Arctic Solo Sail

15^th day of April, a day of waiting.  Warm with a bright sun.  I moved the boat to the Bolder Park wall on the northeast side of the harbor to get more exposure to people.  Thanks Harley for the use of your dock while I waited for the ice to move on. 

0358, on the 16^th day of April, 2009 the Cap’n Lem is moored portside to the wall at the northwest end of Grand Marais, MN.  My eyes open.  I get up.  Sleep on the boat is not hard.  It is sound, restful and delicious, but when my eyes open, I have to get up no matter what time of morning.  It is as much a part of me at this age as my long gray hair and my driftwood face.

So what does a sailor do at 4 o’clock in the morning tied to the wharf?  Well, this sailor drinks coffee, (Folgers Instant: the finest kind) writes in his log and reads.

My fascination with the shipwrecks of the Great Getchee Gummee grows with each crossing.  I know so little about this inland sea but I’m learning and my respect grows and grows.  I read words like “lost with all hands”, “a strange disappearance” “vanished”, and “a heart breaking disaster” and they melt from the pages into my imagination.  Steel ships, wooden ships, sail, steam or motor.  It doesn’t matter.  When the Lake was angry with wind and snow, men and women died.  I’m reminded to caution myself once again of the sea’s magnificent indifference and how it hasn’t the capacity to care whether I live on its surface or die under its waves.  After all, it is merely water.  Water, the great giver and sustainer and taker of life. It is inanimate.  It only seems to have the personality my imagination gives to it.  It only seems to direct its anger at man.  But in the end analysis, it is only water doing what waters do.  And me?  I’m an intruder testing my wits and cunning against cold and moody nature.  On the Lake or the ocean, the only thing separation me from a watery death is the integrity of the hull of the wonderful little ship I call the Cap’n Lem.  (Take care of your boat, Tommy.  Take care of your boat!)

Read enough, write enough and dawn will come.  The imagination that puts me at the helm of the LEAFIELD as it vanishes in the Great Storm of November 9^th 1913 west of Isle Royale gives way to the reality of light and a calm beautiful day, one more day for the ice to melt, one more day to prepare.

There are worse things than the danger of shipwreck and drowning to me.  The danger of doing nothing, of giving up and letting dreams die.  These things scare me more than anything the sea has to offer. It would be living death to sit by the fireplace safe and warm thinking of what I might have done.  So at age 63 I set sail aboard the Cap’n Lem. After all I’m younger now than I will ever be again.  So “Come on Lake!  Come on Ocean!  You’re a brute for sure, but you are a dumb brute and I will trick you into allowing me across for I am a Master Mariner and I have honed my craft for 43 years just to get ready for this day.”  (Yet, in my heart I know I will ever remain a sea fearing man.)

Morning April 13^th, my harbor home is ice chocked with new ice and small growlers.  The new ice stopped the Cap’n Lem’s swing at anchor and the march of the old ice into channel so the night was the quietest yet.  Slowly, very slowly I worked my way out of the anchorage into open water so I could try to get into the next channel to find the place where the Steamship America went down.   It is reported the bow can be seen just below the surface in 4’ of water.

It was not to be.  The ice was thick and fast against the big island and Thompson Island with lots of large broken growlers.  No place for the Cap’n Lem to be, for sure.  The wind is NNW and it takes me out past Rock of Ages Lighthouse again.  I feel a kinship to its loneliness this cold April day but it must stay put while I must move on.  The Keweenaw needs me to sail through her waterway so across the big lake I go again.

A ship!  I see a ship!  I watch the bearing drift.  There is none.  And what that means is unless one of us changes course or speed we will try to occupy the same place at the same time.  In sea going terms that’s called a “collision” and no matter who’s at fault, it will still be bad for me.  I recall Carl Sandberg “whither the rock bumps the jug or the jug bumps the rock, it’s still bad for the jug”. 

So I call her on VHF channel 16, switch to channel 8 and let her know who I am and that I will alter my course to go behind her.  She was the EDWARD L RYERSON.  I also call her later to inquire how I look on the radar.  It’s always good to know if I can be seen in a fog.  She let me know I painted a good image.  “Thank you, crew.”

On the horizon toward the Keweenaw Waterway west entrance, white.   Closer, of course it’s ice again, only this time it’s big ice, old ice, boat eating ice.  I test it down one lead to see if there is a way around but no, not now and the wind is picking up.  No place for the Cap’n Lem here either.  Well, beautiful little Grand Marais MN was a nice place to visit.  I come about and head back.  I believe I might be doing this a lot before I see the likes of Nome Alaska.

Its 55 miles to GM but only 40 to Horseshoe Bay.  We’ll see.  Oh, but what a ride.  The wind builds to a snappy20 to 25kts but I’m on a broad reach and the Cap’n Lem is loving it.  I get a steady 12kts with runs as high as 14.8.  Much faster than I’m use to but all is well and it I can slow easily by turning down wind.  That’s what one does with a trimaran to depower.

And then the dark and with it all the doubts one can have on a small boat alone at night, in the dark.  I check and recheck.  The autopilot is tracking well, Betty is making power, the running lights are burning bright, the radar… the radar transmittion does something weired to the autopilot.  Well, I don’t need this right now! Turn it off, turn it back on, yep something is going on. I suspect it’s the wiring to close to the fluxgate compass that when the radar transmits it pulls the autopilot off course.  Think, what have I done, ‘I looped the excess wire for the radar… and it’s too near the compass.  Ok, deal with it; just use the radar in spurts with the auto pilot in standby.  That works.  Check the GPS.  Lots of sea room.  All is well and very dark.  All the lights on the horizon seem to be houses ashore.  No boats, that’s good. There is a flicker to an a/c light that is different than the steady shine of a dc light used on a boat or an aid to navigation.  It’s very subtle, but years of going to sea have taught me what to look for.  But still, I had best check the horizon again with the binoculars.  It’s dark and I’m afraid of the dark. 

Closer to shore now the wind eases a knot or two.  My GPS keeps record of my track line.  I’ll use that to find my way back into the Horseshoe bay never forgetting there are rocks to the right of me and rocks to the left.    I go back to douse the headsail from aft, go forward to ready the anchor, go back to check the position,  go forward to let down the anchor, go back to steer the boat into the wind and set the anchor, go forward to douse the mainsail, go back to secure the rudder, go forward to check the anchor, go back to check the position.  I’m home for the night.

I have traveled 91 nautical miles in less than 12 hours and crossed Lake Superior twice more.

I start dodging ice again just past Rock of Ages Lighthouse as I make my way to John’s Island at the southern end of Isle Royale.  There’s this cove calling me.  But, once again ice proves the master and I have to anchor in the shallow channel between Thompson Island and John’s Island.  It’s fast ice from island to island and up the Washington channel. No going any farther in side Isle Royale today.

 The snow and ice make this one of the quietest places I’ve ever been.  The only sounds at all are the ones I make.  The anchor chain going out.  The creaking of the trampoline as I walk across from aka to aka.  The hiss of the fireplace flame.  The peace settles over the boat and over me.  I am bathed in quiet again and it cleans the spirit.

The evening is a parade of colors in the sky and water and the ever present ice.  Look down to write, look up again, it’s changed.  The ice cakes are returning to the harbor channel.  Something unforeseen moves them.  Maybe it’s current or a wind so light I can’t see or feel it.  Maybe the fast ice is a magnet to its own kind.  I don’t know, but here they come, slowly, like tired sheep to the manger.   The blue and pink of sunset give way to gray and black.  It’s night between the islands and among the ice and onboard the Cap’n Lem at Lat 47®53.3’N~Long 089® 14.27’W.

Horseshoe Bay morning

11^th day of April, I’m making preparations to get underway even though the harbor is covered in new ice.  Sure must have been cold last night, but I stay pretty warm and toasty down below with the little fireplace going.  1030: The lines are cast and we’re breaking ice again!  It’s strange how familiar that sound is from my days so long ago aboard the Polar Sea.  It must be the relative size, The Polar Sea, 400’ breaking ice 4 feet thick and the Cap’n Lem breaking ice 1 inch thick. 

The Saturday tourist to Grand Marais seem to enjoy seeing the crazy guy come to a stop mid harbor in the ice…then I raised the sails and off we went again.  Crunch, bang, pop! With a little help from the motor of course.  Clearing the harbor and still in ice I headed North North East toward Isla Royale. 

The farther north I went the less ice.  I found my home for the night in Horseshoe Bay having traveled 24 nautical miles to Latitude 47 degrees  50.9minutes N ~ Longitude 089 degrees  56.1 minutes W.  A quiet little harbor all to myself.   Quiet until midnight. 

12^th of April, I’m awaken by the ice again as it forms then is broken by the swing of the vessel in the light wind.  It’s a sound that demands attention, like the sound of bones breaking.  So up and out I go in my long johns, and then back down again.  “Don’t take me long to look at ice!” I shout to no one.  Not in that cold it didn’t.   Not much I could do about it anyway.   An hour later, up again.  This time the ice is bigger, blown in from outside.  I check the anchor and the position of the vessel.  All is well.  Back to sleep. 

Only up two more times, before daybreak.   I notice an exceptionally beautiful star right above the horizon at the first light of day.  I suspect it’s not a star at all but the planet Mercury.  It’s the third time I’ve seen it so I add it to my list of “friends” that remind me of the wonders of this world we live.

Getting underway I had to motor around the anchor to break the ice.  I couldn’t pull the boat through it to get up the anchor.  I did sail out of the bay by a North wind just strong enough to push me through the new ice and then it was a one tack sail to Isle Royale, (finally I got the name right.  Some geographer I am.)

I sail close aboard to Rock of Ages Lighthouse.  My, what a cold and lonely place.  There are three wrecks gone to the bottom here; The Cumberland, 1877; The Henry Chisholm, 1898; The George M. Cox, 1933.  The chill up my back, this time, is not from the cold.

Rock of Ages Lighthouse

(May I take a moment to explain something?  When I talk about Capt. Lem it is the man.  When I say “the Cap’n Lem” it’s the boat.  I just don’t want to be confusing.)

I miss Ken and Tiny already.  Tiny will be going by to see Captain Bruce.  I told him, “Have fun chasing the goats”.  Tallship sailing makes for some of the best friends in life.  Our friendships are forged in shared hardship, seasickness and lofty dangers such that back on land the mutual respect and kinship endures.  It’s much the same with Coast Guard shipmates and Merchant shipmates.  Going to sea has been so very good to me all these years.

Today was spent, you guessed it, pulling more wires!  Maybe I’m done.  Well, now that I think of it, done just for now.  I still have the satellite internet up link to install.  But today was great because I now have “Betty” hooked up to charge all four of the ships batteries.  Who’s Betty?  Well, that’s the name I’ve given the Areo4gen windmill generator… in honor of my first love, Betty Page.   (Hay, I turned a teenager in the 50’s.  Of course my first love was Betty Page. )

Tomorrow I want to start out for Grand Royal Isl.  From the looks of it on the chart it will be spectacular.  I suspect I’ll still have to deal with ice.  But that’s not a bad thing considering where I plan to go.

Grand Marais Sunrise

On the morning of the 8^th of April, after a fitful night sleeping between the ice growling its way past the hull, I get out to survey the damage.  There is none.  Not a mark at all.  Just a lot of noise, and a kind of music sometime sounding like the beating of a drum made by the small waves slapping the ice against the hull.  In the early predawn darkness, I imaged it to be the spirit of an ancient Hiawatha letting me know I’m being watch as I sail his “Big Sea Water” and that I had best tread lightly and with deep respect as I glide over the watery graves of those who have perished here, for they are many.

And then the sun rises.  Daylight reveals ice all along the shore of Sand Island, though most of the floating ice has moved on its way to where ever ice goes to die in the spring time of the year.  It’s now I can see the wonderful sea caves carved in the cliff by many storms and winds of the past.  This was the perfect anchorage for the first night of my voyage.

I get underway by “sailing out” the anchor which means I don’t start the motor.  I just let the boat sail back and forth on its anchor line each time there is slack I take it up until the anchor comes free, then, its hurry back to the helm before the boat is caught “in irons”, or sails backward out of control.

Deeper into the Apostle Island is only more ice so it’s time again for change.  I set course for Grand Marais, Minnesota on the northwest shore.   Why?  Why not, that’s the way the winds want to blow me and I’ve never been to Grand Marais, Minnesota.  When one has cast fate to the wind, change comes easy and the freedom is delicious to go where one has never been, arrive at the wind’s good pleasure in a snug safe little harbor then sleep the succulent sleep only a sailor can know.

I make it into the harbor and tie up after having sailed 52.8. Nautical miles.  The GPS tells me I have sailed exactly 100 miles since departing.

A beautiful sight to end an amazing first day!

On the 7^th of April, 2009, I have departed Two Harbors, Minnesota, after months of preparations and 25 years of dreaming, en route to Nome Alaska over the top of the world through the Northwest Passage.  Of course Nature will have the last say in that. 

The sky is bright and clear with a 12 – 15 knot wind from the North West.  It couldn’t be better.  This day I’m bound for the Apostle Island group off Wisconsin.  I own the lake!  Not another vessel in sight once I clear the harbor.  To the North East the horizon is so clear and sharp a star sight could be taken were it twilight.  The Gitchee Gumee is big.  The boat is sailing well, fast and very stable.  The auto-pilot is now my best friend!  (Or my worst enemy should I fall overboard.  For that reason, I’m tied to the mast at all times.)

At day’s end, I’ve traveled 47.2 nautical miles including some downwind tacks and one false try to go between Sand Island and the mainland.  Ice!  Well, guess I best get use to it going to where I’m going.

I sailed past the site of the wreck Sevona, an ore carrier sunk in a storm in 1905 on my way to my anchorage for the night.  The sunset over the Lake is so beautiful it rivals those I’ve seen at sea.  I anchor at Latitude 46 degrees 59.07 minutes north, 090 degrees 55.49 minutes west.  Google Earth will show you exactly where I anchored at Sand Island.  You may even find the little cabin about to fall into the lake as the storms wash away the shore. 

During the night:  The ice has found me!  Startled is an understatement when woken from a dead sleep by ice crunched against the hull. What’s going on!  Up and out I go into the cold wind in my shorts, but not much to do.  The wind and ice will have their way.  Two large pancakes have lodged themselves between the main hull and the ammas (the name given to the outer hulls on a trimaran by the Polynesians).  I help them along the way with my trusty crowbar. 

Sailing out of Two Harbors, MN