Issue 28 : Jan/Feb 2003
We’d let the delivery wait too long. Doing a story in warm, sunny South Carolina made it seem like we had all the time in the world, but on the great prairie autumn was leaving early and winter was in close pursuit. We needed to move our boat down the southern coast of Lake Superior from her summer slip to her winter haulout location at the western end of the lake. Looking for one more weather window, we monitored the weather from 250 miles away at the Good Old Boat magazine international headquarters while working on the next issue.
We finally picked the high-pressure cell with our name on it and tried to time our arrival with the trailing edge of the cold front that would precede it. We’d been using that strategy all summer with passably decent results.
No strategy is perfectly applicable to all problems, however. When we arrived at the boat and listened to the weather we realized we had about a six-hour window for this delivery, while we needed more like a 12- to 15-hour window. The weather was only going to deteriorate for the next several days, so we left at once rather than sleeping overnight and leaving in the morning after the cold front had blown through. We knew there would be a snowstorm about midnight, and we’d only be three-quarters of the way there.
Now, sailing in a snowstorm is actually amusing for a few hours with a good crew in daylight. It gives you great bragging rights and makes interesting sea stories. Sailing shorthanded in a snowstorm at night with the offwatch below where they might not hear your last cries as you slide off an icy deck while changing a jib is not amusing. I didn’t even consider it. We fired up the beast in the bilge, set a good cruising speed, cleared the islands of our home cruising grounds, and locked the autopilot on the base course. Then we turned on the diesel heater and made up the sea berth.
The offwatch slept in the warm cabin, and the watch-stander stood in the companionway with his (or her) head poked out of the hatch while monitoring the radar and “Nintendo navigation system,” occasionally going into the cockpit to check engine temperature or tweak the autopilot to stay on the rhumb line.
The wind swung from a moderate nor’easter, to southerly, then to a southeasterly, and back. Then the snow came. The barometer never moved. There was no other shipping even though we were just off the Duluth shipping lane. Visibility closed down to maybe a quarter mile, but the wind was from the shore and held at only a fresh breeze. Relying heavily on the electronics, we found the entrance and made our way into the inner harbor of Duluth/Superior. We picked out the last of the little buoys marking the entrance to Barker’s Island Marina using a battery-powered spotlight that will melt paint at 50 yards.
Once there, Karen refused to jump to the pier because it had four inches of wet snow on it. It took two approaches to park Mystic’s starboard beam dead nuts against the finger pier so she could gingerly step ashore. It was 3 a.m.
Done.
The end of a wonderful season . . . one in which we needed a dozen weather windows to work our silly plans. . . one in which we got them all . . . one in which the boat and gear all worked with nothing to replace or fix. Thank you, Thor, for seeking other playmates. Thank you, Neptune, for offering only the challenges that we could meet. Thank you, little Mystic, you are one mighty fine boat. Thank you to the little red beast in the bilge for pushing us the last 12 hours without a hiccup. Thank you to that sinfully decadent navigation suite without which I would not consider traveling in snowstorms in the dark.
The marina is a quiet place with four inches of snow on it. Nothing much moves, and the snow deadens the sound. The end of the season and time to hit the rack. Thank you to all, and to all a good night.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
