Don’t mind the cranky wind gods and voracious flies—this is heaven

On the morning after we finish the Race to Mackinac the air over the Straits of Mackinac is the most pristine on Earth, so transparent that the vivid hues of the flag flying above the fort overlooking the harbor seem painted on the sky and the boats still crossing the finish line in front of Round Island lighthouse, riding cerulean seas under gaudy spinnakers and an escort of snow-white gulls, appear in razor-cut relief in a visual presentation so perfect it might have been Photoshopped into the atmosphere.

I’ll explain later why these conditions appear at a certain time each year, but in the meantime I should warn you that, though I believe what I have just described is true, it’s possible it has been enhanced by hyperbole. I will freely admit that when it comes to the glories of the Great Lakes, I’m hopelessly biased. Some people are said to have ice water in their veins. Well, I have lake water in mine (which at some times of the year is indistinguishable from ice water). If beautiful places on land can be described as God’s country, then the Lakes are his water.

I have seen a fair amount of the rest of the watery world, thanks in large part to the opportunities offered by my excellent job. I’ve been gifted with unforgettable experiences sailing distant seas and exploring the adjoining lands, and have sung their praises in this space (most recently those of Croatia). Yet when I return to the Lakes, their wonders invariably exceed those I’ve seen far away.

Joshua Slocum wrote that he was “born in the breezes.” I was born in the waves. I splashed in them on Lake Michigan beaches and sailed on them offshore before I walked. I fell asleep at night and woke in the morning to the accompaniment—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar— of waves breaking on the shore. I grew up thinking the baritone blast of the fog horn that reverberated through our little town from the pierhead lighthouse and sounded like a giant belching in the forest was a normal part of everyone’s life.

The fog horn has changed—in an act of auditory political correctness to protect sensitive ears on shore, the Coast Guard toned it down to a squeak—but not much else has. I still hear the sound of the waves from my home and even, on breezy days when the surf is up, from my office, which is located a scant block from the harbor and the boat that is my transport to the Lakes’ treasures.

The Great Lakes coastline is 10,900 miles long, longer than the combined American coasts of the Atlantic Ocean and Gulf of Mexico. Within the coasts of the Lakes you can choose from an infinitely varied menu of sailing possibilities, ranging, for example, from sailing in the loom of the skyscrapers of Chicago (where you can also drop your sails and take a swim in what must be the clearest, cleanest water adjacent to a metropolis anywhere—Chicago diverts its treated wastewater away from the lake, down the Illinois River), to sailing in the wilderness of the North Channel or anchoring in a cove on an island—Lake Superior’s Isle Royale—where timber wolves roam.

The quality of the Lakes, both their water and their land, varies, generally improving from south to north on any of the five lakes, but it isn’t hard to find water of amazing clarity, shores made of forests, cliffs, dramatic rock formations, dunes and wide, soft sand beaches and ports full of charm and seafaring character. Nor is it hard to find solitude, amazing when you think of it, because there are more pleasure boats registered in the Great Lakes region than anywhere in the country. Yet you can, as we often do, make a diagonal crossing of Lake Michigan between the east shore near the top of the lake and the west shore several hundred miles to the south and for much of the voyage not see land or another vessel. Sightings, when they occur, might include a couple of lakers (lake freighters up to 1,000 feet long), a salty (ocean-going freighter), perhaps a distant sail or two.

The lakes, however, do have some quirks that are acquired tastes. The chill, for one. Lake water cools to near freezing or below in winter. It takes a while to warm up. You don’t know what cold is until you’ve stood a night watch in early June, when the temperature of the water, and thus the nearby air, is in the low 40s.

Then there are the flies. Note to the CIA: I don’t advocate torture, but if you want to make someone talk, put him on a sailboat in the middle of one of the Great Lakes and wait for the black flies to arrive. SAILING’s technical editor, Seattle-based yacht designer Bob Perry, once sailed in a Chicago-Mackinac Race and in the ensuing article dubbed Lake Michigan “Lord of the Flies.” Flies are supposed to be buzzing around garbage cans on shore, not tormenting sailors in the wholesome reaches of the Lakes, but they can assault a boat in overwhelming numbers and quickly drive you mad with their biting. You can try protective measures, but there’s no guarantee they’ll work. Once on Lake Superior (I swear this is true), a fly bit my big toe through a rubber sea boot.

Other creatures may be less irritating to sailors, but are a greater threat to the Lakes. These are the invasive species, zebra mussels and predatory fish, delivered to the Lakes in the bilge water of those salties, that are wreaking havoc on the Lakes’ ecosystems. And there’s more bad invasive-species news: 100-pound Asian carp capable of vacuuming up the food supply of native fish are trying to get into Lake Michigan and a Washington bureaucracy capable of ruining the character of one of the lake’s most rustic outposts has already invaded.

You can see evidence of the latter on Beaver Island in northern Lake Michigan, where the Department of Homeland Security ordered the erection of an 8-foot-high fence around the small ferry dock. The fence is made of steel rods sharpened like spears and angled outward to impale any terrorists that try to scale it. This, mind you, on a sleepy, isolated island, where until the anti-terror fence was built, the biggest news of the last few years was the paving—not the repaving, but the first-time paving—of the gravel main street. Invasive species indeed.

Now, about that clear air over the Straits: It is delivered by a frontal passage and the fresh northwest breeze that perversely shows up within hours after we manage to finish the race. I say “manage” because the last stage or our race usually involves beating into fickle headwinds, chasing zephyrs and fighting foul currents before crawling across the finish line, a misery that is compounded later by seeing much of the fleet scudding downwind to the finish line in front of that gorgeous northwesterly.

I was lamenting this cruel fate while rehydrating at Horn’s bar when the First Mate, employing her laserlike ability to analyze my problems, suggested: “Just buy a smaller boat. We’ll go slower, get here later and finish with that northwesterly you lust for.” At that point, I changed the subject.

The wind gods can be cranky, but they make up for it by bringing to the Lakes, as a complement to their glorious waters, the clearest air in the world. Take my word for it.