A PUSH TO TERM

A PUSH TO TERM

We've always wanted to own a boat like this. It provided us with numerous unforgettable experiences, one of which almost cost us our lives. Late in the summer, our sleek 25-foot cruiser arrived. On board, we could eat and sleep. Even a toilet, or "head," as sailors called it, was there. We moored it in a marina on a narrow 110-mile long lake nestled between scenic mountain ranges. The remaining weeks of the summer were focused on learning how to handle the big boat.

The marina presented a particularly challenging obstacle due to its narrow entrance. It required precise navigation. The marina was shielded from occasional violent storms by massive boulders lining the narrow L-shaped entrance. We were warned about the storms by other boaters that strong winds and huge waves could appear suddenly. The next summer we toured the lake’s sparkling blue waters, discovering a tantalizing choice of bays, some with spectacular beaches. We often anchored overnight in those picturesque bays. Our favorite was a narrow cove with a wide sandy beach protected on both sides by 50-foot high rocky outcroppings. We, still novice boaters, felt as safe in that bay as we did in the marina 15 miles to the north, on the other side of the five-mile-wide lake. One Saturday evening, a cloudless sky promised a carpet of stars with no moon to interfere. We were enjoying a campfire on the crescent-shaped beach when just before dusk a dark shape appeared around a rocky outcropping at the head of the bay. We could just make out a small boat, its motor slowing almost to an idle. It was going straight for us. A strange looking figure occupied the back. His handmade black top hat did not control his long, dark hair. The hat reminded me of a famous hat worn by Abraham Lincoln. This one had a wider brim like a witch’s hat. Ominous. The figure looked even more bizarre. An unruly black beard announced he was male. His jacket and pants were made from what appeared to be bearskin similar to those reputedly worn by mountain men.

We watched apprehensively as the small aluminum boat came to a stop on shore about ten yards from us. After removing his hat, he nodded in our direction and scratched his head and beard. One side of the 17-foot boat showed a fishing rod. Sticking up from the other side was the barrel of a rifle.

The man stood, displaying knee-high boots also made from some kind of animal hide. He stepped nimbly over the side into six inches of water. He tied the boat to a sturdy tree after dragging it far up onto the beach. The strange looking man began walking toward us and our campfire, his fishing rod in one hand and his rifle in the other.

Judi and I exchanged glances as we wondered about possible defense. While I subtly loosened the clasp of a hunting knife on my belt, I could see Judi measuring the distance to a pile of driftwood gathered for firewood. “How’re ya doin’ this evening?” the man asked in a friendly tone as he reached our campfire.

We replied, "Just fine." “How about you?”

The stranger replied, "Been fishin'." “No luck.”

He turned to go and then stopped: “Mind if my wife and I join your campfire?”

We looked at each other surprised, silently asking themselves, ‘wife’? He did not appear ready for marriage. “Sure,” I said, uncertain of what might come next.

“We’re camped up over the ridge,” the strange man said pointing up a heavily treed slope beyond the beach.

His comment startled us. We’d gone exploring after setting up camp and found no other campsites, not surprising since this beach was accessible only by boat. The disconnect added to our unease.

“Back in a while,” the man said. He disappeared into the dark beyond the light of the campfire, leaving in his wake a distinctive odor, presumably created from bear grease mixed with sweat.

We looked at each other knowing we’d be quite happy to never see him again, wondering where in the darkness he’d gone.

Within minutes it was totally dark. Our unease grew as the night passed without a moon. I added additional wood to the campfire. Judi sat huddled in a beach chair, pulling her warm coat tighter around her petite frame.

A half-hour later we were startled by a female voice behind us:

“Hi there. May we join you?”

Good grammar, I thought, my mind seeking reassurance and finding a tincture of humor from the irony.

“Of course,” Judi said uneasily. “Welcome!”

A sturdy middle-aged woman dressed in a bright print sarong walked into the light of the campfire. She wore a grey knit shawl over her shoulders. The woman’s face wore a pleasant relaxed smile, her eyes genuinely friendly. The man we had seen earlier was now standing behind her, hatless. He stepped forward into the light, a broad smile just visible behind a long bushy beard. The man wore a homespun shirt with red, brown and grey horizontal stripes. His long dark hair was held under control by a hand tooled leather headband tied behind with rawhide laces.

Our visitors initiated the introductions. Claire explained she was a loans manager for a bank in the small city about 30 miles south of the lake. Her husband Andrew was a ‘free spirit’, she said. Andrew sat on a log beside her, smiling contentedly as she carried the conversation. Claire told us Andrew worked for the federal government, grooming hiking trails in parks when not teaching outdoor survival skills.

The strange couple turned out to be a fascinating dichotomy of town and country lifestyles. Andrew explained why he was committed to living in an environmentally responsible way, following a simpler 19th Century lifestyle as much as possible. Before leaving, Claire invited us to visit their camp in the morning.

The next day we followed a faint path up from the beach through dense trees to the ridge. There we found a large A-frame tent made of bear hides. Bear hides were also used to make the floor of the tent. Above a stone-lined campfire, two vertical bars supported a long iron bar carrying two hooks, each shaped like an elongated “S”. A large pot made of blackened iron dangled from one. From a longer hook, a small pot was held close to the fire, steam rising from simmering water. Andrew told them he’d made the cooking equipment in much the same way as early European explorers to North America might have done.

A few minutes after we’d returned to the beach, Andrew arrived saying he was going fishing again. He pushed his boat back out into the bay, started the small motor and headed around the rocky outcropping. We couldn't help but laugh at the contradiction between Andrew's love of the 19th century and his gasoline-powered aluminum boat as he vanished. We were also concerned for his safety. A light morning breeze had become a strong wind. We were just finishing lunch when Andrew steered his boat back into the bay and pulled up on shore.

“You folks planning to head home soon?” he asked. A statement rather than a question was what it was. “In a little while,” I heard Judi answer. Below doing maintenance on the boat, I stuck my head up as Andrew continued:

“Have you seen the sky? A big storm’s comin’ in from the south. I don’t mean to worry you, but you might want to head for a sheltered marina right way. You could secure your boat here if you want. I'll assist. But I really don’t think it will be all that safe for you here.”

Andrew then proceeded to ascend the ridge, probably to prepare his camp for the approaching storm.

From the bay, Judi and I were unable to see much of the sky or the lake through the narrow entrance. High rock walls formed the sides. But we did notice that the waves had become higher. Also, the wind was getting stronger. We climbed up the south slope of the bay. What we saw confirmed Andrew’s warning. On a calm day, the south end of the lake, a few miles away, is typically visible. Now, angry clouds and heavy rain obscured it. The waves appeared to be much higher that way than near our bay. The storm was approaching us. We hurried back to the boat and quickly loaded our beach gear. We donned lifejackets, untied the boat and headed for the mouth of the bay. As the boat emerged into the lake, it was hit from starboard by strong winds. The boat swayed sharply. The wind-whipped waves were at least three feet high.

I looked south. The infamous "line" across the lake that we had been warned about was less than a mile away. It foretold of a storm front. It was coming fast. We secured the canvas covers enclosing the back and rear sides of the boat.

Experienced boaters had taught us to turn the boat into waves. I did. The wind screamed from behind. The flag on the bow was blowing forward, snapping sharply. It meant we were moving slower than the waves. Water began splashing up on the rear canvas. We realized that the boat's fragile canvas could be sucked in by the powerful waves. I knew we had to keep the boat ahead of the waves. The wind was becoming more forceful. The waves increased in size. I accelerated to a speed that maintained a precarious balance – just enough to stay ahead of the waves, but slow enough to keep from burrowing the bow too deeply in the waves ahead.

A power outage would be disastrous. The boat would be blown sideways. It would be at the mercy of the waves, almost certain to capsize.

A large wave slapped up against the rear canvas. Water splashed into the boat through a small gap between the canvas and the transom. Suddenly a few snaps holding the canvas came loose under the weight of another heavy wave. Gallons of water flooded onboard. Judi rushed back, ankle deep in water. She managed to close the snaps.

I accelerated the engines. The bow's flag almost gave out. That meant we were keeping pace with the wind … and hopefully the waves. But now the bow was digging deeper into the high waves in front. Huge avalanches of water broke over the bow, again and again, engulfing the windshield, obscuring our vision. Soon the waves were reaching six to eight feet. The driving rain was making it difficult to see landmarks on the shore.

I began to wonder how in the raging storm I was ever going to get the boat through the tricky entrance into the marina. It was small comfort that if we crashed on the rocks trying to get in, perhaps some people in the marina might try rescuing us.

For now, we were maintaining a precarious balance between speed, wind and waves. The boat was making headway, staying just ahead of the huge waves behind us. The boat kept repeatedly plunging bow first into breaking waves, threatening to swamp the boat, flooding the windshield, blinding us. Our plucky boat emerged time and again.

Finally, Judi spotted a lakefront cottage that had provided us with a handy landmark before. It was just south of the marina. We were almost there!

It had been more than an hour battling the unforgiving lake. The trip normally took 20 minutes. Then through the driving rain we spotted the entrance to the marina. I and Judi exchanged glances. Silently we agreed … yes, we would try getting through the narrow entrance, despite the huge waves. It was a big chance. We had little choice.

In the hope of finding a fleeting opportunity to propel the boat into the entrance, I tried carefully gauging the speed of the waves and looking for a trough in between them. Once past the outer rocks, the wave action would diminish, allowing me to navigate more easily into the calm water of the marina.

We were lucky. A bigger than normal trough between waves appeared with perfect timing. I hit the throttle, aiming for the center of the marina opening. The engine hesitated, and then died. I turned the ignition key. The engine caught and roared to life. The boat surged forward, just in time. We made it in. The wave stopped moving. Relieved, I took the final turn into the marina. Both of us were startled to see 50 to 60 people lining the sides of the large marina. We wondered what we’d missed that had drawn such a big crowd. The audience began to clap and cheer. Then we realized … we were the attraction!

As if Mother Nature was not yet done with us, half way to our slip a rogue cross wind came barreling down a mountain valley next to the marina. The rogue gust caught the side of the boat. There was no way to control the boat. It was thrown sideways into the "pulpit" on the bow of a large boat that had been docked in the wrong way, backwards. The hoop of chrome that formed the pulpit poked through our boat’s starboard side windows just above the galley. We both turned to look at each other and laughed out loud after what we had just done. From that day forward, other boaters in the marina regarded me as an experienced sailor. I wasn’t so sure. Judi and I were just happy we’d made it back safely.

Later, we were told the eight to 10 foot waves we’d encountered were just the early stages of the storm. Waves of 14 to 16 feet had already been created by gale-force winds before it was finished. We never forgot our chance encounter with Andrew. His warning quite possibly saved our lives. It had been a close call.

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Deen, Mohammed

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