boats’ limits were, and more importantly, my own while under sail. Finally, aſter two days of waiting, with


the wind and waves easing just enough... away! One awkward gibe in high winds as we finally leave Little Current and then I was out, out in the hiking straps close hauled on port-tack, hour aſter hour and blasting past familiar islands and land- marks: through Waubuno and into the North Channel, around the shallows and waves of Solomon Point which caused so much grief the previous season, and then beyond Fox and Frechette islands and into McBean Channel. Tis is why I sailed that summer: to know the sun, the sky, the waves and wind. I navigated among the is- lands and shoals on the maps and the same within myself. I plowed west past grand yachts with their canvas down, motoring east, and waved to them that all was well. I hammered past campsites from previous years, safe havens of sand and stone, and tore into the horizon beyond old hazards, old problems and feelings. I felt the power of the water through the tiller and the wild delight of air through the straining sails and the glorious push of the elements through the hull and into my bones. On and on I went, three, four, five hours with- out a single tack. It was difficult, almost impossible, to get the hands free from the sheet and the tiller to eat, so I drank from my water pack strapped over my PFD to avoid dehydration. Six and seven hours on port—through the narrow confines of the turbulent Little Detroit gap and into the murkier waters of Whalesback Channel—passing Shanly and Passage Is- lands on waning abdominals. Aſter eight, almost nine hours on the tiller, I started scanning for a campsite around Aird Bay, my body aching for food, rest, sleep, rejuvenation. The wind and waves were still up and there was no lee shore here to shelter the boat, no graceful exit from the day’s challenges. A little beyond Forwood Point, I sailed on the nose, and glided into thin stalks of reedy grass and slid over the roll tanks of the hull and into the muddy shallows, tugging on the bow handle and keeping the bow to weather. Te beautiful clear water churned brown beneath my tired legs. I found a wisp of mud between grave sized boulders for the boat. It was enough. With a tender back, the tent was set up, dinner and coffee put on the stove and the boat, all thirteen feet, ten inches, wonderfully idle. A day of Tennysian pro- portions for me and my little craſt, a day


14


of “noble note.” Before sleep overcame me, I pondered


the truly incredible exploits of the late Frank Dye, sailing his Wayfarer into the wilderness of the North Atlantic from Scotland to Norway and Iceland. His phi- losophy was summed up in the statement that as long as the fascination outweighed the fear, on he would sail. I also knew that sixteen years earlier, Dye sailed into Spragge on a much longer fresh water voyage through the Great Lakes. When I mention his name and adventures to sail- ors and non-sailors, many of them don’t sense the grit and fire in the man’s belly, only the selfishness, that opaque “asking for it” quality in the tone of their voice. Tis insinuation of irresponsibility makes me sad and yet today, Dye’s boat Wanderer shares the company of Slocum’s Spray, Chichester’s Gypsy Moth 4, and Robin Knox-Johnston’s Suhali. Magnificent boats all.


Why should their thresh- olds, their limits, become mine? As they stand there staring at my gear and boat with their hands in their pockets, they are not aware of the physical and psychological invest- ments I have made in the boat and myself over the past three seasons on the North Channel.


I have heard the same tone expressed


from friends and unkind strangers who feel that what I undertake in my thir- ty-one year old piece of fiberglass is odd, irresponsible, “out there.” Part of me agrees with their casual thinking, but the larger part doesn’t. Why should their thresholds, their limits, become mine? As they stand there staring at my gear and boat with their hands in their pockets, they are not aware of the physical and psychological investments I have made in the boat and myself over the past three seasons on the North Channel. How the boat and myself have become comfort- able, stronger and more graceful together.


Also, they may not be aware that in the 1970s active Wayfarer sailors had many adventures on these waters. Timid sailors would probably wince at the wear and tear I expect my boat and my body to manage: at the very least, bumps on the rudder, daggerboard and hull, and at the other extreme, an awareness that this boat, this experience, is all too perishable, and that psychologically, I am prepared to lose and abandon my boat. If something goes spectacularly wrong, I know I am hiking and swimming on aching feet back to the nearest town on the north shore, and my next trip will become a salvage one. Under leaden skies the following morn-


ing, I sat comfortably in the bottom of the boat, and rested my tender back as I ran gently west towards Spragge into Whalesback Channel. I thought of my mother as it was her birthday and won- dered if there was a phone in Spragge that I might call her. It was raining and I was cold, shivering in my thin neoprene suit. Nevertheless, the narrowing waist of the channel studded with islands such as Nor- quay, Greenway, Parsons and Prendergast, were as beautiful as any I have seen on the Great Lakes, and made this portion of the trip achingly picturesque. If one had to showcase the concept of “island” in a museum, any one of these fragments of the Canadian Shield would amply fill the space behind the glass. Treading my way through this labyrinth of stone and water, I was always scouting for possible nests for the boat and my tent. I noted with delight there was ample soſt and sandy coves on the north side of John Island. I also came to realize this is not “wilderness” by any stretch; these are old and well loved cruis- ing waters for power and sailboats alike. A hesitant sun appeared near midday


and I stretched my cold, trembling limbs into it. My black ball cap was lost in the dark water tacking past Long Point as the the boat broad reached north and then back east as we entered Serpent Harbour. At Spragge marina, my westerly destination, I beached the Force 5 long enough to discover that I was not camping in the vicinity. I was politely redirected farther east up the Serpent River to the KOA campground, and this necessitated another unique sailing experience, la- zily running up about a mile of a gentle winding, turgid river. As I sailed on, boat against the current, I felt conflicted by the odd welcome yet firm refusal to stay at the marina. My mood changed as my hosts at


SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR


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