Off Mouse Island

Off Mouse Island

Being in a position where the distinct possibility exists that you might lose your life can cause you to reflect, albeit briefly, on the circumstances that brought you to that point, and the stupidity that can cloud the minds of usually half-way intelligent people. As I sat in the rocking boat with a torrential downpour beating against my unprotected head and lightning bolts crashing into the water all around me, I thought back at the steps that had lead me to that position. And which might prove fatal.

It was the mid-'70's and I'd been married only a few years. My wife and I had recently visited a big boat show up in Cleveland and, after touring the sleek sailboats and gorgeous motor yachts, had caught a small dose of the “going out on the water in boats” fever . Obviously we didn't have the capital to invest in one of the biggies we'd drooled over, but the cash situation wasn't bad enough that we couldn't look around at some smaller, used watercraft. It wasn't easy finding a lot of boats in the landlocked portion of Ohio where we live, but there are a few man-made lakes not too far away, so there were boat dealers around. You just had to look for them. We visited a number of dealers both near and far and finally stopped at a small dealer at a crossroads of a place about 15 miles south of our hometown with the appropriate name of Lakeville. There we found a nice little used boat that seemed to be calling our names. It was a 14 foot MFG fiberglass boat with an elderly 40-horse Johnson outboard on the the transom. The price was well within that which we felt we could afford, so we bought it and made arrangements for it to be prepped and we would pick it up in a week.

The wife and I had been smart about making ourselves more educated about boat handling and had taken a U. S. Coast Guard Auxiliary boating and seamanship course at the local vocational school on the basics of boating. It was a very interesting, intensive course and we were apt students. We learned about PFD's (personal flotation devices – life vests to the uninitiated), anchoring (what kind of anchors there were, what were best for what kind of boating, how much rope was needed, etc.), rules of the road (passing other boats, etc.) and what the lights on the boat and the lights at harbor entrances meant . We looked at navigational maps and learned the different symbols and we charted imaginary courses here and there. We learned about safety and the uses of horns and flares, boat hooks and life rings. We learned what equipment was required on every boat and how to trailer, load, unload and dock the boat. We studied everything necessary to get ready for boat ownership.

Almost everything.

We picked up the boat on a sunny Saturday morning and took it home to admire. It was shiny and green and white and looked fabulous, at least to us. In actuality it was just a little boat with a medium-sized motor that we were just going to use for fishing and putting around in. But it sure looked nice sitting outside our home on it's trailer and begging us to take it to some water somewhere. Soon!

I thought it needed a name. I thought on it for a while, trying to come up with the right one and finally came up with a moniker that I felt was appropriate. (I knew I couldn't name it after an old girlfriend!) My wife and I, during that time period, used to go to visit her grandparents in a larger city about 30 miles away and play bingo with them at a local American Legion (40 et 8) bingo hall. On our first trip to play bingo with them we won a hundred dollars on the last game of the evening. Since that wasn't long before we'd bought the boat, we had used that money as part of the payment on the boat. So I thought she should be named “Bingo”! I went and bought the appropriate letters and applied them to our new baby. After loading all the safety equipment that we knew were required to have on board, we were ready for the water!

Our first trip was to a lake called Clearfork Reservoir, not too far from my in-law's home. We picked up my father-in-law and the three of us headed off to the lake. On arrival we made sure to have the boat inspected and got an Ohio watercraft inspection sticker to make us compliant with Ohio boating laws. Then we launched and had a marvelous day on the water. We putted around the lake and dropped a line here and there. If I remember correctly we caught a mess of crappies and had a fish fry at home not long afterward. “Bingo” performed fine.

It was a great day. It was also a sunny day, a calm day, the lake wasn't terribly big and we could see both shores. We neglected to realize that might not be the case all the time.

A few weeks later I had some time available to go fishing and I asked my father if he'd be interested. He asked me where I was planning on going and I said, “Lake Erie.” I was itching to get on the big lake. He was immediately interested and we headed up one Saturday morning. It was a “guys only” day and I left my wife at home.

It was just the two of us.

I noticed on our approximately 2-hour trip up to the big lake that the clouds had started moving in and the day wasn't near as bright as it had started out being. I tried to ignore the deteriorating day. We were going fishing, dammit! We arrived at the West Harbor boat ramp on Catawba peninsula around noon (we hadn't left home real early) and launched little “Bingo”. Dad held the boat close to the ramp as I parked the car and trailer. I jumped in shortly thereafter and we were off.

The passage through West Harbor to the open lake took us maybe a half-hour as it's a no-wake zone and we had to go ultra slow as to not rock the big cabin cruisers that were docked all along that waterway. The owners would yell at you if you tried to gun it, so we were careful. As we were heading toward the lake entrance we were concerned to see that most of the boats that were moving were coming in from the lake. We seemed to be the only boat heading out.

This probably should have concerned us more than it did.

We entered the open lake shortly thereafter, hung a left and headed north along the eastern shore of Catawba Peninsula. If you hold out your right hand and stick your thumb up like you're giving the OK sign, you can visualize our course. West Harbor is the crease your thumb makes with the rest of your hand. We were traveling up the crease then up the right side of the thumb to the tip and then a little bit further out into the lake to a tiny speck of land called Mouse Island. I'd heard that the fishing was good near there and had decided that Mouse would be our destination. Plus we were in a small boat and I was uneasy getting too far away from land.

It's actually not a long voyage from the entrance of West Harbor to the vicinity of Mouse Island, so it didn't take us very long to get there. We anchored and put our lines in the water. We'd caught a few fish and I was getting into the spirit of our fishing trip when dad mentioned that it was really getting dark to the west. I looked up and my blood chilled. It was really dark to the west and we could hear the rumbling of thunder approaching. West is where the weather comes from around there, so I knew we were in the path of whatever was heading our way.

There were no other boats around.

A small observation, if I may. My little 14 foot boat was an open boat. It had a covered bow but that was really only a storage space. 85% of the boat was open to the sky. A fact that was soon very apparent.

It started to rain.

Then the rain got harder. Then it got really, really hard and the waves picked up substantially. I suppose it was the lightning that really got us spooked. We figured it probably wasn't a good idea to have fishing lines in the water while the electricity was flashing and the thunder was booming very, very close to us. We reeled in and I pulled up the anchor. We were planning on heading back to the car. Dad said, “I guess we better start bailing a bit.” I looked back in the boat and noticed about 5 or 6 inches of water sloshing around in the boat. I gulped and agreed with him. I didn't think our boat could sink as I was pretty sure there was flotation foam in the hull but I wasn't totally sure. So he was in the back using our coffee can “pee” bucket and scooping out water as fast as he could. I'm not sure if he was keeping ahead of the rain or not. I had fired up the motor and had headed... where?

The rain had reduced visibility to about a 20-foot circle around the boat. On the way up to the fishing site we had never lost sight of land. I knew we were only a few hundred feet (probably) from the edge of Catawba Peninsula but... which direction? I knew we needed to head south.

I then realized the one item of equipment that the boat did not have. It didn't have a compass. A stupid damn $10 compass.

And that lack might be the difference between getting back or not making it at all!

I turned the boat to what I thought was the correct course and slowly started moving, worrying about the rocky shoreline along the peninsula. The rain was still coming down in buckets and the lightning was still crashing all around us. I shivered from the wet clothes and the unnerving thought of a lightning bolt hitting the boat smack dead center and cooking the both of us. I thought we were heading south, which was the way we should have been going. Dad thought we were veering more easterly and should come about further to the right. We were drenched to the skin and hadn't a clue which way was the way back.

It was pretty scary.

All at once we saw a sailboat nearby on a course similar to ours, running with full sail through the storm. We putted over to them and hollered to see if they knew where we were.

Of course they had to be all French speakers! Just our luck. We caught one word which was Lakeside. I wasn't even sure where that was but figured it wasn't where we wanted to go. (I checked later. It wasn't.) So we veered off and watched the sailboat disappear back into the rain shower.

It disappeared fast.

I motored a bit further and realized that I had no idea where I was and where I was headed so I just idled for a while, helped dad bail water and tried to ignore the electrical storm we were in the middle of. And prayed a bit.

Not too long after our rendezvous with the sailboat the rain slacked off and then stopped. The storm was over and we could see again! We discovered that our boat, which I had figured to be headed south or at least south-ish, was headed directly east and pointed toward the middle of Lake Erie through the shipping lanes and on toward Canada. Landfall was a long, long damn way that direction.

We continued to bail and finally got the majority of the sloshing water out of the boat. We then sat and looked at each other, smoked a cigarette and thought about our recent adventure. The sun had come out. It was becoming a fine late afternoon.

We looked at each other again. Well... Yes, we'd just had what anyone might call a close call. Yes, it could have been not so good for us. Yes, we could have possibly drowned. But... But...

We were sitting on a boat on Lake Erie in a great fishing area. We had plenty of bait left. We liked to fish. We didn't drown. We might not be able to do this again for a long time. So...

We motored over to the buoy that marked the entrance to West Harbor and anchored nearby. We promised ourselves that if the weather got nasty again we'd zip directly back to the harbor and safety. It was 2 minutes west.

We went back fishing and caught a mess of perch. They were biting well after the storm which was welcome but a bit unusual. We fished until almost dark then motored back to the dock, put the boat back on the trailer and headed off to a fish-cleaning place we knew of where we waited a long time to get our fish cleaned.

By the time we returned home it was almost midnight and my step-mother and my wife were agitated beyond words. Dad and I both had to talk fast and quick to keep out of the doghouse.

Of course that didn't work.

The next day I went into town and bought a compass for the boat and installed it. It looked so nautical screwed to the dash of the craft. I couldn't wait to see it in action.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

And, of course, I never needed it again.

A Late January Thaw

A Late January Thaw

The long-anticipated January thaw has at last arrived in my neck of the woods. It was late this year, sliding in from it's “normal” appearance in the middle of January into the end of the first week of February. I know that I, my family and most of my friends were thankful to see it come, even if it was a bit late. There had been, what seemed to us, an extraordinarily long stretch of sub-freezing days with lots of snow in the weeks and weeks before this thaw. Even a lot of days of below-zero wind chills and actual temperatures in the single digits for significant stretches of time. The kind of temperatures that make your nose hairs freeze when you breath and make your old cars wheeze and groan when you call upon them to take you somewhere.

Of course, during those snowy, windy days my “trusty” snowblower had decided it didn't want to run.

Lemme tell you the story about the old Toro sitting in my garage.

I had an older Toro quite a few years ago that I'd originally bought new which had totally given up the ghost. I was cleaning the garage one day and had noticed it hanging on the wall. So I had placed it on the curb on trash pickup day where either the trash collectors or some mechanically-inclined neighbor had picked it up. I hadn't needed a blower for a number of years as we had been scant on snowfall for quite a while in those days and figured I probably wouldn't need another one for a while.

Of course, the mere fact of tossing your snowblower away positively guaranteed that the next winter would be snowy. And, of course that's what occurred. You could have made book on that.

I survived that winter using only a shovel and it was miserable. The following spring I passed on the word to anyone who would listen that I was in the market for a snowblower sometime before the next winter. I really didn't want to buy new. First, because new snowblowers are doggone expensive. And secondly because I don't have that much territory that needs cleared when it snows. So lo and behold, a dear friend of mine showed up one day with a snowblower for me! He'd found it on a curb somewhere up near where he lived and he “rescued” it. He's got magic in his fingers as far as fixing things and he had checked it out and made sure that it ran. He'd also done a few things to it to keep it running. He warned me that the machine was an electric start, but that function was broken – probably the reason why it was originally pitched. He told me that the pull cord still worked, so it was usable, and that I could take it to a shop and they could fix the electric start. I thanked him profusely, said that I would just pull the cord when I needed to use it and not worry about the electric start. I hung the “new” machine on my garage wall in anticipation of the next snowfall.

I used that blower for the next year or two and it worked... kind of. It was a bit weak in power and was reluctant to start. And it took a LOT of pulls to make it go. I wasn't real satisfied, so I took it to a small engine repair shop a year ago and had them give it an overhaul. After that it worked marginally better but I was still unsatisfied.

That brings us to this winter.

After the first heavy snowfall I pulled the machine off the wall, added some gas/oil mixture (it's a 2-cycle) and commenced pulling. After a large number of jerks I found myself winded and tuckered out and looking at a dead snowblower. I've recently had to accept that I've gotten somewhat older over the years and pulling on a recalcitrant snowblower cord in the bitter cold probably wasn't doing me any good. I had visions of me dropping over with a coronary and not being found for hours and hours. So I packed old Betsy up and took her to another small engine repair shop, this one specializing in Toros, and instructed them to add the electric start piece and to tune 'er up again. I explained the machine's history and they assured me they could get it running like new.

To make this long story shorter, the repair to the snowblower and the new tune up really brought the ol' girl back to life! She's got plenty of zip and starting her is a breeze now. Just plug in an extension cord, couple pumps on the primer bulb, pull out the choke and hit the start button. Shazam! She cranks and sputters, then starts to roar. Then unplug her and we're off to the races! Huzzahs! I'm back in business!

Naturally, you could count the days on one hand between the fixing of my old snowblower and the beginning of the “January” thaw. I guess it's like washing your car knowing that will usually bring rain. So fixing a snowblower will bring a thaw? Guess so.

The good parts of a thaw, even a late one like we're experiencing now are: warmer temperatures to do some chores outside you've been putting off while the thermometer was in the basement, less fuel used to warm your house, bidding farewell to the icky, dirty snow and a chance to wash your heavy winter coat and put on something slightly less heavy for a couple of days. The bad parts of a thaw: seeing the dirty white snow disappear and being left with dirty brown mud and rising water in all the rivers and streams, the obvious need to wash the salt off your vehicles, the suddenly bare side yard where the dogs do their duty (yechhh) and the depressing realization that this is just a respite, and the snow, ice and cold weather will return before you know it. Our local forecast has already imparted this knowledge by informing us that we'll be returning to more “seasonal” weather ( translate that to cold, ice, snow) within a day or two. After high winds and possible thunderstorms in between.

Lovely.

But it is nice to realize that we are on the downward side of the hill now and that winter is eventually going to bid us adieu. The groundhog in Puxuntawney Pennsylvania, by seeing his shadow last week, told us we'll have six weeks more of winter. Hell, I didn't need a large, fat, bucktoothed rodent to tell me that. We live in northern Ohio and winter is often very reluctant to release it's grasp of us most years. We figure on seeing snow well into March most of the time and once in a while a touch in early April, too. But winter's back is mostly broken by mid-March, so we'll slog forward with that in mind.

We could have it worse. I don't mean Minnesota worse or Saskatchewan worse. I tip my hat to the people that live there. They experience winter with a capital “W”. Bitter cold, unending snow and howling winds. I was talking about just up the road right here in Ohio. My state is blessed with a great big lake to its north called Lake Erie. And that lake, along with the other Great Lakes, produces weather patterns that are unique to those areas adjacent and downwind from them. They're called “lake effect snows”. They occur when the lake is unfrozen and a westerly or northwesterly wind blows across it in the wintertime. The air picks up moisture from its fetch over the lake water, freezes it and dumps it on the land as snowfall. The local forecasters call ours the “Lake Erie Snow Machine”. The toughest hit counties are Lake, Geauga and Ashtabula in the northeast portion of the state where it snows almost every day. They get a LOT of snow. Feet upon feet of it.

Every winter.

I'm glad I live where I do. We get hammered by big snowfalls a couple times a year when the winds are south to southwest and bring the moisture up from the Gulf of Mexico. Those are what're called synoptic snows and they fall on most of the state. Those are the guys that give my hometown it's heavier winter blankets of the white stuff.

I hate to admit it but there are times when I do really enjoy the winter. (Don't tell anyone!) I work second shift and generally leave my workplace sometime between midnight and 12:30. My drive home is 25 miles in length on a state highway through mostly rural areas. If it had snowed that evening while I was at work I know my drive home will be a challenge some nights, demanding most nights but almost always beautiful. The traffic on that state highway is usually minimal during the wee hours of the morning and there are some nights when it's almost nonexistent. It's just you and the white-covered highway stretching away through the cornfields and pasture lands shining in the moonlight or veiled by softly falling snow. You steer your car in approximations – a little to the right, a smidge to the left, forward and onward toward home, your hands tight on the wheel. Your body listens intently to the language of the tires beneath you either rolling confidently or having the inconstancy of ice beneath their treads. You look out over the moonstruck fields and see the shine of the frosty snowcover as the lunar light makes it all ghostly and glittery and slick.

But mostly it's a chore, slogging through the miles, driving slowly and carefully to make sure you arrive home without making a detour into a ditch or a tree.

So winter's choke-hold on my part of the world was loosened a bit recently and for that I'm grateful. It was time for one to take a deep breath, relax a bit and gird your loins for the next onslaught that's bound to be just around the corner.

Please excuse me while I go and give ol' Betsy a pat on her red carapace and tell her we'll be back in business soon.