Welland Canal

Today, August 26, finds me content letting Whisper loaf along at 3 kts on a broad reach up the NY shore of Lake Ontario. Off the starboard beam is the mouth of the Niagara River, the plume of the Falls rising above the distant hills. Ahead and to starboard is a sea of sails, the Shark Class world championships, a far cry from the leisurely sailing I am enjoying.

To port and astern is the skyline of Toronto, beckoning me with its cosmopolitan modernity to abandon my days in the wilderness of North America's commercial shipping lanes. But I will not be tempted!

Dammit! Darn! Geez that all looks inviting.

Yesterday we transited that engineering marvel, the Welland Canal, built to convey ships up and down the Niagara Escarpment, a vertical drop of some 275 feet over 23 miles. I had entered the Canal at 0630 on the 24th with visions of Whisper being squished like a bug against some concrete berm by one of the steel leviathans that ply these waters. It felt like leading one of my children to the gates of hell.

Instead we waited! And waited! And waited some

more as one ship after another transited upbound and down. We waited while technical difficulties, the result of interfacing 21st century electronic automation with 19th century hydraulic engineering, were sorted out. And we waited for the capricious controllers of the system to decide that these pesky pleasure craft could have a turn.

Finally, at 1430 we were underway. I had had to hire a crew for the transit, a jovial Canadian, retired GM worker who supplements his income by helping shorthanded sailors like me through the canal. Norm Samuel is a wonder of patience, good humour, advice and, most of all, knowledge of the canal. This became invaluable as day turned into night and the maze of lights became a blur.

He also turned out to be an expert line handler, ensuring that Whisper held her place as each lock dropped us nearly 40 feet. It is quite a strange thing to see the top of your mast below the level of the lock walls, the walls stretching skyward as a concrete and steel canyon.

Finally, after 19 hours of waiting and transit time, Whisper docked against a rough concrete quay. Her skipper perfunctorily checked mooring lines, set fenders, secured the decks and fell into the sleep of the dead.

Under a torrential downpour, Whisper's daybreak

was punctuated by roiling turbulence as two giant Lakers (Great Lakes freight hauling ships) churned the channel mere yards from Whisper's dockage. One upbound, one bound down, their only concern was for avoiding each other and the canal bottom. Not a thought was given to Whisper or her bleary eyed skipper.

So, in the rain I came topside to reposition Whisper, ensure all was well on deck before retiring to a gallon of coffee, a good book and a breakfast of eggs scrambled with onions, peppers and cheese.

By noon it had begun to clear with a light breeze from the NW. Gingerly Whispere poked her bow into Lake Ontario where I, too tired to make full sail, set the genoa, put her on a reach for the NY shore and retired below for more coffee.

Time for another scan of the horizon. Are we on course? Yes. Are we clear of all obstacles? Yes. Good. All is well as Whisper makes her way east.

Evening found us in search of safe harbor, one deep enough for Whisper to tuck into and protected from the easterlies predicted to blow in tonight. A lee shore is no place to lie exposed. So we tucked into Olcott, NY at sunset only to be met by the pleasant and hospitable folks of the Olcott Yacht Club. More on that later.