Conference unifix::sailing

    Having launched three boats, a Seafarer 23, 31, and a Morris 36
    (Presently for sale). (I bought these boats unfinished and finished
    them). I understand the pressure and sense of urgency. My lists never
    were completed either. 
    
    The best part is watching it launched and then diving below to find
    the bildges dry as a bone.
    
    Best of luck.
    
                            Bill Hill 

    What a week! Everything coming in at the same time. My new Autohelm
    arrived as did the Apelco (it would not initialize - does now). The LRX
    is here too. And the mainsail is done.
    
    While I was at the loft, they asked me (they know about the trip) if I
    planned on "shooting" the channel at night. Huh? "You know, Gage Channel
    into Lake Michigan." Well I did not know.
    
    We got out their charts, mine have not arrived yet. Yikes! 100miles
    (wide) of lake is blocked by a million little islands with one deep
    water channel through them. There are all sorts of exotic anchorage's
    to be had. I particurly like the one on to the south that has a
    semicircular bay facing the ESE with 150ft of water in it. 
    
    			The Manitou's?
    The gradient
    is so steep that you literally beach the bow of your sailboat on the
    sand, step off and tie your anchor line to a tree! I draw 6ft too. One
    fellow recommend setting a windscoop from the backstay to keep the
    stern out. He also said that this is magnificent for the prevailing
    westerlies but if a SE builds you need to get out of there in a hurry.
    You cannot anchor effectively in the bay (too deep). And the steep
    gradient does really wild things with waves on the shorline.
    
    Anyway, I will be a plumber next trip. Plumbing, Engine, Navigational
    stuff.  Worry about the rest after that. So far:
    
    Mainsail refit:	$304.00
    Autohelm AH800/2	$249.00
    Yanmar rework	$ 58.00
    Apelco		free
    KVH LRX		free
    Fuel System refit	$ 83.00
    Charger		nothing (not repairable - replace later)
    Running rigging	$ 55.00 (tails for running backstays)
    			-------
    			$749.00 ytd
      

    Hooked up the charger again.....nothing. Not low voltage. No voltage.
    Ok, I only needed half an excuse anyway. First things first, I cannot
    work on this sorry ship without recharging the batteries. So off to the
    local marine store. Bought a Guest 2815, spent 1.5hrs hooking it up and
    flipped on the breaker.  Nothing! oh oh.....
    
    A bad crimp in the ground fuse.  Fixed that and ....yahoo, 14.0v
    pumping into my batteries.  A long term problem cured.  ($195.00)
    
    About three hours later, while installing (another story) the
    autopilot, in comes a squall.  Batten down the car windows! the
    forehatch, put away the tools, cover up my deck gelcoat work with
    buckets, duck below. just in time as the firs big rain drops are
    smacking down. A wall of wind lashes, 49.4knots, holy cow a microbust!
    It fades to gusts of 20-25kn. The boat is vibrating on the cradle. 
    
    A vivid actinic glare followed by a crash of sound three seconds later.
    Maybe I should power down the electrics. I do this and try to think if
    I've forgotten anything in the lashing wind and rain of the squall. I'm
    standing in the companionway enjoying the weather tantrum when a second
    bolt strikes only three hundred meters away. 
    
    Something snaps below, I heard it but in ducking down cannot spot what
    that was. A pungent smell fills the cabin, oh-oh, (again).
    
    I check the breakers, the main AC is off, I had forgotten to turn it
    off so that must be the snap I heard. I turn it on, it snaps off again
    after a second. More smell and smoke from abaft the engine room where
    the newly mounted charger resides. Yes, it was cooked. Evidently,
    nature augmented what Detroit Edison was providing for a few seconds.
    The breaker was not quick enough to save the charger.  
    
    Not a good day so far........
     

    re .3
    
    Well....there is still the old charger.  Coulda been just a bad crimp
    in the ground wire in that one too.
    
    If all the prep were done on time and under budget, there would be
    nothing left for the rest of the season but sitting there and
    aimlessly wandering about a large body of water at a pathetically slow
    rate of speed.
    
    Face the truth, it ain't the destination.  It's not even the journey. 
    It's the prep work.  For the anal rententive, obsessive compulsive
    amongst us, everthing else is anti-climax.   I'm already craving the
    irresistable smell of iso-cyanate paint.  The anticipation of getting
    fiberglass shards all over my body is giving me goose bumps as I
    type.  But....even *I* draw the line at HIGH VOLTAGE.  You have to have
    some standards.
    
    - gene

    And the good news.....When I told Guest about the story, including the
    lightning bolt, they sent me a new one.  They said a spike on the line
    should not have fried the unit, popped the internal fuse maybe, but not
    a dead short. Direct strike, sure, but not a 1000' far away one.
    
    Also the diesel lit right off and purred against the governor, after
    warm up, at 3800rpm like a turbine. The new injector and filters fit
    the bill.  The battery combiner works coupling the batteries as charge
    voltage goes over 13.1v. The Autohelm worked exactly right, the Apelco
    loran tuned in finally (but never, oh never with the AC charger
    running) and the LRX reads range data!
    
    The Sailcomp new display works as expected, the Huron and Michigan 1995
    chartkits arrived ($120 gone there). All the electronics plugs are
    replaced, the seacocks lubed, and the pressure water tank installed. 
    
    The reworked mainsail is spot on, The new long battens (longer, not
    full length) look great. 
    
    After a run like that, I said, "Sure, rub out the hull. And why not fix
    that 1988 ding in the starboard gunwale where yours truly failed his
    first test of opposing wind and following current while docking."
    
    Geez, what's left??? New reefing lines and an eyespice in the foreguy?
    Oh yeah and rerigging the cunningham. Long list huh!
    
    And of course......the bottom paint!
    
    and pathetically slow speeds??? Not on this flyer.  I am so looking
    forward to 700miles of westerlies when my principal distances will be
    300miles north and 400miles south.  The rest? Yep, you guessed it,
    check out my personal name....beating from Detroit to Chicago sorta
    like.
    

    Countdown:
    
    		Five (weeks)
    
    		Four
    
    		Three:
    
    	Sitting on the cradle, new coat of VC17 looking like a brightly 
    burnished copper penny. New reefing lines installed, Eyesplice done on
    the foreguy, Mainsail installed, furled and covered (on the cradle no
    less). 
    
    My van is full of sails, The list is done. Now I'm just trying to
    internalize hundreds of twisty little channels in Georgian Bay.
    
    

    What was the status of the boat before you began your "rebuild"?. 
    Also, what size is the boat?  If there is a note already discussing
    this, please just indicate the number.
    
    Scott

    This sailboat is a Tartan built Soverel33. It was the last one ever
    built (hull#90). It was built to order by me in January 1988.
    Soverel33's are ultralights; in 1988 they were, by today's standards
    they would be considered light displacement. Tartan changed the rules
    somewhat by adding cruising amenities, four more ring frames, a
    reinforced deck, and about 1000lb.  Assassin weighs in at a "heavy"
    6800lbs in racing trim; about 7500lbs ready for cruising. The sail area
    to displacement is 26.2 (turbocharged).   
    
    A Soverel33 has an 11ft beam, draws 6ft, and has a waterline length of
    31.5ft. It also has a radical reverse transom that is open. Looks not
    unlike "Thursday's Child" from the rear. And not unlike a 1 ton from
    the side.  Mark Soverel designed the hull as a wildcat. NO rules
    applied. She is 15/16's fractional rigged with runners and checkstays.
    Deck layout is full race with eight winches, six self tailing and
    eleven spinlock GP clutches; two on the main halyard. Windward sheeting
    traveller, dual 587 harken cars on each of the 12ft genoa tracks, 
    spreachers, and an adjustable backstay round out the controls.
    
    The added weight only hurts in one design racing and only in the
    lightest air. It impacts my acceleration after a tack or a mark
    rounding. As payback, Tartan stiffened the hull, so I point about three
    degrees higher. 
    
    The boat sat from 1990 to 1994 unused on the cradle, while I worked
    through some personal difficulties. I sold a lot of the electronics and
    racing equipment, but not any rigging or sails. The sitting is what
    "damaged" a lot of things, especially the fuel systems and electrical 
    wiring.
    
    
     

    Five days to go....
    
    Assassin was launch at 8:45am Friday morning. Within three hours we
    left on a three day and two night shakedown minicruise around the west
    end of Lake Erie. Air temps in the city averaged 90+, but the lake was
    still 62 deg and there fore the SE winds were at least 15deg cooler.
    Apparent wind built from 10kn to 19kn during the day. My saling partner
    struggled with the adaption from wheel to tiller for a while, but
    eventually she could hold any course and carry on a meaningful dialog. 
    
    We caught a white bass, a yellow perch and a walleye to augment our
    chicken barbeque while anchored overnight in Moulee Bay. Winds clocked
    to the south during the night and lightened. The Windscoop kept the
    boat wonderfully ventilated. When the heat of the day left, so did the
    biting Erie flies that we had prepared for. Avon Skin-so-soft is the
    perfect deterent for those pest. Swimming in the bay was brisk work but
    refreshing. 
    
    All systems and equipment worked flawlessly except the Loran which kept
    crashing and recovering. You cannot enter "goto" data while the error
    light is flashing. (I keep thinking Garmin, Garmin,) 
    
    What's left?  Reprovision, ice, fuel and depart....
    
    Noontime, Friday the 23rd.
    

    	Day One: 23 June, 1995, 13:20hrs
    
    The chores this morning were minimal. I have described the preparations 
    previously. Today was reserved for gathering our fresh vegetables, six 
    blocks of ice and some whole chickens (dead ones, naturally). I still 
    wanted one more diesel can of about three gallons that would precisely 
    fit in a space reserved under the port side pilot berth. Olivia 
    Diamond, my sailing companion, chief editor, and significant other, 
    humors me and we go looking. As before, it could not be found. So I 
    settled for a 3gal gasoline can, plastic, with a hearty spout. All of 
    this done by noon, we loaded up the last of the provisions, and cast 
    off.
    As we were about an hour and a half late, I decided to forego the 
    pleasure of sailing out to the end of the livingstone channel. I took 
    the gap between Grosse Isle and Celeron Island, then turned northwest 
    up the passage between Hickory Island to cut through the "hole in the 
    wall" on the Livingston channel. We entered the upbound shipping 
    channel, effectively cutting off 90 minutes and regaining all of the 
    lost time.
    It is a beautiful day. Mostly. There is a thunderstorm currently raging 
    about three miles ahead. But it is traveling westward and is gone 
    before we enter its area of influence. Winds out of the northeast at 
    5kn, 85 degrees. To light to sail in this current, so we motor. At 
    3000rpm, its 6.4kn boat speed but the Garmin says 3kn over the ground. 
    I learn that there still is an air bubble in the fuel line. It 
    manifests itself every time the boat heels more than 15 degrees to 
    starboard, such as when a powercruiser passes. Then it sounds like an 
    old 57 Chevy with the choke stuck. After the fourth or fifth time, I 
    leave the cover off and a wrench handy to do an instant bleed when the 
    opportunity arises. The bubble turns out to be much larger than I 
    believed. This bleeding process takes two days! After a couple of 
    hours, I turn on the Autohelm and relax. This unit is the new model 800 
    II. It is supposed to have some smarts about "learning" your helm 
    requirements. It works well enough but I learned last weekend that the 
    power harness plug is very flakey. With the slightest nudge the power 
    to the unit is interrupted and the thing goes into standby. This is a 
    devious trait because you cannot tell at first that the helm is now 
    just lashed instead of being intelligently (?) directed.
    Just before Detroit the river turns east I think about setting the 
    main. Shortly after, but before I can get my mind made up the wind 
    begins to clock to the east, so we motor some more. We enter Lake St. 
    Claire at 7pm and alter course to the north.
    Steering about 025 lets us hoist the main. A racer, with their full 
    crew, a Santana 30 called Warlock, motors along side and sets their 
    main. I killed the diesel and got the #3 on deck. Now winds are only 
    about ten knots so this is seriously undersailed. But there are only 
    two of us so less is more. Warlock gets her genoa up first and passes 
    us. Or they try to. We get our 100%, battened kevlar blade up in time 
    to keep our nose in free air and it's a drag race. In ten knots, flat 
    water, at a very tight reach, a Soverel 33 will not be denied. I got 
    our nose out in front, flattened the main, and started pointing. We 
    gassed them soon enough and Warlock tacks away. 
    Oh yeah, we are supposed to be looking for that waypoint. OK back to 
    business. In the dark the Garmin 45 guides is into the tuning point 
    from the channel to the Clinton River. Again it homes us right into the 
    entrance to the river. All from the cockpit. This thing is super. I use 
    it momentarily to get a position, a bearing and then turn it off again. 
    It finds the satellites so quickly, it is not necessary to leave it on 
    all the time.
    Since I did not feel comfortable with doing the St.Claire River at 
    night, we didn't. We used the dealership where I bought this boat as a 
    layover. We arrive at 24:10hrs. Only 43 miles today and most of that 
    motoring. The good news? 1.5 gal of diesel consumed. I am impressed. In 
    previous years, I would push at rated RPM (3400), gain one half knot 
    and burn twice as much fuel. Tomorrow is new horizons.
    

    	Day Two: 24 June, 0930hrs
    
    "Why won't this E-string tune?" she says. "I keep tightening it but it 
    stays at the same pitch." 
    "Maybe it has lost its elasticity." I replied. Olivia tells me that it 
    is a steel string. I recommend checking the anchor points. Rigging 
    works that way. Too late, she has removed the string and it breaks from 
    a kink on the post.  This little escapade took about 45min in the 
    morning, but who cares. We have no timetable now.  I want to get under 
    the Blue Water bridge by dark and that is surely possible.
    We get underway, stop for some granola bars and to replace the fuel we 
    burned. I carry only fourteen gallons all told and as little as 1.5gal 
    is, it's still ten percent of the total. The wind is south this morning 
    and somewhat stronger at 9kn true. Again we motor at 165 degrees to get 
    into the St.Claire channel. Turn east and hoist the main. It really 
    helps as the speed comes up to 7.3kn with the diesel still at 3000 rpm.  
    The St.Claire River is a twisty course that starts east and turns 
    north. With the current, which is stronger than the Detroit River, it 
    was clear that motor-sailing was the only way.
    The south wind backs to the east shortly before the river turns north. 
    No matter, it is so light now that it makes no difference. I leave the 
    main up and press on.  After we turn north, this light breeze helps 
    some. Thunderstorms threaten all day but all are no shows. We get about 
    to hours of rain starting around noon. After the rain, the wind backs 
    still further and its time to take down the main. We had been closing 
    on a double ender for the last two hours. Now with sail down we catch 
    him more quickly. Our difference was still less than half a knot so we 
    were able to hold a conversation for a while.
    Carasco is on her final leg of a circumnavigation. Her master, whose 
    name I could not catch, had just come from Uruguay. He was heading home 
    to Port Huron, only a few miles up this river. This ship had done 
    20,000 miles in fourteen months. He had bought the boat in Europe and 
    had headed east.  A serious bit of sailing. 
    An hour later fabulous smells issue from below. For a bachelor it is a 
    rare treat to have someone cooking while underway. Olivia is an 
    accomplished "one pan" chef, a skill perfectly suited to the sailing 
    environment. "What are your brewing down there." I holler over the 
    throb of the diesel. She replies that the fare of the evening shall be 
    Venison stew with zucchini and onions. You cannot believe how wonderful 
    this tasted. It was served cockpit mode; which is to say, in the pot 
    with utensils arranged around and both of us dig in. There was way more 
    than we could eat so the pot went back on the stove. Midnight snacks, 
    don't you know.
    We grind up the river to arrive at the Blue Water Bridge at dusk. The 
    current is very, very strong surpassing eight knots on the west bank 
    where the river is over sixty feet deep. On the east side it is slowed 
    in the rocky shoreline to about 5.5knots. A sailboat must pick its way 
    using depthfinder to stay between the 15 to 20ft line or be swept away. 
    This is not autopilot work. The swirls and eddies are very violent. 
    Directly under the bridge I am less than twenty feet from the abutment 
    but still in 41ft of water. I am doing 3600rpm and scarcely moving. I 
    do not dare to close on the bridge, the boat is jinking from side to 
    side. On a wheel boat this might be even harder. In conditions like 
    this Assassin is underpowered. Thrust to weight is OK but thrust to 
    hull drag is another matter. Eventually we get past the bridge and into 
    shallower water. My GPS now shifts from 0kn to 1.1knot at 3600rpm. My 
    diesel is rated for one hour at this speed so I keep the coal on for 
    about twenty minutes more before backing to 3000rpm as we drive into 
    Lake Huron.
    A knowledgeable sailor told me to advance well into the lake before 
    trying to sail in light conditions. Otherwise, you might well be sucked 
    back into the funnel. It is a funnel. The lake's average depth for many 
    miles is only 20ft. Yet the approaches to the bridge rapidly deepen to 
    three times that. How far is "far"? I did not know the answer to this 
    question but the true wind speed is only 2.4kn so I motor on. At 
    fifteen miles, my concern for remaining diesel fuel outweighs my worry 
    about the current. Up with the main, the light number one, and off with 
    the clatter.
    The wind is light and frivolous. The Autohelm cannot be expected to 
    follow nearly fifty degrees of shifts and neither can I after eighteen 
    hours. The sea is a glassy sheet. There are stars everywhere. We are 
    now in 60 feet of water. Anchor or drift. Dropped all the sails, lashed 
    the helm over, and drift. Dawn is less than three hours away and I 
    believe the sun will drive the wind. Olivia is long gone, I zonk as 
    well. We are fifteen miles from the eastern edge of the freighter 
    channel. I set the NKE to alarm at winds stronger than 5kn and hit the 
    sack. 
    
                                                

    	Day Three: 25 June, 0550 hours
    
    "Ahoy Assassin!" The words penetrated my unconsciousness without being 
    very clear. "What!" is my waking thought. The call is repeated bringing 
    my befuddled brain and body up the companionway. It is another sailboat 
    about 35 ft long heading east towards Canada. They had spotted our 
    slowly turning circles in the early morning light and had come to 
    investigate. The breeze had picked up to four knots, enought to turn us 
    but not enought to alarm the sailing computer. 
    It is 7:10am. We are inundated with 2 million flies. Fortunately they 
    are not the biting kind. They seem to be dying off but as soon as I 
    wash them away more land. The wind is from the NNW so I set the light 
    number one and we head off toward the Canadian shoreline steering 86deg 
    at about four knots of boat speed.
    As the sun climbs into the morning sky, its power drives the breeze. 
    Soon we are traveling at 6knots. Wind shifts slightly east so we tack 
    back toward the US shore now thirty miles distant. Even though the 
    starboard tack is lifted again we cannot clear the Saginaw Penninsula. 
    We tack back to port and out into the lake at 11:50am
    Good news arrives in the afternoon with a building breeze for more 
    speed and veering to the east which is a header on port but should lift 
    us over the penninsula. There is something annoying about all this 
    easterly work when the ultimate destination is Lake Michigan. By 2pm 
    the starboard tack has been lifted to 330deg and we are on our way.  
    With 10knots of wind and flat water Assassin hustles up the lake at 7kn 
    or more. The flies cannot land anymore but the ones with us seem in no 
    hurry to leave.
    At 2:45pm a small bird heads past going south. Just as I think how 
    surprised I am at this land bird over thiry miles out from shore, it 
    does a turn onto its base leg and then on to final. This redwing 
    blackbird does the neatest day trap on my afterdeck with a perfect 
    glide in and hover landing. Without delay my visitor puts in a 
    refueling request and, once approved, goes to work on the flies. In 
    forty-five minutes the voracious little bird works his way up the port 
    rail. all over the foredeck, down the starboard rail, including within 
    three feet of where I sit, and then goes to work on the cockpit. The 
    bird cleaned the boat! Satified, he lifts off and heads south once 
    more.
    At 3:50pm the winds build to 13kn true. The light number one is
    begining to show some stress and the helm is heavier with the 23deg of 
    heel. We are still making 7.75kn but it is time to change to the #3 again.
    When done, I decided to leave the #1 on deck as I expected the winds to 
    lighten as the sun goes down.  I tied it securely with a couple of sail 
    ties as well as using the foredeck retainers. Heel is better at 14deg 
    and speed did not suffer much at 7.4kn.
    The breeze did indeed lighten at 6:15pm. We changed back to the #1, 
    planning on using that all evening. We are now lifted to 355deg; all 
    most enough to clear Thunder Bay. Our destination is DeTour passage 
    into the North Channel. There I hope to find a "perfect" spot to park 
    and relax for several days. 
    At sunset, the wind nearly died. It looked like another all night 
    drifter. As boat speed fell away, we were headed again. It seemed that 
    another night of light air tacking back and forth was in store. This 
    expectation could not have been further from the truth.
    
     
    
         

    	Day Four (the test): 26 June, 2340 hours
    The breeze really freshens and lifts us to 015 deg. A few minutes 
    before the end of her watch Olivia calls me to help get down the #1 as 
    apparent wind is approaching 20kn. We get this done and it is Olivia's 
    turn to head below for some shuteye. I'm on til 4am. I lash the #1 on 
    the foredeck as before. The wind builds even further. We are now close 
    reaching along at 7.85kn and will easily clear Thunder Bay if this 
    course holds.
    Far ahead, I see flickers of lightning over the lake. No thunder is 
    audible. The wind still builds to 25knots apparent. I flatten the main 
    but the Racing #3, with its battens, is a perfectly behaved even eased 
    off as it is.  Over the next two hours we tear along at close to eight 
    knots, the lightning display coming ever closer. Soon thunder is 
    audible and within a few minutes the storm is upon us. We had put one 
    invioable rule in place. At night, or alone, the one on watch wears 
    harness and tether with inflateable PFD. Just how important this is was 
    about to be demonstrated. I decide that its time to reef the main, past 
    time in fact. I've had to ease it to keep the boat on its feet and it 
    is banging around a bit. I input a 10 degree course correction to 
    weather into the autohelm to get the main a little closer to 
    centerline. The bow takes a big wave and suddenly falls off to leeward. 
    The autohelm cannot correct. We have tremendous lee helm all of a 
    sudden. What the heck? Using the maglight stuck in one of the winch 
    holders I check sailtrim. A flash of white in the water catches my eye. 
    It is the light #1. The sail has escaped and is in the drink, at 
    8.5knots and 27knots apparent. I jump out of the cockpit, checking my 
    tether and race forward. Although it has been lashed in five places the 
    majority of the sail is in the water and filling. I grab a bunch of 
    cloth and heave. Slowly it comes. As I get more on board it gets harder 
    and harder until I cannot budge it. With the flashlight, I can see that 
    I'm trying to lift many cubic feet of water. The Tack! It's still 
    engaged at the stem. I scuttle forward to remove the retainer but I 
    cannot force the tack ring off the horn. The load is too much. While 
    I'm at the stem a green wave comes over and sends me flying backward. I 
    grab for the lifeline and miss. The tether comes up short on the 
    starboard jackline dropping me to the deck on my butt with a thud. 
    Somehow I still have the flashlight. I turn to the bow again and get 
    another wave in the face. This brings new meaning to drinking from a 
    fire hydrant. The water filled sail and my weight are really loading 
    the bow. 
    I grasp both fists around the sailcloth just behind the tack, like I'm 
    going to throttle a goose and heave. I get some slack and the ring 
    falls of the horn. The tack is free. The foredeck is steeply pitched to 
    leeward. With one hand on the jackline I drop down until I can brace my 
    left foot on the first stanchion and my right foot on the very minimal 
    garboard. In order to free the #1, I have to untie the #3 sailbag 
    first. It has two ties. Finding the right end of each slipknot to yank 
    is difficult with all the water. The rail is awash with me on the low 
    side. I find the first and get it free an the then the second. Hoping 
    that the forehatch is not locked, I work my way up to it and undog it. 
    In goes the sail bag, followed by half a wave. Down by the sail I 
    release the restrainers and get the after sail tie off. The front one 
    is a real bugger but I have nothing to cut it with so I keep trying.
    During this entire effort, my mind is conscious of the actinic flash 
    and immediate crack of thunder of countless bolts. We are in the middle 
    of the storm. But the sail overboard keeps me from thinking about it. 
    Each heave gets more of it aboard. It is getting easier as well. I open 
    the hatch again and dump in what I can. Finally it is all aboard and 
    below. After this is done I scoot back to the cockpit on my butt, my 
    legs are too shakey to trust, I realize that the majority of the bolts 
    are well to leeward. We are through it.  I go below to plot a fix and 
    check the time. We have been tracking at 308 deg for some time. It is 
    3:05am and Olivia is up and ready to come up. "Problems?", She asks. "A 
    mildly exciting time on the foredeck.", I reply. She looks at the 
    massive ball of wet sailcloth up in the bow and says, "Time for a new 
    rule, wouldn't you say."  I knew what she meant.
    Since there was another T-storm headed down upon us, we decided to 
    shorten the shifts to two hours for the duration. We went through two 
    more storms that night, but did gain enough to weather to clear Thunder 
    Bay. We now had a clean shot at DeTour Passage. The loran said 64miles 
    to go. I went to bed at 7am. I woke up at just after 8am with the 
    sensation that my car had just taken a tremendous skid only to recover 
    at the last second. I lay awake wondering about the sensation when it 
    happened again. The noise of the wake was impressive. Rolling over in 
    my bunk, I punched up boatspeed on the master multfunction of the NKE. 
    It reads 9.56kn then jumps to 9.87kn. Holy Cow! Windspeed is still 
    22true and the same apparent since we are now steering 330deg. Whats 
    going on? We have a lot of heel on as well. I get out of bed just as 
    Olivia comes down. She complains, "We are not balanced, but I don't 
    know how to solve it."
    On deck, the answer is that the wind has veered even more, putting us 
    in a beam reach. I ease the main. This is part of the equation, The 
    seas have finally built to 1.5 meters. I was surprised how flat the 
    water was in last night's storms. I guess a lake that is 450ft deep is 
    harder to disturb than the 35ft of Lake Erie. Eight hours of wind have 
    finally managed to work it up. I notice that the autohelm is managing 
    to cope with the waves. For while apparent wind is 90 degrees, true 
    wind is much deeper; 136 degrees relative says the computer. So the 
    seas are quartering, yet the autohelm meets each with a ten degree 
    stroke of the rudder when the sterns begins to slide. The bow is 
    immediately forced back dowwind and we shoot down the wave. It happens 
    again and again. I'm impressed. Sure, a live helmsman could anticipate 
    and steer a straighter course, but for thirty hours straight? It also 
    occurs to me that this might not work out on another boat. I have a 
    very large elliptical rudder that is highly efficient. Just a few 
    degrees have a lot of effect. This means the reaction time of the 
    AH800II is sufficient to meet the conditions. A smaller, skeg mounted 
    blade might not be as good a match.   
    I hit the hay again. At 9am we switch once more. We are still clocking 
    high 9's for speed. The wind has not moderated at all, nore does it for 
    the next three days. By noon it is blowing 25 true once more. I 
    actually see 10.05kn for an instant. It is a great ride that is boiling 
    away the miles. Thirty one miles to go at Noon and only twenty two at 
    1PM. At 3:10pm, I can make out the DeTour light. At 3:40 we are in the 
    channel and the trusty #3 is dropped.  6.2knots under main alone seems 
    like a crawl now. A mile from the harbor, we start the diesel, get rid 
    of the main, stow the jib below, and motor for the marina. By 4:30pm we 
    have fueled, pumped out, and begin the lengthy job of drying the boat. 
    I did managed to stow several cubic feet of water with the genoa off 
    Thunder Bay. The diesel required 4.5 gal, all in the spare cans, to my 
    immense relief. That ammount of fuel drove us up the St.Claire river, 
    fifteen miles out into the lake, and powered a 4hr battery charge 
    session just before the T-storms hit.
    We decided a lay day was in order to fully restore cleanliness and 
    comfort. The extra time would allow us to select the perfect spot for 
    gunkholing. Our plan was to park the boat in isolation for five or six 
    days while we made serious progress on our books. Most of these 
    narrations were the first tasks to be completed.
      
    
                        

    	Day Six: 28 June, 1300 hours
    It is a ridiculous proposition, I know that but can not exorcise it 
    anyway. The nagging thought concerns the conditions at Pilot Cove. This 
    anchorage sounds like exactly what I had in mind, as if it had leapt out 
    of some vague subconscious concept into full blown reality. I had 
    casually asked Barbara, the proprietor at the fueling station at 
    DeTour, yesterday about a quiet little anchorage such as Harbor Island. 
    She had said that this was always populated with a cruiser or two and 
    several fishermen. She had recommended Pilot Cove but had no chart that 
    showed what it was like. She said to talk to "Ed" at the Sports Center 
    in town. Barbara also said that she knew of a 45footer that had visited 
    there some time ago.
    Before I met Ed, I checked everywhere for data on Pilot Cove. I could 
    find nothing. Not even a map reference, even though Barbara had shown 
    me exactly where it was on the northeast end of Drummond Island. This 
    was a mixed blessing. For while I had no data, it was unlikely that 
    anyone else even knew of this place. It was a local knowledge only type 
    of thing. Ed seemed reluctant but did show me a guide that he thought 
    might mention it. Mention was the correct word. A single paragraph that 
    talked about a forbidding entrance but 8ft to 17ft of water inside. 
    Totally protected. OK, I'm game. I dug out the most accurate lat/longs 
    from my charts and put them into the Garmin. We left at 9am, but 
    decided to troll for salmon for a few hours. We motored along at 
    2.5knots making our way through the Potagannissing Bay. This place 
    reminds me very much of Winnipasauki except there are no mountains and 
    a lot more water. As another sailboat crossed our path ahead, the idea 
    was born. What if they were going to Pilot Cove? What if there was only 
    room for one more boat?
    Olivia finally said, "No fish are biting. Let's go." We hoisted the 
    main, then the #3. Close reaching, we overhauled the other cruiser in 
    ten short minutes just beyond Koshkawong point. We drove up under Beef 
    Island and tacked over onto port. Driving down behind Salt Island 
    toward the Seines gave us clearance to break out of the bay north of 
    North Seine Island. Good-bye flat water, hello two meter swells. For 
    three days the wind had worked the North Channel up. Starboard tack was 
    a pounder. The wind was still moderate and my #3 did not have the drive 
    to punch through the waves. We tacked to port again to drop down to 
    calmer water near Drummond Island. The breeze did not cooperate. It 
    veered to the southeast, heading us and we tacked again, now steering 
    98deg. A gift, the wind built to 20knots and the #3 came alive. Driving 
    force established, we powered upwind. It was a glorious beat. Spray 
    thrown high and wide, Assassin dug her bow in to blast through the 
    waves. The wind continued to freshen. Soon we had 27knots. Ok, reef the 
    main. Done in a jiffy, we did not lose any speed and even gained a 
    degree or two upwind. In ninety minutes we cleared the eastern end of 
    Drummond Island and tacked over towards the south.  The Garmin says 
    8.64nm at 162deg. The shift favors us. We are able to track 165degrees. 
    At 7.6knots, the numbers quickly tumble down to less than a mile. We 
    get the sails off and start the diesel. I follow the Garmin in toward 
    shore. We sweep along the shoreline. There is no entrance to any cove 
    visible. There is a huge white rock that looks not unlike a baked 
    potato on the beach. I reverse course to the North to take another 
    look. Nothing.  Olivia suggests that it is around the point, that maybe 
    we haven't gone far enough. The Garmin says we have, but there is no 
    opening. 
    We motor around the point into a driving rainstorm. We cannot see a 
    thing past 100 meters. We motor southwards for about two miles as the 
    coast becomes more rugged. The rain sweeps past us and I turn north 
    once more. It has to be back there. We must have missed it. Remember 
    the entrance is "forbidding". As we come upon the point, two loons call 
    out before diving under the water. As I look over to them, a flash of 
    light catches my eye. It is gone in a second but I do not doubt that it 
    is light reflected from water behind the trees. 
    Hiking up my resolve I cut close inshore into only 20ft of water. 
    Magically an opening in the peastone banks appears. An opening that we 
    missed twice before. It is 30ft across at the most. It is angled 45
    degrees to the right so that the banks overlap. You cannot see this
    from 150yds away. 
    I can see boulders at the bottom. Dead slow ahead, right down the center. 
    Thump! Dead stop. Well, the left side looks deeper. Back up a bit, try to 
    the left. 14ft over here. We are in. It is a deep water lagoon that is 
    100meters across and 150 long. The only opening was the one we came in by. 
    The west bank is so steep I can beach the bow of Assassin while the keel 
    floats. This bank is a mere spit of land that separates the lagoon from 
    the bay. It is no more than thirty feet wide but is high enough to hide 
    the hull completely when viewed from the far side. We are home. We tie 
    a line to a tree to port and starboard and one to the bow. Assassin 
    becomes part of the fixtures. The loons chase off across the waters of 
    the outer bay, laughing all the way.  
                                   

    	Day Eleven: 03 July, 0615 hours
    We have been tucked away in this secluded cove for six days. We have 
    explored the island and the shoreline, found bedded deer that we did 
    not disturb, listened to the loons each night, and watched the wind 
    shift from southeast, to east to north to west. Today it is northwest 
    and pumping up even at this early hour. With about 360 miles behind us 
    and many more to go, it is time to leave. We have 100 miles of westerly 
    work before we can enter Lake Michigan and turn south. 
    
    We have lived 
    entirely on the ship's systems but now the holding tank is full, the 
    ice is almost gone and we are running out of fresh food. We have been 
    isolated until last night. Three other cruisers joined us at dusk. The 
    sailboat, a Nonsuch, grounded heavily after entering the cove. He had 
    swung too late and came into too fast. Her master rowed over later to 
    ask if we had a heavy metal bar. It seems that he has bent his rudder 
    shaft and the rudder will no longer clear the hull. It's jammed to 
    port. He is out of Cheboygan and this is the first day of two weeks in 
    a passage bound for the North Channel and Georgian Bay. 
    
    I have no heavy metal. Just classical and an oar. I found the oar 
    floating so I give it to him as a gift. He intends to try to pry the 
    rudder back. I point to a length of  2x4 drift wood in front of my bow. 
    It is very sturdy. He takes that too. The 2x4 fit so he did not have to 
    use the oar. He got enough clearance so that the rudder can be moved to 
    starboard but with significant force on the wheel. He is trying to make 
    up his mind about abandoning his vacation and heading home.  I wish him 
    well and feel for him. I WILL be doubly cautious myself.
    
    We single up to the weather line attached to the anchor on shore. I 
    back off the beach and drag the anchor into the water. Then I motor 
    forward where Olivia can lift it from the peastones and drop it below. 
    I turn a slow lazy circle toward the entrance at 0.5kn. The northwest 
    wind has the bay really worked up so its breakers on the nose to leave 
    the cove. We inch out until we cross the four fathom line, then I pour 
    on the power until we are a half mile off shore. We get the main up and 
    as I set the autopilot and head for the jib I hear a scream from aft. 
    Olivia has lost her magical Digital cap overboard. I have a pact with 
    the sea. Once fed a cap, I don't ask for it back. Olivia is having none 
    of it. We go back or I pay the price. I grumble about runners and 
    gybing and such but kick off the autopilot and "gybe ho!" Olivia gets a 
    fishnet from below and runs up in the bow. She misses the first pass 
    and throws a little temper tantrum up there. It was actually kind of 
    funny to see but I was careful not to smile as I hardened up on 
    starboard then tacked over on port and reached across to make a second 
    pass. Just as she scoops it out of the water, the starboard runner, 
    swinging in the wind, sweeps my cap from my head. It goes in the drink. 
    What the heck, in for a penny, in for a pound. Gybe Ho! Back we go 
    again. I can only imagine what the skipper on shore must be thinking 
    about our mainsail setting dance. He was watching us leave.
    Caps in place we foot out NNE to clear the point then bear off to the 
    east. We get the jib up and the speed jumps up to almost 9 knots. We 
    gybe again in a couple of  miles to  a southerly course  to transit the 
    false Detour passage. The wind backs to the west a little and builds as 
    the sun rises into the morning sky. By 8am it is pumping 25knots and we 
    are off on  the proverbial screaming reach, surfing off the waves into 
    double digits. The highest I saw was 11.42knots. Man o man, would I 
    love to have the kite up on this.   
    Eventually and not all that much later (15 miles goes quick at 10+ 
    knots), we enter Lake Huron and pay the piper. Starboard tack is still 
    favored but only by about 20degrees. It is going to be a long day. I 
    throw a reef in the main and we start to weather. As Huron funnels down 
    toward the straits, we begin to time our tacks to avoid the reefs. This 
    part of the lake is full of reefs. We avoid Spectacle reef then 
    Raynolds. Next we tack away from Lighthouse point on Bois Blanc Island 
    only to be forced back on starboard by Goose Island shoals. Finally we 
    can line up on the channel between Mackinac Island and Round Island. We 
    are given no gifts today. It is directly upwind and the channel is only 
    1500 feet wide. Stubbornness sets in. Sailboats are for sailing. We'll 
    beat through it. Olivia and I work up our timing. She'll handle the jib, 
    I'll do main and runners. We'll use the Autohelm's autotacking feature 
    for the rudder. We are cooking. Eight tacks into the channel and 
    halfway through it, we clear the breakwater as we tack back onto 
    starboard. I reach for the mainsheet after getting the runner back in. 
    It's gone. I mean literally. I'm looking at an empty traveller car. 
    Yikes!,  the clevis has blown and the boom is swinging out over the 
    water to port. I catch the end of the sheet and trim forever as the 
    tackle feeds line. No good. I cannot hold the main in this wind. We 
    cannot tack without it. Bail out. Gybe and downwind we go. Olivia gets 
    another clevis as I gybe again. Finally, I get us going dead down and 
    we get the new clevis installed and the mainsheet rerigged.  Gybe 
    again. The first two tacks are awful. We are just a little off the 
    pace, but begin to get back into it again. Just as we clear the 
    breakwater, the Autohelm locks in mid tack, then completes the tack. 
    Needless to say our timing is shaken by this. It does it again on the 
    very next tack then it freezes up altogether. 
    
    That's about enough. I disengaged it, gave up on the runners, to focus 
    on main and tiller. The wind is lightening rapidly in any regard. 
    Finally we are through the channel and into deep water again. We duck 
    Major's shoals and head for Mackinaw City Marina. We have done 115 
    miles today. Most of it upwind. A little bit of trouble shooting before 
    bed tells me that the Autohelm is cooked. It has lost a phase. Too many 
    consecutive tacks and gybes I guess. Assassin will self steer but only 
    on a beat. Do I really want to wish for upwind work the rest of the way 
    home? Lake Michigan has 280 miles of water between where we are and 
    where we are going.  
    
    

    	Day Thirteen: 05 July, 0815 hours
    
    After laying over an extra day to see the sights in Mackinac City, we 
    get up early in the morning, add an extra block or two of ice into the 
    cooler and depart. We have a southwest breeze of about 7knots true. It 
    is a bright and sunny but humid and hazy day. We are able to set the 
    light #1 genoa and in this fickle wind then meander our way under the 
    Mackinac Bridge and into Lake Michigan.  It is fourteen miles to the 
    northern entrance to Grays Reef channel, but it takes us over three 
    hours to get there. The channel is only five miles long and 2000 ft 
    wide at the narrowest point. It is dead up wind. There is not much wind 
    now maybe four and half knots true in the puff's. I start the diesel 
    and make short work of the channel. Then we foot off to the south 
    southwest between Beaver Island and the lower penninsula of Michigan. 
    We are somewhat closer to Beaver Island. But I believe both shorelines 
    are at least ten miles away. I didn't bother to measure it on the chart 
    from each fix. I am taking them (fixes) every hour. It is remarkable 
    how little you travel when your boat speed is hardly ever reaching 
    5knots.
    
    We are inundated with flies. The biting kind. They seem to live on the 
    surface of the water. When a boat comes by, they jump on and try to 
    feast on the crew. 100% deet does not work. It does not even slow them 
    down. I put on jeans and a long sleeve shirt (in 90 degree weather) to 
    keep them at bay. They seem to want to go for your feet and ankles. One 
    even bit me right throught the leather of my boat shoe. The answer is 
    to get out of the cockpit. With the helm tied, Assassin is tracking the 
    fickle breezes reasonably well. I sit on the cabin house and read a 
    book. Fly swatter in hand, soft drink near by, just soaking up the 
    rays. It is very hot in all these clothes but I remember a hotter time 
    in a land far away. Let the sweat run down your back and ignore all 
    unpleasantness. It works and the miles slip quietly and slowly away.
    The wind goes south, heading us. It happens so abruptly, the boat 
    cannot follow the change. I bear off and set up the tackle again. five 
    minutes later we are headed again, so we tack onto port. Our new course 
    is 185mag which is not enough to clear Grand Traverse Bay. I bear off a 
    little but the wind is too light to let the boat track unless we are 
    hard on the wind. Permantly attached to the tiller back there in fly 
    heaven is not my idea of a good time so we stay hard on the wind. Maybe 
    this new SE wind will back even farther and strengthen. 
    
    It does not happen that way. About 6pm we are headed on port. The wind 
    builds to 10 knots continually veering until we are steering 280. 
    Great. We tack onto Starboard and are still lifted to 190 then to 200. 
    We clear the bay and head past Fox Island. In the distance we can see 
    North Manitou. Our destination is Leland (Fish City), Michigan. This 
    quaint old fishing villiage is a cottage industry town that has managed 
    to save the structures from the turn of the century and modify them 
    into shops. I had hoped to arrive during daylight as the approach seems 
    a little tricky on depth. It is not to be. Light air all day long has 
    kept our speed in the four to five knot range. In sixteen hours we have 
    managed 72 miles and still have nine to go. As the sun slips behind 
    North Manitou, the wind dies. It is diesel power once more. For the 
    first time today (well really the second, Grays Reef was the first) we 
    break six knots. With the cooling temperatures, the flies go dormant. 
    Good thing, the fly swatter is in tatters. We need reinforcments in 
    that regard. 
    
    I manage another night landing in a strange port without incident. We 
    tie up at the gas dock then bomb the boat with Yard Guard. After the 
    death of 9000 or so flies, we hit the bunks. 
    As I reflect on this day more than week ago, it occurs to me that I 
    would rather have the thunderstorms than the drifters. Also there are 
    no flies at night, at least no biting ones,  even when its warm. Maybe 
    they cannot see in the dark.  
    

    	Day Fourteen: 06 July, 0930 hours
    
    We decided to get a good breakfast this morning. Great joy! It is 
    pumping up 15-20knots today. WIND!!!! The direction is not so cool as 
    it is from the southwest and that is where we must go. 115 miles of 
    rhumbline. Yeah, Ok, we're tough...... At least there will be no 
    flies....
    
    We get a great breakfast at the Early Bird resturant and head out. We 
    set the main and then the everpresent #3. Heading due west, I line up 
    to go to weather of the Manitou passage light. Olivia takes over on the 
    helm for a spell. We are moving well, going about 6.8knots hard on the 
    wind. I'm looking at the overall picture on the large scale charts. 
    Manitou passage is a tricky thing when you need to go up wind. Bars and 
    reefs reaching out from all over and the wind is barreling in between 
    North Manitou Island and the mainland. It seems like you pinch on 
    either tack even when the tacking angle is 100degrees. Steep chop as 
    the waves pile up in the shallows (45feet or so). We get headed so that 
    we cannot keep the light to port. We tack again and then again. Now we 
    can lay it.  As we close on the light, something scary happens, the 
    bottom comes up fast, first to thirty feet, then to twenty then to 
    fourteen. Geez, bail out!
    
    We tack then gybe to backtrack. We didn't even mess with the sails just 
    helm over and get out of here. We sort things out then try again a 
    little further from the light. I have never heard of a light that is 
    set inside the reef. I am uneasy about this. On the second pass, we get 
    the same thing but a depth of nineteen feet seems to hold. Something is 
    seriously wrong. This is supposed to be a freighter channel which means 
    30+feet. As Olivia holds course, I scurry below for the charts. Where 
    the heck is the starboard buoy? I thumb through the kit for the detail 
    pages. Half expecting to hear the rumble of grounding at any minute, I 
    keep looking. Here it is! Big Oops! The light is the starboard buoy, 
    the reef extends from N. Manitou Island to the light, not from the 
    mainland to the light. How did I get that wrong? Another look a that 
    larger scale tells the story. The lable for the light is nearer to the 
    port buoy on this chart. A real dumb mistake on my part. Luckily the 
    shoal is minimum fifteen feet for some distance so we are ok. But a far 
    less complacent navigator has to go explain his faux pas.
    
    We tack back on Starboard to get off the reef which we do but get head 
    just the same. It takes us nearly three hours to get out of the passage 
    as we have to beat past South Manitou Island and two more reefs to get 
    away from the grasping claw of land. As we finally clear South Manitou 
    Island, a grim reminder appears to starboard. The afterend of a Great 
    Lakes freighter protrudes from the surf about two hundred yards 
    offshore.
    
    A great gift. About noontime, a giant shift appears. The wind backs to 
    the South and picks up steam. We are seeing 22kn true now. I can steer 
    215 but 240 is the rhumbline so we foot at 235 to invest a little. 7.9 
    to 8.2 knots is our speed. At 1300 the wind freshens even further to 25 
    true. In goes a reef. The boat likes it and gives 8.5kn. 
    
    Gone is the pounding chop. We are in 760ft of water now and two meter 
    swells. This is Lake Michigan. The motion is significant but steady and 
    pleasing.  The boat is skating down from the crests, sometimes breaking 
    into the nines. At 1445 the wind hits 27true and we take in another 
    reef. We are getting good at this reefing stuff. I cannot ever remember 
    doing it before this trip. There is no loss of speed whatsover.
    
    I need to change into foulies, so I go below, hit the head, take a fix 
    and take my time. As I'm getting set, Olivia calls, "Front coming 
    fast." I come up. It's real ugly looking. One of those inverted 
    trapezoids that is pitch black. We are already double reefed. What to 
    do? I cannot think of anything but to get rid of the jib. This 
    morning's brush with complacency still lingers, and helps with the 
    decision. Down comes the number three and it is completely dry. It goes 
    below and we wait for the nastiness under double reefed main only. It 
    comes with driving rain but it looked worse than it was. The true wind 
    hits 37kn for a about ten minutes then steadies on about 30kn. We are 
    doing 4.75kn with the main only. The boat feels sluggish, loose and 
    uneasy. 
    
    After 45min the wind moderates to 19kn. Olivia and I dive below to 
    repack the jib in its turtle. I am not going to hoist it loose and risk 
    blowing the tape out of the foil. We get in on deck. A deck that you 
    cannot walk on. The seas are over 3 meters now and it is like trying to 
    step from car to car on a rollercoaster. We are, of course, in harness 
    and tether.  Wouldn't you know it, just as I start the head of the jib 
    into the groove a wave pitches the bow, upsetting my balance and I end 
    up ripping the head out of the foil. Damn! there is only one way to 
    cure this in a seaway. I take out my knife and slice the luff tape just 
    below the feeder and back it out. I restart and carefully feed past the 
    cut. It's ready.
    
    Up goes the #3 and we have SPEED again. 7.4kn until we shake out a reef 
    and then 7.9kn again. The wind comes back to 27true and we have to put 
    back in the second reef. This is the steady state now. It does not 
    moderate at all for the rest of the leg. It is 1700 hours when Olivia 
    dives below. She is going to whip up a hot meal. At 1745 some good 
    smells come up. I ask what is the fare? She calls back, "Residue stew!" 
    Curious, I go down to find out just what classifies as residue. It is 
    the last of the zucchini, the redskins, the venision and the only 
    surviving onion. It is hard to cook at 25-30 degrees heel. 
    
    Topside again and about half an hour later, I hear a metal clang from 
    the galley. I stick my head in to see if all is well. It is not. Olivia 
    tells me that the stove is runaway. The second burner has flared on and 
    even with both shut comepletely off flame is flaring out all around the 
    stove. I come down. The place smells of charred fiberglas and burning 
    wood. This is getting serious. I pass a halon bottle but tell her to 
    wait just a bit. Everything is too hot to touch so we wet some rags and 
    get the pots off. Safely stowed, I get the cover off the Origo 4000. 
    Both burners are going like gang busters. I turn on the sink and spray 
    them down. I still had to blow them out. Water cooling takes care of 
    the rest, but I have got a big whiff of charred fiberglass and suddenly 
    am struck with intense vertigo. I have to get out of the cabin fast. On 
    deck, the vertigo goes, but mild nausea remains. Oliva stows the stew 
    in the cooler after it cools. It will be done in anther half hour but 
    we cannot risk trying again. 
    
    The miles are coming down but we still have sixty five to go. I try 
    granola bars but my stomach gets rebellious. Am I seasick? I have never 
    been before. I do not throw up, but the nausea is persistant. I have a 
    mild headache and am very cold. Olivia says, "Hit the hay big guy. I'm 
    not doing an all nighter alone."
    
    The berth is warm and comfortable. I am asleep in minutes. An hour 
    later and very cozy, I wake up a new man. No nausea, or headache. I get 
    the shivers climging into my foulies, but that is the difference in 
    relative warmth, not a symptom. I take a fix from Loran and GPS. Whoa! 
    Loran is crashed. Even as I watch it recovers and crashes again. I put 
    the antenna extension on and it is fine. They agree to .1mi.  It is 
    dusk at 2100hours. Fifty two miles to go. Still bearing 235deg Mag. I 
    have not adjusted the tiller in nine hours. The boat is sailing to the 
    wind. 
    
    About 0300 the lights of Wisconsin appear over the horizon. As we near 
    the shore line be get a big header. Bummer. I let it take us in on 
    255mag and tack over about five miles out. Steering 160 on starboard we 
    are lifted to 180. This is the pits. This is the old true wind 
    direction and the waves have not changed. Slam! Slam! Slam! This really 
    robs speed and is damn uncomfortable. I foot off resenting the 
    surrender of extra miles. In an hour we are far enought south to tack 
    back and lay Manitowic. We are steering 270 and it is a relief. Hard on 
    the wind, but waves abeam. Two miles out at at 0445, we get the sails 
    off and power up the diesel. We enter the harbor as dawn breaks. I pull 
    up to the marina gas dock and tie up. We check out empty slips as we 
    expect to grab one and sleep for a couple of hours. Surely they will 
    not be open until 8am or so. 
    
    Wrongo. The harbor master shows up in a few minutes. He said his house 
    overlooks the lake. He saw us work inshore and turn into the harbor. He 
    decided that we might need him early so he came to work. About four or 
    five other sailboat crews come up to ask about conditions. They have 
    been laying over for a few days. We are still in full foul weather gear 
    with inflateable belt packs and harnesses. I feel like we did an 
    atlantic crossing or something with the fuss they make about our 
    passage overnight. Come to think of it, those conditions were somewhat 
    like a ocean crossing. Yeah, it feels good. But so will a hot shower 
    and about six hours of shuteye. Layday? Youbetcha....
    
    

    	Day Sixteen: 08 July, 0615 hours
    
    A day of hot showers, hot stew, theater, museums, music shops, and 
    plenty of rest prepared us for the final leg. We decided that we would 
    not do a sailing marathon the last day. We set our sights on Port 
    Washington, about 50 miles down the coast toward Chicago. Kenosha is 
    another fifty or so. We figured to make a daytime arrival (for a 
    change) and end on a relaxed morning sail on Saturday. To make sure, we 
    decided to leave as soon as possible. So at this moment, we have 
    slipped the lines, backed out of the marina and are headed out toward 
    Manitowic Harbor. 
    
    We have been presented with another great gift. The southerly that 
    blasted us across the lake, then turned to southwest as we closed on 
    the harbor yesterday morning, has moderated and veered another seventy 
    degrees. We have 18kn from the Northwest. It will be beam reaching and 
    flat water. As we clear the breakwater, up goes the mainsail, then the 
    Jibtop reacher. This is the first time for this sail. It is a 150% high 
    clew sail that is trimmed through the spreachers, just like a 
    spinnaker. We go out to the ten fathom line and turn south about 7am. 
    Our course is 190. We steer 180 to keep some reserve distance off 
    shore. After we turn, the jibtop comes alive. Big numbers, 8.85kn then 
    9.2kn. 9.60 in a gust. The true wind averages about 17kn with puffs to 
    23kn. The miles really spin down. At 1230 we have reached Port 
    Washington. Goodbye Port Washington, hello Kenosha.
    
    The wind moderates at 1pm to about 13kn true. It is 100deg apparent on 
    the starboard side. It stays there for a half hour before I yield to 
    temptation. Yes, we packed a spinnaker. A great whomper of a .75oz 
    chute that has 1094 square feet of area. Boat speed is 6.4 knot now 
    with 12.5 true showing. 
    
    Ok, Ok...... Pole up, but the kite needs banding for a short handed 
    launch. I rig for a one side trim, no gybing this time. Everything is 
    set, up she goes. The bands hold it collapsed like a sausage. I get the 
    jibtop down and secure, then get to the sheet. Olivia is set on the 
    helm but nervous. I heave the sheet a couple of times, the bottom bands 
    pop, then, in rapid fire the rest of them go. Whump! It fills and you 
    can feel the acceleration. I over trim it and cleat it. Then Olivia 
    turns the helm over. Boat speed zooms throught the sevens, the eights 
    and deep into the nines. Apparent wind goes forward, turns the overtrim 
    into a just right trim and suddenly we are overpowered. 
    
    I bear off a little, depower the main and come back to it. The 
    difference between curl and no curl is a solid knot. As you might 
    guess, the wind comes back up a little, pushing as high as 19kn at 
    times. At those times we get into double digits with 10.4 being the 
    highest I saw. We carry this kite for two and one half hours and sail 
    past Milwaukee about 4pm. Twenty five miles in 2.5 hours. Sweet. The 
    breeze begins to die soon after and by the time we get to Racine, it is 
    1.4kn true and the chute is lifeless. We hang a bit longer it is 
    obvious that there will be no wind. We get douse the spinnaker, pack up 
    the jibtop, and motor sail for a while. We have 16 miles to go. Every 
    now and then a puff comes along that adds a half a knot to the diesel's 
    best speed. In the end, we make still another night landing, arriving 
    just after full dark at 9:30pm.
    
    As we put the boat away, I find that I am not sad that it is over. This 
    trip has brought a real sense of accomplishment that could not be 
    realized until it was over. Almost 800miles, sixteen days, all kinds of 
    conditions. The Soverel handled heavy weather sailing far better than I 
    ever thought it would. The sail choices for the trip were spot on. We 
    used them all and wanted for none. The autopilot packed up as I half 
    expected after reading about so many others that had this happen. But 
    we did just fine without it. It did save the bacon in the night of 
    terror off Thunder Bay. All in all a most enjoyable and successful 
    adventure. Olivia was not a seasoned sailor. She was very new to the 
    sport. She has gained a great sense of confidence and a bit of pride, 
    knowing that she is unlikely to get seasick (her biggest worry). 
    
    And we are still friends........
    

	Well written, and good reading!  Thanks for taking the time to post.

	Regards,
	Keith

    Wot he said.  Tremendous.

    Cool!
    

    Thanks for the kind words. My motivation for entering this was to
    "blaze a dim trail" for those who, like me, had not done any
    significant passagemaking. It's not what you expect, but it is very
    doable and very rewarding.
    
    Olivia's most telling comment to me was something like, "A sailing
    voyage seems to require a flexibility of mind and spirit. You must
    accept whatever comes your way with innate confidence that you will be
    able to cope."
    
    

    When I sent the Autohelm unit in, I described the failure mode. I also
    told them that it had become somewhat more noisy but could not be sure
    that this was really true or just my imagination.
    
    Autohelm replaced the unit. They did not repair the old one. The reason
    was that the old one was full of water. Not just wet, but full of
    water. Defective seal they said. My mind goes back to the voyage. Five
    thunderstorms in one night. The only period of rain before the unit
    failed. Glad it worked for a while when acting as an aquarium.
    
    

    At the risk of leading a reader back through much of what was written
    here, I'm going to add another perspective. My sailing partner sent me
    her contribution from her journal. I have her permission to enter it
    here. 
    
    At first I was going to edit out all the repeats, some of the personal
    stuff to make it more concise. But it seemed to me that the phaseology,
    the flow and the humor was essential to the entire document, like all
    of the colors an artist might use in painting a masterpiece. So it's
    all here, quite long, and very enlightening. As least I think so.
    
    Olivia gives me more credit than I feel is due. But she "sees, feels
    and thinks" stuff I never would. Hindsight tells me that I took a real
    risk bring a non-sailor (one weekend afloat does not a sailor make) on
    such a passage. If this is done, you need to truly analyze the makeup
    of the person, be fully aware of their mental, physical and
    psychological makeup. Can any person be so aware.  I was lucky.
    
    I am amazed at what I did not see or feel. I guess this is why we find
    so much value in partnership with the opposite sex. Each enriches the
    other's experience. 
    
    You might want to print the next entry first and read it later. 
    

         OLIVIA:
    
               Were  in  St.  Clair Lake and its  night  time,
    
    heading for the Clinton River Marina.  This morning we awoke
    
    about nine oclock, provisioned the boat and then motored up
    
    the  Detroit  River,  passing a lot  of  freighters  in  the
    
    process, past Sugar Island, which in the 1920s was a resort
    
    and  gambling spot.  The resort burnt down in the 1930s and
    
    that  ended  the romping place of the rich and famous  (this
    
    local history from Rod, my tour guide).
    
               Rod  also pointed out BobLo Island, which  a  few
    
    years  ago still had an amusement park, but folks  found  it
    
    too  much trouble to boat out there for the day.  We  passed
    
    many  steel  foundries and a Morton Salt  installation.   We
    
    passed  Fire  Island and then neared Detroit, passing  under
    
    the  Ambassador Bridge leading to the Canadian side.  We saw
    
    the  shores  of  Windsor, Ontario,  across  the  river  from
    
    Detroit.   We  motored past the Renaissance Center  and  the
    
    other  skyscrapers of Detroit.  Next came  Belle  Island,  a
    
    pretty recreational area.  Opposite on the Canadian side was
    
    the  Canadian Club distillery and associated buildings.   We
    
    put  up the mainsail and jib, crossing St. Clair Lake  under
    
    sail  until  it grew dark and the wind died down.   Then  we
    
    took  the sails down (terribly unnautical language but  what
    
    does  a  landlubber, prairie princess, like me know?)   When
    
    the  sails  went  down, I also went down --  down  below  to
    
    journal the sites of the day, falling asleep in the process.
    
               When  I  awoke  Rod was at the  helm,  trying  to
    
    discern  the  lights  of  the  Clinton  River  Harbor.    He
    
    negotiated  the  harbor  to the Mt. Clemons  marina  and  we
    
    docked  in darkness, about midnight, a hot and close  summer
    
    night,  with nary a breeze blowing.  We walked a  mile  down
    
    the  road to a harbor tavern where we dined about 1:00  a.m.
    
    on  cod.   All  through this first day of this  Great  Lakes
    
    Sailing  Adventure I have felt cleansed by wind,  water  and
    
    sun,  and  fell  contentingly to  sleep  in  the  Assassins
    
    comfortable berth, rocked almost imperceptibly  by  the  now
    
    gentle motion of the harbor waters.
    
         It's  Saturday, heading for the St. Clair  River.   Rod
    
    was  up  early  to make the screening for the  hatches  when
    
    we're  up  north  fishing  in  preparation  for  any  insect
    
    invasion. I tried to tune my guitar and broke the E-string -
    
    -  the  one  I had just replaced.  That scuttled the  music-
    
    making  part  of  the expedition.  Before  leaving  the  Mt.
    
    Clemens Harbor, we stopped for diesel fuel.  I went into the
    
    dock  store to load up on granola bars.  While there I added
    
    two klondike ice cream bars to the breakfast menu of granola
    
    bars. All day we spent motoring up the St. Clair river  with
    
    Canada  on one side and the U.S. on the other.  We saw  lots
    
    of  freighters  -- a biggie new experience for me, so I  had
    
    to  take  lots  of  pictures of  them.   Many  were  out  of
    
    Wilmington, Delaware, because, as Rod explained  it  to  me,
    
    their  taxes  are notoriously low.  One freighter  was  from
    
    Greece, another from Hong Kong.  We passed a sailboat.   The
    
    captain  said  he  was nearing home, Port  Huron,  Michigan,
    
    after  14  months  circumnavigating the  globe.   I  took  a
    
    picture  of  the  vessel, which did not appear  to  be  much
    
    bigger  than  ours.   We  saw several  ferry  boats,  taking
    
    vehicles  from  one  side of the  river  to  the  other.   I
    
    prepared  my first cooked sea meal -- a pot of venison  stew
    
    with  potatoes, onions and zucchini -- no spices (forgot  to
    
    bring any) but it has so much natural flavor and juices from
    
    the ingredients, it didn't make any difference.  Tonight Rod
    
    says  when we get in Lake Huron, we'll be motoring all night
    
    in  three hour shifts.  Needless to say, I did not  jump  up
    
    and down with this news, but I'm willing to earn my keep  on
    
    this vessel.  Big help I'll be! I'm supposed to keep my  eye
    
    out for other craft and if one comes near to wake Rod up.  I
    
    think I can manage this.
    
         Earlier  in the day we had some stormy weather --  just
    
    rain  -- my first opportunity to wear the foul weather gear.
    
    The  rain  was  not hard and did not last long.   I  did  my
    
    watches during the night.  It afforded the first opportunity
    
    to  wear  the deck harness.  Rod had prepared well  for  any
    
    eventuality.   During the night there was a  little  bit  of
    
    showering,  but otherwise nothing remarkable transpired,  at
    
    least while my eyes were open as I struggled to keep awake.
    
         My overriding impression of the second day out was that
    
    to  bask in the sun for most of the day and to not wonder or
    
    to  care  about  what hour of the day it is, were  delicious
    
    sensations.   A sailing trip is a vacation in  the  extreme.
    
    Life  all  along was meant to be enjoyed at this  pace.   It
    
    retards the aging process.
    
         It's  about noon. I'm writing on the stern.  Semi-clear
    
    day, no boats in sight with wind picking up.  Under said  at
    
    6.67  knots  on  Lake Huron. Crossed under  the  Port  Huron
    
    Bridge  last  night at nightfall.  We took  out  turns  last
    
    night,  watching  for boats.  We were becalmed most  of  the
    
    night.   When it was getting light on the lake, the sky  was
    
    cloudy  and  greyish pink, the surface  of  the  water  like
    
    glass.  The wind started to change. I woke Rod up, but there
    
    just  wasn't any wind.  We threw our fishing lines into  the
    
    water,   thinking  it  was  a  good  opportunity  to   catch
    
    breakfast.  The water was so smooth it looked like you could
    
    walk upon it.  We got tired and decided to make up our sleep
    
    deficit  while  the water was becalmed.  We  awoke  to  hear
    
    another  boat  hailing us "Ahoy, Assassin!"   I  guess  they
    
    wanted to make sure we were still alive, since there was  no
    
    sign  of  activity aboard and we were drifting.  We  emerged
    
    from  below to reassure them and they headed east.  I  slept
    
    some  more  until I heard Rod exclaiming that the  wind  had
    
    picked  up.   After a sleepless night I felt beat  up.   Rod
    
    rigged  the  deck shower up.  After shampooing my  hair  and
    
    showering,  I felt alert and perky again.  While resting  on
    
    the bow, the wind really picked up and Rod set the sails and
    
    automatic  pilot and went below to catch up  on  his  sleep.
    
    Compared to Lake Erie and and Lake St. Clair, Lake Huron  is
    
    deserted.   Not a pleasure boat or freighter in  sight.   We
    
    were  completely  alone with the elements.      During  last
    
    night's  watch,  the  stars  were  visible.  At  night   the
    
    directional guides on the masthead are lit. There is also  a
    
    foredeck  light which provided ample illumination  when  Rod
    
    put  up the jib last night. During last night's watch, I saw
    
    one lighted freighter off to the east.
    
         Reviewing the events of day three, I would have to  say
    
    that,  although this could be portrayed as a romantic  dream
    
    vacation for two, it also involves work and what would be  a
    
    lot of monotonous hours of sameness for an individual who is
    
    not  happy  in  his  own head or with the contemplation  for
    
    hours  on  end  of sky and water. Day three  reinforced  the
    
    principle  too  that no trip can be without  at  least  some
    
    pesty, minor discomfiture. On a sailing trip it appears that
    
    flies and bugs that ultimately seem to love to congregate on
    
    deck  in  the  mornings.  We hosed the deck down  to  remove
    
    countless  dead flies, although we were by then a  long  way
    
    from land.  The insects were so listless and apathetic, they
    
    had been dying in droves.
    
         It's  about  6:00  in the evening on  Lake  Huron.  I'm
    
    sitting  in front of the hatch alone while Rod naps  in  the
    
    berth  below. I'm watching the fingertips of the sun  strike
    
    the  waves  like the string of a cello in a  long  strip  of
    
    water stretching from the horizon. Not a gull, ship or  land
    
    in  sight  since a freighted passed by fifteen  minutes  ago
    
    heading south towards Port Huron.
    
         About  4:00 in the afternoon I prepared chicken with  a
    
    noodle and broccoli mix, which we ate from the pot on  deck.
    
    It  was  a challenge, the boat was heeling to the port  side
    
    where the galley is, going about 7 knots.  We had good  wind
    
    since  about eleven o'clock in the morning.  While the  meal
    
    was cooking, Rod watched a redwing blackbird from who-knows-
    
    where  eat all the dead flies off the deck. There  goes  the
    
    ornithologist's  lecture  at the bird-banding  station  back
    
    home  in Northern Illinois during which I was informed  that
    
    blackbirds  are  found  on  fence  poles  and  along  grassy
    
    roadsides.
    
         This  stout-hearted redwing blackbird had  a  difficult
    
    time  negotiating the wind to get on deck,  but  he  lustily
    
    headed  against wind twice to get back on deck  to  pick  up
    
    more  flies. Our presence did not seem to disturb his eating
    
    habits  in  the least, as he eagerly devoured  every  insect
    
    that  his busy beak could find.  Eventually, he disappeared.
    
    How he was going to find his way back to his prairie habitat
    
    is still a mystery to me.
    
         After  supper Rod dragged the cooking pot in the  water
    
    to  clean it and hosed down the silverware, then I dried and
    
    stowed  everything away. Shipboard cookery involves  one-pot
    
    meals, but that has always been my specialty.
    
         The  wind dropped off to four knots, but later  in  the
    
    evening we really picked up speed and were breezing along at
    
    8-9 knots. I slept first and Rod served first watch.  When I
    
    went  up  to  watch  for freighters,  the  wind  was  really
    
    blowing. I woke Rod when a freighter came into sight.  After
    
    it  passed, Rod stayed up and took his turn at the watch.  I
    
    went below to sleep. Then all hell broke loose.  I awoke  to
    
    the  sound  of  thunderclaps, the boat  heeling  so  bad,  I
    
    seriously thought there was nowhere to go but down. I  heard
    
    Rod  running back and forth on deck, cursing like a  sailor.
    
    We  had run into a rip-roaring thunderstorm off Thunder Bay,
    
    no  less. I cowered and cringed in the berth gripping to the
    
    metal brace on the hull, saying to myself, "Jesus, Mary  and
    
    Joseph, get me out of here!" and vowing if I made it through
    
    this, there would be no more night sailing for me.
    
         I  was  petrified to get up, but upon consideration,  I
    
    knew  I  had  to  get in an upright position,  get  my  foul
    
    weather  gear on and join Rod on the deck.  If I didn't  get
    
    up,  I'd  die in that berth, caught below. I wanted  to  die
    
    standing  up  instead of in that crawl space.  I  determined
    
    I'd  rather die with Rod than live without him.  I'd  rather
    
    die out in the open than be buried below.  Thus, I tried  to
    
    summon  courage  to get up and put my gear on,  only  to  be
    
    prostrated  again with another crack of thunder and  another
    
    bash  of  a  wave  against the bow of the ship,  leaving  me
    
    whimpering  and  cowering again.  Then,  the  hatch  opened,
    
    water and sail poured into the cabin, accompanied again by a
    
    rain of expletives from deck.
    
         I  gripped  the  metal brace tighter, my  reservoir  of
    
    courage draining.  I thought to myself, "Now, I know this is
    
    what all the other women in his life could not take."  As  I
    
    clung  to  the  side  of  the berth with  the  boat  listing
    
    terribly, I asked myself aloud, "Rod, why did you invite  me
    
    on this trip?  To kill me?"  Then better sense took over and
    
    I  thought "No, he knows what he's doing;  he's tethered  to
    
    the  jack  lines. He won't fall off the boat." If I survived
    
    this  storm  I just wouldn't sail at night anymore  and  I'd
    
    always  sail with a weather report.  I'd tell him please  no
    
    more night sailing and let's get the weather forecast before
    
    venturing out for a sail.
    
         While  I was thus trying to "screw up my courage  to  a
    
    sticking  post," I heard Rod ask, "How are your  doing  down
    
    there?" from the front hatch.  I could visualize him  as  he
    
    asked the question with a smile in his voice if not also  on
    
    his  face.  I  was  still too petrified to  respond.   After
    
    hearing  the  sound of his voice, I thought "He  thrives  on
    
    this! He's not a bit perturbed! In fact, he loves it!"  As I
    
    struggled  to  summon courage to get in an upright  position
    
    and  put  my  foul  weather gear on, I felt  the  storm  was
    
    letting up somewhat.
    
         I  finally  retrieved all my gear  where  it  had  been
    
    thrown,  got  myself  harnessed  up  and  buckled  the  life
    
    preserver  belt on and got my weary body out onto  the  deck
    
    again  to  serve  my  watch. By  that  time  the  storm  had
    
    subsided, but the rain was still coming down. There was  one
    
    more  mini-storm to go through before that night  from  hell
    
    was over.  But at least now I was on deck
    
         After  the night of day four, I knew that if I were  to
    
    make  a  passage I could be no "sunshine" sailor.  I  had  a
    
    heady  dose of medicine to cure me of any foolishly romantic
    
    notions  of sailing the ocean blue. If I could not take  the
    
    bad  with  the good, I'd best take a closer look at  whether
    
    sailing  really  was  for me. Was this a  metaphor  for  the
    
    school  of  life, or what? Would I be one who always  wanted
    
    smooth sailing and when the going got rough, got going?  No.
    
    I  didn't want that for myself.  I preferred to make  myself
    
    equal  to this or any challenge. But it would take time  for
    
    me  to have the knowledge and the confidence in the craft to
    
    dispense with fear.
    
         Who  needed a Great America Amusement Park for a  cheap
    
    thrill  anymore?  "Not I," said chicken little,  "bauk-bauk,
    
    bauk-bauk."
    
         Monday  after  the  storm, the wind  was  very  strong,
    
    pushing us all the way to DeTour Village, so we were able to
    
    arrive  about  4:00 o'clock in the afternoon. We  were  very
    
    tired.  Still  in my foul weather gear, I was  to  tired  to
    
    throw  a dock line properly. I threw both ends and it landed
    
    in  the  water and sank. As soon as we were tied up  at  the
    
    dock, we headed for the marina showers, then we walked  into
    
    town  and found a restaurant on the main street which fronts
    
    the  marina.  No one-pot stew tonight but Reuben  sandwiches
    
    and  cold beer at the Fog Cutter Inn. As soon as we got back
    
    to the boat, we went directly to sleep and slept until 11:00
    
    the next morning.
    
         We  spent  Tuesday,  June 27th in DeTour  Village.  The
    
    first order of business when we awoke from "the sleep of the
    
    dead" was to clean up the cabin. I made a breakfast of  eggs
    
    and  Canadian bacon, which I felt was singularly appropriate
    
    in such close proximity to the pink slab of meat's namesake.
    
    Then  I  cleaned  up the galley (I'm making progress;  I  no
    
    longer call it a kitchen -- memories of what my brother Mike
    
    said  to  me  before  I  made this trip  kept  haunting  me:
    
    "Olivia,  are  you sure you're prepared to make  this  trip?
    
    You're still calling a galley a kitchen! You don't even have
    
    the  terminology  down  pat!) We stowed  away  loose  stuff,
    
    organized  and  cleaned the cabin. We bagged the  sails  and
    
    stowed them in the other berth. We dried out the cabin  with
    
    the  little  space  heater. We washed out some  clothes  and
    
    towels. We hung the wet things to dry on the life lines. Rod
    
    hosed down the cockpit and the deck. Then he pulled out  the
    
    cushions from the cabin seats, which had been soaked when he
    
    threw  the  sail down the hatch during the storm,  and  took
    
    them up to dry on the deck.
    
         I  laid  out all the books that got wet, trying to  dry
    
    them as well. My journal was a little bit wet too, testament
    
    that it weathered a storm along with me.
    
         After all the clean-up, we took a stroll through DeTour
    
    Village. We stopped at a sporting goods store where Rod  got
    
    more  information about Pilot's Cove. He wanted to find  out
    
    about  depth  and any markers. We walked down to  the  ferry
    
    boat  landing and watched vehicles drive off, returning from
    
    Drummond  Island. There was a small museum of local  history
    
    by  the  landing and we went in there to browse. We  stopped
    
    for  lunch  and  then stopped at the frosty cone  where  Rod
    
    bought  me a two-scoop praline ice cream cone for winning  a
    
    bet  on  a  point of history. He claimed the area was  first
    
    settled  in the 1750's. I said "no," the French had  already
    
    been  here  about the 1650's. My point was verified  at  the
    
    village local history museum.
    
         We  spent a quiet evening aboard, writing. Rod  set  up
    
    the laptop and worked on his book. It was windy and overcast
    
    most  of  the  day, so it was just as well  we  anchored  at
    
    DeTour to rejuvenate and rest.
    
         Wednesday  morning dawned at DeTour Village  windy  and
    
    overcast  again. I prepared breakfast. Then we  showered.  I
    
    did  the laundry at the laundromat. We returned to the  boat
    
    and prepared to leave the harbor. Rod mapped a course around
    
    Drummond  Island to Pilot's Cove where we planned to  anchor
    
    in  seclusion  for  a few days. As we motored  through  many
    
    small  islands we trolled, but had no luck at  all  fishing.
    
    Visions of all the fish we were going to fry up were failing
    
    to  materialize.  Then we got under sail and  fairly  zoomed
    
    over the waves. The spray was splashing on the foredeck  and
    
    white  caps were rolling. It was more fun than any amusement
    
    park  ride. Who needs roller coasters and water log  slides?
    
    We  sped  along at this pace for a few hours before rounding
    
    Drummond  Island.  I  got plenty of practice  tacking  under
    
    Rod's direction.
    
         Rod  had  calculated  the  position  of  Pilot's  Cover
    
    exactly,  but when we arrived we could not find the entrance
    
    for all our efforts. A heavy rain with gusty winds descended
    
    upon us as soon as we neared the shore. We motored past  the
    
    point  a  ways, then Rod turned back, certain it must  be  a
    
    trick inlet obscured by another point of land. He was right.
    
    This  time  we motored closer to shore, and saw  the  narrow
    
    entrance. It was marked by a big boulder. The first time  we
    
    had  been too far away from shore to discern it. Rod spotted
    
    water between trees and moved toward it.
    
         There  is a narrow strip where the keel can go through.
    
    There is nothing but a lot of rocks on the right side of the
    
    entrance. Once through this needle's eye of an entrance,  it
    
    is  perfectly sheltered, surrounded snugly on all  sides  by
    
    trees. We pulled in; I jumped into the water and tied a line
    
    to  a tree. Rod threw the anchor out the stern, so that  the
    
    boat was tethered for the night.
    
         As  soon  as  we  had secured the boat, the  sun  burst
    
    through,  the  wind died down, and peace  descended  on  the
    
    cove.  We  have arrived at a safe haven. It was as if  peace
    
    was meant to prevail as soon as we made ourselves at home in
    
    the cove; compensation for weathering all the storms and the
    
    winds  of  the passage. We hung up our wet clothes and  foul
    
    weather  gear on the mast and life lines. Again we took  out
    
    all  the wet things from the cabin to air out (my fault  for
    
    not  screwing down the hatch tight enough this time  --  one
    
    more chance to do it right).
    
         Rod  tried  his  luck  at fishing while  I  started  to
    
    prepare  a  concoction of chicken, bell  peppers,  vegetable
    
    corkscrew noodles and zucchini squash for supper. We ate  in
    
    the cabin by scented candlelight. As night descended Rod set
    
    up  the laptop again to do some serious writing. I edited my
    
    manuscript.
    
         Pilot's Cove, Thursday, June 29.
    
         I  awoke about 6:00 a.m. and the sky was still overcast
    
    from  showers  of the night before.  I had  a  headache,  so
    
    brewed  some  herbal tea and went back to sleep until  about
    
    9:00.   Hallelujah!   The  sun was  shining;  the  wind  had
    
    subsided!  We were surrounded by blue sky, glistening  water
    
    and  tree-lined  shores.  We ate our  left-overs  from  last
    
    night  and  then  tried  our luck at fishing  again.   Alas,
    
    dreams  of  fresh  wall-eye sizzling  in  the  pan  did  not
    
    materialize.  Rod was dissatisfied with the way the boat was
    
    moored.   In  case  the wind changed, he wanted  it  on  the
    
    opposite  shore. I paddled out in the dinghy  to  untie  the
    
    line  from  the  tree.  After we were  tied  up  to  bushes,
    
    secured  also with the anchor on the other shore, I explored
    
    that side of the cove facing the North Channel.  There was a
    
    stone  fire pit set up with a grate.  Other camp sites  were
    
    found,  evidence the cove was well-visited.   We  threw  the
    
    fishing  lines with bobbers and worms off the shore, leaving
    
    the  poles to explore the coast for a while.  The shore line
    
    is  rocky.   We  turned  into a path  around  the  cove  and
    
    discovered other camp fires and a profusion of wild flowers.
    
    Rod  almost tripped over another denizen of the cove as  the
    
    furry  creature skittered from his den, down the  bank  into
    
    the  water -- Bucky Beaver. It was not our last sighting  of
    
    this other occupant of the cove.  We followed a trail around
    
    the  cove, finding fresh deer droppings along the  trail  in
    
    front  of  where  the  bow  was  moored  the  night  before.
    
    Following the trail farther to the rocky North Channel coast
    
    line, we found a large dead salmon, confirming the fact  our
    
    assumption there were fish in these parts must be right;  so
    
    why  weren't we catching any?????  So we didn't have to walk
    
    all the way back around the cove, Rod swam across the narrow
    
    neck  of  the  cove entrance to retrieve the dinghy  and  we
    
    paddled back to the boat in the dinghy.
    
         I  spent  some  time in the morning meditating  on  the
    
    foredeck.  Thoughts of my darling Leila again flowed through
    
    me.   I  prayed to be released from this great  sorrow  that
    
    ever  creeps  up  on  me  even  in  my  moments  of  intense
    
    happiness.   It is something that will be with  me  for  the
    
    rest of my life.
    
         After  our exploratory trip on the island, we got  down
    
    to  the  serious business of conducting the Rod and Olivia's
    
    Great  Lakes  Writing Conference.  The  laptop  was  set  up
    
    again.   The  evening menu consisted of venison prepared  on
    
    the   deck  grill.  The  evening  was  spent  literally  and
    
    figuratively in a sea of tranquillity writing and  listening
    
    to  classical  tapes. If a would-be writer cannot  write  in
    
    Pilot's  Cove,  he  cannot  write  anywhere.  I  made  great
    
    progress on editing Gardens.
    
         Pilot's Cove, Friday, June 30.
    
         Lo  and  behold, the year is half over and I'm here  in
    
    Pilot's Cove on a dream vacation.  I have to rub my eyes and
    
    take  a reality check. Yep, it's real!  Dawn broke foggy  on
    
    the  bay, but cleared by 9:00 in the morning.  It is as calm
    
    and  sunny today as yesterday.  We breakfasted on  eggs  and
    
    Canadian  bacon.  I did 14 pages of edited Chapter  15  with
    
    some  added  dialogue to improve pace.  I'm on a  roll  now.
    
    Editing does get easier as I go along because my writing did
    
    improve as I wrote this book.
    
         This   morning's   meditation  suited  the   lugubrious
    
    thoughts  that  I had yesterday for a while. The  meditation
    
    was  titled "Comets," referring to people who go swiftly  in
    
    and  out of our lives and leave their light as they go.  The
    
    metaphor  applies  to  people  who  die  young.  It  was  an
    
    affirmation that the light stays with us.  It was a caution,
    
    which  I  always  need from time to time, not  to  dwell  in
    
    grieving  the comet's passing.  That is what it is like  now
    
    for  me.  My grief comes inevitably, but I do not dwell upon
    
    my grief. I release it.
    
         Terry  Lynn Taylor writes in this meditation that  "The
    
    angels know that each comet person who has left the earth at
    
    a  young age exits in a burst of light that remains for  the
    
    good  of those left behind. A comet would never want  us  to
    
    mourn  its  disappearance."  This reading  provided  what  I
    
    needed.  The reflection that went with it also supplied just
    
    what  I needed at the moment:  "I know in my heart that love
    
    continues to grow across the barriers of time and space."  I
    
    can't  help but believe that the light of Leila's comet  has
    
    helped to manifest the happiness which is mine now.  As long
    
    as  there  is breath in me, there is new life to experience.
    
    Never  can  it  be said that I have seen enough,  adventured
    
    enough,  played enough, laughed enough or loved  enough.  To
    
    have  met  someone of like mind is a boon  for  which  I  am
    
    eternally grateful.
    
         Most  of Friday morning was spent editing. I worked  on
    
    the  laptop  for  several hours. We lunched  on  a  parmesan
    
    noodle  mix, then did more laundry, after which we  went  on
    
    another  island  trek.   The turtle  we  saw  yesterday  was
    
    basking on the same rock.  We climbed through thick woods on
    
    the  west side of the cove, following deer trails.  Rod  had
    
    packed  into his camera case granola bars and bathing suits.
    
    For  the woods trek, I wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants  and
    
    soon was sweating like a pig; even snorting like one while I
    
    followed Rod through the deep woods.
    
         The woods was heavy with cedar, moss-covered ground and
    
    rife  with  wild flowers.  Even this woods was not untouched
    
    by  human kind, for we came across bottles and cans  in  the
    
    densest   underbrush  --  a  hunters'  trail?   When   least
    
    expected,  a bambi darted out in front of Rod. I watched  it
    
    bound  through the forest as near as I ever laid eyes  on  a
    
    fawn  in  my  life, its white spots and white  tail  clearly
    
    visible  as  it  nimbly leapt through the limbs  and  fallen
    
    branches.  Rod  turned  and said,  "If  there's  one  bambi,
    
    there's  got  to  be another one close by."   I  opened  his
    
    camera bag on his back belt and as quietly as I could handed
    
    him the camera.  Sure enough, he was right.  He did not have
    
    far  to  look to spot the second bambi.  Less than  15  feet
    
    away,  he pointed to where the second bambi lay low  between
    
    some  fallen timber, staying straight at us.  Rod positioned
    
    himself  to  take a picture of its little face peeking  out.
    
    Rod  explained that "It was frozen, doing what  it's  mother
    
    had  trained  it  to do."  He said the other  one  had  fled
    
    because  we  had come right up upon it.  We left  the  bambi
    
    lying  in its secluded spot and pushed branches and brambles
    
    aside  as  we continued our trek.  A short distance farther,
    
    Rod  picked  up one deer antler and handed it to  me.  "Your
    
    souvenir."  We emerged from the woods on the North  Channel,
    
    facing  the open water to the south of the cove.  Rod picked
    
    up a flat rock with a perfect hole worn by the action of the
    
    water. "Another souvenir," he said.
    
         When  we arrived back at "our" cove, we took a  dip  in
    
    the  cool water after the heated workout the forest trek had
    
    given us.  We returned to the sailboat to relax and to  read
    
    before beginning supper.  The weather turned overcast  again
    
    and  just as supper was ready, it rained.  I boiled  redskin
    
    potatoes  and Rod barbecued chicken on the deck  grill.   We
    
    dined  again  by candlelight in the cabin with  a  glass  of
    
    Sambucco  di'Amore, a fine licorice-flavored  liqueur.   Rod
    
    struck a match to our tiny liqueur glasses and a blue  flame
    
    licked  the  surface, warming it to the taste.  It  enhanced
    
    the  taste of the meal, making everything go down smooth  as
    
    velvet.
    
         After  cleaning up the meal, we settled down  to  write
    
    for  the evening, snug in the cozy cabin even if it  were  a
    
    grey and overcast evening.
    
         Pilot's Cover, Saturday, July 1.
    
         Cool  today,  but sunny; anchored in Pilot's  Cove  for
    
    another day of the writing.  I had planned to start the  day
    
    with  a  swim in the cove, but the wind and air were just  a
    
    bit  too  nippy  for me, so I opted for a  sponge  bath.   I
    
    warmed  some water to shampoo my hair.  Then we  prepared  a
    
    breakfast  of  venison steak and scrambled eggs  with  green
    
    peppers and onions.  Rod settled down at the laptop for  his
    
    stint   of  writing.   The  quietude  of  the  morning   was
    
    interrupted  by  the  need  to  unplug  the  sink.  (Call  a
    
    plumber?) Tools at hand in Rod's ready bag and his ingenuity
    
    unstopped the drain.  Yes, the sailboat has all the comforts
    
    and discomforts of home.
    
         In the afternoon, we went spelunking again  It was very
    
    chill and windy.  We walked along the bay shore on the North
    
    Channel.  The waves were rolling in with white caps far  out
    
    to  sea.   The  shoreline was rocky.   We  turned  into  the
    
    forest.   There were birch trees at first, then  more  cedar
    
    and fir.  Again we wound our way through deer trails.
    
         In the afternoon our cove was invaded by a sailboat.  A
    
    cabin  cruiser soon followed.  A big yacht appeared  in  the
    
    evening and a fourth big monster after it.  Our cove was not
    
    so  secret!  Considering it was Saturday, that explained the
    
    invasion.   We decided we would leave early Sunday  morning.
    
    The  guy  who came in first with the sailboat had  bent  his
    
    rudder  shaft on the rocks in the narrow neck of  the  cove.
    
    We determined to be super-cautious when left in the morning.
    
    We  had  already  bumped  a rock when  we  came  in  --  but
    
    fortunately no damage.
    
         The  invasion of the monster boats left no doubt it was
    
    time  to  pack up and leave the formerly pristine cove.   We
    
    will  have spent five glorious nights and four days  in  the
    
    cove.   Time to close-down the writers' conference and  move
    
    on.   Our  last  evening was spent writing  and  reading  as
    
    usual, free of insects because it had turned unusually  cold
    
    for the first of July.
    
         Sunday, July 2.
    
         We awoke at 6:00 o'clock and dragged the anchor in from
    
    the shore and cast off, no time to spend for breakfast, just
    
    beat  our  way  to  Mackinac Island.  That  made  it  rather
    
    convenient,  since  we didn't have any breakfast  food  left
    
    anyhow!   Would scurvy strike before we got there?  As  soon
    
    as  we  cleared the cove, I lost my "digital"  sailing  cap.
    
    Boo  hoo, bawl, whine, cry, wail, piss and moan!  I paniced.
    
    There  it  bobbed in the wake.  I whined that we had  to  go
    
    back  and get it.  If the cap were not retrieved, Rod  would
    
    have  to get a new girlfriend!  I scurried below to get  the
    
    long-handled fish net.  I could tell Rod was not pleased  as
    
    he  turned back.  I was under extreme pressure to  net  that
    
    cap when it came along side or my goose was cooked.  I can't
    
    perform  well  under  pressure like that  when  it  requires
    
    physical  prowess of any kind, and this required  a  lot  of
    
    physical  prowess  to scoop that little sucker  out  of  the
    
    water at just the right moment.  So needless to say, I  blew
    
    it,  as  it  was my wont to do under circumstances  such  as
    
    these,  I  proceeded  to whine and moan again,  kicking  and
    
    mewling on the foredeck at my bad shot.
    
         I  was  afraid  Rod  would not  turn  back  again,  but
    
    apparently my tantrum had done some good and he was  turning
    
    the  boat  around to take another shot at it.  This  time  I
    
    knew  I  just had to do it.  This was no easy task with  the
    
    wind   and   waves.    This  time  I  did   scoop   it   up.
    
    Unfortunately, in the process, Rod's cap had blown  off  his
    
    head.  There it was bobbing on the waves.  It again took two
    
    sorties to retrieve his cap from the water.
    
         Finally,  we  headed out of the bay bound for  Mackinac
    
    Island,  beating  the waves across the North  Channel,  Lake
    
    Huron and through the strait to Mackinac City the whole day.
    
    The  wind  was  from  the south.  I got plenty  of  exercise
    
    tacking.   We  decided to go to Mackinac  City  rather  than
    
    Mackinac  Island where there would be little  likelihood  of
    
    getting a slip over the fourth of July holiday weekend.  The
    
    fort  at Mackinac City appealed to the history buffs  in  us
    
    more  than  a  carriage ride around an island,  particularly
    
    since  we  had  just done some real island trekking  in  the
    
    wilds  of  Drummond Island.  Besides Mackinac  Island  meant
    
    more  people.   It  was about 8:00 in the  evening  when  we
    
    motored past the Mackinac Bridge, the sun setting behind it.
    
    The  marina office was already closed when we tied up at the
    
    dock.  Another mariner advised us all the slips were filled,
    
    but  he  was going to stay tied up at the other side of  the
    
    dock and we should do the same thing.  We did.
    
         We  trash-canned the week's garbage and strolled up the
    
    main  street  which led straight down to a gateway  arch  in
    
    front  of  the ferry boat landing to Mackinac  Island.   The
    
    harbor  area  had the air of a fairway.  There was  a  night
    
    time carnival atmosphere about it with a band playing in the
    
    open  air.   There were a host of souvenir and curio  shops.
    
    We  stopped at Mama Mia's Pizza.  We were ravenous,  and  of
    
    course, ordered more than we could eat -- a huge taco pizza.
    
         Rod,  per usual, accused me of eating more than he did;
    
    by  now,  I know it's blarney. As a matter of fact, I  can't
    
    keep  up  with  his  rate of consumption  when  he's  really
    
    hungry,  although I give it the old college try. He gobbles,
    
    gets  done  before I do and then accuses me of  eating  more
    
    than  he  does  when  I'm  still eating.   We  got  ice  and
    
    groceries and walked back to the boat.  The plan was to lay-
    
    over  one  day  at Mackinac City. I was zonked and  counting
    
    "z's" right away.
    
         Mackinac City, Monday, July 3.
    
         We  awoke  at  6:00. I started the  day  by  doing  the
    
    laundry at the marina facilities.  Then I took a shower,  We
    
    walked  a  mile  to Fort Michilimilimac -- a stockaded  fort
    
    near  the  Mackinaw Bridge.  There were a lot of  historical
    
    exhibits on the early history of the area, the fur trade and
    
    birchbark   canoe-making.    We  watched   a   cannon-firing
    
    demonstation by British colonial soldier reenacter and  then
    
    watched a demonstration of the Virginia reel.  We spent some
    
    time,  browsing in the museum shop.  Then we walked back  to
    
    the main drag for fish and chips at the Scalawag Restaurant.
    
    Dessert was ice cream at TCBY.
    
         Rod went back to the boat for a nap and I went souvenir-
    
    shopping  --  got a Great Lake board game for Khalid,  place
    
    mats  and  other junk  After I got done loading myself  down
    
    with  mostly  useless junk, I was ready for  a  nap.   After
    
    nappy-wappy  time,  we  went to the  IGA  grocery  store  to
    
    provision  for  the next leg of our passage on  the  morrow.
    
    The  evening was spent as usual with music, writing, reading
    
    and fuzzy navel drinks.
    
         Our  July  4th holiday was spent sailing from  Mackinaw
    
    City  to Leland, Michigan. We started early Tuesday morning,
    
    but  did  not arrive at Leland until midnight. Although  the
    
    winds  started out well, they were changeable. Late  in  the
    
    day, there was nothing. We were pestered by flies the entire
    
    way. We swatted and sprayed. It was a ship of flies with Rod
    
    as  Lord of the Flies. He was merciless. I vacuumed out  the
    
    cabin from dead flies several times. As fast as I could suck
    
    them  up, a layer of new dead flies appeared. The decks  was
    
    matted with squashed flies.
    
         This  is  why  the  Hindus believe in reincarnation,  I
    
    thought. This is why they never swat a fly; they learned ten
    
    more  just  pop  up.  I  sunned on  the  deck  a  lot,  read
    
    voraciously  from Thomas Tryon's In the Fire of  Spring.  In
    
    the  novel I read during a time-out from our battle  of  the
    
    flies, Aurora's account of her combat with the rats in Italy
    
    --  not  much  of a diversionary tactic to get my  mind  off
    
    pests  and  vermin?  We  approached  Leland  at  night  with
    
    fireworks  being shot off from the shore, visible  from  two
    
    miles out. Probably the main excitement, other than the  on-
    
    going  struggle with the flies, of our passage from Mackinac
    
    City  to Leland was the negotiation of Grey's Reef with  its
    
    shallows.
    
         As  was  to be expected due to our late night  arrival,
    
    the  marina  at Leland was full up. We docked again  by  the
    
    fueling station until morning. We were up at 6:00 again when
    
    the dock master arrived the next day to get a slip just long
    
    enough  to  shower  and eat breakfast  before  setting  sail
    
    again.
    
         After  we  showered, we breakfasted at the  Early  Bird
    
    Cafe.  Leland  is  a quaint fishing village.  The  weathered
    
    fishing  huts  sit close to the shore. The  main  street  is
    
    cutely  decorated with arts and crafts shops. It has  a  lot
    
    more  charm than Mackinaw City. It's fresh and cozy  with  a
    
    lot of flower boxes in windows and a tree-lined main street.
    
    It is purported to be an artist colony. The fishing industry
    
    is  still active here. Rod was intent upon getting fly paper
    
    and  two new fly swatters as the one he had been using  died
    
    in the war.
    
         He  also  needed a new cap, having lost two already  to
    
    the  Great  Lakes on this passage. He found  the  fly  paper
    
    worked  well.  The only trouble was for me to avoid  getting
    
    hair  caught  in it, particularly when the boat  swayed.  We
    
    started  out  in the morning with a good wind. When  we  got
    
    between  the  Manitou Islands we ran into trouble  with  the
    
    changing  winds  and  shoals. Rather than  keep  tacking  we
    
    motored out of the islands to save time. It was 93 miles  to
    
    our  next  destination  -- Manitowoc, Wisconsin.  Wisconsin,
    
    yeah,  Wisconsin! Wisconsin meant we were on the right  side
    
    of Lake Michigan heading home. Wisconsin was finally my neck
    
    of the woods (waves?).
    
         We  scooted along the high waves, finally on  the  open
    
    waters  of  Lake Michigan, hip hip hooray, my  lake!  In  my
    
    youth,  staring  at  the  wide  waters  and  cresting  waves
    
    pounding  Montrose  Harbor or the boulders  at  Northwestern
    
    University, never, in the wildest flights of my imagination,
    
    did  I  think I would be out on a 33-foot sailboat on  these
    
    grey  and  moody crests! I was a landlubber par  excellence.
    
    Now  big white caps broke across the bow of the boat. It was
    
    thrilling. We sat high on the deck watching for the  highest
    
    waves  to  roll and break against the bow. We  got  out  our
    
    cameras  to capture the peaks and troughs of these  exciting
    
    waves.
    
         Wow!  Pow! Bang! Boom! It was great! Even being  doused
    
    with  water  from  one  mother  of  waves  did  not  dim  my
    
    enthusiasm.  It  was exhilarating in the extreme  until  the
    
    weather  grew uglier as we headed into foul weather, beating
    
    the  waves as we went. Then the storm came and the rain fell
    
    and  Olivia was not so eager any more. Her chicken  feathers
    
    began to show again. After beating the waves all day, I  was
    
    growing weary. When I get over-tired, I get weepy. The  sail
    
    had  to  be reefed twice. At one point, I started crying  in
    
    the  storm.  Oh,  not again! What a baby! I was  becoming  a
    
    nervous wreck with the rain, wind and watching Rod furiously
    
    work  up  on the foredeck. I tried to cook a meal -- residue
    
    stew   from  our  remaining  perishables  --  red  potatoes,
    
    venison, bell peppers, zucchini squash. The boat was heeling
    
    so  bad  that the stove caught fire twice. Rod had  to  come
    
    below  and  put  it out. The flame from the one  burner  was
    
    blowing  sideways so much that eventually the  other  burner
    
    caught  fire.  Luckily,  he  did  not  have  use  the   fire
    
    extinguisher, but a part of the fiberglass counter burned.
    
         We  beat against the high winds and waves southwesterly
    
    across  Lake  Michigan. Rod only slept one hour  the  entire
    
    night.  I  was beginning to feel "as useless as teats  on  a
    
    pig"  as  my U.S. Navy vet father always used to say,  among
    
    other  more  colorful expressions, with Rod  doing  all  the
    
    work.  I  was shamelessly tired and wanted to sleep,  sleep,
    
    sleep,  get in my warm zip-up flannel jammies and go to  bed
    
    with my teddy bear and pacifier.
    
         We  motored  into Manitowoc Harbor by the dawn's  early
    
    light.  It  was around 5:00 o'clock in the morning  and  the
    
    dock attendant was just arriving. He said he had spotted our
    
    boat  coming in from his house. Early risers at  the  marina
    
    were  curious about what we had encountered as we  tied  the
    
    boat up still in our foul weather gear, harnessess, and life
    
    preserver belts. First we took a hot shower at the marina. I
    
    stood  under  the water with the ground still swaying  under
    
    me.  As soon as we returned to the boat, we crawled into the
    
    berth and slept soundly.
    
         Manitowoc, Wisconsin, July 6, Thursday.
    
         I  awoke from deadbone sleep about 11:00 a.m. and  went
    
    to do the laundry at the marina. I read a book while waiting
    
    for the laundry to be done. When I returned to the boat, Rod
    
    was  awake and cleaning up the cabin. He had warmed  up  the
    
    "residue  stew" from the night before, which neither  of  us
    
    had  time or inclination to eat in the foul weather and loss
    
    of  appetite  we  had  experienced after  the  fire-fighting
    
    activities of the night before. We dined at the cabin  table
    
    with  place mats and table settings again. What a rest after
    
    the storm! I went back to let the clothes go through another
    
    cycle in the dryer. Rod halped me fold the clothes and carry
    
    them  back  to the boat. We decided to do something  totally
    
    mindless like going to a movie and hit upon seeing "Congo."
    
         Before show time, we took a walk to downtown Manitowoc.
    
    A  river  divides the city. A Budweiser brewery  sits  on  a
    
    point  at  the river's mouth -- a sure sign we were  in  the
    
    state  of Wisconsin. Its motto: "A tavern in every clearing;
    
    a  bowling  ball in every alley; a beer in every belly."  We
    
    saw a mariner's museum on the bank of the river. Rod spotted
    
    a  submarine  anchored  in back. It was  a  U.S.  WWII,  the
    
    "Cobia."  Just  as we were leaving, a tour  group  left  the
    
    submarine.  Rod wanted to take the tour. We went  inside  to
    
    see  about  the  tour.  It  was  a  45-minute  tour.  I  was
    
    disinterested  in touring a sub -- I'd been  on  such  tours
    
    when  I worked at Great Lakes Naval and at other museums.  I
    
    was ho-hum about viewing a hunk of metal and steel. I really
    
    wanted  to  get to the music shop before the movie  started.
    
    Rod  changed  his mind about the tour. I trust  it  was  not
    
    because I was not jumping up and down with excitement  about
    
    it.  I honestly preferred just to walk than to be cooped  up
    
    inside a sub for 45-minutes with metal gear and contraptions
    
    all around.
    
         We  crossed  the river at 10th Street and went  up  two
    
    blocks to the Golden Ring Folk Music Store. It genuinely was
    
    a  folk  musician's  store.  It carried  mandolins,  banjos,
    
    dulcimers  and harmonicas plus all the folk music tapes  and
    
    songbooks  of  the  Midwest.  It  even  carried  "Sing  Out"
    
    Magazine. I bought my guitar strings, finally replacing  the
    
    one  I  needed  after the mishap of the first day  out.  Rod
    
    bought  a  new b-flat harmonica. Din-din was at  Pizza  Hut,
    
    then  on  to the movie. I find it increasingly difficult  to
    
    sit  still  in  movies.  My legs  bother  me.  I  can't  get
    
    comfortable  in movie theater seats. I had to stand  up  and
    
    walk  a  bit. I came back and had the same problem  with  my
    
    legs. I had to do something unladylike and put my legs up on
    
    the  seat in front of me. I also have problems staying awake
    
    in  movie  theaters. I slept through half of the movie.  Rod
    
    assured me I didn't snore. He said the movie was not as good
    
    as the book.
    
         When  we  got  back to the boat, I managed  to  read  a
    
    little  before falling asleep. Tomorrow we would get up  and
    
    head  for  Kenosha  --  the last leg  of  our  journey.  God
    
    willing, it would be a west wind.
    
         Friday, July 7.
    
         We  set sail early. By 7:00 o'clock we were out in  the
    
    Manitowoc Harbor. A fishing boat was bobbing in front of us.
    
    I was at the helm. Just as I approached, the boat decided to
    
    motor in front of me. I veered to the port side. Because  of
    
    the  fishing boat's injudicious action, its line got  caught
    
    on  our boat. The day started out chill and overclouded.  As
    
    we  progressed southward, the day brightened more  and  more
    
    until  we shook off our sweatshirts and jackets and  put  on
    
    bathing suits. The wind was in our favor for a good 50 miles
    
    pushing  us along as high as 9 knots. Rod put the  spinnaker
    
    up  (which word I can now put the correct syl-la-ble on) and
    
    got  as  much  mileage  as  he  could  out  of  the  sailing
    
    conditions.
    
         I  sunned  myself  on  the foredeck  for  most  of  the
    
    afternoon, watching the billowing spinnaker, its navy  blue,
    
    red  and  white  colors  filled out in  the  wind.  The  sun
    
    glistened on the more tranquil waters of Lake Michigan.  Who
    
    would believe that this was the moody lady who had thrown  a
    
    fit  on Wednesday when we crossed over to the Wisconsin side
    
    from  Leland, Michigan? I gloried in the warmth of  the  sun
    
    and  its  cleansing powers washing over  me.  I  prayed  for
    
    lightness to embrace the troubled and brooding Khalid.
    
         I  saw  angels  of  the lake walk the  waters  of  Lake
    
    Michigan. Their sprite-like forms danced, hovered  upon  the
    
    surface in oblong shapes of light yellow. I saw them earlier
    
    too  on  the upper reaches of Lake Michigan. The wind,  sky,
    
    sun  and water blessed the final day of the passage, wishing
    
    us, perhaps, a "fare-thee-well." What a wonderful finale  to
    
    our  journey! It was similar to the bright day we first  set
    
    sail  on June 23rd from Gibraltar, Michigan. The skyline  of
    
    Milwaukee  shone like a New Jerusalem from 25 miles  off.  I
    
    sat  on the foredeck with my feet dangling between the  life
    
    lines.
    
         On  this  unearthly  beautiful day as  we  sailed  Lake
    
    Michigan with the skyline of Milwaukee in view, thoughts  of
    
    Leila assailed me again. This was the city where she was  so
    
    deliriously happy. And here I was at the most intense moment
    
    of  my  earthly  happiness,  enjoying  Nature  at  its  most
    
    intimate  and benign level, and grief overwhelms  me  again.
    
    All  the pain of her loss washes over me. Why could she  not
    
    be  experiencing  what  I  am experiencing?  The  ectasy  of
    
    Nature;  the peace, the bliss, the clarity of this day?  Why
    
    was  this  all  out  of her grasp? Surely,  she  wanted  it.
    
    Surely, it could have all been hers like it is mine now.
    
         Yet, wait, perhaps her bliss, forsaking this earth,  is
    
    greater  than  mine. But I choose the lightness,  choose  to
    
    venture courageously forth and claim what is my birthright -
    
    -  this  wonderful earth, the open air. This is what I  have
    
    desired  and  striven  to attain all  my  life.  It  is  the
    
    fulfillment in the now, which every man and woman wishes  to
    
    attain.  It  is  only  in  their unhappiness  and  in  their
    
    depression  that  their frustration manifests  itself  in  a
    
    failure  to  attain this unity. It is there for the  having,
    
    but  each man and woman must first connect with their  inner
    
    core,  find  that  peace which passeth understanding  before
    
    they  can share it with someone else. Before that, they have
    
    only  a  great need, a great hunger to ask of a  partner.  A
    
    hunger  which their partner, whomever he or she may be,  can
    
    never satisfy.
    
         Tears ran down my cheeks with the sadness which loss of
    
    Leila  brings.  I had to reclaim my happiness,  reaffirm  to
    
    myself that I deserved the abundance I was now experiencing.
    
    Abundant joy. Abundant peace. Abundant love. That love which
    
    extends  beyond  the grave is manifest. I  cannot  help  but
    
    believe  that  Leila  in  conjunction  with  the  angels  is
    
    providing  this  balm to my soul. The sea has  wrought  this
    
    happiness. The terrors of the sea mirror the terrors of  the
    
    human heart. They can be managed as Rod manages the sails to
    
    weather  the  storms.  He  stated  to  me,  Trust  in  your
    
    knowledge  and in the ship. The craft is designed  to  meet
    
    the  wind  and wave. The heeling of the boat only  terrifies
    
    the  souls  who do not understand the dynamics of the  boat.
    
    Leila  did not understand the dynamics of the ship of  life.
    
    She  was terrified. She jumped off instead of sticking  with
    
    it.  I  wiped my eyes, determined to go on and to enjoy  the
    
    blessings which have been bestowed upon me.
    
         The  wind  died down to nothing and we were  forced  to
    
    motor  from  south  of Milwaukee to Kenosha.  We  docked  at
    
    Southport  Marina  about 10:00 at night. We  celebrated  our
    
    successful  passage at his quarters with  the  last  of  the
    
    ships's  provisions: bratwurst, rice, corn on  the  cob  and
    
    fuzzy  navels.  Everything  had been  planned,  managed  and
    
    calculated  down to the last provision. Nothing remained  of
    
    the ships's stores.
    
                   OLIVIA'S FINAL RELECTIONS UPON
    
              THE GREAT LAKE SAILING ADVENTURE OF 1995:
    
         It's time to pause and to take stock of what this great
    
    sailing  passage from Lake Erie to Lake Michigan at  Kenosha
    
    has meant for me.
    
         I would say that it has has been "the time of my life."
    
    I  have  been fortunate to have seen and to have  done  many
    
    unusual  things  in  my  life. I  have  traveled  far.  I've
    
    lived in a different country, yet nothing has ever moved  me
    
    as  intensely as sailing. I must say that it is  a  sensuous
    
    experience.  It  is an elemental experience.  If  a  mariner
    
    never  could  quite fit in society after sailing  the  seven
    
    seas, I can very well appreciate why now.
    
         I have some appreciation of what a transatlantic voyage
    
    must  have  been  like albeit on a much smaller  scale.  The
    
    longest  we  were on the sea was three days, but  it  was  a
    
    relief always to dock and walk on land for a while. That  is
    
    not  to  say,  that I did not as eagerly set  sail  away.  I
    
    enjoyed the high waves; I enjoyed the motion of the boat;  I
    
    enjoyed the spray hitting me in the face. Zipping along at a
    
    fast  clip  on  a sailboat made me feel like  Queen  of  the
    
    World.
    
         In  the  storm,  it is true, I lost  my  nerve.  I  was
    
    frazzled and overtired. I whimpered and whined. Rod  handled
    
    the  entire  situation while I cowered and cringed.  It  did
    
    teach  me that the storm can be weathered, but you  have  to
    
    know how to react and act, anticipate and move with what the
    
    wind and rain dish out. It is not a mission impossible. I do
    
    not  have  the knowledge of reading charts and  working  the
    
    instrumentation which Rod has. He always knew our  position,
    
    avoided  shoals  and shores. He knew the  depth  and  always
    
    planned a course away from shallows, reefs, places where  we
    
    would be liable to run afoul.
    
         I  learned what it feels like to have a man in  whom  I
    
    could  put complete faith and trust. I've never had  such  a
    
    man.  Rod never let fear overcome me. I traveled a lot  with
    
    Abdu,  but  I  always questioned the sanity of what  he  was
    
    doing.  Even  traveling across the  U.S.  with  him,  I  had
    
    inordinate fears; he didn't know what to do; he didn't  know
    
    where  we  were going; the trip was ill-planned;  he  wasn't
    
    spending the money wisely; on and on. The fact of the matter
    
    is  I've never had a man so capable and so solicitous of  my
    
    well-being  and  my feeling as Rod is. The  trip  made  that
    
    abundantly clear, as if it had not been before.
    
         Rod  thrived on studying the wind, planning the course,
    
    working the sails and soaking up the pure joy of wind, rain,
    
    sun, wave and sky. He is a very sensuous man. That is a very
    
    positive adjective. It means he is a very alive, aware human
    
    being. He does not miss a trick. He observes everything.  He
    
    picks  up every nuance of meaning, natural phenomena,  which
    
    comes within his range.
    
         The sea is sensuous. It is changeable, as changeable as
    
    life.  In being so, it teaches us to accept joy and  sorrow.
    
    Each  in its turn comes. We must roll with it, set our sails
    
    to  meet what life deals us, and with all, the journey  must
    
    continue, until our passage is completed. In actuality,  our
    
    passage is always completed only to embark upon a new phase,
    
    a  new  life; for life is never-ending like the endless  ebb
    
    and flow of the sea.
    
         A  sailing vacation is the ultimate get-away. There  is
    
    no better way to simultaneously get away from "civilization"
    
    and  to get into yourself and who you are. You must confront
    
    head-on  your physical, spiritual and intellectual  make-up.
    
    The  elements alternately sooth and assail your  body.  Your
    
    five  senses  are at work constantly. Fortunately,  you  are
    
    inhaling  fresh air. The inhalation and exhalation of  these
    
    airs  at  sea  purify you and wash the toxins of  negativity
    
    from your soul.
    
         The passage, thus, must have been the greatest vacation
    
    of  my  life. I lived at close quarters with Rod for sixteen
    
    days.  We  experienced  all kinds  of  weather  and  sailing
    
    conditions.  We shared the joys and the discomforts  of  the
    
    voyage.  The mundane tasks of cleaning, cooking and  laundry
    
    had  to  be  tended to. It was not all a picture postcard of
    
    sails  on Sunset Bay. We cooked, worked, laughed and  played
    
    in  a  cooperative  environment. We  did  this  while  being
    
    confined  to a 33-foot long space in the middle of big  body
    
    of  water. No other amusements were present but Nature,  the
    
    boat, the music, writing, two books and the company of  each
    
    other.  Nary an unkind word. I'm not disillusioned, I'm  not
    
    sorry I made the passage. Pinch me; I am not dreaming. I  am
    
    enlarged  and expanded beyond my wildest expectations.  This
    
    is  not  fiction;  it's non-fiction. If  you  want  to  read
    
    fiction  read Rod's Disciples or my Gardens as soon as  they
    
    hit your local bookstores.