Seasickness and Splendor on a Sail to Michigan

Sailing is the act of going nowhere fast in the most convoluted fashion imaginable. It’s beautiful.

L ast weekend, I sailed to Pentwater, Mich., from Sheboygan, Wis., a 60-mile crossing long desired but elusive. Sailing prams from the age of eight within the inner harbor, 420s in the outer harbor, and finally out into Lake Michigan proper, a sail to Michigan was that mythical maritime accomplishment that would one day happen — to arrive by sail along the stretch of coastline that mirrors Wisconsin’s, ever crouching beyond the eastern horizon. Twenty years had passed since taking up the tiller and mainsheet, and it was worth the wait.

For those who haven’t sailed, 60 miles may not sound like much — or it may sound like altogether too much. Certainly, in the hundreds of thousands of miles aboard naval vessels I’ve traveled, what we did sailing pales in absolute numbers. However, to travel by sail is as active an undertaking as the USS Carl Vinson’s movement was passive.

Aboard the 33-foot C&C 33 Mrk. I “Bataleur,” one must react to waves, winds, and currents at which a carrier wouldn’t blink. Furthermore, everything is backward in a sailboat. To turn to the right (starboard), one must rotate the tiller (directional handle attached to the rudder) left (port). When steering through the wind (tacking), one should look ahead and pass the tiller behind one’s back as if to ape a bumbling magician.

Specialized jargon crafted to confuse and bamboozle is lingua franca aboard, with halyards, sheets, and vanes slithering into a stupefying knot inside a novice’s skull. As a young sailor, I got so flustered in a pram that instead of rectifying my manifold errors, I decided throwing myself out of the boat like a breaching whale was my best choice, praying creation would swallow me up.

Sailing is the act of going nowhere fast in the most convoluted fashion imaginable. It’s beautiful.

To make the crossing, we expected it to take about ten hours at a steady six knots (7 mph; again, sailing overcomplication). At four in the morning on Friday, just as the fishermen’s trucks were starting to rumble into the public boat launch, the five of us gathered at the Sheboygan Yacht Club.

For three of the crew, this was the first time sailing to Michigan. The electricity of the unknown and the clandestine feel of an early-morning launch were gloriously adolescent. After stowing a mound of food and drink below decks and shoving seabags wherever there was the suggestion of space, we exited the slip and made for the outer harbor and the lake beyond in good time.

The crossing looked to be a relatively advantageous one, with a steady southerly wind of 15 knots. The crew was composed of those I’d known for years, all connected to the sailing center. Russ was an instructor of mine at one point, Bob was a fellow former student and racer, Jean was co-owner of the boat, and Matt, the captain, was first my instructor, then boss, and then a friend of many years. (When spending hours at sea in close quarters, it’s best to go with people you like — because, at various points, you’ll find it difficult to like anyone, and a prior understanding of one another’s foibles is advised.)

Matt went below almost immediately to sleep, knowing how long the crossing could be, and that there would need to be more guidance on the return trip. The rest of us watched the sun rise off the bow with our heading due east. Plainsmen and sailors share a common pleasure in watching the sunrise and sharing it with nary a soul. We had broken through the cordon of fishing vessels around the Sheboygan harbor long before, and so it was our brave little vessel for whom the sun first shone that morning.

Then came the waves, quickly followed by the vomiting. Many unfamiliar with the Great Lakes consider them akin to the sort of lake one might find filled with pontoons, water-skiing, and mai tais — little more than kiddie pools. But those who know better compare them to inland seas, for the Great Lakes are powerful and capricious, delighted to toss and consume vessels.

Our crew effectively halved by seasickness, Bob and I took turns at the tiller. With five-foot waves (ten-foot, trough to crest) coming from the south taking us from the starboard side, keeping a consistent heading east was a chore as we slew from side to side. It was as if we were on a carnival’s Tilt-a-Whirl operated by a sadistic drunkard . . . the most common Tilt-a-Whirl experience. The head (toilet) was unfortunately spoken for, so an already exciting underway became that much more as we attempted obscene yoga poses to relieve ourselves over the side, hanging on the rail and one another’s life jackets to anchor, and praying the wind held directionally true.

The hours passed. Green faces looked up from the cabin and lurched to the sides. Bob and I talked electric vehicles and welding. The captain slept.

Finally, land took form. The dunes of the “Mitten State” proudly thrust themselves into view, and our captain started adjusting our heading to make landfall in approximately the spot we intended and with the wind coming from a satisfactory vector to minimize nausea and get us into port quickest. Four hours later, we were close enough to see the entrance to Pentwater, a small breakwater that belies the sizeable town nestled on the channel’s opposite end. Flaking the sails, we motored into the break.

With much backslapping and congratulations, we applauded one another’s efforts and heroics; we had survived a crossing that offered enough challenge to feel worthy of celebration and boasting. Hoisting the Sheboygan Yacht Club pennant (triangular flag), we tied up to the Pentwater Yacht Club, toasted with brews, and quickly thought of food. Bob and I went inside to make dinner inquiries while the others stayed with the boat.

To our dismay, the vice commodore of that club informed us that not only could we not dine there, but we were not welcome at their dock. This was news to us, as reciprocity between yacht clubs is part of yachting mores, and we’d even called ahead to confirm: proper Midwestern etiquette. He brusquely insisted we leave as soon as possible and find a slip anywhere else. I’ve often heard yacht clubs can be dismissive, but to be profiled and rejected as an unwashed Wisconsinite unworthy of Michigander hospitality was a new one. Petty tyrants appear to be admirably diffused across all stations and institutions.

Hoping to find accommodation elsewhere, we continued into Pentwater to the Snug Harbor — a lovely and well-run marina that quickly saw us docked, powered, and pumped down. Celebrating our good fortune of finding a slip so late, we prepared for a night on the town and swaggered into the idyllic village of Pentwater — making sure to glare at the yacht club as we ambled past.

Drinking happened, and I enjoyed a cigar before stringing my hammock between the mast and the forestay (the wire that runs from the bow to near the top of the mast). Under the glaring lights of the fuel dock, I swayed against the boat’s rolling like a mutated pupa. The anxiety of a sudden drop and subsequent roll into the frigid depths of Lake Michigan, shrouded in parachute material, did not make for ideal slumber, but some was fitfully accomplished.

The following day my chipper disposition met the thundering craniums of my shipmates, who may have imbibed a good deal more than I. To maintain crew harmony, I wandered off for solitary coffee and to read some of Dominic Pino’s approachable edit of Burke (available here).

The woolly-headed others eventually crawled forth for breakfast, and vast helpings of potato and other fried items were consumed. While planning to return to Wisconsin on Sunday, a weather break that Saturday morning meant our best shot to return was immediate. Leaving Russ, a citizen of Michigan, behind, we took off into the drizzling morning, another long sail ahead of us.

I could lie and say we bested narwhals and other beastly impediments to return, but I’ll keep my fabrications for another time. The wind was light, so we trimmed the sails to a beam reach and supplemented our speed with the 30-hp Universal Atomic 4 motor. The waves were rolling but gentle enough to use the auto-tiller (rudimentary autopilot), and we wiled away the hours watching storm systems gather and disperse over the vastness of Lake Michigan.

Such is sailing. One day is harrowing chaos on endless gray; the next, meager puffs and sunshine. You don’t get to dictate how fast you go or whether the wind wishes you to return home. One must react, and it’s exhilarating.

We so often can pretend to be God when on land. We can weatherproof our homes, direct our tires, and purchase protection from all forms of harms. But in a sailboat, we are permitted no such illusions. Once adrift, there is a vastness above and below . . . and you. The open water beggars any cathedral, and those 16 square feet under the sail allow one to comprehend God’s majesty better than any form or place I’ve ever known. Going to Michigan was a delight. Sailing was divine.