Learning to bloom where you’re planted
Issue 44: Sept/Oct 2005
IT WAS MID-JUNE IN DULUTH/SUPERIOR on the Minnesota/Wisconsin border. We had a cockpit awning up . . . but not because of the sun. It rained for some portion of every day this spring, it seemed. So early spring lingered on near that great cold lake that has been our cruising ground for about 15 years.
On the day in question the weather-man had offered us bone-chilling 40-something temperatures with heavy fog, light wind, and occasional rain. But what’s a sailor to do? This was the weekend we had available for working on our boat, which had been launched two weeks earlier. She had then floated — patient and neglected — while we made a mad dash to New Jersey and Maryland to do a couple of stories.
“You shoulda been here earlier this week,” the locals said. “It was pretty nice on Monday . . . and Thursday.” Nuts! Summer had come to Duluth while we were out of town! Sometimes you miss out.
So there I was, sitting in the cock-pit sewing battens into the mainsail. What? Nobody else does this? It’s a spring ritual with us. The boat chick (that’d be me) must sew a few stitches at the end of each of the four battens to reassure the captain that they won’t fly out of there at some most inappropriate time when the sails are flogging. The next job would be to bend on the main, which would make Mystic look as if she could sail again after her long time out on stands in the snow.
There was a heater running in the cabin, but the cabin was in the usual spring disorder, and a mainsail is a large thing to unfold inside. To make sitting in the cockpit comfortable in 40-degree weather, I was wearing several layers of clothing plus my foul-weather jacket. My fingers were numb. Aware of the oddity of the total image in mid-June, I looked up at Jerry, when he returned with quarts of oil for an engine oil change, and said brightly, “I thought I’d sew out here where I could catch a few rays!”
Delightful weather
While sewing, I had been ruminating on the fact that we’d already been sailing on four boats — in delightful weather — out east. It makes one consider one’s own cruising ground, with its short season, in a new light. It’s one thing to know that they’re sailing in Florida, Texas, the Gulf Coast, Southern California, and a slew of inland lakes down south all winter while my boat’s on stands. But that’s tempered by the certain knowledge that it’s beastly there in the summer when I’m enjoying the coolest of lake-chilled breezes on my boat. We seldom swelter, at least. Besides, those southern cruising grounds were the inspiration for our second (and trailerable) boat. We’re still working on that boat, but some winter soon we will enjoy the best of both worlds.
“What about all those cruising grounds in between?” I pondered. The Chesapeake Bay and other areas nearby on the East Coast suffer from high population density. So many sailors. So much demand on the marine services and available anchorages there. The New England coast is lovely. It reminds me of Lake Superior’s natural beauty. But the seasons are nearly as short. And the population crush is just as problematic when the crowds from farther south seek a cooler location in mid-summer. And what of the many lobster pots?
California sailors have the requisite good weather but they lack my kind of cruising grounds: lots of great island anchorages only a sail away. That leaves the Pacific Northwest . . . a beautiful cruising ground. The season is longer. The water doesn’t freeze. Alaska beckons. The underwater logs are more frightening than lobster pots, however.
By the time you read this, we will have sailed Mystic to a new cruising ground: the North Channel of Lake Huron. The season is a tad longer there. The water’s warmer. And there are new anchorages to explore. But it’s a heck of a long drive from our home in Minneapolis. This one drawback will have a serious impact on our sailing lifestyle. We’ll go for longer periods less often.
What it all boils down to is that no sailing location is perfect. But all are wonderful to those who live nearby. Sailors everywhere make the most of the largest body of water closest to where they live and work. A common expression from the 1970s expresses this nicely: “Bloom where you are planted.” By necessity we all sail where we are located.
In my case, that means “catching rays” while wrapped in many layers and sitting under an awning in the cold and foggy rain. The summer’s rewards will be worth every finger-numbing stitch in the mainsail.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
