The passage between Fitzwilliam Island and Manitoulin Island saw water breaking on shallows at the western end of the channel. My brother in law, Art and I had been under full sail from Club Island anchorage. The northwest wind had provided a close hauled approach to Fitzwilliam Island, a north port tack to make our way between shallows to fetch the eastern end of the channel, and resume a starboard tack that carried us through the channel. Rounding the Southwest corner of Manitoulin, R&R faced twenty knots on the nose. We had gotten an early start, and made good time but it would take several hours to tack the next few miles into South Bay under the double reefed main which we had set prior to rounding out of the channel. This day being the shortest leg of the cruise, we accepted the effort. A ferry from the Bruce Peninsula serving Manitoulin Island stood a couple of miles further out but overtook us rapidly and when well ahead, made a turn and disappeared into the bay unclear yet to us.

Listening for a weather forecast, we hoped to get word of projected winds for the next day. The cruise plans made back in winter, I recalled thought of the options that would exist at this point. If the winds were favorable, tomorrow we would continue up Manitoulin's western coast to Great Duck Island and cross to Presque Isle, Michigan in a two day passage, leaving one more day for the south leg to our homeport of Harrisville. If they were unfavorable, then a direct crossing would be a better choice.

Making the bay entrance and into a marina, we learned from the Harbormaster that wind forecast would be posted after 4:00 PM. After topping off fuel, buying ice and a pump out, we motored into South Bay, beyond the ferry docks and found nice anchorage near the northwest shore. It was Sunday afternoon and there was a large gathering of swimmers at the camping park a little further into the cove. Most had come across on the ferry to enjoy a much less crowded retreat within Manitoulin remoteness. I was surprised to see such a large beautiful bay with only a few homes on it’s banks. Then I recalled, that during the winter, the only access to the Island would be from much farther North at Little Current and then over roads that suffered the winter seasons offerings.

Following a nap, the weather forecast was posted indicating no change for Monday, N/W between 15-25. Significant was that Wednesday called for strong chances of widespread thunderstorms. This meant that to continue up the coast would be directly into the wind and require the whole day under motor, with perhaps half of the second day as well, then a strong possibility of being at anchor for a day in Presque Isle due to thunderstorms. This would carry us a day over our initial plans and me a day later returning to Texas.

Many things were now in favor of the option to make the direct crossing. The winds would be favorable for sailing and foul weather on the third day would be avoided as we could make the ninety-mile crossing in somewhere between 18 and 36 hours. It also allowed some night sailing I had wanted, and Art had welcomed, as he had never sailed at night. An early return would provide some rest before trailering back to Texas, and a chest infection had me tired.

Though waiting a few hours after daybreak would insure a daylight arrival, neither of us felt that a night entry to a familiar harbor was a problem. If we encountered poor conditions we would stand out till daybreak. This would be the longest open water sailing passage for either of us. After agreement to some practical matters such as full time use of life jackets, harness and teather for all deck work and two-hour watches, we departed South Bay at 6:30 am. Working under full sail on a starboard beat, we wound our way through a maze of fishing boats, working waters between 25-60 ft. for Salmon and Lake Trout. Outside of these was a trawler, working deeper water with nets probably in 80-90 ft water.

R&R found her rhythm, and the wheel was locked and required very little attention for half of the crossing. By late morning the higher hills of Manitoulin dropped from view and we were alone in open water. Late afternoon brought some of the best sailing conditions that I have experienced. The wind had clocked a little, placing it a little more to beam but still close enough for the boat to self-steer. Wind speed was about 18, with two-ft seas. R&R was busting along at 7.5+mph. A constant whoosh and spray each time we met wave, but the entry was not so that it slowed the boat or sent spray over the deck. Under full main and about 90% headsail we flew along for the next two hours with no attention to the helm. I was glad that I had brought the camcorder and couldn’t resist standing in the companionway and documenting such a glorious sailing condition.

Our first boat spotting was of a southbound ore boat. Its rear pilot house and forward mast, all that we could see, seemed too far apart to be one boat. The second was spotted to the north bearing south with only a slight profile of her port side. Hmmm! Firing up the lap top, the proper chart and our position soon appeared. A south bound shipping lane was only four miles ahead. The approaching ship was on that lane, and the timing to crossing would be close. Sticking my head out of the companionway to call for sheeting out and slowing the boat, I was preempted with, "we are going to cross behind it!" I concurred! Slacking our speed considerably, we watched it pass. Back to the computer, clicking on the south bound track, showed we were 1 ¼ mile from it, and judging the distance, it appeared that the ship was right on the track. Our estimate was that in open water with no land in sight, had we not slowed, our courses would have brought us within hailing distance…that’s too close for a difference of 975 ft in length.

Late in the evening we started getting some buildup of thunderheads marking a weak front. At the first hint of wind change, we double reefed the main, and prepared the furling line to a cabin top winch. Any hint of cool air, we would drop the main and furl to about 30 % headsail. We both wanted to make the entire crossing under sail and hoped the weather would cooperate. Though the thunderheads didn’t seem to rise to high elevations, there was one that was as unusual as I’ve seen. From a lower bank within the middle of the cell, a long funnel cloud drifted behind horizontally several hundred yards and rotated to provide its form. Quickly snapped two pictures, both of which were in stages of it’s dissipating. From full form of the funnel to total disappearance was only about ten seconds. The cloud was not more than five thousand feet. The front brought an increase of winds to about 25 mph and a northerly shift. No drop in air temperature or wind shifts from the generally northerly shift were detected, so I don’t think we ever received any wind from the cells. They were quite ominous and dark, but again, were not very high. The wind change did end our self steering and conditions were now beyond the autohelm’s capabilities.

Dusk brought the first glimpse of land on the Michigan side. It would be Thunder Bay Island and a quick check with the binocular compass and the chart verified this. Soon the beacon of the lighthouse could be seen. As dark enveloped, the glow of Alpena’s lights were clear but our destination was a good bit south of this first land observation. Because this was Art’s first night sailing, I reminded him that to go over board at night in cold water might very well mean disaster, and that most overboards occur when getting relief. Standing in the dark and keeping balance requires caution.

I relieved Art at the helm at 10:00 PM and he went below for a nap. Shortly thereafter I saw a large blazing meteor streak downward and explode like 4^th of July fireworks, into smaller fragments that soon burned out and went dark. My line of vision had been directed as to catch full view. Though I once saw a meteor with a similar large fireball when I was a teen, it had burned all the way to impact, which seemed rather close; I had never seen one explode halfway through the atmosphere as this one had.

A waypoint standing out about two miles from Harrisville harbor had been selected prior to leaving South Bay and we had sailed the 90-mile distance with no more than 1.4 miles cross track error. This seemed amazing considering that half was sailed with the wheel locked and the boat self-steering. Perhaps the weather helm tends to make up for leeway in holding a rhumb line. A near full moon rose about midnight and it was about 3:00 am when we reached the offshore waypoint. Wearing the harness, having dropped the sails, I would do the anchor chores within the harbor so with Art at the helm making for the breakwater, I found it necessary to jog him to starboard to clear the rocks at the breakwater entrance. It would have been disastrous to founder on the breakwater of the homeport after not even a hint of an incident in eight days of cruising. He had looked at some lights in the vicinity of the harbor and lost a little night vision, but had seen the rocks about the time that I had called for the starboard turn. We entered and anchored as quietly as possible to be courteous to those within.