2024 Muskegon, Michigan Part Two: Big Water, What I Forgot, and The Cat Who Cried

There is something magical about being near big water.  I first felt it when I was a child.  My family would team up with my aunt, uncle, and cousins, and hit the road together for two weeks every summer.  We usually ended up someplace near Tawas, Thunder Bay, or Alpena (all on Lake Huron); Luddington, Manistee, or Traverse City (all on Lake Michigan); or Mackinac Island, and Iron River (on Lake Superior).  The goal was always big water, lots of time outside, and extremely limited city contact.
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My father usually rented one cabin, my uncle another; but always right next door, or a quick walk down a wooded path.  This gave the kids (five of us until I was eight, six after that) someone other than siblings to play with, which usually reduced the arguments. The arrangement also gave the adults a foursome for cards – usually Bridge, Hearts, or Euchre.  Each year held different memories, the strongest were rooted in sleeping arrangements or the water.  This is where I got my love for knotty pine cabins.  Some of my best childhood memories are associated with forests, water, and knotty pine cabins.  Come to think of it, some of my best adult memories are, too.

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One year, we had matching cabins side-by-side, and for reasons I cannot explain today, we pretended my brother had lumbago, and the rest of us were medical geniuses; and the only cure was Capt’n Crunch cereal (don’t ask).  That was the year my sister (four years older than me) swam out to the island, and me, my dad, and brother trolled behind in the rowboat to make sure she didn’t drown.  It’s also the same year my brother was attacked by a ferocious gaggle of geese.   I thought it just reward for putting snakes in my bed.

Another year, we all shared a large house together.  It was the year Nixon resigned.  We were forced to listen to the press conference on the radio (my dad said it was history in the making).  We kids slept in sleeping bags on folding camper’s cots that lined a big room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides.  The room was covered in a multi-colored, corrugated roof.  The thunderstorm that came through during our second night flashed bright colors and rumbled spectacular percussion throughout the space.  That was one of my top ten favorite vacations ever… just because of that storm.

As we grew older, we became a family of sailors, taking out small watercraft wherever we could, and learning that the water had “rules of the road,” and one should always keep land in sight.  The best rule of thumb: if you can’t swim to it, don’t go out any farther because you never know when the wind might die, and you’ll be “three sheets to the wind and dead in the water.”  Have you ever noticed; sailors have tremendously inventive, fun, and colorful language… that’s part of why I loved sailing so much.

That, and the peace.  Big water can be dangerous, but time near or on it can also be the calmest moments you’ll ever experience.  I grew up with the understanding and belief that the world doesn’t get much better than time with a good book, a gentle breeze, rolling waves, and the soft flap of a sail as it catches a gust every now and then.
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And so, when I was in Muskegon for a few days recently, one of the goals was to spend as much time as I could near the big water of Lake Michigan.  It’s been several years since I’ve walked those sands, felt those breezes, and inhaled that air… it felt good; like coming home to a childhood I thought was lost.  Although I loved it, sailing Lake St. Clair just isn’t the same.

​One thing I never got to do as a child was walk to the end of Pere Marquette’s boardwalk.  So this time, I did.  I’ve always been fascinated by lighthouses – especially those with Keepers.  Still, automated lights are just as strong a beacon of imagination for me.  Being so close, I had to visit.  I was grateful an author friend, Ingar Rudholm, recommended a restaurant right on the beach, “The Deck.”  It was perfect.  Good food, warm breezes, and a band that was so loud, I didn’t feel guilty putting some distance between me and the throng out having a good time on a warm summer’s night.

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​I didn’t realize how much I forgot until I stood at the end of the boardwalk in the shadow of the Light, feet splashed by the bold, beautiful, waves.  I forgot how amazing big water is. 

I forgot how the wind teases your balance… tests your resolve… tussles your hair… and flutters through the thoughts inside your brain. 

I forgot how the warm sand plays between your fingertips when you pretend you’re an artist.  It’s warm and soothing in that same way a kitten’s tongue feels when it licks your nose. 

I forgot how big water smells so uniquely different from smaller waters… like tears meeting with the afternoon breeze on the day you met your first puppy. 

I forgot how the sun kisses the horizon at night and convinces you the earth’s edge is right there.  Even though it was a deception, it was soft and gentle. 

I forgot how with each degree the sun lilted closer to its goodbye, the sound of the waves reverberating against the beach changed half an octave, suspended in an almost silence – but not quite. 

​It was like being reunited with a lover who promised they’d always be there after you left… and still was.  It was like being reminded that nature doesn’t make mistakes, and maybe, just maybe, you belong, after all.

​As I sat on the sand, watching the sun exit stage left, I noticed a Catamaran moored on the beach.  It was tethered to a post and anchored tight the way light aircraft are protected at small airports without hangars.  Her hull and mainmast shimmered silver-grey and she had a dark blue tramp and boom.  The echo of the water lapping against her hull called out to me… “I want to sail.  Please, won’t you release me from these lines… Take away the anchor… Let me go with the wind!”  Her voice was small, I’m sure no one else heard it.  Still, I heard her.  She was crying for the freedom and escape of the big water.  I couldn’t help but feel my own broken heart yearning to sail the winds with her.  Seeing her so filled with angst made me sad.  

​The memory of a little bit of wisdom I learned in high school came back to me with foghorn insistence…  ​“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships were built for.”  
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The sky became streaked with the gold hues of sunset, and I assured the little Cat that soon, her people would be back, and they would fly her across the waves with the careless abandon she so loved.  She just needed to be patient. 

​She scoffed then.  And I felt that, too.  I’ve never been good at waiting to spend time in the company of those I love, either.  Waves, winds, or humans.

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As the night came to a close, and the air grew cooler, I was thankful that I’d remembered a sweatshirt, and also to take those few hours to be completely alone with the water.  I remembered what I forgot.  I reminded myself of those things that I’d lost sight of for a time.  I enjoyed moving in slow motion, sitting alone, listening to the world without all its distractions.

I will visit the big water more this year.  There are lighthouses to visit, sands to play in, winds to embrace, and boats to comfort.  And throughout the summer, I might just discover more things that I forgot.