Taming Lake Superior

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they called 'Gitchee Gumee'…"

The chilling words of Gordon Lightfoot's eulogy to the lost crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald seep into my consciousness whenever the Father of Bruck starts talking about sailing.

In the event that you get invited to sail with the FOB, my recommendation is that you repectfully decline. Or try to change the subject. Or fake appendicitis, whatever it takes, just don't go! If you are in need of sage advice, interesting conversation, help with plumbing, or would like to relax to a few nice classical pieces and standards played expressively on the piano, he's your go-to guy. But if you have a bad jones for a sailboat ride, I recommend exploring other options. Don't say I didn't warn you! If inextricable circumstances somehow compel you against my advice, do be sure to wear a lifejacket. A helmet and wet suit wouldn't be a bad idea either.

"The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead…"

There is something deep in man's spirit, some primordial instinct, that causes us on occasion to throw caution to the wind and take unwarranted and illogical risks. Take Steve Fossett, the "millionaire adventurer" whose plane crashed and apparently is now missing somewhere in the Nevada mountains or desert. Or John Denver in his ultralight. Or the lawn chair balloonist. Or people who cheat on their significant other. Or participants in "Xtreme" sports. I don't think I'd be too presumptuous to ask, what disproportionately risky behaviors have you indulged in lately? Well, the FOB's personal Mt. Everest seems to be sailing his 16' sloop in a full gale on Lake Superior.

I enjoy a good sail as much as the next guy, even more so, but here's my personal protocol for when to sail, vs. that of the FOB:

Windsock hanging limp:
Bruck: take the kids tubing
FOB: head into town for some racquetball

Windsock at 45 degree angle:
Bruck: good day for sailing
FOB: good day to putter around in the backyard

Windsock horizontal:
Bruck: sailing could be a little dicey
FOB: let's raise the sail in case the wind picks up

Windsock long since torn off, soaring over the the next county; support post bending in the wind:
Bruck: nailing plywood over the front windows
FOB: who's up for a little boat ride?

I succumbed to the above temptation a few years ago. I will concede that it was a pretty exciting ride, right up until the rudder broke off. The rudder is a key element in the locomotion of a sailboat. It's not so much like the steering wheel of a car, the loss of which would render it inoperable but not necessarily produce a catastrophe. It's more like losing a wing from an airplane - you're going down. And we did. No injuries, TG, but the boat wasn't so fortunate. It did a lateral 360, breaking the mast on the lake floor, snapping and ripping out cables in the process. Water pressure ripped the sail and broke some lines, and about the only part that didn't need repair or replacement was the tiller. We held onto the wreckage and drifted in for a bit until a guy on shore noticed us and gave us a ride in on his jet ski. We collected the remains of the boat the next day.

"When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin' fellas, it's too rough ta feed ya…"

One inauspicious summer day prior to that, coincidentally Father's Day, the FOB took his young friend Jared out for a sail. Jared is, or at least was, in the US Coast Guard, and was embarking on his first sailboat ride. They were just getting started on a three-mile run from the marina at the Bay Mills Casino to the cabin on the shore near Brimley, MI, when a gust from behind caught them off-guard and tipped them over. Jared suggested swimming to shore, but the FOB correctly averred that someone would come out and help them out. A pontoon boat came along and taxied the wet sailors the rest of the way to the cabin. Young Jared probably also knew that they would be picked up anon; we suspect that his interest in swimming back was to avoid the humiliation of being rescued by his fellow sailors in the Coast Guard. Although it was his first ride, young Jared was not daunted by the experience; he went on to get his own sailboat, and learn to drive it.

"At seven p.m. the main hatchway caved in, he said fellas, it's been good ta know ya…"

On another occasion, this past summer, the FOB and his friend Steve went out for a little afternoon sail, captured in the pic above, taken from the shore by young Ben, nephew of Bruck. In this instance, it was neither mechanical failure nor imperfect helmsmanship that caused the capsize, but adverse conditions. The FOB claims that his craft was bowled over by a 90 foot wave, but we suspect he was exaggerating - it was probably more like 40 or 50 feet. Actually it would not be entirely accurate to say that both the FOB and Steve were capsized; Steve had actually gone overboard beforehand. Fortunately, there were no injuries or lawsuits; the only casualties were the FOB's ugly hat and sunglasses (not to worry - he has plenty more!).

"They might have split up or they might have capsized; They may have broke deep and took water…"

Just a couple of weeks ago marked the occasion of the fourth keel inversion that the FOB is admitting to. On a relatively calm day, he took his grandson's friend Jeff out for a ride. He handed Jeff the tiller (we're not sure to what extent Jeff knew what to do with it), and promptly went over. Again, fortunately, no injuries nor damage, and they were able to pull the boat to shore, drain some water, and sail the rest of the way back. Unfortunately for Jeff, this was immediately before his ride back to Detroit, which he then had to take in wet clothes. He was still damp when he arrived home after the 6-hour car ride, prompting his mother to ask, "What happened, did you fall in the lake?"

So, dear FOB, since your birthday's coming up, and we always ask what do you buy for a man who has everything, I found the perfect gift for you on e-bay: magnetic Chinese Checkers. That way, next time you and your friends are looking for something to do outdoors in a full gale, you now have a safer option!

Bruck, How Was Your Little Vacation?

Lovely, thank you.

Mrs. Bruck and I just returned from about ten days on the road, during which we drove to the Detroit area, spend a couple days there, proceeded to northern MI, back to Detroit, and then back to VA. In all, we put about 2200 miles plus a few scratches on “Big Blue.” It was a fun and interesting trip – boating, campfires, visiting with friends and family, overeating, and expanding the Bruck Empire.

There are some things we miss about MI following our move to VA last year - people, favorite restaurants, etc., as followers of this blog have been apprised. A few more surfaced during this trip, underscoring Joni Mitchell’s timeless adage, “you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone!”

Speed

Michigan driving is the best you can find anywhere, including Naples, Italy, and Naples, FL. Did I tell you about the guy I saw in Naples, Italy, driving a scooter with four passengers who appeared to be his wife or girlfriend and three kids? I didn’t? Well, I once saw a guy in Naples, Italy driving a scooter with four passengers who appeared to be his wife or girlfriend and three kids. And in Naples, FL - well, just don’t drive in Naples, FL if you can avoid it. Michigan driving is better than all that. And I’m not just saying that because that’s where I learned to drive – well, maybe I am. Anyway, toward the end of the first leg of our trip, when we were passing through Detroit, cars and trucks were whizzing past me on both sides. I was initially taken aback, until I realized that I was in a 65 mph zone and only going 70. Home again! It didn’t take me long to get my groove back. On the way back south through MI on the last leg of our trip, I noticed a highway speed limit sign with 3 speeds: 70 for cars, 60 for trucks, and a posted minimum speed of 55. In other words, don’t even think about driving below what used to be the upper limit during the Ford and Carter administrations!

Flat Land

VA is very beautiful with its forested mountains, rolling hills, lush valleys and rivers… okay, Bruck, we get the idea. But one thing I’ve found to be a little disorienting is the complete lack of flat land here in VA. Every square inch of unmolested real estate has some kind of grade. It’s not the kind of thing one would expect to long for, but having lived most of my life in a planar world, I sort of miss being able to just walk without climbing, descending, or straddling a hill. Granted, it’s not that big a deal compared to the global war on terror and homicidal astronauts wearing diapers, but it was really nice back in MI to look out over farms and streets that were flat as far as the eye could see.

Shooting Venues

Despite technically being a “blue” state, MI is pretty “red” when it comes to firearms and limitations on the use thereof. Shooting on private property is okay, subject to local ordinances and minimum distances from occupied dwellings, and the sky’s the limit for shooting on public hunting grounds, particularly outside of hunting season.

Venue 1: The Pit

“The Pit” or “The Gravel Pit” is part of a public hunting area north of Lapeer, MI. No actual hunting goes on there, but it’s a regular haunt of the southeast MI gun aficionados. A row of large rocks separates the parking area and shooting positions from a large, open field of weeds and dirt surrounded on either side by treed hills, and to the rear by a 50’ rise of sand and gravel about 90 yards back. The field and backdrop are scattered with numerous random objects delivered and perforated by previous shooters – a “target rich” environment in the literal sense. I think few would disagree that this is a perfect place for recreational shooting, with the possible exception of those unfortunate nearby residents who are not deaf.

I brought a couple of my favorite medium-caliber toys there, as did a friend who joined us, including his .223 carbine and .357 Sig. He also contributed a target in the form of an old laptop computer. With the Sig, we were able to hit a tire on the back wall (90 yard accuracy with a pistol is no mean feat), and with the 223 we rendered the computer inoperable.

Venue 2: Behind Ron’s Store

In northern MI, Ron, the owner of a local IGA, lets us use his “back 40” for target and skeet shooting. Like “The Pit,” it’s a pretty safe place for shooting, with a 15’ rise for a backdrop and treed, elevated land on either side. It is also full of old building materials from his recent store renovation, so there are plenty of things to put holes in, and which can be configured to provide audible and visible feedback, further enhancing the shooting experience. Unfortunately, the road back to Ron’s ad hoc shooting gallery is a bit overgrown with scrub trees, so Big Blue has a few new scratches we’ll need to rub out.

Okay, fine, but what about the Bruck Empire?

I summarily reinforced my claim over the state of Michigan; I learned that I share sovereignty with my brother-in-law from Livonia, MI, according to the agreement described in this column on the subject. That’s fine - together we can help speed up the governor’s plan to return MI to its pre-colonial state. Localities within MI that are now part of the Bruck Empire include St. Clair, Royal Oak, and Superior Township. And did I mention that bodies of water may also be claimed in a similar fashion? Lake Superior, the largest body of fresh water in the world, the big lake they call Gitchee Gumee, the lake that never gives up her dead, is now part of the Bruck Empire, under a claim shared with members of my immediate family.

Epilogue – West Virginia

I was surprised to learn last year that WV is actually part of the north. It is technically, as it fought for the Union in the Civil War, I mean the War Between the States, I mean the War of Northern Aggression. It also is part of the north, according to the Pork Rind/Beef Jerky Factor, upon which I’ll expand in a future VOB.

We stopped at a Sheetz gas station/convenience store off the highway in WV as we approached home. The “no shirt no shoes no service” policy must have been abridged somewhat, as evidenced by some of the partially-clad clientele. Actually, one of the shirtless fellows had enough tattoos to make him appear to be wearing a shirt, but his abundant gray body hair negated the effect upon closer inspection.

In the restroom, I read some graffiti wherein an itinerant scribe penned the poignant phrase, “KILL WHITEY,” a challenge answered by a racially complementary and equally provocative rejoinder. And the multitudinous array of junk food boasted only one brand and style of pork rind, the dry, puffy kind, providing conclusive evidence that WV is a northern state.