Back-to-back trips across Lake Superior carrying iron ore eastbound in our belly for the Soo. Last night was black and starless, with a brisk southerly and an ever-increasing swell. Lightning flickered and skirmished 360˚around us on the unbroken horizon. As the storms net tightened the intensity and duration of each flash increased, momentarily lighting up the sky a daguerreotype silver and rendering the clouds brown-tinged and in bas relief.
September is a month of change on the lakes. It brings bright, hot summer days and days that bring gales, squalls and rain. Colours seem to crispen and the edges of earth, sea and sky grow sharper as the days visibly shorten. Work does not stop for rain, only for prohibitively powerful wind, and I have spent many watches this past fortnight staring into cargo holds as the rain drummed an incessant, ear-drum tickling rhythm on the rubber hood of my foul weather gear. Up north, the leaves hold on to their lush greens yet, like lovers of summer reluctant to trade their shorts and swimsuits in for the warmer garb autumn will soon demand.
There resides within my head a Greek chorus that persistently reminds me what a turd I am.
WHAT’S THE SKINNY, FATTY? they’ll ask me. An effective way to silence them has in the past been drink and drugs but they only provide temporary reprieve after which the chorus redouble their efforts. Exercise is an obvious means of mitigation and why I have some form of injury 50% of the time.
A few mornings ago I was steering upbound in the St. Marys River, enjoying casual conversation: Afghanistan and Viet Nam and presidents Coolidge and Eisenhauer and FDR. At this point the talk veered into the world of futures, finance and investments which is when the Greek chorus disappeared and in their place appeared some Kenny G-heavy elevator music on the turn table in my brain which drowned all else out. Talk of politics and any attempt at dispensing advice to me will achieve a similar response.
Two days ago we sailed eastward into a strong gale. 50 knot winds right on the nose. Hundred-foot parabolas of spray plumed up over the bow only to be dispersed by the powerful wind before they could hit the deck.
This morning the wind was down but the swells remained and our 600foot ship rolled gently from side to side. I was still groggy with sleep when I went up to the bridge to relieve the watch. The Greek chorus were in particularly fine fettle as only yesterday I abandoned a writing project I had spent a week on when I realized it was going nowhere, and they were quick to remind me of this failure. Despite their imprecations I felt leavened by the promise of listening to a newly released collection of outtakes and unreleased songs from Bob Dylan’s 1980’s years that have just been remastered and relieved of their glossy 80s production, and by the dream I had just woken from, about a forest kingdom that was ruled by a benevolent albino anteater who held court from a hole in a giant redwood tree.
When I got up top, the captain and the guys on the 4-8 watch were discussing the chemical compound of iron ore and the periodic table and before I knew it the Greek chorus were gone and all I could hear was Kenny G’s saxophone. Meanwhile the water held its stormy pallor and a low-hanging and thick canopy of pigeon grey strato-cumulous leant a peculiar claustrophobic feel to Lake Superior. Far off eastward the sun broke through and was surrounded by a nimbus of pink-edged cloud. You could trace the trajectory of its rays against the narrow belt of clear sky between the clouds and the horizons indelible line.
Later on, the weather cleared and the sun laid down an unbroken avenue across the lake for us, it tapered outwards from the ship and broadened into the distance, glimmering bright as the acetylene feather of a welders flame. I was able to play the new Bob Dylan collection for two hours before the mate of the watch complained.
YUP, YOU’RE A REAL TURD OUT THERE chimed the Greek chorus, BUT BOB DYLAN IS THE BEST AND THAT SURE IS SOME SKY.
Of course I agreed and stared out at the Great Lake. I watched as our roll grew more pronounced and the swells deepened,working as they were north. Strangely slow, like pilgrims in solemn procession.