Raider's Sunday
A report from Raid Erie
Article by John Huff | Photos by Stephanie Slat
After a well-deserved night’s sleep, I woke up to another day of fair weather. The previous day’s twenty-five mile sail to Manila Bay had surprisingly left me with only a sore rear end. Sitting on the uncushioned fiberglass deck of my Sunfish was somehow harder than hiking hours on end to keep up with the Wayfarer crewed by Nick, Stephanie, and Sara. The start of yesterday’s Raid Erie group sail was somewhat chaotic, so I was quite lucky to have caught up with them out on the water. We had made acquaintances at Friday’s reception, but bonded quickly through the shared suffering that only a full day’s sail can provide. I wondered what was in store for me today, especially given that sitting on the Sunfish was likely out of the question.
I watched the other Raid Erie attendees pack tents and cook up delicious smelling breakfasts over the fire. I ate the leftovers from last night’s dinner at Walleye’s with contentment. The cornbites were as good as Sara had claimed. With no plans for the day, I discovered that I was fortunately out of drinking water. Given the questionable state of the campground’s water system, this meant I had a great excuse to check out the island’s coffee shop rather than drink my last packet of instant coffee. Once Nick and Sara had finished packing up their tents, we headed out to the marina. By now we had become very familiar with the route, expertly dodging the soft spots in the damp mulch shortcut to the boat ramp parking lot. With Stephanie’s whereabouts an unconcerning mystery, Nick dropped off their camping gear at the Wayfarer’s slip and the three of us made our way to the coffee shop.
Be sure to watch the Part 1 video above
The Island Grind was surprisingly polished and modern looking, and I had nearly forgotten the feeling of proper AC. We grabbed our coffees, a classic vanilla latte for me, and begrudgingly left the comfort of the AC to walk down to the winery. We discovered that it is a literal facade, looking like a massive building when viewed from afar. In reality, it consists of the tower and a nice outdoor seating area surrounded by walls, no roof. I wondered how many people on the bustling island to the south would only ever know it as a real building.
We sipped our coffees and looked out to the west of the island where we saw the Bayweek Regatta. Nick explained that these were the sort of Big Boats that he and Stephanie crew for at their local yacht club. He started out as a jib trimmer, but now he and Stephanie are sort of the “middle of the totem pole”, filling in roles as needed to help squeeze as much performance out of the boat as possible. The island-free coast of western Lake Erie had left its sailors with nothing to do but race, so Nick gladly welcomed the change of pace provided by the Raid.
We headed back to the marina, stopping to chat with other Raid Erie attendees along the way. We exchanged our stories of the previous day’s adventure with David and Doug Park. The father and son pair had sailed around Middle Bass to North Bass Island clockwise with the other schooners, skipping the pitstop at Manila Bay and partially joining the Bayweek fleet. Apparently, a filming helicopter had to double back to capture what must have been an odd site: a small army of two masted dinghies in the middle of a proper Big Boat race.
Once back at the Wayfarer’s slip, the small dock shared with Chris and Joanne Iriarte’s 1930’s Town Class was quickly filled with more attendees reminiscing and chatting. We became an audience to Chris rigging the Town Class. He handled the pressure and helpful remarks with grace. Once rigged and ready, he pushed off the dock. We all cheered as he carefully stepped over Joanne to reach the tiller just in time to set his line to sail out of the marina. The antique, clutchless Seagull motor was not required today.
After being gently informed by a harbor master that we were nearing the check-out time for the day, I began to realize that my time with the Wayfarer crew may soon be coming to an end. I slowly made my way off the dock to give them a bit of room to prepare for departure. Just as I was accepting my fate of being marooned on the island, destined to shoot B-roll for the day, Nick covertly pitched the idea of one last adventure: They could maroon me at Put-in-Bay instead. Intrigued by the sense of adventure and a new island to explore, I quickly prepped to join them as the fourth member of their crew.
Starting the adventure off right, we opted to sail out of the marina. Fighting the gentle but combative headwind, we tacked our way in and out of the fairways, dodging docks and boats along the way. Nick made sure to use the full width of the water, partially for efficiency but more likely to give Stephanie a spike of adrenaline at each tack. It was never more clear that Nick is indeed her younger brother. We exchanged banter and compliments to the other Small Boat sailors making their way through the marina, and finally reached the cut. We made our last tacks, daringly close to the boulders lining the channel. Since I remarked that we almost made it through the cut in one tack, Nick made sure to hit us with what I’m sure is a classic:
“Prepare to tack, three... two... actually I think I can make it....”
“No!”, we nervously countered in protest.
Nick smiled and continued, “...one, tacking. I’m going to get you with that every time.”
Once out on the unprotected waters east of the island, we started our roundabout trip to the nearby Put-in-Bay to the south. With easterly winds at 8 knots, we were all happy to cool off with a few tacks. Once we realized that we had worked our way much more upwind than would be required for our journey, Nick grinned and announced “Well guys, I have great news. We have a fantastic direct downwind leg to Put-in-Bay.”
With the jib pole out and the apparent wind vanishing, we lazily baked in the sun as we found comfortable seating for the rocking and swaying ride between the islands. Sara sprawled out quietly on the bench crossing the front of the cockpit, while Stephanie and I opted to enjoy the cushioning of the outdoor carpet that lined the floor. The journey was punctuated by a handful of gybes to keep things interesting. An ill-mannered powerboat passing too close was a secretly welcomed sight. We all pretended to be annoyed by it, but I think we all enjoyed the excitement of turning the boat to safely make it over the largest waves of the day.
With nothing to do but talk and away from prying ears, we speculated and shared stories about the other attendees. There were so many interesting characters that your mind couldn’t help but wonder about all the intricacies of their lives. I wondered about all the stories they have that we may never hear. It is likely that this weekend was the only time many of our lives would intersect, rocking each other’s boats with our wakes but never to meet again.
We reached the opening of the bay, so it was time to make a decision. Stephanie floated the idea of anchoring just long enough to eat some snacks and catch a vibe, but as the giant granite column of Perry’s Monument became an ever-increasing presence during our approach, it was clear what we had to do. We scouted the northern shore of the bay for any semblance of a beach to land. At first it seemed like nothing but breakwater, cliffs, and private beaches, but then we spotted it. The loneliest and saddest patch of gravel beach you could ever hope to land on. Where the concrete breakwall met the boulder field there was a pocket that tended to collect gravel and shells. It was a godsend for foolishly brave sailors.
We cautiously navigated the shallow rocky waters leading to the gravel patch. Sara pulled up the centerboard as Stephanie and I leaned over the gunwale, scouting for rocks seeking to abruptly end our adventure. We feathered the centerboard up and down to give helmsman Nick just enough pointing ability to beat toward the narrow target. We slowly reached shallow water, the bottom clearly visible through the relatively calm waters of the bay. On Nick’s command, I hopped out and held the boat steady as we discovered the even smaller patch of beach fully clear of jagged, baseball-sized rocks. With the final decision made and boat positioned, Stephanie and Sara weighed down the back of the boat as Nick and I yanked the Wayfarer ashore with the timely assistance of a wave.
Once we were sure we couldn’t pull it any further we all stood and cautiously watched the boat, looking for any sign that it wouldn’t hold itself in place. With a series of slightly larger waves from a ferry, the boat tried to tip from one side to the other, letting out a large POP. Stephanie and Nick immediately looked at each other. “What could that be?” Nick asked, likely seeking confirmation of what he had already assumed. “Rock in the ridgeline?” Stephanie replied. Nick tipped the boat back to one side as she quickly grabbed a pair of fenders, jamming them as far under the boat as possible in hopes of protecting against more unpleasant sounds.
With the boat seemingly stabilized, we climbed the breakwall-boulder interface and started our march to the Monument. With a few cautious looks back at the boat and after a few snaps from Stephanie’s film camera, we fully committed to our goal of reaching the memorial. Nick’s mind was quietly racing with scenarios of running and potentially swimming to rescue the boat, but we continued on nonetheless.
We walked barefoot on the top of the concrete breakwall, the height giving us a cool breeze and safety from the possibility of broken glass on the sidewalk below. We walked single file, with legs slightly unsteady after being trained on the rocking of the boat. We easily endured the jeering from the loud tourists drunkenly passing on the endless trail of golf carts. We were invulnerable. We had warm concrete on our feet, new friendship in our spirits, and the single-track focus of completing the mission on our minds.
Reaching as close to the Monument as the wall would take us, we hopped down, crossed the street, and walked up the steps to the base of the column. While the Monument was an ever present sight in the archipelago, it wasn’t until I was staring straight upwards at its 350 foot ascent that I fully comprehended the scale. Nick half-jokingly remarked, “We’re home.”
I ran my hand across the precisely carved fluting of the massive granite column. How was it possible to construct something so large so long ago? How long would it stand into the future? While the monument is meant to symbolize everlasting peace between the US, England, and Canada, to me it symbolized humanity’s ability to fight against all odds to do something that leaves people in awe. It also subtly served as a memento mori once I realized it would be standing long after the wake of my boat.
Nick showed me how to lie down at the base of the monument and look up, imagining the column as the roof of a long tunnel. Sara and I tried it, but I think we were distracted by the comforting warmth of polished granite on our backs to get the full effect of the illusion. Eventually we stood back up, knowing our time in this place was limited. With a finalizing snap, Stephanie took a photo of the three of us, the monument, and the top section of the boat’s sail far in the background. With the safety of the boat returning to our thoughts, we headed back along the top of the breakwall. We could walk two and two now, with the confidence of stable land restored in our legs.
Finding the mainsheet tangled on the engine, we got back to the boat just in time to prevent it from turning precariously sideways. With the boat prepped for departure quickly, the girls climbed aboard. After a one arm hug marking the end of our adventure together, Nick and I pushed the boat off the shore. He climbed aboard as I climbed back onto the breakwall to watch them depart. They were headed with the wind back to Michigan where they started their journey.
After sitting on the breakwall to take a photo of them all waving from the boat, I stood up and prepared my bag for the rest of the day. I lashed my life preserver to my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and began my walk into town. I looked out one last time toward Nick, Stephanie, and Sara, finding they had already sailed quite some distance away. As I stopped to watch, they all waved one last time. This time their waves weren’t for a photo, they were for me, and I waved back. I hoped this wasn’t the last time our wakes would meet. •SCA•
Great article, John, thanks!
Hi y'all, be sure to check out my Raid Erie video series. Part 3 of the video series will cover the events from this article. Thanks! https://youtu.be/0qARCktLAG8