It was supposed to be a perfect day trip—Grand River to Port Dover, sunshine, smooth waves, and Diana Ross singing us across Lake Erie. Instead, we got a three-hour audition for Gilligan’s Island.
I pride myself on being prepared. Charts checked, weather apps consulted, playlists queued. My wife and I were finally going to take our first “tour” by boat—down the Grand River, out into Lake Erie, and southwest to Port Dover.
The forecast? A sailor’s dream: 22 degrees, a gentle 5 km breeze, waves of only half a foot. Practically bathtub conditions. Even the apps agreed—Canadian and American weather channels in rare harmony. What could possibly go wrong?
Smooth Sailing… For a Minute
We slipped out of the river with Diana Ross serenading us, my wife catching rays and tapping her toes. I even threw in some nautical lingo—“turn to starboard”—because nothing says “seasoned mariner” like announcing the obvious.
Tecumseh Reef lurked nearby, but no worries. The boat could handle six more inches of wave. Or so I thought.
The Gales of November (in June)
Suddenly, the flag snapped sideways, spray flew everywhere, and those “half-foot” waves were auditioning for the role of “whitecaps.” My wife, ever the trooper, folded herself over the helm muttering, “I can do this, I’m okay,” in the same tone people use before fainting at weddings.
I angled into the wind like my ground school instructor once taught me, kidneys pounding against the seat. Then I made the rookie mistake of announcing: “Honey, take the wheel—I need to use the head.”
Let’s just say spray and toilets don’t mix. Lesson learned: sit down.
Gilligan’s Island, Starring Us
When I returned, my wife had us pointed straight at the reef. “The compass is bouncing around!” she yelled. I took over, just in time for a roller to crash over the windshield. Cue the theme song: “The tiny ship was tossed…”
By now, she’d retreated to the stern, wrapped in towels like a shipwreck survivor, whispering, “Keep going, I’ll be fine.” Translation: “Turn this boat around before I mutiny.”
Port Dover, By Land
I surfed the waves back to the river, where calm returned instantly—except for my wife, who was still cocooned in towels, searching for the equilibrium point of roll and pitch.
On shore, she perked up enough to demand something cool from the snack bar. The girl behind the counter took one look at us and laughed: “Better luck next time.”
We toured Port Dover by land, palm trees swaying in the gale, not a single sailboat in sight. Maintenance didn’t get done, but we did get gas. And my wife, bless her, said she’d go out again.
Next time, though, we’ll play it by ear. Or at least by buoy.
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