November 1, 2012 § 1 Comment
My dad isn’t a sailor.
His interest, when I was growing up, was fishing.
We fished every way imaginable. We’d wade into Cedar Creek in search of a hole hiding smallmouth. We’d slide a canoe into Mauthe Lake and drop worms for bluegill. We’d pack the ’74 Dodge Dart, drive north to rent a cottage and an Alumacraft to jig Walleye and hunt the big Muskie on the mighty Flambeau. And we would walk out to the lighthouse at the end of a long rocky break-wall to net smelt or cast for steelhead, depending on the season. When you stand in the shadow of the Port Washington lighthouse (a few blocks from Sailing Magazine’s world headquarters), you are a front row spectator as sailors make way for open water.
Dad thought they were nuts.
Without fail, he’d mumble something like “some of those idiots aren’t coming home. Do they know how dangerous this lake is? It could turn gale in an instant.”
It seemed right, and kinda’ scary to me.