Harbor Beach to Port Huron - the continuation of a series of strange events.

7-19-07 Thursday. Another early morning (read: 5am). Kind of overcast but not frankly raining. Just as we are about to leave after the now sacrosanct coffee and oatmeal and are engulfed by fog as Wayne said, "as thick as pea soup". We cannot even see the sailboat moored near us nor the breakwall, never mind the entrance to the harbor. We are socked in. We have another long day to Port Huron and need to get going. Luckily there are a host of gulls sitting on the wall, serenading us with their morning wailing and screeching. We have an audio clue as to the whereabouts of the wall, a compass, and a brief glimpse of it and decide to carefully and slowly edge out toward where we believe the entrance should be. Our joy at finding the entrance is suddenly quashed by the appearance of what must be the only other sailboat on Lake Huron out in this fog (read: damn fool) who is trying to get in where we are trying to get out. Wayne has prepared me as to my role in this instance and I yell to him, "boat" and pull a blast on the fog horn. They see eachother, take immediate evasive action, after which the other captain calls glibly over to us, "nice day for a sail!..." I have yet to really appreciate boat humor. Medical humor I get. Bawdy humor no problem. But boat humor is a version of the grimmest possibilities presented in a casual manner to avoid speaking the actual truth which is that we are clearly nuts. We head straight out for about a mile, then set our course. Unlike the previous day, the fog eventually burns off and we think that our dreams of sunny cruising with a gentle wind are not unrealistic. The wind picks up later in the day, and we are basically going straight downwind. This gives us the opportunity to go wing on wing and pick up a lot of speed. The wind increases a bit more, and Wayne is having a blast "surfing the boat" until it increases yet more and now we are overpowered by our sails. We need to drop one or both, but the wind is howling and the waves are really picking up. I have the tiller, and Wayne puts on his harness and clips in to go forward and handle the sails. My job is simple - just keep the boat pointing up into the wind. Of course if you think this is simple you have never attempted to do this on a squalling Great Lake with towering waves and 30+ mph winds. We manage to douse both sails, but now the real fun starts as we have to get back on course and get into the harbor. The force is with us, and we simultaneously spot the first of the buoys which will lead us to Port Huron. This requires resumption of the straight downwind course in now a real storm with rain, big wind, even bigger waves and alot of spray. Sadly, the dinghy - which we had just named Andy (for Andromeda the daughter of Cassiopeia) is swamped, riding crazily on the big waves behind us she crashes into the hull several times and is disintegrated. All we have left is the metal ring upon which she was attached and a bit of the bow. At this point we have bigger things to worry about and need to just make it into the St. Clair River and out of the storm. We ride the course straight down the buoys - wet, freezing, exhausted and still in the thick of it until we pass under the suspension bridge marking the entrance and the water and wind calms down. I am actually thinking 'what wouldn't I do now for a bowl of hot pea soup'... Now, shivering and grateful, we enter the Black River and are surrounded by a boat explosion! There are boats everywhere! Trying my maiden attempt at the radio, I call the Harbor Master and ask what we should do. He instructs us to raft up onto a boat named Masterpiece, which is just behind the Irish Mist with the green hull. What? I relay this information to Wayne. Meanwhile, there are a series of drawbridges which must open for us to pass through and we are in line with several other boats. Sailboats don't just sit still that well, especially when there is a breeze. We make it through the drawbridge and I call the Harbor Master again. He and I are not communicating well. He says, " I don't have you on my list - are you a late entry?". Holy cats - we finally figure out we have stumbled upon the Port Huron to Mackinac racers and he thinks we are one of them. I manage to gasp, "No! We have just come through a bit of a squall and need a place to stay for the night". He directs us to a marina downriver. This requires the successful passage under yet 2 more drawbridges during which time the congestion on the river is remarkable and we get hung up and briefly run aground on the silt maneuvering through an unpredictably shallow spot. The Sheriff's boat is right there and pulls us gently off so that we can get through the darn bridge which has just opened for us and ultimately follow the Harbor Master's directions until we find the Bridge Harbor Marina and pull in. We aim to pull into the first slip we see, and are assisted by a new friend and our new saviour of the day - Rob! He appears in a Hawaiian shirt and cut-offs, long curls flying and tanned feet sprinting over to help us tie up. He is enamoured of Wayne's Pearson Vanguard - a real boat aficionado -and gushes , "Wow! A Pearson Vanguard! I have only seen these in magazines...can I come aboard?" We are so ready to sip a cold one with our saviour and establish a ready friendship. He is truly a wonderful guy, and as I again am typing in the comfort of the Bridge Harbor Marina, Wayne and Rob are on the road to St. Clair Shores, shopping for a new dinghy. An inflatable one this time. And so, a few thousand dollars lighter but still intact, we have made it from Marquette to Port Huron in two weeks. Subjective: still in good spirits, affective bright, relationship strong. Objective: thinner. No dinghy. New gas tank. Assessment: not broke yet, and in apparently good health, boat and crew. Plan: on to Lake Erie!