Although I often wish that sailing could be an escape into a purity of sublime joy, the experience is more often a window into human nature. Sailors are a varied crowd, and it is especially varied when it is expanded to boating of all kinds. We share the water with power boaters, and this expands the range of human experience that forms boating’s version of the microcosm of humanity. A recent experience left me with the same question I always have: Why are people like this?
Here in late July, I got to sail with two close friends, Tom and Jeffry. After a lovely Friday evening in Bayfield, we headed out Saturday morning. The wind was light but nice, especially with two novice crew on board. As we crossed the open channel between Basswood and Hermit Islands, I noticed storm clouds building. I watched them a few minutes, checked the weather radar, and made the call. We took down the sails, donned our rain gear, and would motor around the lee side of Hermit until the storm passed.
Well, the storm never really materialized, despite the nearby lightning and echoes of thunder. With an east wind, I thought it would be nice to sail out to Cat Island and it’s small, well protected anchorage at the south end. We were sailing beautifully on about 10 knots of wind and it would have been perfect, but then I realized we’d be too far out to make it back to port by Sunday morning’s 11:30 am departure time the guys wanted. I told them we could head to Stockton, but it might not be a pleasant night. Tom said we should take the risk, so we did.
It wasn’t the weather that got us. Indeed, it was July’s full moon and the tranquility of the scene could hardly be matched. The anchorage was full of boats—over forty at one point. You would expect all of them would be captured by the moment, take in the awe and the beauty, and experience the sublime as only Lake Superior can serve it up. But that was not to be.
Among the forty boats was a raft of power boats, the owners of which apparently decided that this silent, sublime wilderness setting was the perfect place to blast their music, which they did for two solid hours approaching midnight, after much on and off music from 6:00 to 9:30. Why do people do this? What is the joy is blasting music into the silent night? What is the joy of blaring it out to hundreds of unwilling listeners? Why, I wonder, are people compelled to ruin so much for so many? Is this the joyful “freedom” they so often wear on their hats and t-shirts? What makes it joyful? Or at least, what makes it satisfying?
Yet, maybe there is no such joy. Perhaps it derives from the same scowls I often see on land. Perhaps people have been so damaged by life that this is their healing. Or perhaps there is a way to understand that would allow for compassion, even though I am not a person who can see that very well. Perhaps my own blindness is exactly the insight I need. I don’t get it. I can’t see. I wish them well, but I wish they could be quiet so I could hear that little voice inside myself calling me to compassion.
It had been a tiring day. I wanted to sleep. Only after nearly three hours of angst, anger, cursing, and generally making myself miserable, the music finally stopped. I was able to drift asleep. When I woke early around 5:30 am, I confess it was all I could do to not cruise over to the flotilla and blast my fog horn just for the joy of noise-making. But I hate noise. Truly, there would be no joy in it—just the stupid satisfaction of a needless revenge. I’m glad I passed, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wish they would do the same. Consider others, and put better energy out into the world.