Boat Repositioning 2020 - From Turkey Point to Sarnia

As we rounded the end of Lake Erie’s Long Point and turned Bella Blue into the wind and waves it became clear we were in for a rough ride. I asked the crew if they were up for the 130 mile trip to Pelee Island, because we could still throw in the towel and sail back to Turkey Point, but Marty and Adam were eager to continue, despite the greenish hue overcoming their facial complexions.

We were now officially one day behind an already tight schedule to sail Bella Blue all the way to Sarnia over a three day period so it was unlikely we were going to make it all the way at this point, but we could at least take her part of the way there. We arrived at the boat one day before, on Friday, to torrential rain, strong winds, and lightning storms with weather warnings on the whole of Lake Erie so I jumped into my favourite hobby (fixing broken stuff on the boat) while the lads helped where they could, did some fishing off the dock with gigantic rubber rat and duck lures, and drank a couple of beers with the dock master Tony, whose boat slip we were currently squatting in. By late evening the weather forecast had not improved, making even tomorrow’s departure uncertain, so we focused our attention on drinking beer and found a deck of giant oversized playing cards, which were tough to hold and sort, but easy to see with blurred vision so we enjoyed round after round of “Asshole” late into the night as the ideas began to flow. As Marty is from Ottawa there was mention of him bringing Justin Trudeau along for the trip, but in retrospect it is good that he didn’t because we probably would have just been embarrassed by whatever dandy sailor outfit he surely would have worn.

I awoke to parched insides and a horrible smell of diesel, which made the grinding headache even worse. I discovered the source of the smell was a leaking fuel filter so the boys and I got to work troubleshooting it, getting soaked in diesel throughout the process which really supercharged the migraine. We had breakfast then enjoyed a hot coffee with Angela and Tony in their cabin before making the decision to sail out to the end of Long Point despite the bad weather and small craft advisory on the lake. The initial sail was excellent with a strong wind at our back and achieving speeds over 8 knots surfing down the large waves, and we reached the lighthouse at the end of Long Point in just a few hours.

The afternoon sail westward across the open lake was rough, stomach turning, wet, and very lonely as we were seemingly the only boat out there. The wind was coming directly from where we wanted to go, so we had to motor instead of sail, resulting in the boat smashing into the 6 foot waves over and over, rocking the vessels and its passengers. At one point I offered the boys a can of iced tea, but Marty replied that he was getting plenty to drink in the cockpit as yet another rogue wave hit the boat and splashed right into his face. The rough seas and turned stomachs resulted in a little vomit spilled and our icy cold beers were left undrunk but not forgotten.

By evening the weather had markedly improved, and before long the sky was clear and winds manageable. In fact everybody was feeling good enough to have a bit of food so I heated up the shepherd’s pie I had made and frozen the week before, and we even dipped into my father-in-law’s Portuguese hot pepper sauce to give it a bit of heat. Things were back on track, morale was sky high, and we were on course for Pelee Island.

With a cloudless night and under a blanket of stars we took shifts minding the helm, seeing no other boats, and having an easy and peaceful passage with a shifted north wind that allowed us to get the full sails out and pick up the pace. Dawn broke, and to start off the sunny and warm day (so much for the dreadful weather forecast) we whipped up a huge breakfast of eggs, ham, re-imagined shepherd’s pie, toast, and coffee and enjoyed a big meal in the cabin while the autopilot did its job and held our course. The original plan was to have arrived at Pelee Island the evening before, spent the night, then left early in the morning for our next stop, but we actually arrived at 11am, and decided to just stop to fill up with diesel then continue on. As we were pulling up to the gas dock I radioed into the marina:

“Scudder marina, Scudder marina, this is sailing vessel Bella Blue looking for a diesel fill.”

“This is Scudder marina, we don’t sell diesel.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhh. Ok. Uhhhhhh, do you know anybody that does?”

“The closest place is Leamington.”

“Ok, uhhh thanks. Bella Blue out, I guess.”

It was the shortest visit to Pelee Island ever. It may not even count as a visit as we didn’t touch the dock. I was so dumbfounded by this information that I forgot what I was doing and nearly drove the boat into the lighthouse. I had called here weeks before and spoke to a nice lady who told me transient dock reservations were not necessary and they did in fact sell diesel. So much for my project planning skills.

We were faced with a decision: backtrack to Leamington, which would burn up at least four hours, and put us into the heart of COVID-19 country, or push ahead and hope we had enough diesel to get to Windsor or find some place along the way that would sell us some. Of course, we took the more daring option, and the three of us sent off a flurry of texts and phone calls to identify a diesel seller as Bella Blue turned westward towards the mouth of the Detroit River. We eventually connected with the Amherstburg Yacht Club who confirmed they did sell diesel and would be open until 5pm. I did some calculations using the GPS chartplotter and figured that if we moved as fast as possible we just might be able to make it. Sadly, that left no time to stop for a swim in the 29 degree water, nor to throw out a fishing line, so to avoid a possible mutiny I made sure there was at least a bunch of cold beer available to make it feel a bit less like Mission Impossible and more like a party weekend with the boys.

The water current in the Detroit River was around 2 – 3 knots and with the engine chugging away and the sails up we averaged a speed of around 4 – 5 knots. Steaming up the river is an interesting ride as the Canada/US border runs right up the middle of it and you can compare the towering mansions on the US side with the cottages (or sometimes just ducks and weeds) on the Canadian side. After the peace and quiet of the Lake Erie crossing it is a jarring return to civilization with the constant buzz of activity on the river and boats everywhere. We motor hard, hour after hour, watching the estimated arrival time on the GPS chartplotter inch closer and closer to 5pm. At 4:30 we were within 3 miles. At 4:45 we could finally see the marina and gas dock in the distance. I put the throttle down to maximum and the Yanmar diesel worked even harder, and took us right into the gas dock, but the young fella at the gas dock didn’t seem to have a clue what he was doing and screwed up our lines on the first pass, so we did a loop around and stuck the landing on the second attempt. As the dock hand finished tying our lines with crude granny knots I checked the time - 4:59:40. Nothing like making it to your destination with 20 seconds to spare! I gassed up the boat, flipped the dock hand my credit card, and gave him a ten dollar tip, which Marty suggested (in range of our ears only) he use to buy a book on knots. We pulled out at 5:08, setting another record for the fastest boat fueling ever, and were on our way back up the river headed for Windsor.

Remember that fuel issue we fixed on the first day? Well it turned out our fix wasn’t that good because it was still leaking fuel into the engine compartment, which then drained into the bilge causing an awful smell and a real mess so we spent a hell of a long time dumping buckets of water into the bilge, then draining it to try and clean it up and get rid of the smell. I think I got some diesel in my nose, because I kept smelling diesel when nobody else did, but Adam proposed a solution. I should assign specific fingers for specific tasks to keep them separated. For example, the left index finger is for dipping into the bilge to test for diesel, while the right index finger is reserved for picking my nose. The left middle finger is for butt scratching, while the right middle finger is for greeting the marine police boats on the water. He also told me to use another finger for spreading mayonnaise on the sandwiches, and then another one for picking my teeth, but then I got them all confused and the sandwiches tasted like shit, mayonnaise clogged the bilge pump, I got diesel fingerprint stains on the bum of my shorts, and I started giving the pinky finger to the cops and they couldn’t figure what the hell that was all about.

After passing right by Detroit and Windsor and all the smoke belching factories, blackened industrial sites void of life, giant lake freighters, tourist sightseeing boats on the US side full of unmasked people all jammed together, the impressive General Motors head office, and the empty Caesar’s Casino on the Windsor side, we arrived at the Windsor Yacht Club and did a magnificent docking despite the swirling current, wind, and lack of light, capping off a lengthy 35 straight hours on the water. But with that, we were firmly back on schedule! We celebrated with a big steak dinner, a few beers, and then capped off the evening by hanging up a shower curtain in the cabin and using my new projector to watch the first 20 minutes of Blazing Saddles, a movie whose crude satire has matured into something even more wicked over the years.

By 6 the next morning we were up and back on the water. We had an amazing sail across Lake St Clair as the  strong, steady wind pushed Bella Blue’s rails nearly into the water and left us with that special feeling of being slightly out of control – an exhilarating feeling on a sailboat. For brekkie I whipped out the two frozen quiches that Stella and I made the week before, tossed them into the oven for 30 minutes, then we enjoyed a classy breakfast in the cockpit, and discussed the merits of real hardcore men like us eating egg pastry and agreed that it was A-OK.

The end of Lake St Clair led us into the St Clair River, and the colour transformation from the greyish brown water to the beautiful blue hue of the Lake Huron water was striking. Adam and Marty spent most of the time at the helm while I goofed around cleaning bilges, mopping up the boat, and tried to keep my finger functions straight. I also produced a mind blowing lunch for the lads by taking all the leftover food and crafting it into a proper English tea. We had a dazzling arrangement of double fried pierogies infiltrated with carrots, mature ham slices with cheese greased into damp hot dog buns with mustard and mayo, and of course the leftover cold quiche. Plus some cans of Mill Street Organic Lager to wash it all down. Shockingly, we ate everything, but that’s what good sailors do.

We spent a lovely day on the river, slowly winding our way up closer and closer to Sarnia, with the miles steadily dropping away, enjoying the sites from both countries. As usual, we arrived right on time – 15 minutes before the closing of the gas dock and office at the Bridgeview Marina at 4:45, and Ana and the kids were there to cheer us in. We filled up with diesel, pumped out the waste tank, paid for dockage, and then motored over to our assigned slip and got tied up. Within half an hour we had the boat cleaned, everything unloaded and packed into the van, and were on our way back to Paris headed for a final meal together and a few laughs at the Camp-31 Barbeque restaurant.

Cheers to another successful boat move with an amazing crew and a few unexpected surprises along the way. Thanks boys!

Next stop – the North Channel.

Are We Going Sailing? 100%!

The other day I was on a work call and somebody asked me if we should take a particular course of action. I said, “100%!” Then I stopped and thought, why the hell did I just say that? I don’t know if it’s just around here, or maybe all over Ontario, or maybe it’s country or continent-wide, but in the past six months or so people have replaced the words “Yes”, “For Sure”, “Absolutely” and “OK” with the term “100%”. And it’s always delivered with the utmost confidence, so that it actually means more than yes. It is an absolutely unwavering yes. It is like a blood pledge. If you say 100% then later it turns out to be wrong, I think it would really damage your reputation, whereas being wrong after a regular yes is no big Hollywood movie. I have yet to hear somebody to say 110%, but if they do then the profundity of that statement would be hard to comprehend.

Where on earth did this come from? And how has it leeched into our everyday speech without anybody noticing it? Are Americans saying it? How about the Aussies? I hope the Brits aren’t. I suppose it is the natural growth of the language, and the English language is known to be rather promiscuous, and not too concerned with the quality or sense of its evolution, unlike the French who police their language with assault rifles and tanks. I admit to being one of those people who gets a little picky about language. For example, earlier this year while visiting our friends down in Ellicottville, NY, Ana and I were browsing through the shops and I found what I believe to be the greatest shirt ever created. It was a white t-shirt with black letters on the front that said, “THERE. THEIR. THEY’RE.” I was ready to buy it until I realized it was nearly thirty bucks, which gets me almost exactly thirty t-shirts from Value Village so I sadly put it back on the rack. But I still dream about that inspiring product and hope they’re thinking of selling their shirts both there and here.

I suppose there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with saying 100% instead of yes, I would just like to know who thought it up and started spreading it around. Probably Kevin Bacon.

In other non-grammar related news, today Bella Blue departs for the first leg of her journey, with my brother Marty, my cousin-in-law Adam, and myself completing the crew. The weather in south-western Ontario has been hot and dry and beautiful for three weeks. The next four days (the expected duration of the sail from here to Sarnia) is expected to the thunderstormy, overcast, and wet. Then it goes back to sunny and hot. This is the story of sailing, and life really.

We’ve had our boat docked at our friends Tony and Angela’s cabin at Turkey Point for the past couple of weeks and have been busy with boat maintenance projects – fixing the wind instrument, tightening keel bolts, fixing leaks, changing hoses, replacing filters, refinishing wood, and so on. I had to climb up to the top of the mast twice – a terrifying job if there ever was one – but fortunately it stayed upright and I did not die. We installed a new spinnaker line which has opened up all sorts of possibilities for new fun and injuries on the boat. We tied an empty yellow Prestone antifreeze bottle to the end of it and used it as a fantastic rope swing. We used it to hoist the kids up in the boson’s chair while underway, allowing them to float around and get a lovely ride. In more practical terms, we’ll be able to use it to winch up our dingy onto the boat deck instead of how we used to do it, which usually resulted in crippling back spasms, scratches in the fiberglass, stretched life lines, and a lot of yelling and screaming.

So after all that work the Bella Blue is ready to sail. Marty has been with me on two previous boat moves and just last year Adam helped us sail her through the Welland Canal so I have no doubt this crew will take us through to our destination in fine form. We are looking at a few very long sailing days (traveling 450 kilometres over about 50 hours), but hopefully the winds are favourable, temperatures are good, boat performs well, beer stays cold, and we don’t get forked by lightning along the way.

Let's sail!

Day 14 - The Final Ride Home

We are up and off at 4am for our final run home to Port Dover. A strong north-west wind has risen the lake and the waves are significant, but fortunately with the wind on the beam we are riding mostly parallel to the waves, which is a whole lot better than smashing into them head on. Ana sits with me in the cockpit for a while then lies down there with some blankets and gets some sleep. As usual, the kids are kipping wildly down below in the aft cabin and won’t be up for hours.

The final ride home is always a time for me to reflect on the trip. In retrospect, the unanticipated side trip to Erie at the start of the trip was a very good thing. If the engine had crapped out in Dover it would have taken a lot longer to fix and probably would have cost much more. Plus, we really enjoyed our days in Erie. It did mean that my original hope of sailing all the way to Toledo didn’t work out because of the lost days, but that was really no big deal.

This lake is certainly a second home to us and we have explored so much of it that there is really only one area remaining - Buffalo and the loop around Grand Island. The reason we haven’t done that part yet is that it’s quite close to home and we probably only need a week for it, and since we usually take two weeks we like to go venture further. But perhaps next year we will make it happen.

The kids seem to have had a pretty good time, and this is something that both Ana and I were a little worried about as they are getting older and we felt they might be running out of patience for sailing. But they did great, and kept themselves entertained without driving us too crazy. The one thing I’ve done a terrible job at is teaching these kids about sailing. They are happy to come along for the ride, but show very little interest in learning much about piloting the boat. Stella, in truth, has shown some interest, but Magnus absolutely none, although he has really enjoyed ripping around in the dingy, so perhaps that’s a start. Or maybe they are both destined to be powerboaters, which would be okay too as we also love powerboats - just not as much as sailboats, because sailboats can take you much further on a much lower budget and we’re all about the miles.

The ride across the lake is long and the waves get very large - some up to four or five feet, but they push us along nicely and we don’t even need the motor for most of the trip as we’re doing over six knots on sail power alone which is a fast run. As we approach the lighthouse at the end of Long Point, Cabin Fever appears on our stern and we have a quick chat on the radio - excellent timing! Tony and Angela head for Turkey Point, which is west of Port Dover about 10 miles or so, and we sail the remaining couple of hours back home, making the 99 miles in under 15 hours. Much of our dock family is there and help us into our slip - it is nice to see them all, looking tanned and happy that the summer heat has finally arrived. It seems like we have been gone for a very long time and we are pleasantly pleased to be back. We have a quick visit with our buds, then pack up the van, tie up Bella Blue and head for home.

Day 5 - Pounding Waves, Cockpit Showers, Rendezvous with Warship

I beat my 2am alarm and wake up at 1:45 after a fitful sleep. Ana too is up and we check the weather to find there is a nice window for us to leave, so we throw off the lines and get back on the lake. The lake is choppy and windy and the skies are still dark with some sheet lightning in the far distance. So far we’ve done 57 miles of our journey so about halfway there. We are hoping the thunderstorms stay away so we don’t have to take refuge again.

I set the course on the auto pilot and Ana and I sit in the cockpit, watching the water and the sky, and chatting. There are no other boats to be seen, and at nighttime you can see boats from a very long distance away due to their red, green and white navigational lights. After a couple of hours I head down for a nap and Ana takes watch by herself. The kids were actually quite excited to be doing their first night watch this year, but since they are sleeping we decided to let them sleep - they will get a chance for an overnight watch later in the trip sometime.

I wake up just after 5am and take watch while Ana grabs some sleep. It is now raining and the water is rough, with the boat pounding on the waves. It is not easy to sleep in conditions like this, as every time the boat crashes down into a wave it feels as if the hull is about to break apart, but it never does. The kids, on the other hand, usually sleep like rocks on the boat, although this time they do get up once or twice to see what is going on. Stella wakes up for good at 9 but Magnus stays in bed for longer as he’s feeling quite sea sick. Both he and Ana get sick when the water gets especially rough, but Stella and I lucked out physiologically and almost never get hit by this.

In May I was doing some boat projects and asked Ana what she thought of replacing the cockpit shower, as the old one had completely fallen apart due to age, but mainly me not winterizing it properly.

“Why would we want to spend money to replace that thing? We never use it,” she said.

“It looks ugly the way it is and you never know, we might use it if it’s there,” I replied.

“I don’t know, sounds unnecessary to me.”

“It has hot water,” I said to her, reeling her in. A long pause. A raised eyebrow.

“Hot water?”

“That’s right - hot water in the cockpit.”

“Order it.”

This morning the new cockpit shower finally delivers. The constant smashing of the waves makes it difficult to use the regular shower without being bounced around and bruised up. But the cockpit is much calmer and more stable. Ana whips off her clothes and heads back for a warm outdoor shower, done while seated right in the cockpit. It is so successful, and her results are so magnificent, that I get in there next and then Stella goes after me. Glorious.

We arrive in Vermilion around 1pm, later than planned, but safe and sound. Tony and Angela are there at the Vermilion Boat Club to meet us at the dock and we are so happy to finally see them! They look tanned, relaxed, and have made friends with a local boater who’s given them free access to his truck, so they’ve had wheels for doing chores and picking up supplies.

Vermilion is a beautiful little lakeside town, complete with canals, yacht clubs, quaint shops, and several waterside restaurants and bars. This year though, the high water levels on the lake have made a real mess of the place - many dock are underwater and the lake has creeped up to threaten many of the houses. We only spot one building - a marine repair shop - that is actually surrounded by water, but most houses have the water either lapping at their break walls or over it and consuming their lawns and gardens. The sidewalks of the marina we are at are completely underwater, as is half of the parking lot, and they’ve nailed together wooden skids for people to access their boats.

We have a welcome drink with the Henriques and then go for a walk downtown to stretch the legs after such a long trip. Many of the shops are the same as the last time we were here, but there are some new ones. Stella and I don’t last long in the heat and instead return to the club for a dip in the pool then the four of us jump in the dingy and cruise over to the Vermilion Power Boat Club where Angela and Tony are docked at to join them for dinner on the Warship (their boat model is actually a "Mainship" but she picked up her much cooler nickname during last year's boat trip) and catch up on the goings on for the past few eventful days.

After dinner we walk over to Linwood, which is an unusual little gated community (think Truman Show meets Brady Brunch), and get a round of ice creams from their old fashioned malt shop. We are just in time for the evening sunset show from the west facing beach so we watch the friendly sun drop down beneath the clouds on the horizon with a red pop and warm afterglow.

As our food supplies have dwindled, Ana and I walk up to the Giant Eagle grocery store while the kids head back to the boat with Angela and Tony. We get there 30 minutes before closing and launch into a rapid shopping trip, taking most of the aisle corners on two wheels and snagging items off the shelves at great speed.

Ana pulls up her Uber app, but there doesn’t seem to be any cars here. She also tries calling the local taxi company which goes directly to voicemail. We consider heisting the cart and disposing of it in the canal, but I’m worried the rattling ride back will cause my cases of beer to explode so Ana chats up a nice lady sitting in her car, waiting for her daughter to finish up her shift, and she offers us a ride back to the marina. Once again, Americans prove to be the best hosts and such lovely people, and we have a nice chat with them, although somehow to forget to ask them their names. I give them one of our fancy new boater cards (more on this later) so in case they do look up this blog…thanks again for the lift!

2019 Lake Erie Sailing Trip - Day 1

It is 5:30 am on Saturday, June 29, 2019. The sun has crept up over the horizon and now casts light on a windless, still morning. I fire up the diesel engine as Ana readies Bella Blue - pulling up fenders, untying lines, unplugging cords. I put her into forward gear and we slip out of the slip and slide into the calm channel of the Port Dover Harbour Marina, kicking off our two week sailing tour of Lake Erie.

We motor out onto the glassy lake and set a course south for the end of Long Point, after which we will turn west and sail to Put-in-Bay, Ohio - a complete journey of about 150 nautical miles, which I estimate will take about 25 hours, if all goes well. Play foreboding music here and pan the camera to our smiling faces, enjoying the sail, just like the beginning of every horror movie where things start out great and everybody’s happy, but you know it’s all going to turn to hell soon.

We are only a few miles out into the lake when we spot an island, but there are no islands in this part of the lake, so it seems rather unusual. We motor up to investigate and find a 20 by 20 reed island floating around, waiting for somebody to claim it. I would have jumped off the boat and onto my new island, planted a flag and the seeds of a brand new, utopian society, but upon closer inspection there wasn’t much holding the thing together besides some thin roots, so I probably would have plummeted right through it into the cold lake water and lost my flag.

After that bit of excitement Ana goes back to bed and I continue on, very much enjoying the beautiful morning, the solitude, and that special feeling that comes with the first day of a big vacation from work and regular life. Then the biting flies arrive. The Great Lakes have a lot of Great Bugs and this lake is no exception. Last weekend we did a cruise out on the lake and were attacked by swarms of fish flies - so many that the stern of our white boat turned black with bugs and we spent the entire time dumping buckets of water trying to get them off. Well today is different and the mushy fish flies have been replaced by these little nasty biting flies, that look a bit like house flies, but like to zero in on your feet and ankles and bite them, just for fun. So I get out the basura - our homemade Portuguese broom, - and start beating them to death. Before long the carcasses are piling up on the boat, but they just don’t get the message. Fly killing keeps me busy for about three hours, reminding me that there are always so many things to do on a sailboat that you rarely have the opportunity to get bored.

The family wakes up and we have some breakfast while letting the sailboat’s auto pilot guide us down the lake, pointed directly south-west, directly into the building wind, making sailing useless so we stick with motor power. And then, after a couple more hours of bug killing I notice the engine is making a strange sound, so I go down below to investigate. I pull the engine hatch open, look in, and see white smoke billowing out. I yell at Ana to cut the engine, which she does, but not before I see water squirting out from somewhere, which is hitting the overheated engine and instantly evaporating into clouds of smoke. We set the sails and get the boat moving again then I go down below to take a closer look. The engine exhaust riser head looks to be cracked, but the huge double threaded union holding two of the pieces together has been sheared off and is completely broken. Which means no cooling system, which means no motor power. Shit. Boating is so awesome, until disaster strikes, then it’s not so awesome, and disaster does strike with some regularity, as all boaters will attest to.

It’s decision time. We can either head towards Ashtabula, where our vacation companions Tony and Angela in their powerboat are heading to, or cut over to Erie, Pennsylvania, which is closer, bigger, and much more favourable for sailing with the current wind, but out of our way. I make the (bad) call to continue towards Ashtabula, but after a few hours we realize the wind in our face is killing us - only making 2 knots - which means it’s going to take at least 12 hours to get there, which means we will arrive in the middle of the night with no motor. We change course and head to Erie, and with the wind on our beam we are doing greater than 6 knots and making great time.

Along the way we’ve been trying to figure out what to do. We get in touch with our friends Tony and Angela, who are joining us on the trip, but are ahead of us in their power boat, but they start making calls for us looking for parts. With an intermittent cell signal we do some searches for parts online but can’t seem to find anything, besides a stainless steel model in the UK that costs $600 and will take weeks to ship. We call every diesel repair shop and dealer we can find, but no luck. I try contacting our mechanic in Port Dover, but can’t get through to him. Soon we lose signal completely so instead focus on the sailing, conserving battery power, and keeping the kids from going batty.

The most important piece of equipment on this trip so far is the Portuguese basura corn broom  - the only thing that works for killing the horrible biting flies, which are a constant nuisance and driving us crazy. Ana somehow accidentally drops it overboard and screams “Basura overboard!” and we trigger the man overboard routine. I mark the spot on the GPS and do a tack to turn the boat around while Ana stands in the cockpit pointing at the floating broom, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. The kids ready the boat hook. We approach the broom under sail, going quite fast, and Ana snags it with the boat hook, but there’s nothing to hook onto, so it slips away but I jump to the stern of the boat, hang from it with one hand and reclaim the basura. Yay!! In truth, I was planning on doing a practice man overboard test with the family sometime today, so it all worked out very well and I am very proud of my crew. The broom is promptly put back into service killing flies.

As we draw nearer to the US we get a cell phone signal and Ana is rocked by a call from her sister in law with the news that her uncle Joe has just passed away. Yesterday he had been moved to critical care and we went up to the hospital to see him, and things hadn’t looked very good. Joe and Concecao are an amazing couple, perpetually in love, and have five adult children and an army of grandchildren. This is the family on Ana’s side that we are closest with and have spent countless hours with them over the years. Joe had been diagnosed with cancer two years ago, which took him to the edge, but his determination and strength was enough to overcome it, and he made a remarkable recovery, and until three weeks ago he was great. But complications arose, which put him back in the hospital. We all said our goodbyes yesterday, thinking we may not see him again, and we were all broken up, but especially Ana, but we were at least able to see him and the family. In an incredibly unhappy coincidence, our good friend and sailing (and life) mentor Cesar, who had also been hit with the fucking cancer two years ago, was also in critical care and we were able to see him too. But I can’t write about him now, too much sadness for one blog. It makes our current issues quite insignificant, but does remind me that life is so precious, and being stuck in the middle of a giant lake with my family on a disabled boat, an improbably plan, and uncertain outcome, is truly living life to the max, and we are not wasting a second. Cesar would be loving it!

As we approach Erie, we finalize our plan. There is a long channel leading into Presque Isle bay, and the wind is directly in our face so we won’t likely be able to sail through it. But we should be able to shut the water intake sea cock for the motor and run it dry for a short while, until it heats up too much and disables itself. We will sail as close as we can to the channel entrance, start the motor, power though the channel, then once we clear it put the sails up and sail the remaining 2 miles to the marina, letting the motor cool off, then start it again to get into the dock. As as backup we will get the dingy and motor ready to go, and tow it behind the boat, so if things go pear shaped I can jump I the dingy and tow Bella Blue. If all else fails, we’ll drop the anchor and call a towing company. That’s the plan. But there’a lot of things that can go wrong so although I’m appearing confident to the kids and Ana, I’m just not sure how this is going to go. In truth, this is what boating is all about - having to problem solve, make fast decisions, and being as prepared as possible for the disasters that will inevitably happen, more often than you think.

We sail into the channel entrance, tacking back and forth into the wind, as we prep the dingy, lines, engine, lifejackets, and everything else we can think of. We enter the channel, thinking we might be able to do short tacks and work our way up, but then boats start approaching from the other direction, and our tacking is interfering with their passage, so we wind up the sails, and turn the engine key. But it won’t start! The boat is now floating backwards, heading for the unkind concrete wall of the channel edge. Ana tries it again, it turns and turns, whining and chugging, and finally sparks to life, so I ram it into gear and we are powering up the channel. The engine sounds terrible as it’s running without water and heating up fast. I’m down below watching the engine, but powerless to do anything about the overheating, besides blowing on it and fanning it with a dish towel, which is completely useless but somehow makes me feel a bit better. We make it a third of the way up the channel. Then we are halfway, so far so good, but the engine is smelling hot. Then we are three quarters of the way up and the overheat alarms goes off and the engine automatically shuts down. Boats are coming at us from both directions and the powerless sailboat is now being blown around with no space to sail. I frantically leap into the dingy, fire it up, motor to the front of the boat and Magnus throws me a line. But the little 4 hp engine is just not powerful enough to pull the boat against the wind, and we are lost. Just as I’m about to yell to the crew to drop anchor, two guys arrive on Sea Doos and ask if we need help. I pass him the line, he ties it onto the back of his machine and straightens out the boat and begins towing us, offering to take us to wherever we need to go. The marina is about 2 miles away and the two Sea Dooers pull Bella Blue in all the way while I putter ahead in the dingy looking for the marina entrance.

Ana is at the helm and pilots the boat in magnificently through the narrow marina entrance while I dingy over to an open dock and get ready to catch their lines. Ana guides her in nicely while Magnus tosses me the bow line and Stella throws the stern line, both right on target. Ana jumps off the boat and helps me to tie up, and Bella Blue is safe again. I offer the lead Sea Dooer (who sports a groovy hipster beard and doo) some cash but he won’t take it, saying “Everybody needs help sometimes.” Isn’t that the truth.

We make the call to customs, and have to wait for 45 minutes, but finally get cleared and only then together do we breathe a giant sigh of relief, letting those stress toxins start to slowly dissipate. We get checked in at the Commodore Perry Yacht Club, pay for two nights, are given a beer from one of the members, proving yet again that Americans are simply the best hosts one could ever ask for.

The legendary Sloppy Duck bar and restaurant are a two minutes walk away, so we head over and sit down for a well deserved drink and meal, while the party momentum builds around us, partygoers arriving, the band playing, drinks flying, volume increasing. The mood at our table is more sombre than celebratory, still thinking about Joe and Cesar, not knowing how we’ll fix the engine, not sure when we’ll be able to meet up with Tony and Angela, but definitely happy to be safe and settled. Stella’s future 18-year-old self is revealed when she turns to me during dinner and says, “Dad, you know that guy towing our boat. I luuuuved his beard.”

As I collapse into bed at 11pm, exhausted, I start to wonder what tomorrow will bring, but sleep overcomes me before I get halfway through that thought.