A Close Call

James Osborne

JamesOsborne129@gmail.com

250-306-0731

Word Count: About 2300

For years, we dreamed of owning a boat like this. It brought us many unforgettable experiences, including one that almost cost our lives.

Our sleek 25-foot cruiser had arrived in late summer. We could sleep and cook on board. It even had a toilet, or ‘head’ as sailors call it. We moored it in a marina on a narrow 110-mile long lake nestled between scenic mountain ranges. The remaining weeks of the summer were focused on learning how to handle the big boat.

The marina posed an especially tricky challenge – a narrow passage at the entrance. It required precise navigation. Massive boulders formed the sides of the tight L-shaped entry, protecting the marina from occasional violent storms. Fellow boaters warned us about the storms, Fierce winds and enormous waves could spring up with little warning. 

The next summer we toured the lake’s sparkling blue waters, discovering a tantalizing choice of bays, some with spectacular beaches. We often anchored overnight in those picturesque bays. Our favorite was a narrow cove with a wide sandy beach protected on both sides by 50-foot high rocky outcroppings. Still-novice boaters, we felt as secure in that bay as in the marina, 15 miles north on the opposite side of the five-mile-wide lake. 

One Saturday evening, a cloudless sky promised a carpet of stars with no moon to interfere. We were enjoying a campfire on the crescent-shaped beach when just before dusk a dark shape appeared around a rocky outcropping at the head of the bay. We could just make out a small boat, its motor slowing almost to an idle. It headed straight for us. 

A strange looking figure occupied the back. He wore a homemade black top hat that failed to tame his long dark hair. The hat resembled something Abraham Lincoln famously wore. This one had a wider brim like a witch’s hat. Ominous. The figure looked even more bizarre. An unruly black beard announced he was male. His jacket and pants were made from what appeared to be bearskin similar to those reputedly worn by mountain men. 

We watched apprehensively as the small aluminum boat came to a stop on shore about ten yards from us. He took off his hat, scratched his head and beard, and then nodded in our direction. A fishing rod poked up from one side of the 17-foot boat. Sticking up from the other side was the barrel of a rifle. 

The man stood, displaying knee-high boots also made from some kind of animal hide. He stepped nimbly over the side into six inches of water. He pulled the boat far up onto the beach, and tied it to a stout tree. The strange looking man began walking toward us and our campfire, his fishing rod in one hand and his rifle in the other. 

Judi and I exchanged glances as we wondered about possible defense. I could see Judi gauging the distance to a pile of driftwood gathered for firewood, while I surreptitiously loosened the clasp of a hunting knife on my belt. 

“How’re ya doin’ this evening?” the man asked in a friendly tone as he reached our campfire. 

“Just fine,” we replied. “How about you?” 

“Been fishin’,” the stranger answered. “No luck.” 

He turned to go and then stopped: “Mind if my wife and I join your campfire?” 

We looked at each other surprised, silently asking themselves, ‘wife’? He didn’t look the type to be married. 

“Sure,” I said, uncertain of what might come next. 

“We’re camped up over the ridge,” the strange man said pointing up a heavily treed slope beyond the beach. 

His comment startled us. We’d gone exploring after setting up camp and found no other campsites, not surprising since this beach was accessible only by boat. The disconnect added to our unease. 

“Back in a while,” the man said. He disappeared into the dark beyond the light of the campfire, leaving in his wake a distinctive odor, presumably created from bear grease mixed with sweat. 

We looked at each other knowing we’d be quite happy to never see him again, wondering where in the darkness he’d gone. 

Within minutes it was totally dark. The moonless night deepened our unease. I piled more wood on the campfire. Judi sat huddled in a beach chair, pulling her warm coat tighter around her petite frame. 

A half-hour later we were startled by a female voice behind us: 

“Hi there. May we join you?” 

Good grammar, I thought, my mind seeking reassurance and finding a tincture of humor from the irony. 

“Of course,” Judi said uneasily. “Welcome!” 

A sturdy middle-aged woman dressed in a bright print sarong walked into the light of the campfire. She wore a grey knit shawl over her shoulders. The woman’s face wore a pleasant relaxed smile, her eyes genuinely friendly. Behind her stood the man we’d seen earlier, now hatless. He stepped forward into the light, a broad smile just visible behind a long bushy beard. The man wore a homespun shirt with red, brown and grey horizontal stripes. His long dark hair was held under control by a hand tooled leather headband tied behind with rawhide laces. 

Our visitors initiated the introductions. Claire explained she was a loans manager for a bank in the small city about 30 miles south of the lake. Her husband Andrew was a ‘free spirit’, she said. Andrew sat on a log beside her, smiling contentedly as she carried the conversation. Claire told us Andrew worked for the federal government, grooming hiking trails in parks when not teaching outdoor survival skills. 

The strange couple turned out to be a fascinating dichotomy of town and country lifestyles. Andrew explained why he was committed to living in an environmentally responsible way, following a simpler 19th Century lifestyle as much as possible. Before leaving, Claire invited us to visit their camp in the morning. 

The next day we followed a faint path up from the beach through dense trees to the ridge. There we found a large A-frame tent made of bear hides. The tent floor was also made from bear hides. Above a stone-lined campfire, two vertical bars supported a long iron bar carrying two hooks, each shaped like an elongated “S”. From one dangled a large blackened iron pot. From a longer hook, a small pot was held close to the fire, steam rising from simmering water. Andrew told them he’d made the cooking equipment in much the same way as early European explorers to North America might have done. 

A few minutes after we’d returned to the beach, Andrew arrived saying he was going fishing again. He pushed his boat back out into the bay, started the small motor and headed around the rocky outcropping. As he disappeared, we couldn’t help chuckle at the contradiction between Andrew’s affinity for the 19th Century and his aluminum boat powered by a gasoline motor. We were also concerned for his safety. A gentle morning breeze had turned into a gusty wind.

We were just finishing lunch when Andrew steered his boat back into the bay and pulled up on shore. 

“You folks planning to head home soon?” he asked. It was more of a statement than a question. 

“In a little while,” I heard Judi answer. Below doing maintenance on the boat, I stuck my head up as Andrew continued: 

“Have you seen the sky? A big storm’s comin’ in from the south. I don’t mean to worry you, but you might want to head for a sheltered marina right way. You could secure your boat here if you want. I’ll help. But I really don’t think it will be all that safe for you here.” 

With that, Andrew headed up the ridge, presumably to prepare his camp for the coming storm. 

Judi and I couldn’t see much of the sky from the bay, and little of the lake through the narrow entrance. High rock walls formed the sides. But we did notice that the waves had become higher. And the wind was picking up.

We climbed up the south slope of the bay. What we saw confirmed Andrew’s warning. Normally the south end of the lake a few miles away would be visible on a calm day. Now, angry clouds and heavy rain obscured it. Waves appeared much higher in that direction than near our bay. The storm was heading toward us. 

We hurried back to the boat and quickly loaded our beach gear. We donned lifejackets, untied the boat and headed for the mouth of the bay. As the boat emerged into the lake, it was hit from starboard by strong winds. The boat swayed sharply. The wind-whipped waves were at least three feet high. 

I looked south. Less than a mile away was the infamous ‘line’ across the lake we’d been warned about. It foretold of a storm front. It was coming fast. We secured the canvas covers enclosing the back and rear sides of the boat. 

Experienced boaters had taught us to turn the boat into waves. I did. The wind screamed from behind. The flag on the bow was blowing forward, snapping sharply. It meant we were moving slower than the waves. Water began splashing up on the rear canvas. We realized the strong waves could crash through the fragile canvas and swamp the boat. 

I knew we had to keep the boat ahead of the waves. The wind was blowing harder. The waves increased in size. I accelerated to a speed that maintained a precarious balance – just enough to stay ahead of the waves, but slow enough to keep from burrowing the bow too deeply in the waves ahead. 

Loss of power would be a disaster. The boat would be blown sideways. It would be at the mercy of the waves, almost certain to capsize. 

A large wave slapped up against the rear canvas. Water splashed into the boat through a small gap between the canvas and the transom. Suddenly a few snaps holding the canvas came loose under the weight of another heavy wave. Gallons of water flooded onboard. Judi rushed back, ankle deep in water. She managed to close the snaps. 

I accelerated the engines. The flag on the bow went almost limp. That meant we were keeping pace with the wind … and hopefully the waves. But now the bow was digging deeper into the high waves in front. Huge avalanches of water broke over the bow, again and again, engulfing the windshield, obscuring our vision. Soon the waves were reaching six to eight feet. The driving rain was making it difficult to see landmarks on the shore. 

I began to wonder how in the raging storm I was ever going to get the boat through the tricky entrance into the marina. It was small comfort that if we crashed on the rocks trying to get in, perhaps some people in the marina might try rescuing us. 

For now, we were maintaining a precarious balance between speed, wind and waves. The boat was making headway, staying just ahead of the huge waves behind us. The boat kept repeatedly plunging bow first into breaking waves, threatening to swamp the boat, flooding the windshield, blinding us. Our plucky boat emerged time and again. 

Finally, Judi spotted a lakefront cottage that had provided us with a handy landmark before. It was just south of the marina. We were almost there! 

It had been more than an hour battling the unforgiving lake. The trip normally took 20 minutes. Then through the driving rain we spotted the entrance to the marina. Judi and I looked at one another. Silently we agreed … yes, we would try getting through the narrow entrance, despite the huge waves. It was a big chance. We had little choice. 

I tried gauging carefully the tempo of the waves, looking for a trough between them … hoping to find a fleeting opportunity to power the boat into the entrance. Once past the outer rocks, the wave action would diminish, allowing me to navigate more easily into the calm water of the marina. 

We were lucky. A bigger than normal trough between waves appeared with perfect timing. I hit the throttle, aiming for the center of the marina opening. The engine hesitated, and then died. I turned the ignition key. The engine caught and roared to life. The boat surged forward, just in time. We made it in. The wave action stopped. 

Relieved, I took the final turn into the marina. Both of us were startled to see 50 to 60 people lining the sides of the large marina. We wondered what we’d missed that had drawn such a big crowd. The crowd started cheering and clapping. Then we realized … we were the attraction! 

As if Mother Nature was not yet done with us, half way to our slip a rogue cross wind came barreling down a mountain valley next to the marina. The rogue gust caught the side of the boat. There was no way to control the boat. In a second, it was forced sideways into the ‘pulpit’ on the bow of a large boat that had been docked backwards, improperly. The hoop of chrome that formed the pulpit poked through our boat’s starboard side windows just above the galley. After what we’d just survived, we looked at each other and burst out laughing. 

From that day forward, other boaters in the marina regarded me as an experienced sailor. I wasn’t so sure. Judi and I were just happy we’d made it back safely. 

Later, we were told the eight to 10 foot waves we’d encountered were just the early stages of the storm. Before it was done, gale force winds had created waves reaching 14 to 16 feet. 

We never forgot our chance encounter with Andrew. His warning quite possibly saved our lives. It had been a close call.