The Crossing and Lessons Learned Along the Way, Part 1: Just Keep Going

A Lake Michigan crossing is a cool thing. It is about 70 miles at the shortest route from Holland. For this crossing we sailed from Holland, MI to Racine, WI. We did this in early October 2019. Taking into account tacking back and forth we travelled about 90 miles. In a sailboat that averages between 4-7 miles per hour it took us about 14 ½ hours. Other than going in and out of each channel, the trip was entirely powered by the wind (engine off).

We did this crossing through the night.  We left in the early evening and arrived in the morning. We did a night crossing to Chicago the previous year. On that I learned a few lessons. I applied them to this trip. 

What is it like? What are the lessons? I hope to share a little bit of it here.

Persistence or Just Keep Going

We started our crossing at around 4 in the afternoon. Early on we had an ENE wind. This meant that it was perfect for a broad reach. A broad reach is a sailing term where the wind is to one side and behind you. That is one of the smoothest points of sail. I carefully trimmed (adjusted) the sails. We settled into the boat. We had dinner. We felt good about our trip. 

As the night progressed however, things became less pleasant. We had 3-foot waves when we started. These are enough to jostle you on the boat but are not very disturbing if you enjoy sailing. The sun set. We enjoyed watching the rich colors. It started to get dark. As the sun disappeared the temperature dropped. There was a heavy cloud cover and no visible moon. It became very dark. I had the required running lights on to make us visible to other boats. You could see the reflections from our lights. The only other light was from the screen of the GPS/chart plotter.  

This meant that the waves were no longer visible. The boat would rock from one side to the other and pitch up and down, seemingly in a random and uncontrolled manner. For the first hour or two it was ok. It was interesting. After a while it became a challenge. We couldn’t just sit easily. We would get thrown back and forth in our seats. I hadn’t realized how important it was to be able to anticipate the motion. When you can see the waves, you roll with them. When you cannot see them, they happen to you. 

It seems like a lot of things in life you can roll with.  In other words, you can have experiences that you see coming and then you just push through them. Even if they are not pleasant or if they are hard, knowing that they are coming seems to help. It is a lot harder to have things just happen to you or be done to you. It reminds me of the expression, “It is ok to laugh with me, but not so nice to have you laugh at me.” As the waves of life come, it is a bit easier if you can see the, anticipate them, and then roll through them. But in the dark times of life, you can’t see them coming. You cannot fully anticipate them. And you don’t have a choice in the matter. They hit you and you have to just take the trauma of them and live on. Those are always a lot harder. With those it is entirely possible to give in to despair.

When we sailed to Chicago the year before we started out with a similar optimism. We gloried in the clear night we had on that trip. We saw the sunset and then the sky filled with stars. Alone in the middle of Lake Michigan on a clear night the stars are amazing. Far from shore and free of the lights of civilization, thousands and thousands of stars become visible. We drew slips of paper for who would be on watch for each “shift” during the night.  Sarah and I went to bed in the “v-berth.” This is the largest bed in the bow of the boat. We naively crawled into bed expecting to be soothed to sleep by the gentle rocking of the boat.  

Not so much!

The reality was quite different. As the night progressed we ended up sailing directly into 4-foot waves. With each wave the bow lifted up and then dropped. Over and over the bow crashed up and down. We were literally bouncing in the air off of the mattress.  The boat also was hiked up (leaning over) on the port (left) side. This meant that we both kept rolling onto each other toward the left side of the bed.  I tried to pretend to sleep. After a while the situation approached ridiculousness. I started laughing. I was not sleeping. There was no way that I was going to be sleeping. I got up and went outside to the cockpit at the stern of the boat. I decided to stay up the rest of the night and just sleep as much as I was able.

Planning this trip to Racine, I decided to only have 3 of us on board (5 of us sailed to Chicago). I hoped that would give us more room and our choice of beds. Perhaps somehow we could lodge ourselves into a comfortable place when it came time to sleep.

Inevitably about halfway across the lake you get fed up with it.  You are tired, cold and worn down by being thrown about by the unseen and unpredictable waves. You don’t have a choice. One way or the other you have to keep going. You have got to get to one shore or the other to make it all stop. Alone on watch, in the dark, wedged into my seat behind the helm, with all my coats on, in my life-vest and tethered to the boat for safety my mind starting searching for ways to cope with the ongoing journey. I thought of an experience from years before. 

It was 1987. I was in medical school. I decided to start jogging again. When I did I had a problem. Every time I would go running I would “hit a wall.” I would start out with great intentions but after a fairly short distance I would tire. I would end up turning back. I kept trying. I got further as I kept pushing. But there was a steep hill on the route I was running. It was just enough incentive to make me quit and turn around. Each day I would get to the hill and decide I couldn’t make it. I would turn around.

One day I decided that I had to conquer the hill. I had to keep going. I resolved to overcome it. My body told me to stop. It tempted and cajoled me to turn around. But I would just put one foot in front of the other. Step by step I pushed myself up the hill. When I reached the top, it was a wonderful relief to be on the level again. More than that it was an amazing feeling to have conquered the hill. Oddly, from that point on – I was able to go up the hill every time. It turns out the hill was more of a psychological barrier than a physical one.

I thought of the hill as I sat strapped in behind the helm. The boat crashed and rolled back and forth through the waves. I was tired but couldn’t sleep. I decided to pretend in my mind that it was like running the big hill in Ann Arbor. One foot in front of the other I would keep going. I knew that I could keep going. I didn’t have to complete everything at once. I just needed to take the next step, or endure the next moment.

How are you to endure an uncomfortable situation when you do not have control or a choice? Does this sound familiar? I have felt this way with the COVID 19 pandemic and with all the social distancing and restrictions. I have also felt this way with my cancer journey during times of uncertainty when there is nothing more for me to do but wait and endure.  More recently I have felt this in the midst of struggles with a resurgence of adrenal insufficiency. It doesn’t seem to end. I just want to be back to normal. 

What do you do? 

In the middle of the night when it is dark and you can’t see the waves and you are just being tossed around by the boat, what do you do? What is there to do? You need to just keep going. While the waves, the cold air, and the fatigue are being done to you, what are you to do? As much as you want to turn it all off or have a different situation, you have no choice.

It is possible to despair. “This is awful. I am cold and I am tired, and I am stuck on this boat! I just want it to stop!” Everyone has moments like this.

You can despair.

Or you can endure. 

I can remember the hill in Ann Arbor and my struggle to run up it. The hill was a psychological barrier more than a physical barrier. One foot down, then the next. Over and over again. I couldn’t think about the whole hill all at once. I just thought about putting my next foot down. Then I put the other foot down. I just kept going.  Doing that, I made it to the top.

The choice is mine. I can choose to let myself be a victim. I can despair and be miserable. 

Or not. 

Life is an adventure. Not all of it is nice or pleasant. In the middle of the night I can decide if I am going to be an adventurer or a victim. I sailed through the dark of night with crashing waves to Chicago along with Sarah, JJ, Jeannette, and Jim. I sailed through even stronger waves and confused seas to Racine with Jim and Joel. Not all of it was pleasant. But both trips were a wonderful adventure.

I think that is a great lesson and something I need to remember more and more.

That is part one of the lessons from the crossing. I hope to share more next week.