An Old Salt's Late Summer Saga by Dave Whitaker
 
    We kept watch behind our backs on the low, creeping fog, and dark, foreboding storm clouds approaching us from the south.  Jack Larsen and I were heading north out of the east arm of Grand Traverse Bay, in Jack's mother-in-law's 29 foot sailboat. Leaving Elk Rapids behind, we hoped we would make it to Beaver Island before the strengthening west wind and big waves hit us too hard.  We did.  At the south end of Beaver Island, the strong west wind hit us big time, but with the island sheltering us from any large waves, the sailboat heeled over, and plowed trough the water like a great big scared fish. We had a perfect sail (well, maybe a little "tippy") up to the north end of that long island, and into the beautiful, well protected St. James harbor.   
    The dock at Beaver Island Municipal Marina is a picture perfect antiquated old maze of piers with tall, aging log pilings, and thick planking of different sizes, colors, and age.  Even though parts of it probably sway a bit in a strong north-east wind, to me it is perfect. Picture perfect. Glen Felixson    the harbormaster    built it himself, but alas, it will be replaced next year by a shiny new steel government-built dock.    
   While walking across the grass behind the harbormaster's building, on our way to the closest bar for food, two small Indian kids ask if we want to buy some smoked fish (kinda quaint).  We climbed the wide stairs off the muddy and sandy main road, across the faded gray, sand covered porch, and through the creaky old screen door of the dimly lit, broad board planked floor of the Beachcomber Bar. On my left were the half filled bar stools with garbled talk, and on my right was a hunched over, big, bearded old man    alone in an open room of empty chairs and tables    playing solitaire. Nobody was talking to him.  I felt like I walked right into a Steinbeck novel.  Jack orders beers as we sit on old wooden stools at the far end the bar, looking for food. We can see through an open doorway that the kitchen had not been used in years.  The rather weathered, some-what-good-looking, been-around-a-while, middle aged, long straight haired blond behind the bar does not even have snacks.  A long day of hard sailing and these tired old sailors (actually only our first day), need FOOD!  The smoked fish.  So Jack    being the "old salt" that he is    slowly saunters out the front door, down to the pickup truck parked out front, and for $5 buys a large, newspaper wrapped, smelly smoked Lake Trout from James, a local fisherman.  We ask the blond if we can eat it in here, and get an "O.K."  It was great    the whole fish!  We could have eaten another one.  The blond cleans up our mess and pitches the smelly newspaper with her nose curled shut, as far away as possible from the fish scraps.  It turns out she hates fish, especially the smell of smoked fish!  We apologize.  On the way out, one drunk at the bar says to all his neighbors, loud enough for us to hear, "She never lets us eat in here."  I guess she liked us. (Yeah, well... after the fish clean-up... maybe.)  Walking by the old solitaire player on our way out, I thought I'd give it a try. "You ever win?"  Without looking up, out comes a grumpy, tired old "Nooo."  Cool... this place has real character(s).  What a treat to be living inside a Steinbeck novel!  The real world does not hold a candle to the timeless old Beachcomber Bar on Beaver Island.
    Next morning the wind picked up, and we had a good sail north, and then a long motor-sail straight east.  It was an inspiring sight to see (with the "Sunrise" in our tall glasses) the two spots on the horizon very slowly    oh sooo slowly    turn into twin towers, and finally into the complete Mackinac bridge.  Then, it's under the Big Mac (cameras pointed straight up), and on to Mackinaw City Marina.  We "spot" cars again, with both now at Mackinaw City.  The following morning we point the bow toward Mackinac Island. This crossing involves tangling with wind waves, yacht waves, freighters, and fast, close, ferry boat waves (BIG and BAD)    not a fun place to sail. Once we get past the Island, we take a compass heading for Detour. And then (you won't believe this):  I'm steering for a dot on the horizon    which turns out to be a freighter that Jack correctly names by the time that I finally decide it's a boat!  (Lucky, educated guess, but that's not the best part.)  The freighter then steers around us... yes... around US!!!  We've never hear of a freighter altering its course to steer around a little sail boat. (I guess they liked us... yea sure, like the blond liked us with the smelly fish.)
   With Detour, at the mouth of the St. Marys River, on our port (left), and Drummond Island on our starboard, another freighter seemed to be avoiding us (we did look rather scruffy by now), but it was just pausing before it docked (probably getting its cannon loaded and ready for our assault)!  On to Harbor Island, a mile north of Drummond, where at dusk, we rounded up into the wind and dropped anchor among four other yachts that were swinging on their hooks. In the pitch black, WINDY, rainy, middle of the night, I woke up as our boat was swinging dangerously close to another one.  Its captain was shinning his flashlight at me as I yelled back to a sleeping Jack "our anchor is dragging!"  Jack had to start the engine (first, blow out any gas fumes from the engine compartment that could explode), hoist the weed covered anchor, and find a new spot to drop it before we drifted into another boat    all in TOTAL darkness!  As I was steering, I sure hoped that ALL boats there had a light, because lights were the ONLY thing I could see. 
   The next day, Jack rented a car at the Yacht Haven Marina on Drummond Island and took us to town for shopping, and a meal.  A young, EXCEEDINGLY good looking, long haired blond (yes, another blond episode) waitress with a long silky black skirt that came down to her shoes, approached us as we sat down in the pleasant, but empty dinning room.  "Nice skirt", thinking that was a polite (and safe) complement, very surprisingly brought me    in a remarkably charming, sexy slooow voice    "Well... thank you." She sat down in a chair next to us, and said something to the effect (My memory is a little fuzzy here; I THINK I finally did look at the menu.) that "You are going to be two very happy men if..."  (Yes???)... if we have the hot turkey sandwich.  And to keep the story short, it was the very BEST hot turkey sandwich I have ever eaten, bar none.  When done    asking how the meal was    I replied "If I wasn't in a restaurant I'd lick my plate."   To which she replied with her very seductive smile and flirtatious voice "On Drummond Island we lick our plates."  I'm now um... totally speechless.  While taking our plates away, and seeing our decent tip, she said "Thank you." with an extra serving of sensuality, and the sweetest smile... that could melt any man's heart.  As she went through the door to the kitchen    for the last time    she tilted her head and gave me one last big breathtaking smile. (Meltdown!) (Why did she do that? You and I can only guess.) And... well... we... ah... left feeling... quite good.
    On one of the days with Jack's family, we sailed to Lime Island for a picnic, and Jack    on a picnic table    took the opportunity to bake fresh brownies!  On the way back, with Jack's wife at the tiller, a strong gust in an already stiff west wind hit us from starboard.  In the loud noise of the wind and waves, I yelled "hang on to that tiller" (it had a strong pull because the boat wanted to round up into the wind), as the boat heeled way over    which she did... and down below in the cabin, many objects slid out of their cabinets and off their shelves, including the microwave, with a loud prolonged crash. Fortunately nothing broke.  (In the following two days, I had two more hot turkey sandwiches, but alas,... no blond.)
   In the strong current, my GPS indicated we were only going 3.8 mph in places up the St. Marys River to the Soo, as we "let" freighters pass by.  It took eight and a half hours from Harbor Island.  The next morning, to the harbormaster's surprise, we left the marina at the Soo in strong winds, and cold rain.  We followed a tour boat into the lock, locked through, motored the last 6 miles up the river (from the bridge you do not see Lake Superior, it's still the St. Marys River), and 11 more miles to the flashing light tower in Whitefish Bay, of Lake Superior.  As we motor-sailed around it to go back, the skies cleared and we got shirtless weather with a good wind.  After our sail back to the Soo, it was awesome to be the only boat in the lock. We slid down, down, down, until we had to look high up to see the clear blue sky from the bottom of that enormous, wet, cement sided box    that's big enough to hold the huge long freighters. And we were just a little sailboat.  Also, by the way,... we broke the lock (no big thing).  Truthfully, we were the last boat to go through the lock before they got out the tall cranes to fix it.  A freighter had to wait 4 hrs. before it could enter that lock. 
    The next morning, as I climbed out of the cabin, three officers, with shotguns, were blasting away at Canada geese    INSIDE the marina. Apparently, geese were causing too many problems.  That day, as we motored back down the sunny St. Marys we went through a walled part of the river called "the cut". It's about a mile and a half long, with walls made of hug limestone blocks    wide enough for a freighter to pass by us.
   Motor-sailing the long, windy, tiresome stretch back from Detour to Mackinac Island was made a little more enjoyable with our new knowledge of my hand-held GPS.  We could now answer the questions "How much farther?", and "How long before we get there?" with very great accuracy.   
   Back in Mackinaw City, Jack enjoyed the camaraderie and challenge of the beer and wine tasting tent, while I "held down the fort".  The next day (winds too strong to travel) Jack did the same, while I looked up an old friend. (Good thing my car was there.) The following day (weather still bad, and I'm now a day late getting home), we decide "what the heck, as long as we are in the neighborhood, lets go to Dave's island".  We drive five hours to get there, stay the night, and five hours back. (Maybe that's stretching the meaning of "neighborhood".)  The next morning we are finally off and sailing back to Beaver Island. And this is when my story really begins.
  It's raining, and we are soaked to our bones and cold, (remember that) when we approach the Municipal dock at Beaver Island. Jack calls the Beaver Island Marina. (We found out later that this is a different dock, owned by "The Bitch"    not our label; hereafter known as Mrs. B). We need gas, and she tells us to follow the red buoys to the gas dock.  We think she's at the Municipal dock, and can not see the gas pump.  Jack gets no answer on his second, or third call for assistance, so out of confusion and frustration, I turn the boat around in the cold rain and head for a slip at my favorite, picturesque pier    at the Municipal dock (not Mrs. B’s dock). Apparently “The Bitch" gets pissed. 
   It's a beautiful, clear, still morning as the sun rises over a perfectly smooth St. James Bay on Beaver Island    gorgeous, but the weather forecast is for more strong winds... so, no-go-home today.  Feeling a bit down, I try to make my usual morning call to Brenda, but the battery is dead. I JUST charged it in the car three days ago, for God's sake. (Yes, I'm angry    three days late, no boating today, no cell phone, and nothing to do.)  And now I can not, NOT find my wallet!  I need to call Brenda, to maybe cancel credit cards, etc.  I keep my cool, (well... sort of, almost).  The collect call at the pay phone gets me a busy signal.  (O.K.... I'll try again.)  The next collect call gets me a lady operator who insists I need a credit card.  What???  I sarcastically ask if she knows what a collect call means. (The tone in my voice is telling me I'm very close to losing it.) Her response of "Sorry Sir, you need a... "    is the last straw    SLAM!  (Now I understand why they make public phones so indestructible.)  O.K.... sit down, calm down, and try again.  The MALE operator gets me connected, and I'm part way through telling Brenda my story when the phone goes dead.  Just... dead.  She was asking "why was the Coast Guard looking for us and..."  Then nothing.  What???  The Coast Guard?   
   Drizzly rain is coming down as I sit under the covered patio of the harbormaster's building, by the phone booth.  Glen's (harbormaster) phone is dead also, and he says they must have cut the line    again    while digging up the street (for the third time!).  I'm thinking this is the worst day of my life:  My wife read the depressed tone in my voice and imagined that I was a captive... or something    but the Coast Guard? What???; The worst trip I've ever been on    no travel (stuck again, and already 3 days late), no cell phone, lost wallet (credit cards!), no land phone, and a worried and scared wife. The worst... (I found out later that the angered Mrs. B made up the Coast Guard story just to scare Brenda    to get back at me. Bit..!)  Sitting at a picnic table, just out of the drizzle, my head is hung way down low when, (story gets better now) an older man drives up in his old white van, looking for Glen.  "He just left."  It's Glen's dad.  He sees the curve of my back and how low my head is hung, so he asks "How you doing?"  "Not so good."   I tell him my woeful story as we chat. He builds boats.  Wow.  My mood starts improving.  After a while he asks if I want to go see his shop.  Wow.  My mood gets better still.  Meanwhile... Jack is renting a car from the only one in town    who else    Mrs. B.  And apparently things do not go real smoothly.
   Three steps up off the main street, in an old white two story used-to-be-store-front building, is Carl's shop.  Woooow, is this cool.  Total "stuff"    mostly boating stuff    is everywhere, and 'nary a place to sit.  On all the benches, table tops, cabinet tops, chairs, and walls (that's a picture of...?), hanging from the ceiling    is really good nautical "stuff".  My mood is now good.  In fact I forget I have a "mood".  Carl clears off two chairs and offers me some homemade "Ryking Lightning".  In a Styrofoam cup, it is not bad... not real good, but plenty O.K.  We talk about our lives, and have a refill.   My smile is now permanent    ear to ear.  He is an amazing 82 year old guy. One illustration: He has had a brain-sight problem since a sustained high fever at age 5, but brought the University of Maine's boat building class to be the second best in the nation in his 8 years there.  His father (a Felixson) was Scandinavian. Carl's name was Americanized to Felix, but because of ribbing about "Felix the Cat" cartoons, Glen's last name is back to Felixson.  Glen, who is also a good craftsman, is one big, tough, broad shouldered guy    held his own on the dockside streets of Chicago.  Speaking of Glen, he walks into the shop. (I'm thinking... Aren't you supposed to be taking care of the harbor?  But he IS wearing a marine phone on his belt.)  He just stopped by to chat with his dad and have a little "Ryking Lightning".  As I'm listening to more fascinating stories, Glen's marine phone rings. "Yea, he's here.", and hands it to ME. (I'm hanging out in the back of an old shop on an island with no phones, where I'm a total stranger, and it's for ME?)  It's Jack, the car is ready. "I'll be there soon."  Another gallon (no, the first one was not full) is lifted down from the top of a tall dusty cabinet, and we all get another refill.  "Is that Ralph Frese in that picture?"  Glen is good friends with Ralph and Rita from Chicago!  Also, he's a friend of Jon Wilson, founder, and past editor of "Wooden Boat Magazine".  The man is well known, and I am now his friend    which makes me feel real good.  He says I make him feel good too.  Glen's phone rings again, "Yea, he's here", (NO WAY)..." he'll call her right back". So I use Carl's phone (not easy to find    it's buried under model boat building "stuff") to call Brenda. Apparently they have reconnected the phone cable. Upon hearing my very happy, but slightly slurred speech, she is convinced that I'm O.K.... maybe.  After another story or four, a middle aged, not bad looking blond (honest) sticks her head in the door, looks at me and says "I thought I'd find you here." .... WHAT???  (This is not an island to hide out on!!!).  "Your wife wants you to call her."   I've never seen this lady before    who knows me!    and is now gone.  Glen says she's "The Bitch". (He does admit, however, that "We do sometimes have drinks and swap stories at the Shamrock".)  Now I've met her, well... sort of.  More stories, but I decline another refill.  However, before we leave, Glen writes down the Ryking Lightning "recipe" for me.  
   Jack and I climb into the rented, cute little red Geo Tracker, as I'm ready to see the rest of the island. How long has Jack been waiting?  (He's a good patient man.)  Maybe TOO long... the battery is dead!  I have no idea what words Jack, or Mrs. B said to each other, or how they said them, but Jack's car rental contract was ripped up, and he was ordered to "never come in here again!", or words to that effect. 
    The next morning we get an O.K. from the weather service, and hoist the sails to add speed with the engine, for our uneventful, 58 mile, last leg back to Elk Rapids.  We slowly slide up to the pump-out station, and the good looking female dock hand that is going to pump out our ...um...contents, is this cute little...brunette.  After we tie up in Jack's slip, I walk to the pay phone, call Brenda to tell her that we are finally back in Elk Rapids, and that I should be home that night.  I hang up in shock, take some deep breaths, and sit down on the closest picnic table.  As Jack walks up to me, I say "Jack you better sit down while I tell you this."  The date was 9-11-2001.