Dad sailed the Great Lakes. We would slump across the back seats while the adults drove through the night, Iowa City to Bayfield, where we’d roll out—weary, bleary—for a breakfast of diner milkshakes. Then we’d gear up and shove off.
The trips weren’t fun. More like bracing. We learned port and starboard, fore and aft, jib and spinnaker. We learned to hoist the sheets, tie off the lines, watch the boom. When we caught the wind tight against the mainsail, we learned to lean out over the chop, spray stinging across our grins.
And yet, I’m no sailor. Never got navigation; always got seasick. Dad found saltier mates and struck out across the saltless lakes. By the time I was working college summers in Chicago, I’d been demoted to crewing his lunchtime sails.
Perhaps he had hopes for the next generation. He always brought my son and daughter on the spring flotilla down the Chicago River, through the locks, and out onto Lake Michigan. Once, we found ourselves on a boat, watching a train, under a drawbridge. For a two-year-old boy, it was a peak experience.
Dad planned a tame excursion for my young family. We sailed the calm coastline into Wisconsin and dropped anchor. We strolled the harbor, where we met a friendly family; the mom wore a thick veil that fell from head to toe. We slept on board and, in the morning, sailed home.
My travelers returned wiser. They had learned to crank the winch, to stand at the helm, to expect milkshakes for breakfast. And they had seen something of the world. Soon after, walking on Michigan Avenue, we passed a shopper wearing a thick veil that fell from head to toe. “She looks like she’s from far away,” my four-year-old explained. “She looks like she’s from Sheboygan.”