The siren song urges him to chase the autumn south
Issue 51 : Nov/Dec 2006
During our three-week cruise of the vast inland sea known as Lake Huron, it struck me: days and days of sailing, and still we’d covered only a fraction of this decidedly great lake.
It was August then. Not that the winds were particularly tame. One day we were pinned down in a Canadian port by 30-knot winds and 10-foot seas just beyond the point. But now, six weeks later, this evening is different. The wind on the bay, though not particularly forceful, has a weightiness to it that wasn’t present in summer. It has a voice of foreboding, yet the siren song calls me to sail on, to chase the autumn south and skip winter entirely.
That so much water should turn to unyielding ice just isn’t right. So let’s see . . . all the money in my wallet probably wouldn’t get us to the next safe harbor. How far could the credit card carry us in a month? There are 3 gallons of fuel in the tank — 10 or 12 hours — plus a couple more gallons in a jerry can; waves two to three feet; and a steady northeast wind at 13 knots — looks like it might hold through the night — should get us close to the St. Clair River by mid-morning. Then on to Lake Erie, Ontario . . . the Erie Canal to NYC . . . And from there point her south. Anywhere south.
Would temporary insanity qualify as an excuse for not showing up at work for a couple of months? Surely some doctor would prescribe several more months of sailing to recover from my lapse of sensibility. Then, who knows, maybe a book deal: End of Myself: Beginning of Life. Do they hand out advances to slightly deranged, little-known authors?
The sun sinks below a narrow band of clouds just above the horizon, their golden edges morphing into crimson flames. Huddled in the cockpit and shivering under a blanket, my wife watches the show. Could I get her to buy into this? She’s always been the level-headed one. It’d be a tough sell.
Then there’re the kids. They’re bound to notice we’re not around when the pantry ceases auto-restocking. And what about the dog?
My thoughts converse with the voices on the wind as darkness descends. The song of the sea on the October wind is entrancing, but in the end I put the helm over and head for home. For now.
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