The sun was shining as we pulled anchor and headed out of Byng Inlet. Turning passed the wind farm beyond Perkins Rock, we made a side trip to enjoy lunch in the Bustard Islands. Anchoring between granite rocks and a little cottage boarded up for the season, we lowered Baby Belle into the crystal blue waters for a refreshing tour around the collection of lush islands. The Bustards are virtually uninhabited except for a few cottages and the bears, of course. The unspoiled land and unparalleled scenic beauty was the perfect opportunity for us to pack our lunch and go gunkholing in the dinghy for a few hours. (New nautical term of the day–gunkholing…means meandering in and out of shallow waters)
After our playtime on Baby Belle was over, we loaded all the essentials back onto the boat. We motored our way through the Gun Barrel passage and onto Lake Huron on our way to Beaverstone Bay where we dropped anchor and enjoyed another spectacular sunset.
It took me a few minutes to catch on, but Duane started belting out his best rendition of Old MacDonald Had a Farm as we hit our 1000 mile milestone. Looking at my navigational charts we had boated by The Chickens just beyond Hen Island, passed McDonald Shoal and around Rooster Reef. How clever! E-I-E-I-O
The weather had begun to turn for the worst as we pulled anchor and drove toward Collin’s Inlet. A rock formation dubbed The Crabby Indian guided our path to a secluded spot behind Key Hole Island. After two and a half hours of the wind whipping at us and a downpour descending on us, we dropped anchor behind Key Hole Island and decided to wait out Mother Nature’s tantrum.
Our timing could not have been worse as the rain storm came through as we were simultaneously dropping the anchor or anchors I should say. Needless to say, Captain Duane was sufficiently soaked by the time we had two anchors set to hold us tightly in our spot. A lot of pampering was expected to reciprocate for his sacrifice of risking catching pneumonia (some eye rolling was in order). I opened him a beer and went about my business. That night I slept like a baby as the wind barreled down the inlet like a funnel. Duane kept a watchful eye as the wind shifted continuously and we swung toward the island at the mercy of the gusts. The rain had stopped by the time I awoke to a recap of how close we averted a catastrophe while I slept soundly. Nodding, giving him some reassurance, I know a large part of the story was embellished for my benefit. Or to make me feel guilty for sleeping through it all.
Duane had been reviewing all the forecasts and, though the storm had passed, the wind was still gusting mercilessly and the waves had not subsided. I thought I had sufficiently secured the interior and we made a run for it out of the protected area of the inlet. We were headed to Killarney which was a quick hour and a half jaunt. That short trip was the worst I have experienced so far on the trip. The 20 plus knot winds combined with 5 foot seas had me white knuckled as I was on the verge of crying and puking at the same time. To try and calm my nerves, Duane started singing Gilligan’s Island. To say the least, my reaction did not go over as planned and for the first time he picked up the speed to double of what we had being traveling at to get us through this mess.
The bay in Killarney was a sight for sore eyes and a queasy stomach. We picked up a mooring off George Island and went to inspect the damage. The cabin was turned upside down with anything that wasn’t screwed down flung as far away from it’s origin as possible. There was over 6 inches of water in the bilge and the kitchen drawers were flooded. As soon as I started getting feeling back in my fingers, I started with the cleanup.
