first started cruising I would try to avoid them. Altering my course while still distant but somehow I always ended up right in their path or in the path of their multiple propeller seizing fishing lines trailing off the stern. Now I know better. I keep steaming along, knowing that most times their cryptic trolling pattern will move them out of my way by the time I reach their first noted position.
Then it is wind/water/sky in differing doses depending on the day. As you can imagine it is never the same twice. I settle in and monitor the horizon, the radar, and engine temperature and oil pressure gauges. I listen to every tappet’s clicking, monitoring for any change in tone that may portend disaster.
I have neglected to mention a device that I have invested countless hours and treasure in, the autopilot. It is a Simrad AP24. I only say this so those interested can look it up and marvel. Once free and clear of most obstructions I turn it on and sit back. The autopilot keeps me on course with a minimum of effort; this is an illusion. I know this because steering a boat on a single heading requires much anticipation, skill and in challenging weather a tremendous amount of concentration.
On this day the winds were diminished but still from the north, as they have been for weeks. So, of course I knew it would be a rollicking ride across a beam sea and I was not disappointed. Carrie Rose is a wonderful boat but has a wicked roll. There is nothing gentle about it. She gets up on one side and quickly snapped to the other. At times like this I wish for a seat belt. The ride just got worse from mid lake until I entered the St. Joseph-Benton Harbor breakwater.
It is disconcerting to be wallowing in the open lake and then abruptly change to the flat water of the harbor channel: to go from open water navigation to close quarters maneuvering. To complicate things further — though less now that I have experience to draw upon — I am often somewhere new. I change from tensing every muscle to stay in my seat, to tensing every sense to get into my assigned slip.
Sound like fun? Well, not always but more often than not, and in the depths of February these are great memories to relive. Maybe I will write that song and get Kris Kristofferson to sing it!
July 2011
