This summer, former Mayor Phil Hardberger and wife Linda boarded Aimless in Holland, Mich., where it had been docked since they wrapped up their cruise up the Mississippi River last year. There, they began a 2,000-mile journey that carried them along some of the country's most historic waterways to Chesapeake Bay.CHESAPEAKE BAY, Md. — Aimless swings lazily back and forth on its anchor, justifying its name. It's hot, sweltering, a threat of summer thunderstorms in the air. Drifting slowly by is a small boat, its crew — a father and his two young sons — picking up their crab lines. Those crabs began the day well but will be on the dinner table tonight, boiled and seasoned.
A parable of life here, though a gloomy one. Best not to dwell on it, as we have as little control over our destiny as those crabs.
Forty-foot trees surround us, water and bird sounds are our evening concert. This is our entertainment. We eat dinner late aboard, clean the dishes, read a smattering and fall asleep before 10 p.m. There is distant thunderless lightning in the north, portending the possibility of a storm in the night.
You don't sleep through a thunderstorm on a boat at night. No matter how carefully you have anchored during the day, your sense of security vanishes when the first cold wind and blasts of rain descend upon you. At first you lie sleepily in your bed, in that nether land between sleep and consciousness. You try, in vain, to convince yourself there is no concern, no reason to get up, all is well. Then comes the little worry knot inside you, and you begin to imagine all that could go wrong. You get up. Getting up in the middle of the night, though, has its rewards.
There is a beauty in seeing the sky light up the seascape and hearing the cascade of a heavy rain pounding the boat and rushing to the scuppers that return the water to the bay. And then the storm is gone, moving off into the distance, the thunder fading, the lightning becoming ever dimmer. Towel yourself off, because you have always found some excuse for checking something, the anchor most likely, that has taken you out in the rain. When you are dry, the storm safely away, a satisfied sleep overtakes you. Next morning you awaken to a blue sky, and a new cycle begins.
Dutch treat
Some 2,000 miles ago, in early June, we started this voyage in Holland, Mich., just up from Chicago. Holland is an enchanting town, settled by the Dutch, in the early 1800s. It's thoroughly American today, but has kept its Dutch standards of beauty, cleanliness and orderliness. Flowers abound in summer. A late-spring tulip festival draws people from around the U.S. It is cold in winter, with ample snow and ice.
They keep their downtown vibrant, with all stores open even in the dead of winter, by heating the streets and sidewalks. Our good friends Jed and Nancy Maebius keep a second home in Holland and frequently entertain San Antonio guests. Jed was my special assistant while I was mayor, a position he has kept with Mayor Julián Castro. We departed after a good visit that is hard to duplicate at home because of time pressures.
Lake Michigan
Lake Michigan is still cold in early June, cold enough for one to wear a coat and a wool watchcap at sea. The lake is strikingly beautiful. Deep blue water, frequently with whitecapping waves of a white that would be the envy of a bridal dressmaker. You can see for many unpolluted miles, and there are few hazards in that deep water other than the lake itself. It can be, and frequently is, rough. It's also 300 miles long, and we had to go to its northernmost end, the Mackinac Straits, before turning northeast into Canada.
Aimless is 42 feet long, and travels only 8 or 9 mph, so all distances are long. A boat of this size may look big in a marina, or in a small lake, but on the Great Lakes or at sea, it more resembles a tiny cork of civilization in a basically hostile, indifferent environment.
We never went out in dangerous conditions, but on the Great Lakes you need to use your hands, as well as your feet, to walk the decks, even on a beautiful day. Fortunately, at the end of each day you can get off the lake into peaceful and often attractive marinas or anchorages.
The Great Lakes were gouged out by massive glaciers, but smaller glaciers dug out many smaller lakes that adjoin Lake Michigan. These lakes serve as ports of refuge at the end of long days. Frequently there are outstanding restaurants on the shores of these lakes so you usually have your choice of eating aboard or going out to eat. And, at day's end, you sleep on a flat, still bed. There is much to say for small comforts.
Canada
We did not know the protocol for entering Canada, so we were concerned about committing some serious blunder in these days of hypersecurity. We need not have worried. It turns out you go into your first Canadian town, call the Canadian immigration officials on the phone, and they give you a number which you put on the side of your boat. That's it. No one comes around. You are free to cruise Canadian waters. What a blessing to have such a friendly country on our border. We were treated with warm respect by Canadian officials and populace. They were a little confused with how to pronounce Port Aransas though, which is our boat's hailing port. The most popular mispronunciation was "Port Arkansas," which puzzled them as they knew Arkansas is a long way from the sea.
Entering Canada, we also entered Lake Huron. We traveled to the north side of Lake Huron to what is called the North Channel, which in due time becomes Georgian Bay.
We could have stayed in the middle of Lake Huron, which is wide and deep, but we chose to wind our way through the many islands that make up the north shore, a route with benefits and detriments. There is better protection from winds and waves, and most important, one of the most beautiful cruising areas in the world.
Towns are few and far between. Nature is at its most extravagant. Red granite boulders (think Enchanted Rock) tumble into the sea. Pine and maple trees in abundance come to the water's edge. The combination of the red rocks, blue seas and massive green trees all in one glance is intoxicatingly beautiful. In this preseason time of the Canadian year there were no other boats. It was ours alone — God's handiwork at every turn.
And there were the animals.
One evening we anchored in a secluded area between a granite cliff and a group of small rocks and grass that was so tucked away the water was still as a pond. As we looked toward the long rays of the setting sun, we were astonished and exhilarated to see a brown bear amble down to the water. He nosed around in the grass, took a drink, looked disinterestedly at us, grazed a bit more and, by and by, ambled into the woods.
We also saw in these northern waters otters, beavers and minks. Eagles and ospreys were fairly common. The ospreys are efficient fishermen. They circle or find a high tree and wait watchfully. Comes along an unsuspecting fish, the osprey dives down at 60 mph, grasps the fish in his talons and keeps on flying. In flight, he will turn the fish into the wind like a torpedo and return to his nest to present it to his mate or his offspring. Then back to his watch place, where he awaits further developments.
It turned out that the rocks we so admired above the water were remarkably less attractive below the water. We found this out by hitting two of them — not a joyful experience.
I also understood immediately what I had failed to grasp by reading books about the importance of water levels in the Great Lakes.
I had joked that what did I care if the depth under me in Lake Michigan was now 300 feet when it had earlier been 305 feet. "What, me worry," I merrily said. "Hey, I'm from the Gulf Coast of Texas. If we have 25 feet of water, we're happy." What I had failed to grasp was the small boat passages through the rocks had also gone down 5 feet. So if there were normally 9 feet of water under your keel, now there were 4 feet. Not good if you draw 5 feet.
For the first time in my boating career, I hit not one, but two, rocks. Both on the same day.
We anchored finally, with Linda in tears, and I would have sold the boat cheaply on the spot as long as the price included taking us off of it immediately. Now all the solitude we had so cherished seemed threatening. There was no one within 100 miles, and there was no choice but to keep going the next day. I didn't sleep well that night, and wished that I was back home in San Antonio.
Fortunately neither rock had penetrated the hull, nor had the propeller hit anything. So we were fully capable of continuing, but several layers of confidence had peeled away with the paint on the hull. Not having seen another boat for three or four days, our choices were rather limited.
We decided to take a river that flowed into the deep part of Lake Huron. However this river had never been charted. It said so on the chart in big letters. "UNCHARTED." I'd never even seen these words on a maritime chart before. So, no depths, no marks, no civilization.
I could see on the chart that in about five miles we would be in the deep waters of Lake Huron, which were charted. Reason told me that as we moved offshore, the water would get deeper, but there were several rocks and reefs clearly visible with breaking surf as we went out. We crept out, staying well away from everything we could see.
It took us an hour, but eventually we entered the great depths of Lake Huron and proceeded to an engineering marvel called the Trent-Severn Waterway.
Trent-Severn Waterway
The Trent-Severn was built by the Canadians to connect Lake Huron to Lake Ontario. It is a much shorter route than going to the end of Lake Huron, then crossing Lake Erie into Lake Ontario. The Canadians started thinking of doing this in the early 1800s. There were many lakes and rivers in between the two Great Lakes, but it was 250 miles across with substantial elevation changes, and significant amounts of rock that had to have a canal carved through it.
When the waterway was finished in 1920, there were 44 locks of many designs depending on the engineering skill and imagination of the craftsmen.
Some locks are the traditional locks, such as we now have on a small scale on the San Antonio River. Another has a marine railway that lifts boats out of the water and transports them a quarter-mile across a busy highway, boaters looking down on cars rushing along beneath them. Two others are like giant teeter-totters, where the boat goes in a giant steel bathtub on one end and counterbalances another giant bathtub with a boat in it on the other end. By hydraulic assist, it transports the craft 60 feet up or down. There's quite a view from the top, looking down on the river valley below.
For a fee, boaters can stay overnight at the waiting area for any of the locks. Some are in the middle of towns; others are far in the country where you hear all of nature's sounds.
The locks don't operate at night, so you have it to yourself after dark. If you're in a town lock, you can get off the boat and explore the town or simply talk to the townsfolk who are walking by your boat. A boat from Texas draws a lot of attention in the middle of Canada, and you make many temporary friends as you go along. It is a pleasant way to spend a week or two.
Because locks are somewhat work-intensive, we were glad to be joined, and helped on this section, by Bill Howze and his wife, Jeanette Dixon, of Houston. Both are experienced sailors who know what to do around a boat.
It rained about half the time on this section. Bill, Jeanette and Linda handled the lines to keep us in place in the locks, and I manned the boat's controls inside. Everyone but me got soaked on several occasions, but all were good sports. Evenings were always cheery occasions, and we slept securely tied alongside the locks.
At the end of the Trent-Severn, which had taken us eight days, we had a crew change, and in Kingston, Ontario, we were joined by Eugene Simor of San Antonio to help us on the next leg, the Oswego and Erie canals. Kingston was the North American naval command headquarters for Great Britain in our War of Independence. Many of the officers' homes are still in use. Walking these streets between rows of gray granite homes highlighted by bright blue, green and red shutters is to walk in the 18th century
It was our last major city in Canada, where we had been for the last month. To get to the U.S. from Kingston required crossing Lake Ontario, which runs runs north and south. The prevailing winds and waves also run north and south. Our crossing, unfortunately, was from east to west, so a beam sea was to be our lot.
This is not a good point of travel in a powerboat. They roll badly, are hard to steer, and a fair amount of water makes its way on board. It didn't look like a comfortable ride, and it wasn't.
After leaving at dawn in relatively calm conditions by midmorning, the wind was 25-30 knots. Here we were, on Canada Day (similar to our Independence Day), in the middle of Lake Ontario being given a good shaking. Linda was not smiling and was giving us both sideways glances that didn't look friendly. After a few hours of this rocking and rolling, the United States looked a long way away. Dishes clanked, things flew off tables, we had to walk in a simian crouch, gripping anything that seemed solid. It was not dangerous but not fun either.
Fortunately, there was an out, and we took it.
Duck Island
In the middle of Lake Ontario sits Duck Island. It is uninhabited, and two-thirds of the surrounding water is awash in shoals and shipwrecks. The other one-third is deep water up to shore but still partially exposed to waves, a great relief from the open waters of Lake Ontario but not a perfect anchorage, either.
As we rolled into the giant horseshoe outer harbor, we notice a tiny indent at the bottom of the U. The chart confirmed there was a small, untended dock within an inner part of the island. The entrance was narrow, just a few feet on each side of the boat. If we could get through, then what?
You could have jumped ashore as we eased through. We pulled alongside the small dock, our boat entirely filling up one side. The water inside this inner basin was as still as a swimming pool. There was no wind. Speak of a change of fortune.
The beautiful flowered meadow in front of us enticed Eugene to explore the island. He wasn't gone long before he returned with wide eyes.
"The island is covered with snakes," he said. "They are having a snake orgy just off the pier — they are all wound up together." We all went to look, and, as advertised, a snake orgy.
There were several hiking paths through fields of flowers, but there were snakes there, too. While we were contemplating the snakes, two small Canadian boats came in to dock. The sailors lived on a nearby island, and one said he'd been coming here since he was a child.
"What about the snakes?" we asked. "Just kick them aside," he answered. "They are harmless." And then he demonstrated by trying to kick one. His kids tried to catch one to give us as a souvenir. Jolly fun this snake business.
In spite of the snakes, we decided to walk to the far side of the island. Lots of snakes, but they ran from us.
We saw one snake fishing at water's edge. His catch was too big for his mouth, and it had a devil of a time swallowing it. We watched from 10 feet away, fascinated.
The snake paid us no mind, but then he had his mouth full. Perhaps he had been told not to talk with his mouth full.
That evening we joined the Canadians' celebration of their independence day as they set off fireworks, fast friends by now. Eugene drank a bunch of their beer, and we all pledged to be fast friends. When it was dark, they set off fireworks, the sparks hissing as they fell spent into the sea. We clapped and cheered.
We exchanged business cards, spoke of Canadian expansion in San Antonio, and vowed to stay in touch. We left at dawn, Duck Island and our new friends slowly disappearing behind a thousand waves. We've never talked since. But the memories are still there.
Erie Canal
By early afternoon the next day, we reached Oswego, N.Y. Even though we had only been in Canada a month and had been treated well, it was good to be home again. After one day — and nine locks — on the Oswego Canal, we entered our nation's most historic waterway, the Erie Canal.
It was first discussed under President George Washington and opened in 1825 under President John Quincy Adams. The historical significance of this engineering marvel cannot be overstated. It opened the Midwest to the Eastern Seaboard and connected New York City to the Great Lakes. It also allowed the development of New York state. Almost every major city in New York was established and grew along the Erie Canal: Albany, Schenectady, Utica, Syracuse, Rochester and Buffalo.
The canal is 363 miles long and initially was 40 feet wide and 4 feet deep. Dewitt Clinton, governor of New York at the time, was the driving force for building the canal. He was considered an idiot for spending so much public money on the project: "Clinton's Folly" people called it, a total waste of money. Within 15 years it made New York City the largest port in America. Today 80 percent of New York's upstate population lives on or near the canal.
There is a civic lesson in this. Sometimes it takes more than one person, or one administration, to get large things accomplished. It took several presidents and several governors to get the Erie Canal completed. Some no doubt worked harder than others, but the important thing was that the work continued from one leader to another.
It reminded me of how grateful I have been that Mayor Julián Castro and Judge Nelson Wolff have continued several projects I feel are important to San Antonio: the continued expansion of the River Walk, Haven for Hope, Hardberger Park and the Performing Arts Center. Continuity ensures success.
The Oswego Canal intersects the Erie Canal about midway along its length. Aimless turned east at that time, bound for Albany and the Hudson River. The canal has been deepened and widened several times. There are numerous locks because of the drastic elevation change. Many times you enter great rivers, such as the Mohawk, and follow it for a period of time. Likewise you cross whatever lakes were already there and could be incorporated into the canal.
It is exciting to sail through such an important part of America's history. You don't have to be a superpatriot to swell with pride at being a citizen and a part of a national community that has done such heroic things.
The canal today is well tended, with an abundance of flowers and landscaping around the blue and yellow locks. Lockmasters are friendly folk who make the passage through the locks a safe one and are more than happy to pass the time of day if traffic permits.
As in Canada, you can stay overnight at the approach to these locks in peace and security. Cruising the Erie is a comfortable and scenic experience. From time to time you can see the remnants of the old canal before it was widened or bypassed. The old canal was very narrow because horses would trod alongside the canal pulling the barges at a walking pace.
Just above Albany, the Erie Canal ends at the Hudson River. I was sorry to see the Erie end, but even greater scenery was ahead on the Hudson River, following its path to New York City and the Atlantic Ocean.
Hudson River
Eugene left us at the Hudson River and returned to San Antonio, having, as usual, been a good companion and excellent sailor. Serge and Judy Abend, old friends from Palo Alto, Calif., came aboard for a leisurely week's cruise down the Hudson to New York City.
The Hudson River and its surrounding landscape are so majestic, so overpoweringly beautiful, it inspired a whole genre of painting that produced some of our greatest artists. The Hudson River School was a group of American artists — among them Thomas Cole, Frederick Church and George Inness — who devoted themselves to the grandeur of the American landscape, particularly the Hudson River Valley. They lived along the Hudson from 1825 to 1875 in wonderful homes, painting huge landscape pictures that exceeded anything that the art world had seen. Many a European, seeing such a glorified landscape, must have wanted to pack bags immediately and come to the New World.
We dropped from our usual speed of 9 mph to a more sedate 5 mph just to soak it all in. The Hudson River Valley is also full of historical sites such as West Point, Hyde Park (President Franklin D. Roosevelt's home) and the original Culinary Institute of America, parent of our own CIA in San Antonio.
About two-thirds of the way down the Hudson River is Storm King Mountain, the largest mountain on the river. Surrounded by other mountains, this portion of the river has the feel of the fjords of Norway.
We thought it would be a great experience to anchor and spend the night right under this mountain. This turned out to be a mistake. It began well, though. It was beautiful, and an eyeful looking up at the mountain from the deck of our boat. We swam, read and had a great time in the afternoon.
The night turned foul, though, with gale-force winds racing through the mountain passes, quickly building up uncomfortable waves and bouncing the boat around. It was dark as pitch, and behind us were large rocks where spray was sending up impressive fountains. Not a good place to be, and not many alternatives.
Linda announced she could not sleep in such a situation and said she would sit up throughout the night on anchor watch. We thanked her and went to bed. At dawn she was still at her post. We got under way, and she took a much-deserved nap.
On the other side of Storm King Mountain, we visited the Storm King Art Center, a 600-acre sculpture garden where many of today's most famous artists around the world have built sculptures that are integrated into the mountain landscape. It is an outdoor museum where the dramatic landscape enhances the manmade pieces and becomes a part of the art. It was a day well spent and gave us a needed respite from boat travel.
Two days later, we arrived in New York City, parked the boat and said goodbye to our California friends. We had crossed half a continent in two months, traveling almost every day. We decided to take a week off and simply enjoy New York City, using the boat for our hotel. We did the usual tourist things, including Broadway shows, restaurants and museums. It's pretty special to have a night on the town, come home and sit on the upper deck looking at the lights of Manhattan before retiring for the night.
One day, a 142-foot yacht made its way into our marina. It was the Lady Gayle, with a hailing port of New Orleans. This could only be Tom Benson's yacht, named after his wife, Gayle. We found out he was in New York but not on the boat, so I gave the crew my card and explained I was down the way just a few boats and asked them to let Tom know. They agreed to do so. Two days later Lady Gayle sailed away without further communication.
Congested waterways
New York is still the most exciting city in the world. It's a busy place, including the waterways. There is constant traffic on the Hudson River and in New York Harbor. Ferries run every which way, like crazed water bugs. Garbage scows, working tugs pushing giant loads of building materials, 1,000-foot merchant vessels and the occasional luxury liner, looming up like a vision of the past, jockey for position in this crowded water. Just when you think there could be nothing more, a sailing school sails by with 20-foot boats weaving in and out of traffic as if they were on Canyon Lake.
Our marina, which was actually in New Jersey, had a commanding view of Manhattan across the Hudson. At sunset every night, the curtain went up on this sound and light show that is without equal in the world, although Hong Kong comes close. It was an exhilarating sight, the excitement broken only by the sadness of the black vacancy created when the Twin Towers fell. I was reminded of looking at family photos, when with an unexpected stab of pain, you realize that this loved one, smiling happily in the photo, is now gone. Only memories and loss remain. We mourn those towers and the people who were in them. We shall not forget.
Our week of rest came to an end. The two of us set off for the open Atlantic. New Jersey has no inland waterway that will accommodate a boat that draws more than 3 feet. It's a two-day run offshore, which we made uneventfully, though not particularly enjoyably. It was rough, but the Atlantic always is. This water rolls across 3,000 miles of open ocean before beating on the sides of our little craft.
We were accompanied on a part of the trip by porpoises. They were welcome companions, but neither as large nor as playful as our Port Aransas porpoises. I realized I had not seen a porpoise since leaving the Texas Gulf Coast. Suddenly, I felt homesick. It is a little embarrassing when a fish can make you homesick, but that's the truth of the matter.
Aboard Aimless
A frequent question asked by nonboating people is "What do you do all day when you are on a boat?" and "How do you stay in touch with family and friends?"
I think the underlying sentiment of these questions is "Don't you go nuts being confined on a 42-foot boat day after day." The short answer is, "No, you don't," though the longest I have ever been on a boat is 10 months during the first of my retirements. I was a bit homesick, but otherwise I was content.
Being on a boat requires doing a lot of ordinary daily things you do at home. The bed has to be made, the meals cooked, the dishes washed, the boat cleaned, etc. There must be periodic trips to the grocery store, the washateria and the hardware store, as well.
There is no alarm clock onboard Aimless, so we get up when the sun beams its way into our sleeping quarters: At this time of year this usually happens around 6:30 a.m. to 7 a.m. One of my sailor friends says my grinding the coffee each morning is the "Aimless alarm clock."
After the coffee is done, I sit outside with my cup and ease into the day listening to the birds and looking at the sky. It is a quiet and serene time of the day.
While Linda fixes breakfast, I head below to the engine room to do my daily engine checks and inspections and do whatever small tasks need to be done. Preventive maintenance is important on a boat because the last thing I want is for an engine to quit unexpectedly. Fortunately this has never happened to me, and I hope it never does, so I do my small part to put luck on my side.
We both do the breakfast dishes, and we're usually under way by 8 a.m. We will cruise for the next eight hours without stopping, having lunch sandwiches under way. By 4 p.m. or 5 p.m., we are happy to release the anchor and relax. If the weather is good, we'll go for a swim or just read for a couple of hours or have a beer. Or maybe all three.
Linda is a great cook, and by dinnertime we are starved and eat with gusto. If friends are aboard, dinner is always a happy social affair, and stories are told with much laughter. Everybody helps with the dishes, and if we are not too tired, we read before bedtime — early by city standards. Sleep comes easily and soundly.
Communications with the outside world have become increasingly easy on a boat. Cell phones, e-mail, Internet and a weekly mailing and receiving of regular mail, plus newspaper clippings sent by my secretary keep us as connected as I want to be.
Taken on the whole I don't think you can have a healthier or happier lifestyle than being on a boat. You may occasionally be alarmed or scared for brief periods, but chronic worry or anger does not exist. You become sensitive to nature: The wind, the water, the fish, the birds are now a part of your life. I don't suppose being on a boat will allow you to live forever — but if feels as if it will. And maybe that's all we can ask for.
Chesapeake Bay
In Cape May, N.J., we met the last of our guests, John and Ruth Cain of Canyon Lake. They arrived by bus from New York City. It was raining heavily, and the radio was going on about tornadoes being spotted.
By morning it was clear, and we set forth in the soft dawn light. We glided along the canal that connects the Atlantic with the Delaware River. As we came out into the Delaware, it looked as if we were still in the ocean. It was big, way beyond our ability to see across, and it was still rolling from the previous day's storm.
As the day wore on, it calmed down, and after several hours we moved into the still waters of the Chesapeake Bay. It was my birthday, I realized. And my secondary shock was that I was now 76 years old. Had I not been surrounded by good friends, in good health and in calm seas, I would have been depressed. But I was happy.
We celebrated my 76th birthday by swimming in the Sassafras River. Linda cooked an exquisite pork roast, we opened a prestige bottle of Champagne that John had brought for the occasion, and a golden moon rose and made light paths on the calm waters. Life was good.
Aimless had brought us across half a nation through rocks, storms, calm anchorages, lively evenings with close friends and incredible scenery to our destination, the Chesapeake Bay, the body of water on which we built our nation.
We had returned to our ancestral home.
As originally published, the caption for the photo accompanying this story contained an error
Pope, Sears, Flying Merkel, Excelsior, Henderson, Indian, Triumph, and the Harley-Davidson’s Silent Grey Fellows. These are but a few of the vintage, pre-1916 motorcycles that will be thumping their way across these great United States for the Motorcycle Cannonball endurance run in September 2010. Riders will virtually dip their tread in the salty waters of the East Coast’s Atlantic Ocean as the officials wave the green flag, then come to rest some 3,320 miles later, at the shoreline of the Pacific Ocean’s West Coast.
Cannonball’s Course Master, John Classen, has painstakingly mapped out a route for the hearty men and women motorcyclists that squarely address the particular nuances of this ride. "Our route was chosen in order to avoid having the riders enter a single interstate whenever possible. We’ll have 12 hours of daylight each day, and a goal of having every rider check in at the day’s ending point 1 hour before sunset. We don’t want anyone having to deal with the safety issues of meeting up with the local wildlife after dark, and we are expecting some break downs."
