|
Support Whisper
Polar Expedition Spitsbergen 2009. |
Detroit, Erie and Buffalo -
"Chance of showers and thunderstorms"
The Saint Clair River is swiftly carrying us towards Motown, so after
almost
three weeks of sailing we are once more only 60 miles from our home in
Ann Arbor. Since dusk is coming fast, we seek shelter in the only
harbor within sight. It is not easy, though. The marina turns out to
be a private one, accessible exclusively for the wealthy residents of
Grosse Pointe. Even though there are plenty of empty spots, we are
asked to leave, casting a shadow over our much improved maneuvers
under power (we didn't crash into any of the boats! yahoo!). What
hospitality! Luckily, a young fellow softens the harbormaster's heart.
Disgusted and ready to leave, suddenly we hear him say (not without a
pinch of embarrassment), "Well, maybe I can fix you up" (of course for
$20 per night).
Grosse Pointe, a district north of Detroit, may surprise visitors
because unlike the other parts of the city, abandoned houses are not
set on fire at night, but children are playing cheerfully on just
mowed lawns in front of million dollar mansions. The problem of racial
riots that led to the fall of the city in 1968 has been solved in a
very simple way - only crackers live here. Watching some very eager
tennis players practicing their backhands on the park's court, we soon
realize that the place we landed on is a WASP nest.
The marina and its tennis courts, swimming pools, spas, and
saloons, are protected a 15-foot fence and armed guard who patrol
24/7. One of them assures us that a fresh produce market is within
walking distance. We follow his directions but the whole trip takes us
no less than four hours. That's how it is when one is used to judging
the distance from a car. The funny thing is that only a few blocks
away from the market this neat district, full of boutiques and elegant
people, changes into a typical Detroit area - empty streets and
abandoned buildings falling into ruin. Our attention is caught by
Texas Bar which seems to be closed. When we try to peep inside through
a dirty window, the door suddenly opens and a lady bartender sticks
out with a smoke between her lips. "You'd better watch out with this
camera," she warns us, "It's a baaad neighborhood...". As if to prove
her words, a gang of black juvenile delinquents passes us running (the
oldest could have been no more than 10!).
We leave Grosse Pointe heading down the river to downtown
Detroit. The weather, as
could have been expected from Robocop's dark city: gloomy and rainy.
The first two hours we spend looking for the marina, which again isn't
easy, even in the town by the river. Finally we moor in Tricentennial
State Park marina, slightly intimidated, since we are the only
sailboat in the middle of a loud powerboaters' party.
We had perfect timing as it turned out. Once a year owners of
big motorboats get together in the marina to barbecue, listen to live
music (rock and country, of course!) and get drunk. We stay three days
in the marina what is a hard blow for our cruising kitty. We've got
things to do, however, so we have to bid farewell to our good old
friends, replenish provisions and make some repairs on the boat, which
seems impossible due to the rain.
We have a stroll around Renaissance Center - a complex of
skyscrapers on the
 riverfront built
by Ford in the 1970s in an attempt to revive this "city of ghosts"
that Detroit turned into after the riots in 1968. It seems that this
attempt has failed. We cannot escape the feeling of besiege: street
patrols, video cameras, fences with code locks closed at night. As one
of the powerboaters reveals to us, the marina is only two blocks from
a “baaad” neighborhood.
Being a real man, Piotrek starts fiddling with the
carburetor. After having put everything together, the engine which
used to work before, now doesn’t even start. A phone call to Dick and
we are able to locate the problem: float valve. After a few minutes
our little vessel speeds through steel grey waves heading for Lake
Erie - the shallowest of all Great Lakes and, what follows, the most
vicious and changeable.
Waves tend to build up quickly and the wind can push the water from
one end of the lake to another causing huge and sudden tides. In 2003
in Buffalo during a storm the water rose around 20 feet above its
usual level. “Huron was tough?” asks one of the fellows at the
powerboaters’ party. “Erie is ten times worse.”
We pass the factories on both sides of the river, sometimes
sailing through
 complete
wilderness. The last part before reaching the open lake, we go through
a canal between two huge wave-breakers covered with bushes. It gives
us a clue of the furious nature of the lake. At last we reached the
calm and quiet waters of Lake Erie. There are plenty of ships so we
have to keep a good watch. It’s Magda’s turn and she soon finds out
that this exploding light she saw doesn’t belong to a factory on shore
on which she could keep her course, but a huge dredging ship. She
changes the course quickly to avoid the blinding spotlight (it’s a
dreadful feeling to be on a small boat so well lit by a spotlight of a
big ship! Yikes!).
A moment later a gunshot sound shakes the boat and Piotrek is
out of his bulk. Our genoa falls on deck just like a soldier shot
dead. A loop on the sail’s head to which the halyard was attached got
ripped off. There is no way to climb the mast on the unstable boat at
night, but it is crucial to get the halyard down and rise the extra
sail. Thus we keep rolling under the mainsail only. At dawn we enter a
bay on Pelee Island. We try to start the engine but to no avail. We
have neither a genoa nor an engine. The situation is getting hard. We
drop the anchor and Piotrek gracefully climbs the mast just like
Tarzan of the Apes. We put up the extra genoa (and Piotrek almost
began to think that this was an unnecessary purchase) and we set off
again.
The first day on Erie passes surprisingly easy, apart from
the fact that as usual
 after keeping
night watches we both are dying for a slumber. We enjoy a bath in the
lake and a dinner. Night falls slowly. In the evening the northern sky
is covered by a heavy cumulonimbus. We listen to the weather forecast.
“Chance of showers and thunderstorms” announces a calm female voice.
We don’t worry too much about it since clouds are still far away,
though it flashes every second. We don’t want to be in the middle of
this thunderstorm.
The next
day before noon Erie shows its other face. We sail under the genoa
only. Carefree cruising is suddenly interrupted by an enormous black
cloud quickly eclipsing the sun. Piotrek prudently rolls up the sail
leaving only a little scrap. We keep rocking in a company of three
fishing boats. All of a sudden a squall hits us. A moment is enough to
roll the sail completely. Whipping rain and a storm force wind push us
with the speed of 5 knots under bare pole. Luckily the squall passes
quickly and waves have no time to build up. Then boom! Whisper is
shaken by a great blast while we bundle up like some small terrified
creatures. We check the mast: no smoke. The lightning must have the
hit water this time. Anyways, everybody knows that lightning doesn’t
strike sailboats,
right? Within an hour the tempest is over. The wind dies out and by
the evening we take a nice bath again in the oily smooth lake. It
turns out that the morning squall was only a prelude to something much
more serious.
During
the night of 24th/25th of August a huge cumulonimbus came flashing
with thunderbolts. Gigantic clouds grow over us like the Himalayas -
well maybe the Tatras. In the dark this vivid spectacle seems to be
even more frightening. The fact that our engine has died adds even
more spice to the situation. With our sails down we are rocking in the
quiet before the storm. Around 4am the wind hits us with its full
rage. The blow lifts our dinghy from the water and flips it over. It's
as bright as day since the huge lightning flashes up the sky
incessantly. Amazing how one can shiver in fear. At least it's not
raining. Later we learn that those same squalls have passed also over
Chicago causing disastrous floods, leaving 600,000 citizens of
Illinois without electricity for many weeks. Many airports including
O'Hare were closed down. In some areas 130 kmph winds were recorded.
It was a night full of adventure, for sure. From now on, forecasts of
possible thunderstorms will pique our imagination. Somehow we manage
to turn the dinghy upright and get rid of the water. Apart from that,
we don't register any other damages.
The third day greets us with fair weather and a perfect
breeze, as if those who survived in the battlefield were to be
rewarded. Soon the towers of Buffalo emerge on the horizon. There is
just one small catch: Whisper has to enter a crowded harbor without a
functioning engine. All in all, in the old times this used to be the
only way. Luckily the wind is mild and we don't have any problems
passing cyclopic breakers defending the city against the fury of Lake
Erie.
We dock in Buffalo Yacht Club marina. When at last we find
the guy responsible for collecting the fee, he demands almost $60 per
night. Shyly, we ask whether it is legal to tie to the public park
wall. "Nobody has done it before," answers young man in surprise. And
thus we become a public attraction for passersby who probably for the
first time in their lives see a sailboat in the park. No doubt, this
time we landed in the black neighborhood. During the weekend, local
people organize a celebration in memory of Rick James - The King of
Funk - who was born in Buffalo. Hip-hop, soul, and funk bands perform
live no more than 100 yards from our boat. A few days later rainbow
flags are waving in the air and park fills up with gays and lesbians
from all over the world. Just imagine, we would have died of boredom
paying $60 a day in a white neighborhood. Interesting as it may seem,
black people don't sail and rarely operate motorboats. A nice guy
questions us on the details of the art of sailing and wonders how it
is possible to untie dock lines onshore and jump back on board before
the boat sails away.
It's time to put our Atomic machine under scrutiny. It
doesn't take rocket science
 to discover water
in the cylinders. Again we call our support in Muskegon. Dick manages
to put Jeff through - an easy going fellow who devoted his life to the
Atomic Four and knows every screw of it. With his help we conclude
that the reason for flooding may be a head gasket. Happily along with
the boat we "inherited" a set of engine gaskets. Having Jeff's
instructions in mind Piotrek gets down to work. After two days’
struggle with the use of sophisticated and specialized tools - of
which the most useful turns out to be a Chinese knife for $2 and an
iron leaf hammered for free by a very handsome (according to Magda)
blacksmith during the Webster festival - ends with success. Although
it seemed almost impossible, after pressing the starter the engine
purrs without hesitation. Whether or not Piotrek was able to tighten
the screws with the exact force of 30 inch-pounds remains a mystery.
350 miles of Erie Canal awaits us. Recent repairs will be put
under a severe test.
|
