A not-to-be-forgotten experience on the dark sea
Issue 57 : Nov/Dec 2007
Everyone remembers his or hers first time with crystal clarity. Mine happened during the past summer, so it is particularly poignant. We had left Otter Cove in northern Lake Superior for a night crossing to the Slate Islands, approximately 70 miles to the east. The plan was to arrive at dawn. We’d been waiting out a windy frontal system in the shelter of the cove and wanted to arrive in the Slates before the next big wind would begin to blow right at us from the east.
So we left in the late afternoon, sailing in a sloppy sea of southwest waves that still had height, if not a lot of force, associated with them. Behind us, a beautiful sunset melted into a clear night. I always hope for northern lights on nights like that, but I am usually disappointed. Nonetheless, I am generally rewarded with a black night sky studded with stars. There are no significant city lights for miles around on this part of the lake, and the inky sky makes an amazing contrast to the night lights that blink on one by one. There were shooting stars galore. The sky was alive with emerging constellations as the heavens darkened around us. Even the gauzy-looking Milky Way was complete, as if a giant fairy had taken a wand and spread this magic carpet to the heavens.
My turn
When dinner was over, I took the helm for a while. The following seas were too large for the Autohelm, so the sailors who were aboard had to keep a hand in things. Jerry pointed out that there was a new lighthouse now visible on the horizon. It was the Slate Islands Light, right where we expected it to be. All was well with the world. I was feeling very contented with life in general.
Jerry hadn’t been gone for more than a minute or two before it happened. There was clearly something else directly in our path out there on the horizon. What was that light? It was very orange and growing closer by the minute. Another lighthouse? Another small town out there? If so, which one?
A couple of agonizing minutes later it became clear that an enormous moon would emerge from out of the sea. A large crescent, rather than a full round shape, it had emerged as a spear and not a globe. And it had emerged just as I’ve read it does for others: overlarge and frighteningly unexpected.
It rose rapidly, its light blotting out the Milky Way and many of the fainter stars. It gave me something simple to steer by for a while as it painted a path of gold across the water between Mystic and the far side of the lake. But it inched to starboard, and we carried on, ever onward, toward the Slate Islands still 30 miles to the east.
Many sailors have described their first horrified experience with the rising moon (a large ship? a town? a flying saucer? a fire? even an enemy during times of combat?). Jerry has his own tale of a similar experience on Mystic five or 10 years ago. But hearing about someone else’s experience is never quite like experiencing it for yourself. As I went below for a couple of hours of sleep, I was still entranced with my own, very own, first time.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
