A First Trip to Lake Erie

Even as a neophyte sailor, I yearned for adventure. I had been sailing my old South Coast 22 sloop "Bohemian" for over a year on a small lake in Indiana where 1-1/2 footers are considered heavy weather. I dreamed of the open seas; I settled for Lake Erie's islands where my cousin Greg, a long time power boater, owns a dock. We set sail on our adventure one cloudy June morning. Sprinkles in the morning gave way to sunny skies and a light but steady breeze. This is what I had imagined sailing was all about. Life was good.

We sailed to Put-in-Bay for lunch. Along the way the rudder fell off. Nothing a few carefully aimed blows with a hammer couldn't fix, mind you. Then the motor refused to start as we prepared to leave Put-in-Bay. We hoisted sail at the dock, almost drifting into a pier to the amazement of onlookers on a passing Catalina 30. On the way back to the mainland the winds died, leaving us bobbing uncomfortably in the hot sun. Much to my consternation, the normally faithful outboard again refused to start. A generous soul in a Tartan 27 drifted by and tossed us a spark plug wrench and some WD-40. The engine eventually coughed to life, allowing us to sputter slowly back to the mainland.

After dinner ashore and a lengthy search for fresh spark plugs, Greg and I found darkness closing in at the state park launching ramp where Bohemian was "double parked." In the meantime, the winds had kicked up and small craft advisories were now in effect. What to do? Even though waves were crashing over the breakwater, I turned to Greg with a naive confidence, suggesting that we take a fun night sail to his dock on Middle Bass Island. Mistakenly believing that I knew what I was doing, Greg agreed and cast off the lines.

We rounded the breakwater and hoisted sail. With winds advertised on the weather channel at 15 knots (they lied), we set a reefed main and 135 genoa. Immediately Bohemian heeled crazily and water rolled into the cockpit. I released the jib sheet and screamed at Greg to hold the boat into the wind as I scrambled forward to drop the genoa. With Bohemian pitching wildly and no lifelines to grip, I was forced to my knees in order to simply stay on board. I had brought the working jib forward, but needing both hands free I placed it on the cabin top. Just as the genoa came down I saw out of the corner of my eye the working jib slide into the water! Even terrified as I was, I was prepared to dive into the churning water after the precious jib. This boat was my baby. I spread-eagled across the bow, stretching precariously over the side, grasping at the jib slowly drifting away from the boat. Greg stared wide-eyed at the spectacle. I don't know how, but I managed to retrieve the errant jib and wisely decided not to bother hanking it on.

Back in the cockpit, I took the helm and assessed the situation. We were only a quarter mile from the dock, but the thought of turning tail to the seas--which were four to six feet with breakers (don't snicker--that's almost five times the heavy weather conditions in Indiana)--did not please me. Besides, the boat had settled down considerably under reefed main alone. After questioning Greg about what lay ahead, I announced that we would proceed on course.

Still, scenes from the syndicated television show "Coast Guard" flashed through my mind. Would I become the next featured rescue? I glanced over at Greg anxiously gripping the handheld VHF. A thought seemed to seize him. "You've sailed at night before, haven't you?" he asked suddenly. "Well, no" I replied. There was a pause. "You've sailed in six foot seas before, haven't you?" he asked a little more anxiously. I thought about lying. "Well, no." We both stared silently into the black night; the only sounds were the howling wind and breaking waves. I kept thinking about the rudder that had fallen off earlier in the day, hoping that chilling thought would not present itself to Greg.

After a half hour we both realized that Bohemian wasn't going to capsize or sink. Greg got seasick, however. We decided to make for the nearest dock, an unprotected ferry dock on the southwest corner of South Bass Island. As we approached I ordered Greg to drop the mainsail while I fired the engine. Hooray--it sputtered to life. I put it in gear. Chunk! Something was wrong. A dock line trailing in the water was now wrapped around the propeller. As I leaned over the back of the rolling boat we drifted past the dock. I couldn't manage to free the line. Greg--the power boater--took charge and before long he had the engine running.

Terra firma never felt better. Exhausted, we settled into our bunks for a well-deserved night's rest. Well, not quite. The waves rolled in and tiny Bohemian kept smashing into the dock with loud bangs. When I finally managed to close my eyes I had the sensation that I was drifting. Actually, we were drifting. A dock line had come loose. I screamed at Greg, nearly scaring him to death. After that incident, neither of us slept much. As I lay in my bunk, I began to question just what sailing is all about.

Early in the morning we popped our heads out of the hatch to find a line of cars behind us waiting for the first ferry of the day. We sheepishly cast off our lines and headed out into still strong winds but diminished seas. The air was crisp, the dew fine, and the morning sky a bright azure. I breathed deeply and gazed across the beautiful lake. Back to work, this time I hanked on the working jib before we began beating our way toward the rising sun. The weather channel announced small craft advisories. What did they know, anyway? We pushed on toward our next adventure. Life was good.

 P.S. Only a week after the big adventure, Greg and his wife Judy bought an old Buccaneer 24 for a song that they found overgrown with weeds in a boat yard. They sail "Blew Bayou" out of Middle Bass Island. Rory and his wife, Cindy, sold "Bohemian" and purchased "Upbeat," a Southcoast 26.