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     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.

 

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