Chicago to South Haven

My Blustery Scamp Adventure on Lake Michigan by Dave McWethy

I pushed my Scamp off the dock at Crowley‘s Lakeside Yachtyard, on the Calumet River at the southern end of Chicago. It was July 16, which meant the weather was warm. A few days earlier I’d trailered from Seattle, and then prepped for the voyage. It rained steadily the day before, a Friday.Today, winds were out of the north, in the mid-teens. To get lighter winds and lower seas, I’d have to wait till Monday, but impatience got me going Saturday morning.

I started with the sail rigged but down, powering with my dependable little 2.5 hp Suzuki. As though I was piloting a ship, I contacted the Ewing Street drawbridge on my VHF. When the bridge tender looked carefully, he could see my 12-foot Scamp, and told me to wait for an approaching tugboat and follow it through. Beyond the bridge was a short stretch of river, a huge breakwater field, then open lake. 

This trip had begun in April, when I asked Josh at Small Craft Advisor for advice on acquiring a ready-to-go Scamp. I knew the Scamps from the earliest days. I watched Josh’s Scamp No. 1 being built, and became friends with John Welsford and Howard Rice along the way, as they ran Scamp Camps in Port Townsend. But it took another ten years for a Scamp to fit into my life.

Scamp No. 225 was home in my driveway a couple of weeks later. The boat was well built, and in reasonably good condition. I started with revarnishing the spars in between rainstorms. The hull got a new coat of paint. The sun-worn sail was replaced with new. Four new hinged hatches gave me the easy storage I’d need for cruising. New running rigging. Anchor and chain. Outboard. With help from an excellent YouTube video, I adapted a 6-gallon portable tank to bypass the one liter built-in outboard tank.

Back on the Calumet, the wind strength gained as I approached the lake. The clouds were gray and thick. The only other boats were a couple of tugs and a barge, despite the day being Saturday in the summer. Before the breakwater exit, I raised the sail and secured the outboard. I didn’t feel lonely, but very much alone the on big waters of Lake Michigan. The Scamp slid along nicely under a double reef, with a strong onshore wind. 

I started sailing some 60 years ago, in both dinghies and a 35-foot sloop. Since then I’ve sailed on and off, but almost entirely on larger boats. The quickness of the Scamp, and need for seamless attention brought me back to the dinghy days.

On this day, with little experience sailing a balanced lug rig, I appreciated the skill that went into designing this remarkably capable boat. By now, in open water, I was in three-and four-foot waves that had built under northerly winds overnight. (I try to be conservative in my estimates. These were waves I was looking at eye-to-eye with and higher.) A wiser man might have practiced this a few times before starting a voyage. But the boat was handling well, and was stable, so I sailed on, heading south with the distant shore in sight.

Gary Harbor in Indiana was the intended destination, but Indiana Harbor in the industrial area of East Chicago offered shelter when Gary still seemed a long way off. Wave height was increasing, and the heavy clouds were not reassuring. The Indiana harbor, which oriented northeast, was not ideal, but a massive rock breakwater slowed the wind. I anchored some distance behind it, in 20 feet. I was worn out, and lay down for a nap. There was still plenty of wind. On awakening, I was pretty sure the anchor had dragged. I repositioned closer to the breakwater, in shallower and better-sheltered water.

On the breakwater, and covering the hill which rose abruptly on the shore, there were cormorants and seagulls beyond count. The hill might be a dump. The birds flew in huge circles. Some dove. All were calling. It was bird pandemonium that continued into the night.

Across the harbor, a huge bulk carrier ship unloaded next to a large building which rumbled through the night. 

Feeling at last that I was secure, I settled for the night in my tiny one-person tent that fit perfectly in the center well. The fly stretched out above, coaming to coaming. A 2-1/2-inch mattress went inside the tent, with a yoga mat beneath, against moisture. I always sleep well in boats, and this small boat was no exception, even with bird noise and wind whistle.

Next, this, from my log, written before daylight: “Ah, lessons learned in the night. In the middle of it I was thinking, this feels like the night of hell.” Deep in the night I woke up abruptly when I heard and felt a grinding bump on the hull. A substantial bump. Without looking I knew I had an anchor problem. I expected that the boat had been blown downwind toward the shore, anchor dragging again. Instead, when I stuck my head out of the tent fly, I could see I was on the breakwater rocks. The wind was blowing strong, but from the east, not the north, as predicted through the night.

Close up, the breakwater was piled rocks, each a quarter of the size of my boat, with sharp edges.

Using the paddle, I could push off the rocks, but the wind would just push me right back. I attempted to pull on the anchor line, figuring this might pull the boat away from the rocks at least. I was unable to shorten the line at all. 

In the midst of this I had to remove my fly/tarp which was acting like a sail, and also was in the way.

Lots of chaos and urgency.

I was not in danger for my own life, but I needed to find a way to protect the boat. Thunder, lightning and rain started. Here I was, with an aluminum stick—the paddle—in my hand, in the water, inviting electricity. Realizing that the anchor, which I could not pull up, was holding me on the rocks, I started the outboard, hoping to pull away from danger. Perhaps I could retrieve the anchor from a different angle. No success. This just pulled the boat back to the rocks. And the wind was still blowing strongly.

Then the engine died, after the shut off valve in the fuel line fell apart. This could not be repaired at the moment.

I thought this might be the time when my oars would save me. I assembled them and attempted to row, but the bundle of sail and spars in the center of the boat prevented rowing. As the boat swung back for the rocks, I raised the bundle somewhat with the halyard, which gave me more room for rowing. But still I couldn’t pull in the anchor line. Pulling just brought the boat close to the rocks again. 

I decided I had to release the anchor line. The thought of losing the anchor and line altogether was too depressing. I released the anchor line, but first tied a fender to the end of it, and threw that up on the rocks. I thought this might at least give me some chance of retrieving the anchor in daylight.

I returned to the oars, but after moving a short distance, I could see I still wasn’t clear. Yesterday I had rigged a secondary line to the anchor line, which would allow me to bring the anchor line from the bow to the cockpit. I had forgotten to take this off when I tossed the fender/buoy on the rocks. This line pulled the fender off the rocks, and still kept me connected to the anchor. Fortunately at this point the wind had subsided, which took some pressure off. As I headed back to the rocks, I tried again to pull on the anchor line, now from a different direction. At this point, the line released and I discovered the anchor line itself had fouled on the rocks. Now a shortening of the anchor line brought the boat away from the breakwater. With lessened wind, I re-secured the anchor and declared the job done until daylight. At this point it began raining. I scrambled to restore the tarp, and the rain fell solidly for an hour. I huddled underneath the tiny veranda. After putting away my bedding to keep it dry, I decided I might as well write about my morning’s adventure while waiting for dawn. “I haven’t looked outside,” I noted,  “but the wind has stopped, the rain has stopped, and there are no sounds of grinding on the rocks.”

There ought to be a reality TV series about Problem Solving at 4 a.m. I thought. 

The cormorants, now awake as well, are expressing a lot of opinions.

With daylight, it was time for a damage assessment. I didn’t see rock damage above the waterline, and no water was pouring in beneath.

8 a.m. - Engine fuel hose repaired. Re-anchored. No rain. Time for breakfast and decision making. Glad for pleasant air temperature.  As I was getting ready to depart, the tugboat Tennessee was in the harbor, and it came over to me. The Tennessee berths next-door to Crowley’s, but I couldn’t imagine they had noticed my boat on their dock. With his loud hailer, the skipper asked if I needed help…Was I okay? Would I like some water? I did a thumbs up to indicate I was fine, and shouted but he couldn’t hear. I was blown away by the kindness of this commercial skipper.

A comment on anchoring: I am not new to anchoring, and have spent many nights at anchor, I doubt there were more than a few nights when I felt absolute confidence that I was fully hooked to the earth. It’s a crap shoot. You put an anchor down through murky water to a bottom you can’t see, hope for the best and go to sleep. What could go wrong? I can easily fault my seamanship from this past night, but I had bet on the advantages of shallow water and being sheltered from the wind—a shifting wind that betrayed my innocence. The lake controls the bets on her own table.

9 a.m. - In the harbor, when I pulled my anchor, the mud clinging to it gave off a petroleum rainbow in the water. This was the banner for here and the old industrial shoreline across Indiana. My plan was to sail around the bottom then north on the Michigan shore. 

(Stay tuned for Part II)