JUNE 20, 2021 – In WW II my father-in-law was stationed aboard the Moonlight Maid guarding the Aleutians. I know the name, because a large envelope bearing my father-in-law’s name was addressed “c/o” the ship.
Inside the envelope were several sheets of “onion skin,” the first entitled, “CALL TO STATIONS.” It listed lifeboat assignments. “Robert Boger” was in “Boat #4.” Typed on the next pages was weather-related information, including, “BEAUFORT SCALE OF WIND POWERS.”
This reminded me of an article I wrote years ago for our lake association newsletter. Entitled, “Grindstone Force Five,” it read . . .
Like a large, untrained dog on a leash, our sailboat splashes through the waves of Grindstone, as I shout commands to my twelve-year-old son and helmsman-in-training. “Upwind! Upwind!” I yell. Across the choppy water, telltale ripples reveal a sudden gust just off the port bow. Poof! The boat heels sharply, but the budding helmsman reacts quickly. We’re wet, but we’re upright. Charged with adrenaline, we plunge ahead. From the windswept shore, I imagine look Winslow Homeresque.
Just as a skier seeks snow, the sailor wants wind, and on Grindstone, there’s often a good breeze. Yet, sailing or not, I love the wind. I love that it chases the bugs away and puts me to sleep on a hot, summer night. I love its susurration in the pines above the hammock. I love the way the wind sculpts the lake and dashes sunbeams and moonbeams into a thousand diamonds on the waves. I love the way the wind and waves make Grindstone such a wild and wooly place and push the opposite shore away—much farther than it appears on a calm, sunny day, when nary a poplar leaf twirls on its stem.
The wind I love can blow till it howls, and it’s time to batten the hatches. Such a time came last April, when the wind blew at “Grindstone Five.” A meteorologist measures the wind with an anemometer, but I measure it with our dock and Skille cranberries. Waves hitting the dock frame means a “Grindstone One.” Water washes the decking on a “Grindstone Two,” and waves break over the decking when the wind blows at “Grindstone Three.” At “Grindstone Four,” the dock breaks up. And when cranberries appear from the Skille bog two miles across the lake, a “Grindstone Five” wind blows.
If “Grindstone Two” is a sailor’s delight, “Grindstone Five” is a sailor’s fright. On that April day, I braced myself on shore and watched the dock turn to flotsam. “Grindstone Four!” Then, as the wind snapped a tree behind me and waves smashed over the shoreline berm, I staggered closer to the surging waters. I feared for my boat, as it rocked on the lift. To save it, I ventured in the angry seas and tied it down—just in time. Around me bobbed a bumper crop of . . . Skille cranberries! “Grindstone Five!” After a blast like that, I love the way the howling wind and crashing waves . . . lessen . . . pass . . . and leave air and water still.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
