Issue 6 : May/Jun 1999
I had just spent the better part of a week getting to Harbor Island, north of Drummond, Mich. I dropped anchor about three hours ago in an almost totally enclosed bay, secured the boat and settled down for an after dinner respite. This spot is especially nice: only about four boats, silent trees reflected on the water. An osprey on the branch of a dead tree ashore was keeping watch over the chicks, while its partner hunted the sunset-silvered waters for the family dinner. As I sat there, I thought back to a conversation I had with my friend Marv Slocum about navigation not long ago.
It came about as Marv, one of the few people I trust on watch aboard Devil’s Dream II (my gently aging Tartan 34), and I were observing some of the hard-drinking, loud-partying, casual boaters who inhabit our marina. We remarked about the fact that their boats never seem to leave the dock. Oh, the boats are big, capable yachts, but they are always there like fixtures of the harbor: lightposts and the like.
I’d just come from having a conversation with one of them about the proper use of GPS. He had confidently stated that he was going to lead a group of them on one of their infrequent trips across the lake to Belle River, Ontario. Thirty miles or so. Always in sight of land. He would simply enter the coordinates of the destination in his GPS, and the instrument would tell him the course to steer. I pointed out to him that he might want to look at the chart first, as there might be something in between here and there that could cause a problem: land or something like that.
“You think so?” was the reply.
Well, yeah, I did. And I proceded to fill him in on the rudiments of coastwise piloting. He had no idea of how it worked. You know, draw a line on the chart between the start and the finish and see if it crosses land, or rocks or . . . well you get the idea. Too bad he didn’t.
As I related this to Marv, I idly asked him what these folks must think about our regular singlehanded trips to faraway places on the Great Lakes, like the North Channel, Fayette, or Green Bay. He carefully sighted along the edge of the new centerboard he was building from scratch for Growler, his 1969 Tartan 27, and shaking his head, carefully shaved off another sliver or two of resin with his file. He quietly replied, “They think we’re wizards.”
As I sit here at anchor, quietly watching the osprey hunt for dinner over the silent, silver water I have to chuckle about that. But you know, I do feel like a wizard just now.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
