NORTH CHANNEL BY SMALL BOAT

Annie Westlund shares some of her singlehanding experiences

Article by Annie Westlund

You know how it is—to go or not to go is an every morning question. A look around at the weather from the companionway hatch—a glance at the barometer—what are the clouds like? Has the wind shifted? Is there enough to sail? Should I go now or later—or not go at all? What does environment Canada or NOAA say? Where are the high and low pressure systems? Where do I want to go, or need to go? Is the boat ready? How do I feel—long day or short day? Is it a lazy day or what should I do? What do I want to do? Stirred around enough, all the questions come together easily and in quick order or slowly, I am getting the cover off the mainsail, stowing loose stuff, setting aside snacks, lunch and water bottles, then shortening the anchor rode. I’ve decided—I’m going sailing!

I bring up the mainsail and haul up the anchor when it trips free. The sail shakes gently. I tighten the mainsheet with one hand and free the jib furling line with the other, pulling out the sail, grab the jib sheet and set the jib balancing out both sails as the boat gets underway. I steer out of the anchorage. I’ve sailed off the hook. I watch carefully for other boats in the small cove and avoid any shoals around. Away from the confines of the cove, the wind really fills the sails, I trim for comfort and speed and settle down to cruise, wishing I’d filled the thermos with coffee. “Next time,” I think. I slide the cushion under my bum to be able to see better over the cabin top as well as to soften the day.

Heating up from the sunshine, cooled by the wind, I pull up my collar and zip my vest. It’s a lovely morning. Oops, put on the sunscreen, girl! I do just that, face, ears, hands, arms, legs, feet. Sunglasses too, and I put on my broad-brimmed hat.

The boat surges along gently. I keep a hand on the tiller, feeling direction by the wind as much as visually. I feel the breeze in my ears, on my neck, in my hair. My body is in some constant adjustment for comfort and balance. I move in complete harmony with my boat. I remember the old rule that the upper half of the body belongs to the tiller and sheet while the lower half belongs to the boat. It’s like when canoeing or kayaking. On my sailboat it is the same as those tiny boats, a kind of balancing act. The tiller is the paddle in that analogy. I move with the boat and am balanced, neither rocking against the motion nor fighting it. I swivel at the waist as if I have a universal joint there. It feels good and I’m rock solid on my seat, or feet if standing up, which I do from time-to-time.

In the distance the islands blend with the backdrop of forest and mountains. The wind is on the beam. Peapod, my West Wight Potter 15, rolls a bit in the small waves. She moves well, making good time, keeping a steady movement forward, eating up the distance on a race of her own. I revel in the easy motion and feeling of speed. Sunlight flashes glints of light off the waves. I squint in my sunglasses and pull my hat down farther as I juggle hanging onto the tiller and mainsheet.

The islands separate as I approach, individuate, becoming distinct. That one is High Island, then Eastern. To the left is Louisa Island, five islands from High to the west. I think about Hog Island a bit farther west. Did hogs run free there, confined to the island away from bears and wolves? Would they have put the hogs there to kill snakes? Would the island support very many hogs? There used to be schooner docks there once upon a time. The furs were packed and shipped out at those wharves whose log and stone cribs still linger in the water. Fort LaCloche was a thriving place back in the days of the voyageurs and into the early 1800s. The river and swampy area by the fort were too shallow for the schooners, so the goods for trade were unloaded and furs loaded at Hog Island docks. Large freight birch bark canoes freighted the goods and furs to and from Hog Island. In my mind’s eye I can see the activity and wonder if there are “treasures” or artifacts to be found. Someday I want to snorkel there by the cribs.

My island target is Matheson Island. Behind Hog Island is rock soup but I figured it out! If schooners went in behind the Island where the cribs are then there is deep water there. Certainly it has to be deep enough for Peapod’s few inches of shallow draft. So, I sneak slowly in behind Louisa Island, passing her white sand beaches. I kick on the motor, furl the jib and leave the main up. Putzing along I make note of water depths and wend my way west by the colors of the water. Navy, indigo and blue black are usually deep water. They can be rocks but not so often as to cause concern. The darker blues are the way to go. I pass several smaller islands and come into Matheson’s anchorage by the back door, not the usual way in. I anchor, swim and have lunch. The wind rattles the awning as I settle into a good book and then a nap.

Peapod shifts, moves a bit with the wind. I turn over, flip on the VHF and hear the weather. The winds are going to die down. It should be a quiet night. At first light I am up and have breakfast. I fill the thermos with coffee. Before I am ready to haul the anchor, I read the chart as if preparing for an exam, taking note of bail-out points along the way to the next anchorage. I’ve been the way I plan to go many times but memory dulled by a year or more past is best refreshed. Besides, I love looking at charts as they hold good memories too. They talk to me and I make a game of learning the chart before I sail and then check memory with the chart to see if I pass this self imposed exam.

A light breeze develops as the sun heats the land. I shorten the scope, raise the mainsail and lift the anchor, sailing off the hook. I go south and west making for South Benjamin Island. The sailing is very slow. I dink along at one or two knots Another possible challenge arises. I decide to skirt the south shore of Fox Island where I have not gone before. It’s full of rocks, coves and channels in the shoals. I turn more abeam the breeze. Speed picks up and Peapod loves this point of sail. She quietly snores along. It was a good pick to go this way. The weather and light are perfect for making shoal rocks very visible in the gin clear water. They show up as pale tan, rosy reds, darker toward mocha and various colors all lighter than the surrounding darker blues.

I poke along with a lightly slack mainsail, enjoying the ease of a good day avoiding any white-knuckled sailing. At some undefined point I break for the southerly course out of the rocks and make for the lagoon in South Benjamin. I feel urgency. Then I realize that the wind is easing east. I turn on the VHF to the weather channel. Yep, we’re in for some changes in the weather sooner than previously predicted. Was it a shift in the wind or the pressure changes or a wave change that alerted me? The VHF says it will be a rather quick low coming through followed by the clear skies of a high pressure system with wind. A trough is connected to the high. It’s time for me to hole up with my tiny boat. I need a protected place so am making for the lagoon. I have seven or eight miles to go, a couple of hours more or less. There’s no need to hurry but I must keep moving. The motor starts with one pull. I leave the mainsail up for efficiency and drive, tacking and motor sailing, toward the south shore of Croker Island.

Pulling into the shallow lagoon after a delightful sail and motor sail, I feel relieved to be in a favorite anchorage with protection from all directions. Even though the tiny sandy bottomed lagoon is facing east, the shoals in front of my boat protect me as does Croker Island a mile away. Plus the low pressure system will back the wind to the north and west where I have forest and high rocky cliffs for protection. The anchor bites. The motor is shut off. The mainsail comes down, is furled and covered. I put up the awning and tighten the bungies that hold it in place. Then pour another cup of coffee. Not much can get me here, I think as I swat a mosquito. Biting insects herald a weather change too. They are right on schedule. I pull out the screening and fix it over the companionway as I dive below.

The air feels close as the humidity increased. I swim and hike the rocks, up the hills where I sit for awhile to enjoy the view. A few sailboats come in to anchor farther out in deeper water. I cherish my shoal draft as I see them try again and again to set their anchors out there where holding isn’t particularly good. Enough anchors hit bottom out there to create a plowed ground! Some give up and make for Croker Island’s anchorage where they will get east protection but later less from the winds when they go westerly. They will get some surge and wave action for sure. Nothing big and if they go to the right spots there will be no sea at all. Regardless, I’m in a good spot to sit it out. There was no indication of the depth of the low on the weather radio but the barometer shows a significant drop over the day before by the time I go swimming.

After swimming back to the boat I haul out the stern anchor and set it to the west, putting Peapod between her two anchors on a 180 degree set. She swims a bit on the bow anchor. The stern hook holds her in the location between the shallows to the north and the boulders to the south. There’s plenty of room for some side-to-side movement. I sit in the cockpit and watch. The breeze has picked up putting the mosquitoes out of business. The air is cooler and still comfortable. Clouds have completely covered the blue sky. Gusts frequently punch through. Wavelets go past, tiny but solid and steady. The trees have begun to swish and harp the wind. I hear a scramble out in the deep water. A dragging anchor, rattle of chain, shouts and motors revved up. The boat takes off for Croker Island. Another boat leaves. Croker will be crowded. The space there is somewhat limited.

South Benjamin Island has several good spots to anchor. But perhaps the sailors worry about anchoring in the shallower coves and bays. Again I think, Ah, for the love of a small boat! I gloat a bit on my fifteen-foot boat with its 6-8 inch draft. Peapod shudders briefly in a hard gust. I giggle.

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Leaving Badgely Island to starboard, I snuck between the rocky shoal and shore to go directly to Bearsback Island. The island is wooded heavily and appeared to have a rocky shoreline. I was pleased to find the sandy bottom in the cove that had drawn me to the island. In the cove the water was so clear it was as if the air had replaced the water. Into the cove opening I motored slowly, looking all over the place. I decided to anchor before hitting bottom. When the anchor went down, dropped from the cockpit, it went into nine feet of water. I was shocked because I thought it much shallower. The water was so clear I could see individual grains of sand. There was a bright spot on the bottom under Peapod, my West Wight Potter 15.

Over the side I went, diving for the colored thing as soon as the mask was fitted and the snorkel in place. I came up with one very large fishing bait designed for trolling. It actually looked like a neon pink, red and white squid with a big hook. I kept it to give to a friend who likes to fish. I was very careful to not hook myself with it. Somehow it reminded me of saltwater baits, but I expect Great Lakes Salmon would go for it too, as would a muskie or pike.

A cup of tea in hand, I lounged in the cockpit enjoying the cove and the solitude. The North Channel is not a busy place but in high season there may be other boats in the anchorages. As open to the south as the cove on Bearsback is, not many stay here overnight. Terns were feeding nearer the far shore, and gulls were pestering them. Their squabbling cries echoed in the cove, bouncing off the evergreens blanketing the shores. I started the motor after finishing my tea and pottered about the cove a bit before leaving. I love to explore this way and often do. I meandered north toward Amandros Island, skirting the shores there before entering the big bay open to the east. Along the shores were broken rocks, dark with lichens, which gave way to slabs of shale or slate mixed with limestone chunks also layered. The shoreline is wooded to the shore rocks. Birds seem to favor this island and their songs are wonderful on a quiet day.

The bay opened up with deer on the beach, a sandy shoreline pocket of peace. Two whitetails were grazing in the grasses and sedges. They left in quiet walks out of sight as I nosed into the sand bottomed shallows before anchoring. I decided to stay since the weather was stable and quiet. The easterly exposure is so open that it is best in settled conditions. A large island lends some shelter from the easterlies but it’s not enough in a blow to give me comfort. It would be a bouncy place in high east winds. Tonight should be okay, I thought. As soon as I was all secured with the main furled, covered, jib bagged and anchors set (bow and stern), cockpit tidied up and things put away down below, I went for a cooling swim in the hot sunny afternoon. Then a short nap as I dried off. The day was warm and sunny with little wind. Good day for a nap.

The deer had long left the disturbances my presence had created when I walked ashore to explore. I swam around some in leisurely fashion and ended up walking along the beach area to where the limestone rocks shelved in interesting layers infested with fossils. The lower water level had exposed more sand bottom to walk on, gradually taking me into deeper water where I swam along the shore. I often do that with Peapod since I carry no dinghy.

Swimming along the shores from rocks to rocks or islands to islands has been a fun thing to do—to explore without having to haul anchor and motor. Being no less lazy than anyone, I find if I am at anchor I’m loath to pick up and go short distances. I’d rather swim around, exercise that way, and explore by water “ratting.” In the weeds, the deer tracks were abundant on the sand. Deer seem to like to play in sand. It’s something I have noticed since I was a child. They like to run and stop, spraying sand, and messing around in sand, leaving hundreds of tracks. I found no treasures beyond the tracks they left. And there was no evidence of other people walking along the shores even though I knew that the little bay was often visited by other sailboaters.

Back aboard Peapod I settled in for the night following my dinner, a one-pot meal cooked on my tiny backpacker stove. I read for awhile with my headlamp resting on my shoulder before mosquitoes pestered me into going below. I put the screen over the companionway leaving it otherwise open as is my habit. The boat is a sort of solid tent that way. I like the air of the open companionway. I continue reading and enjoy it with no other distractions. It’s nice to luxuriate in reading, one of my summer’s delights. I read eclectically, broadly, over many subjects, from the Arctic to history, philosophy to junky novels. In winter my collection for the next summer grows. I consider the books to take, pack them in dry bags made to hold a six-pack for jet skis, and they become bow ballast for the boat and my mind. I look forward to the time to read that cruising provides me. The reading takes the edges off of rainy days. It is a companionable activity. I frequently trade books with other boaters who share their favorites each season. I’ve met some nice folks by taking books around and offering to trade when at an anchorage.

In the morning I bathed and ate breakfast before hauling the anchor. As I ate my pb and J, I saw over the side through the clear water a huge bloodsucker. I say aloud in full surprise considering I’d been swimming there moments before, “It must be a foot long and two inches wide!” The dark red body undulates, moving fairly rapidly through the depth along side Peapod. “Egad!” I’m sure the leach was hunting but it didn’t get me! One never has in the North Channel. In fact it’s the first leach I’ve seen up there. I did get some small ones on me when I was a child. It was no big deal to my sister either, or our summer friends. Just part of the environment and salt on their tails made them fall off. Nothing to worry about or cause me to avoid the water.

The sails drew well and I sailed a pencil-straight course for the Hotham Island area as I made plans to go through the McBean Channel. I decided I’d sail the length of the Hotham’s before going on to Fox Harbor. It is a roundabout way to go but an interesting challenge in SW breezes. I took the east entrance into McBean Harbor and tacked west along the narrow channel. Beating up wind with short tacks became play and I attempted to do each one perfectly, playing a game with myself. This went on all afternoon. I stopped for lunch and a coffee break at the narrows, drifting in a wind sheltered cove where I discovered a wreck just underwater at the head of the cove. It appeared to be a sailboat of some forty feet in length, wooden and no hardware visible. I left it alone and sailed on into the west. The wind gradually swung a bit more southerly so one long haul upwind took me to the west entrance and I was able to turn south, tacking back out into McBean Channel. Now it was a clean claw to the south on the other tack.

I persisted, tack and tack again, around Freschette Island and Eagle Island, to a point where I could pick up an abaft beam reach and a jibe north to the downwind entrance into Fox Harbor avoiding the big rocks just under the water’s surface. Under main alone, I sailed for the bottom of the anchorage to the north. I prepped the anchor and rode for an easy bow drop so when I arrived I was able to simply drop the anchor, sail past it before snubbing off in four feet of water, well away from the reed bed in the shallows. This set the anchor by sail. Then the main was dropped, furled and covered. It had been flogging a bit as I dug out the cover but nothing noisy. Two other boats were in the anchorage and I was grateful all had gone well with the sailing in of the anchor. I hate flubs in front of others. Ego I suppose. I covered the tiller, put the awning up and made all tidy. I was now free for the balance of the afternoon, aswarm in thoughts of good sailing and exploring. Watching the weather was on my agenda so I turned on the VHF channel to listen. There were signs that wind was growing as the trees were talking, making their wind noises of swish and swoosh. Soon the anchorage had more boats coming in. It’s a popular anchorage, surrounded by soft looking pink granite rocks perfect for protection and walking exercise.

It wasn’t long before a fox appeared running along the rocks, sniffing once in awhile as he trotted south. I saw an eagle soaring as it hunted. A red squirrel complained in the trees. No bears came along, nor moose. A blue heron landed in the grassy shoreline where I’d seen sandhill cranes early in June. There had been two adults and one fledgling at their nesting site. Once in awhile a small fish plopped. Birds called and flitted about in the shrubs and sedges.

A motor cued me and I watched two sailboats come in. They tied stern-to on shore with a bow anchor each. I put out my stern anchor to hold my stern to the cove bottom and trees for some privacy and when it was set, I turned the awning tent-like for more shade and put the water pipe pvc poles into the cabin. The awning had “come down” into the night mode. I settled in with my book that was having a hard time holding my interest. I soon gave up and got into the water to swim ashore. I hiked along the rocks and explored an inland boggy area where I’d seen orchids a previous summer and had been told there were often moose. When I got back aboard Peapod I made tea and was then content to read for a time before preparing supper, another one-pot meal.

Day sailing can evolve into a voyage with anchoring stops, but voyaging is actually a series of day sails. Where I live in the USA is about 100 miles west of Little Current on Manitoulin Island in Canada. In one season, I was a member of the Community Choir at home and the usual May concert was moved to June. I decided I wanted to tow to Little Current to launch and left on the third of June. The concert was to be two weeks later so I sailed back home to sing with the group and salve my conscience of the guilt I felt from leaving them. Guilt has bristly fur and niggles at one’s mind. Two concerts were scheduled and the group isn’t that big. My voice isn’t either but I try very hard to do well and not spoil anything. I started for home.

Leaving the Benjamins where I had been anchored, I sailed west to the Whalesback Channel intent on going as far as I could before it got too late in the day. The route took me north and west through the tight, current ridden Little Detroit Passage, so narrow by rocky walls and possessing a blind corner, that a security call on the vhf radio is required. The motor was on and the jib furled as I made my way past the two fishing boats. The fisherman waved and held up some large pike to brag. They hadn’t blocked the channel but it wasn’t the safest place for them.

West of Little Detroit I found flukey wind due to the island’s wind shelters and motored out past Passage Island until I could continue sailing on a reach along the islands toward the Whalesback Channel. I pulled into John Island area for the night. It had been a good day sail. I’d made progress west toward home. The weather was promising for the next day and I continued on following a quiet night. I did see a bear at John Island. It’s always nice to see them so long as I am not too close. I sailed west past Clara and Turnbull Islands and then southwest toward Meldrum Bay. The wind was favorable and I felt good so continued to Cockburn Island where I anchored for the night. I was within striking distance of Drummond Island the next day and made it to Pilot Cove easily. The wind held favorable and so did my energy. Pilot Cove is a tight spiral where beavers live and work the wood on shore. It’s deep and has a very narrow entrance close to the shore. No other boats came in while I was there and it was very nice. The only noises were wavelets on shore, birds singing and chirping plus the occasional slap of the beaver’s tail.

The next day I sailed around the north side of Drummond Island and cleared customs at the Drummond Island Yacht Haven before going on to DeTour Village where I docked at the state docks. The concert was the next night. I walked up to my house where I sewed a new sail cover that fit better. I slept on my boat though. I didn’t want to break the voyage. The concert went well and the day after that I sailed back to DIYacht Haven to stay that night. A friend picked me up for the concert and that one went well too. Over. The season of singing was over! Free, I set sail for Pilot Cove again, some 25 miles to the east. And, I back-tracked back to the Benjamin Island group, my favorite place over in the North Channel, stopping to clear customs into Canada at Meldrum Bay. A couple of hundred miles under the boat and freedom. It felt good. •SCA•

Annie Westlund grew up alongside a small inland lake where she sailed her summers away in northern lower Michigan. She attended the University of Michigan and became a downhill ski instructor before becoming a science teacher, consultant, principal and school superintendent. She retired in 1998, bought a WWPotter 15, and has cruised each summer for 3 to 5 months in Lake Huron’s North Channel and Chesapeake Bay. She currently owns a Slipper 17(Raggedy Annie) and a WWPotter 15 (Peapod Again).

First appeared in issue #77