Riding an Angry Lake

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This is a long read, but there’s no other way to tell the story. And I think it needs telling.

The Lake is Boss. And marine forecasts can be very, very wrong, with serious consequences.

Sunday, September 3rd started as a perfect, idyllic early autumn day in the Apostle Islands on Lake Superior. With a camping permit for Outer Island in our possession, my wife and I, in our 21-foot Grady-White named The Compromise, along with two friends in a boat of their own, headed out onto Lake Superior. The wind was predicted to turn northwest after midnight, and every boat in the Apostles was tying up in an eastern lee.

We camped along the east coast of Outer Island, 20+ miles from the mainland. The day was spent paddling, swimming, and exploring the coastline in sunshine and 80°F weather.

It was paradise.

Then sometime just after dark, a sudden gust of wind blew through our camp.

It quickly turned into a howling eastern gale. What we couldn’t know was that a thunderstorm packing 70+ mph winds had just blown off Minnesota’s North Shore and scored a direct hit on Outer Island.

As the squall came up, our anchors failed to hold in the face of 6- to 8-foot seas. This, despite the fact we’d both set two bow lines. We struggled in vain to get our boats off the beach; only my boat made it. I tried to get my friend to toss a line so I could pull his boat out, but the roar of the wind and sea was deafening. I didn’t realize his boat was already sinking. He had no intention of boarding a sinking vessel.

Over the booming seas, I heard him scream for me to get out and find shelter.

As I pulled away, I looked back just as a flash of lightening illuminated the shoreline. It is a sight that will be seared into my memory forever: My friend, not able to hold his boat any longer, let go. It went sideways into the rocks and exploded into pieces.

I was hoping to find a lee from the eastern gale on the northwest side of the Outer Island spit. As I motored down the coastline, the second part of the squall hit me.

The rain came in blinding sheets, and the seas grew even heavier, 9 feet at least. The rain was so bad I couldn’t see my helm compass, never mind my navigation gear. I tried to hold a course toward Stockton Island, safely away from the Outer Island sand bar.

Blind and disoriented, I went aground somewhere on the south end of the spit. I looked starboard just as a huge swell hit me beam side and flipped my boat vertical to port. Everything that wasn’t secured went overboard, and I launched across the helm and slammed into the side.

The boat righted, but before I could stand up, the next wave hit me square on the starboard side again. The boat went past vertical, nearly capsizing, and again I was slammed violently across the helm.

When it righted yet again, my bow was quartering into the waves (or, for landlubbers, pointing into the waves, much better than taking them on the side). I was able to put out a Mayday call. Within seconds the Coast Guard responded and dispatched a boat from Bayfield, but I was certain it was over for me. I spent the next many minutes (it’s a blur) hammering forward/reverse with my prop buried in sand and rock. Somehow, I came off the bar. My motor was badly damaged, but I still had power.

I was in the game again.

Now I was on the west side of the spit, where I had hoped to find a lee. Instead, the wind was blowing a gale from the northwest and the seas were 6- to 7-feet. The National Park Service would later describe the winds as “tornadic,” blowing at terrific force from seemingly all directions.

Not knowing this, I thought the wind had changed from east to northwest, and quickly calculated that IF I could make the crossing to Stockton, I’d find shelter in Julian Bay.

I limped across the channel on a shredded prop at 7 knots (about 8 mph) in the heaviest seas I’ve ever been in. The bow would climb until it felt impossibly vertical, then I would drop into the trough of the next swell.

It was incredibly unnerving to see the green monsters – the center heart of a wave – both fore and aft with each flash of lightening.

As I rounded the northeast tip of Stockton, I felt for the first time I was going to make it.

I asked the Coast Guard to stand down, although I doubt I sounded calm or collected. (I’m certain my radio discipline was not something to be proud of, but I’m inclined to give myself a pass.)

When I made Julian Bay, I found 5- to 6-foot seas pounding from the east, and a line of sailboats trying desperately to escape around Presque Isle Point. That’s when I knew I’d find no shelter in the Apostles that night, and instead made for Bayfield, arriving around 2:30 a.m. after almost four hours on the Lake.

I was reasonably certain the rest of the crew was safe and dry in our campsite on Outer, so I arranged a tow or salvage for my friend’s boat at daylight. I had no idea the scale of the disaster throughout the Apostles, or how many boats had gone hard aground.

The Park Service rescued my wife and friends on Monday. They had spent a sleepless night imagining the worst for me. In fact, at daylight when I didn’t return, my friend bushwhacked 2½ hours across Outer Island to the sand spit, assuming I was hurt and needed help. We’d had no communication, and they said the not knowing was the worst.

In the final analysis, nobody died or was even seriously injured. Boats can be repaired, gear can be replaced.

I’ve spent countless hours running every second of this episode through my head, wondering what we could have done differently. The answer is “Not much.” While I was unashamedly terrified while stuck on the sand bar and near capsize, I otherwise didn’t panic. I kept a clear head. I had a plan. And I would still try to save The Compromise (but would stay off the sand bar!).

We had both the near-shore and open water marine forecasts memorized. The eastern lee was the smart bet … until it wasn’t. According to a conversation I had with the National Weather Service in Duluth regarding the squall, it spawned “… strong east-northeast inflow winds just ahead of the storms, which is most likely what caused all the issues. Baseline winds before the storms arrived were about 5 to 10 knots from the east. So, it was really in association with the storms that this occurred.”

Finally, I’d be seriously remiss if I failed to mention the U.S. Coast Guard Great Lakes, The Apostle Islands National Lakeshore Park Service, and Tucker at Black Warrior Marine /Towboat U.S. for all their efforts during this event.

I owe you all a beer.

This is an edited version of Michael’s Facebook post from Sept. 6, 2017