I was truly living the dream from a perspective I’d never known.
It’s not ordinary for a sailor to be captivated by the sight of boulders the size of pianos slipping beneath the keel. In my experience as a lifelong big-boat sailor, visions such as this would have left me gasping rather than breathless (a subtle, yet significant, distinction).
But this was different. All afternoon I had sailed the 16-foot Wayfarer dinghy along Lake Huron’s northern shore. The clear water slid by, revealing all manner of wonders beneath—the immense fragments of mountains dropped here by glaciers long ago, grassy forests, sandy flats. Along the coast pines grew thick as a jungle.
I tacked behind a sandbar into a secluded bay and anchored in the shallows. Mediterranean style, I ran a line from the transom, looped it around a tree and pulled it tight. With the stern close to shore, I stepped off into ankle-deep water.
The scenery was breathtaking. The small anchorage looked onto the sparkling expanse of Lake Huron, and the boat cast her shadow on the
