After that experience in the Detroit River where we took on more fuel than we would ever have a chance to use, we headed on north past the large homes on Grosse Pointe, that well-known dwelling spot of the very wealthy, across shallow Lake St. Clair and up the St. Clair river which separates the US and Canada, to the small city of Port Huron, Michigan, located at the base of north-south running Lake Huron. We docked at the snow-laden floats of the Port Huron Yacht Club, a small club with smallish slips but a popular, large U-shaped bar. We moored there three days waiting for a favorable weather window. This was mid-December and no one, literally no one, ventures out on the Great Lakes, especially the norther lakes of Huron, Michigan and Superior, this time of year if it can be avoided. The risk of strong winter storms is high and the relatively shallow waters make for sharp, steep waves when the wind gets up. At this time of year I had read that all marinas, refuges from storms and sources of fuel, are closed so we knew we might have to run non-stop for about five days. We would head north on Lake Huron, turn west through the straights of Makinak, then south through Laked Michigan to Chicago, located at its foot. We were forced to enter the Lakes because there was no other way to get from Toronto to points south as the Erie Canal and another to the east, closed in late November.
We finally got our window of forecast light to moderate winds and clear skies, and off we went. We ran north uneventfully for a day and a half. As we neared the top of Lake Huron I found a small river on the chart with a marina located on it just off the lake. I figured we were due for a good night's sleep so decided to venture up this virtual creek and try to moor at a slip as I was sure there wouldn't be many boats in the water. We tied up the boat. I saw lights on in the marina office, found an unlocked door and entered. A makinaw-clad man quickly looked up from a ledger and said "Why the heck did you use that door when the one from the parking lot is unlocked?" I said, Well sir, this was the closest door to my boat." "Boat!, he exclaimed, whaddaya mean boat? No one's out this time of year!" I said, "Well I am, and I wonder if I might have a slip and an electric hookup for the night." "Well I'll be darned, who would belive this!" he exclaimed. "Let me see what you have". We slipped and slid our way along the docks on the ice to Simba, looking proud and undaunted in the very cold night air. The gentleman, who turned out to be the marina owner, was tickled pink to have us as guests and insisted we stay the night for free, not even charging us for electricity which had to be considerable considering we had to run five electric heaters to keep the temperature above freezing.
The next morning we ran under high, long Mackinac Bridge connecting Michigan's lower and upper peninsulas, and west across the Straights of Mackinac. By noon we had entered the northern tip of Lake Michigan. The wind began to increase steadily and mid afternoon I was doing my darndest to find a port to put into fearing we would otherwise have a most unpleasant night. The only place that looked like it might provide some shelter was a mere blip on the chart named Port Inland. It had a breakwater behind which it appeared we might take shelter. We needed to turn north toward the port, but the waves were now six to ten footers out of the southwest and had a lot of punch to them. I was leery of turning broadside to them, as if one caught us right it could heel us over dramatically. And, to be truthful, all afternoon the heavy spray from the waves had been causing an ice buildup on the deck which I knew had to have raised our center of equilibrium, not a good thing. I knew we would roll dynamically if a wave caught us wrong. So the trick was to keep pointing into the waves at about a forty five degree angle, and then when I could see a smaller wave coming, I could put the helm over quickly and take it astern rather than broadside. There was only one hitch to this plan...I had to be able to find that smaller wave but now my visibility had dropped markedly. Not only was there spray constantly hitting the outside of the pilot house windows, but condensation continually threatened to completely cloud the insides. I had purchased two clip-on twelve volt fans at an auto parts store in Detroit and had them both oscilatting back and forth and blowing air at highest speed on the windows which up to now had kept the condensation at bay. However now, perhaps because of a sharp drop in temperature, they couldn't keep the windows clear. I had a crewman wiping them with a towel also, but it was impossible to have a continuous good view of the seas. At what I thought was a good opportunity, I swung the wheel over. The boat began to roll to starboard, and rolled...and rolled...to the point that both crew, very experienced on much larger boats at sea, shouted out with alarm. I spun the wheel back to right the ship and you could hear the breath exhalations of relief from the men (I, of course, had to make on as if such extreme rolls were just a matter of course for me...)
It was now growing dark and I simply had to change course. I strained to see through the pilot house windows, and finally saw what I hoped was a smaller wave and again put the wheel over. This time the wave was smaller and only caught our port quarter toward the stern, so while we rolled hard again, we managed to stay upright and were now pointing for Port Inland.
The chart showed a red light on the end of the breakwater, but due to the poor visibility we couldn't spot it with the glasses. We had to rely on the accuracy of our GPS-driven Nobeltec moving chart plotter to get us to safety. We could see the boat-shaped icon representing Simba moving straight for the breakwater and, as we slipped past the rock barrier, we finally saw the flashing red. Almost immediately the boat stopped rocking and ahead we could see numerous white lights at ground level and , some rising at angles high into the night sky. We decided we were entering a huge sand or gravel storage and distribution installation. A couple of hundred yards ahead we saw some kind of dock and made for it. But when we were still a good distance away, the boat began to slow of its own accord, and soon came to a halt. Perplexed, as I still had the engines in gear at a quarter throttle, we shone a spotlight on the water...to find it was a slurry of ice! I put the gears in neutral and told the crew we couldn't dock but would have to anchor. Not a problem, except the anchor and windlass were now covered in four or more inches of ice. I broke out a fire ax and crow bar I had in the engine room lazarette, and the crew went to work chopping away at the anchor and chain. I remember thinking it's a good thing our deck was steel!
When we were first brought to a halt the ice slurry was undulating with the motion of the small waves inside the breakwater. But after a few minutes of work I glanced overboard again and saw that the motion of the slurry had stopped and that we now were in fact surrounded by a solid and thick sheet of ice. I raced to the pilot house, slammed the gears into reverse and gave the engines full throttle. There was a horrendous grinding noise from the stern as the three foot diameter propellers began chopping the ice. I held my breath, envisioning a long cold winter iced in at little Port Inland, Michigan. Slowly, ever so slowly, Simba began to move rearward as the props ground away. We inched backward it seemed for ever until, with a mighty surge, we broke free. The crew managed to chop and pry the the anchor, windlass and chain free as I backed down the open water to the breakwater where we swung around and successfully dropped the hook.
None of us wanted to eat then, or even doff our gear. Flooded with relief that we wouldn't be spending the winter in Northern Michigan, we all had now had only one thought in mind: "We're finally safe so let us us sleep, blessed sleep!"
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