C. Shamis
Christopher A. Shamis
Erie to Sandusky: Twenty-Six Hours to Ohio
The lines came aboard at 2323 on Thursday night. Three of us stood aboard the Ericson in Wolverine Marina: Christopher and Susan Shamis, and Tim Stone, Coast Guard captain who had long since earned the right to be skeptical of both weather forecasts and recreational sailors.
The channel markers of Presque Isle slid past in the darkness as we motored toward Lake Erie proper. A waxing gibbous moon hung somewhere behind a veil of haze, bright enough to silver the water but never quite breaking through. Outside the protection of the bay, the lake reminded us immediately that she had opinions.
The wind sat 12–18 knots, two points off the port bow, and the first hour was uncomfortable. Two- and three-foot seas met the hull with enough enthusiasm to rattle lockers and challenge any romantic notions of overnight passagemaking. The boat slammed, groaned, and occasionally launched herself off a crest only to reconnect with the lake in a manner that suggested she was personally offended.
Then, as often happens offshore, things settled. The rhythm arrived. The crew found their sea legs. The watch system took hold.
Nothing much happened through the night, which is precisely what one hopes for during a night passage. The moon drifted westward. Navigation lights appeared and disappeared on distant horizons. The autopilot quietly earned its keep. At 0300 it was my watch over the watch. Babysitting Otto for 4 hours watching the moon on the waves and finally time to think and ponder.
By 0700 the entire crew was awake.
One of the great luxuries of a cruising boat is hot food underway. The Magma grill was pressed into service, producing toasted English muffins, bacon, and a pot of cowboy coffee strong enough to repair damaged judgment. We ate while underway, mugs in hand, watching the lake slowly brighten beneath a clear morning sky.
The wind eased and shifted enough to let us finally enjoy ourselves. Around 12 knots apparent and roughly thirty-five degrees off the bow, we hoisted sail sheeted in tight and shut down the diesel. The sudden silence was bliss. After hours of engine noise, the sound of water slipping past the hull and wind in the rig felt almost sacred.
At one point we encountered a freighter heading the opposite direction. We crossed comfortably five miles ahead of her bow, each vessel continuing on its business while acknowledging the other with little more than a glance.
Had the story ended there, it would have been an uneventful crossing. Instead, Lake Erie deployed her secret weapon.
Black flies.
Not dozens. Not hundreds. A plague. These were all the rejects from fourth plague of Egypt and they had something to prove.
For hours the battle raged.
Crew members abandoned dignified behavior. Towels became weapons. Language deteriorated.
Only around 1700, when the wind finally built toward twenty knots, did we receive relief. The stronger breeze swept the deck clear and carried most of our unwanted passengers away. We watched them disappear with a satisfaction normally reserved for enemy fleets.
The remainder of the evening was spent making miles.
A line of thunderstorms prowled well north of our track. They never threatened us directly, but they provided sufficient motivation to keep moving. We had no interest in spending another night at sea if we could avoid it. Better to reach Sandusky ahead of whatever weather might follow.
At 2330 Friday night, twenty-four hours after departure, the entrance to Sandusky Bay finally appeared ahead.
The lake had one final lesson prepared.
Approaching the harbor, the chartplotter and the harbor lights appeared to disagree. The lights suggested one thing; the electronics another. Human beings naturally trust blinking objects more than computers.
The boat eased onto a shoal with just enough conviction to get everyone’s attention. Fortunately, we had entered slowly. Reverse gear backed us straight off without drama, damage, or injury. The only casualty was our confidence.
For the record, the chartplotter was right.
By the time we reached Safe Harbor Sandusky, fatigue had replaced enthusiasm. The wind made docking unnecessarily difficult. Every line seemed to snag. Every gust arrived at precisely the wrong moment. The three of us were tired, stressed, and very ready for the voyage to be over. Eventually the dock lines were secured. The diesel was shut down.
Silence.
Three sailors sat in the cockpit and cracked open well-earned beers. As often happens immediately after a difficult passage, I began discussing all the possible ways one might sell a perfectly good boat.
The next morning, after a full night’s sleep, the world seemed considerably more reasonable.
We loaded the car, found breakfast, and replayed the trip over coffee. Then it was back to Erie to retrieve the second vehicle before finally turning toward home.
Twenty-six hours underway.
No damage.
No injuries.
One freighter.
Millions of black flies.
A brief grounding.
A completely successful passage!!!
The lines came aboard at 2323 on Thursday night. Three of us stood aboard the Ericson in Wolverine Marina: Christopher and Susan Shamis, and Tim Stone, Coast Guard captain who had long since earned the right to be skeptical of both weather forecasts and recreational sailors.
The channel markers of Presque Isle slid past in the darkness as we motored toward Lake Erie proper. A waxing gibbous moon hung somewhere behind a veil of haze, bright enough to silver the water but never quite breaking through. Outside the protection of the bay, the lake reminded us immediately that she had opinions.
The wind sat 12–18 knots, two points off the port bow, and the first hour was uncomfortable. Two- and three-foot seas met the hull with enough enthusiasm to rattle lockers and challenge any romantic notions of overnight passagemaking. The boat slammed, groaned, and occasionally launched herself off a crest only to reconnect with the lake in a manner that suggested she was personally offended.
Then, as often happens offshore, things settled. The rhythm arrived. The crew found their sea legs. The watch system took hold.
Nothing much happened through the night, which is precisely what one hopes for during a night passage. The moon drifted westward. Navigation lights appeared and disappeared on distant horizons. The autopilot quietly earned its keep. At 0300 it was my watch over the watch. Babysitting Otto for 4 hours watching the moon on the waves and finally time to think and ponder.
By 0700 the entire crew was awake.
One of the great luxuries of a cruising boat is hot food underway. The Magma grill was pressed into service, producing toasted English muffins, bacon, and a pot of cowboy coffee strong enough to repair damaged judgment. We ate while underway, mugs in hand, watching the lake slowly brighten beneath a clear morning sky.
The wind eased and shifted enough to let us finally enjoy ourselves. Around 12 knots apparent and roughly thirty-five degrees off the bow, we hoisted sail sheeted in tight and shut down the diesel. The sudden silence was bliss. After hours of engine noise, the sound of water slipping past the hull and wind in the rig felt almost sacred.
At one point we encountered a freighter heading the opposite direction. We crossed comfortably five miles ahead of her bow, each vessel continuing on its business while acknowledging the other with little more than a glance.
Had the story ended there, it would have been an uneventful crossing. Instead, Lake Erie deployed her secret weapon.
Black flies.
Not dozens. Not hundreds. A plague. These were all the rejects from fourth plague of Egypt and they had something to prove.
For hours the battle raged.
Crew members abandoned dignified behavior. Towels became weapons. Language deteriorated.
Only around 1700, when the wind finally built toward twenty knots, did we receive relief. The stronger breeze swept the deck clear and carried most of our unwanted passengers away. We watched them disappear with a satisfaction normally reserved for enemy fleets.
The remainder of the evening was spent making miles.
A line of thunderstorms prowled well north of our track. They never threatened us directly, but they provided sufficient motivation to keep moving. We had no interest in spending another night at sea if we could avoid it. Better to reach Sandusky ahead of whatever weather might follow.
At 2330 Friday night, twenty-four hours after departure, the entrance to Sandusky Bay finally appeared ahead.
The lake had one final lesson prepared.
Approaching the harbor, the chartplotter and the harbor lights appeared to disagree. The lights suggested one thing; the electronics another. Human beings naturally trust blinking objects more than computers.
The boat eased onto a shoal with just enough conviction to get everyone’s attention. Fortunately, we had entered slowly. Reverse gear backed us straight off without drama, damage, or injury. The only casualty was our confidence.
For the record, the chartplotter was right.
By the time we reached Safe Harbor Sandusky, fatigue had replaced enthusiasm. The wind made docking unnecessarily difficult. Every line seemed to snag. Every gust arrived at precisely the wrong moment. The three of us were tired, stressed, and very ready for the voyage to be over. Eventually the dock lines were secured. The diesel was shut down.
Silence.
Three sailors sat in the cockpit and cracked open well-earned beers. As often happens immediately after a difficult passage, I began discussing all the possible ways one might sell a perfectly good boat.
The next morning, after a full night’s sleep, the world seemed considerably more reasonable.
We loaded the car, found breakfast, and replayed the trip over coffee. Then it was back to Erie to retrieve the second vehicle before finally turning toward home.
Twenty-six hours underway.
No damage.
No injuries.
One freighter.
Millions of black flies.
A brief grounding.
A completely successful passage!!!
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