[Public-List] Not the Misery Trip yet...

[Gordon Laco]

Good morning shipmates, 

After a hectic week of business and other stuff, I realized on Friday afternoon that I was uncharacteristically on top of my job list and perhaps could/should go sailing.  My sailor-girl wife put the same thought into words by suggesting we just down tools (well shut off computers) and cast off.

So we quickly stuffed a weekend worth of food into bags, grabbed our pillows and a change of socks and undies, and just after lunch we were aboard and casting off.   The wind was very light and from the south (we are getting the normal prevalent west wind here very rarely these days, the weather being one of the things that has not returned to normal since Covid) so we motored away.  Rounding Midland Point and heading north down the Sound, as usual we hugged the coast for no other reason than to see the reflection of our mast crossing our friend Ken Woods’ house windows, and later to have a squint at another friends boat which is moored in front of his property a bit further along.  

Rod, who I know is reading this, keeps his trim Frigate on a mooring that is conveniently just off his beach.  We always chuckle because depending on ones position when seeing it, the boat either looks to be out in the channel or about to go ashore… in fact it is neither, being in a bit of deep water in a good location.  I noticed that PERSEVERANCE, named for the tank his father commanded during the northern European campaign that ended the war there in ’45, had her Red Duster flying.  I commented to Caroline ‘Oh, I’ll bet Rod’s home’ and was just hauling out my cell phone to write him a text when the phone buzzed.  There in my hand was Rod’s voice and there on the beach reclining in his chair, was Rod himself.   We laughed and discussed the weather and destinations.

After passing PERSEVERANCE, we edged offshore a bit, mindful of the tongue of putty which extends from the coast just by there… yes, I’ve touched it a couple of times, once requiring help to get off having sailed onto it at a high angle of heel.

On up past Gin Rocks, into the narrow pass at Minicognashene snaking through the channels, safely by Hotchkiss Rock now conveniently visible but dangerously not so visible last year when we clanged smack onto it last year while motoring at 6.4 knots.  Hmmm, that’s the second time in this story I’ve mentioned hitting something…. I guess one tends to remember these things.

Up and up through Muskoka Channel, so named by the loggers 130 years ago for the mouth of the river they once ran each winter’s crop of timber down… past Ship Island which does have the footprint of a ship, past Sugar Island once beloved of my Dad’s cousin and still well looked after, finally to Bone Island, which is basically hollowed out by it’s cove, an anchorage safe in any weather.   We had the usual tense wait as we hummed in around the last bend, looking to see how many boats were in there… Ah, a few power hogs and cakes, but only a few and nicely spread out.  A power hog is one of the larger motorboats which look like science fiction space ships… damned awkward on the water but no doubt appealing to the ball-cap-on-backward set when standing in the show room.  A cake is a more traditional motor boat which looks like a stack of levels, each added by the boat salesman, the result being a testament to his glib patter while hammering out the deal.

A power hog being in our favourite quadrant of the cove, we dropped our hook in the norther corner by the beaver’s lodge.  The cove is shallow there but deep enough.  we settled down in only eight feet of water, but content.

We’d motored all the way up, but in balance three hours of motoring is good for the batteries, and I have to say so long as motoring is vindicated by dead calm, I have come to like doing it.  Except when going by Rod’s place, and yes he did comment during our brief cell phone conversation ‘i hope you can sail a bit…’   

In the evening we were treated by the spectacle of a pair of enormously fat beavers lolling around munching on something they were pulling up from the bottom.  They were unconcerned by us and contentedly stuffed themselves, so close by we could hear their busy teeth munching on whatever it was they were holding in their hands.   I noticed that when they were astern of us their dives to the bottom were very short in duration… more of that in a moment.   We also had schools of fish about.  They had white tips on their fins which I suppose indicated they were some sort of bass.  About 4 inches long, there where hundreds of them.  I made a joke about white tipped sharks, a comment which was not quite so funny after I’d flicked a large spider off the boat into the water.  It sat for a second in stunned surprise on the water then began frantically striding back toward us.  It didn’t get a few inches before one of the fish grabbed it.   The first strike cost it a couple of legs… the next took the whole thing.   

Evening was glorious.  Only a couple of the hogs and cakes ran generators.  The moon came up nearly full, bright enough to read by.  A class of rum for me, wine for Caroline, a bit of music (including Gordon Lightfoot singing ‘Christian Island’ of course, and to bed.

In the morning we had coffee in the cockpit and enjoyed the warm sunrise, then plucked up the anchor to head north again.  I really like sailing out of anchorages, mostly for the doing of it, but I have to admit partly for the slack-jawed shock it induces in other sailors who happen to witness.  But alas this Saturday morning there wasn’t a breath of air, so with the engine burbling at idle, we hoisted in the chain to motor out.  Due to our location we expected the chain to be covered with weeds, there were some, but most fell off as the links came in and then the hook itself came up with only a glob of bottom adhering to it.  I normally stand ready with the bucket to clean the chain and anchor as they come in, but this time had little to do.  Once the hook was off the bottom SURPRISE was a free agent, so I went back to the cockpit leaving Caroline to cat the anchor and bring the windlass handle back.  I clunked the transmission into forward with my foot, spun the wheel and we made pretty much a static turn, circling to set up to depart.  Why did I turn to port?  No reason, but that direct was toward where the beavers had been making their short dives the night before.  And now I learned why their disappearances were so short.  There was no water there.  SURPRISE gently stopped.  I glanced at the depth sounder and eased up the throttle… the dinghy glided up behind us and gently tapped the stern.  We were stuck.  I put the helm over hard to port and pushed up full throttle.  The prop wash thrashed astern and without moving forward, SURPRISE spun on her keel gently to port.  Once heading back toward deep water I eased back the throttle and centred the rudder… gently we slid along and picked up a bit of speed.  Caroline was by now coming aft with one eyebrow raised and by facial expression alone, clearly transmitted ‘I knew it was a bit shallow for us there…’  Yes, well, ahem.

So away we went merrily, easing the speed up to about 1200rpm which for us with the ’new’ prop (now four years old) means 5.5 knots.    We turned right at Gull Island and headed north.  While going past the place where rocker Tom Cochrane used to live, I saw what I thought was a large English sheep dog marooned on a rock.   I was just thinking ‘how the heck did that thing get there with its fur dry’ and lifted the binoculars to my eyes.  It wasn’t an English Sheep dog, it was a very large bald eagle.   If I’d been standing beside it, it would have been waist high.    Then we noticed another one circling, which the standing one joined, spreading its enormous wings. Wow.

Up and up we went, past the bifurcation buoy we call ’The Weirdo’ because it is yellow and black instead of red or green.  The wind was coming up and wowee there was enough west in it we could lay our course.  Up went the main, out popped the genny and we shut off the engine.  Soon we were bowling along at six knots close hauled, catching each buoy as we threaded the channel up to Splitrock Island.   A blessed wind shift allowed us to pass outside Splitrock, although we were ‘entertained’ by a young man in a US-style flat ‘bass-hunter’ motor boat with an enormous onboard on it.  He’d hop ahead of us buoy by buoy, stopping to fish beside each one.  Up we’d come snoring along with a foaming bow wave causing him to hurriedly spin in his line and shoot up to the next one.  Being close hauled we were just making each pin… I’d have gone above him if I could point higher, or below if he wasn’t just to windward of each buoy… finally he buzzed off at very high speed.

Our destination had been Wreck Island, but as we came along by Kerr Island we decided that Indian Harbour was far enough, so we deeked in and anchored there.  Again we were pleased to find only a few hogs and cakes already there, leaving lots of room in the capacious anchorage.   Indian Harbour, during our great grand parents time, was where loggers met periodically to have ho-downs on the smooth rock.  Until only twenty years ago a schooners mast still stood at the northern entrance, legend has it that steam tugs and schooners would hoist their distinctive pennants to indicate to passing vessels who was there… that being an invitation to come in and join.  The pole finally fell, but it’s still a nice place to go.   We laughed at the memory of one time I was there alone in Touch Wood, my wooden boat.  I thought I saw someone walking on the far shore.  Rum in hand I stood up and waved… the person on the rocks stopped.  I called ‘hello!’ and they started walking again without responding.  ’Not very friendly’ I harrumphed and reached for my binoculars.  The person I’d seen wasn’t human.  It was a heron, and a lot closer than I thought.  I looked at my glass of rum and put it down.

Back to the present, having reached our destination for the day rather earlier than going up to Wreck Island would have allowed, we read books and loafed for  couple of hours, then clambered into the dinghy to poke along the shallows.  We saw lots of fish, a very loud red squirrel to roared his chatting challenge at us (from a safe distance up his tree) and a rather large fox snake swimming.  Fox snakes look exactly like rattlers, but they have smaller heads and no rattle on the rear end.  They also get larger.  This fellow was about three feet long and was clearly keeping a eye on us as we rowed by.  I kept a respectful distance, knowing from experience they are quite fast in the water when they want to be.  They are not venomous nor particularly aggressive, but having him aboard if he decided he’d had enough of swimming would not have been pleasant.   He went his way and we went ours.

In due course we returned to SURPRISE, rigged up the barbecue and had a bang up wonderful supper on our cockpit table.  We admired the sunset, truly admired the glorious moonrise, more near full than last night, and turned in after more music and reading.

Sunday morning, the wind was from the south, so we motored away and all the way home.  We were again astonished at the ignorance and occasional aggressiveness of the motor boats in the heavy traffic nearer home, all rushing back to Midland in order to pile into cars and rush down to the city at the end of the weekend.  Wakes churning, engines roaring, not infrequently stereo sets blasting loud music, what a different experience of Georgian Bay these uncouth idiots make for themselves.  Oh well, we knew it would be like that on a Sunday afternoon…  

Eventually back to the Club… but first a shot over to the marina for a holding tank pump out, and fill up of the fuel tank.  I was completely astonished again to see how little fuel we’d burned from Tank One.  This is the factory installed 12 US gallon tank, which given the amount of motoring we’d done on the weekend, and before that since last fill up, should have been down to fumes if we’d been doing the gallon per hour that is what everyone expects of the Atomic IV engine.  I have no gauge on that tank, not being able to access the sending unit to replace it without removing the tank or the steering.  I keep tabs on it by means of the log book recording running time and speed.  We have a second eighteen gallon tank which does have a gauge, so I keep three or four hours of fuel there as a known reserve.   Tank One only took six gallons of fuel.  Wow.  Our fuel consumption was only half what I expected.  I have seen on the Atomic IV facebook page members talking about the Moyer replacement carb having a smaller main jet for the fuel input… and that this improves range… well I suppose it’s true.  We do have a Moyer carb.   Well I’ll have to modify my fuel consumption estimates… happily in the direction of improvement rather than otherwise.

Back at the club we learned our neighbours on our jetty have finally sold their Corvette; we’ll miss them for the wonderful evenings we’ve had rafted up on various trips over the past twenty years.    The new owner is joining the club and it turns out we have friends in common already… I hope they race the boat, the Corvette and Alberg 30 being arch rivals back in the day.  

What a wonderful weekend.  Yes, there was a lot of motoring, but we did have a great spanking sail up the coast on Saturday, Rod.

So, it’s almost time to start thinking about when the Misery Cruise will happen…  Pim, do you think Covid would allow you joining?  Let’s start talking about it.


Gordon Laco
426 Surprise