It was a dark and stormy night... and there was nary a craft in sight on the depths of the Detroit River. The winds were blowing like Lewinsky, directly up the river. The three experienced crewmen aboard the Pearson Ensign #1192 classic yacht, "SWORDFISH" were braving the elements, standing hard and spitting into the eye of the goddess of wind and water.

The water temperature was tepid as day old tea in old Aunt Louise's fine china after a bridge game that turned into a elderberry brandy drinking contest. As the warm winds picked up, supercharging air into a vortex of the venturi of the Detroit Straights, so did the heights of the waves as they pounded against the bows of the "'FISH" breaking on the foredeck sending water into the cockpit.

Trimming the sails with all of their might, the two forward crewmen kept an eye on the sails, and eye on the river for the appearance of a silent ore carrying floating dinosaur, an eye on the depth sounder for the water at the edge of the channel is as shallow as Jessica Simpson, an eye on the darkening sky's and an eye on each other, for one false move and a mate could go overboard into the inky darkness, possibly never to be seen again.

If a crewman were inattentive to the sail trim, a tear could appear and destroy the #2 Genoa that "SWORDFISH" was flying. With a reef in the main, that resembled a baggy pair of rumpled oversized trousers around the ankles of a man on the loo, control of the helm was handled by the 3rd crewman who sailed an erratic course as if he were 2 days away from checking into the Betty Ford Clinic, even though he was as sober as a vicar. With the gusting winds shifting more than a used car salesman closing a deal, the course down the River D must have looked like the GPS track of a woman searching for bargains at a Nordstrom's after Christmas sale.

At one point one of the crewmen mentioned that a channel buoy light just changed from green to amber, and now to red, when it was noticed that the sounder showed that the water under the keel was less than the boat drew, and the color shifting buoy light was in fact, a stop light on the immediate Windsor shore. An urgent call was made to tack to Starboard, and all hands went to work setting the sailboat on a close hauled heading, pounding into 5 foot rolling waves with bubbling froth blown from each crest. Although the winds were howling, the craggy, cagey crew never made any mistakes, pushing "SWORDFISH" forward through the water like a pumpkin seed spit into space.

After enough time to experience the blasting forces of nature, the forward trimmer called for a vote; "Shall we turn and run downwind or shall we beat to wind?" The crew unanimously agreed to tack to the new heading, riding the stern mounting waves, running along like a surfer hanging 10 on the north shore of a beach in Hawaii. Fortunately the wind and the course agreed so that the crew set the sails 'wing and wing' and were finally able to sit and enjoy the ride, as much as one can relax with toenails digging into boot soles and sphincter muscles contracting on every snap of the Genoa after a 35 knot gust fills the canvas after a lull.

As the Belle Isle Coast Guard Station glided by, the crew wondered if the coasties were watching the petite sailing vessel going down wind and up river, wondering if there were more courage than sense aboard. Frankly, there were more than enough of both.

The lights of the city against the backdrop of the dark night are more beautiful than the crown jewels on purple velvet in the Tower of London. From the glowing necklace of the Ambassador Bridge, the towering mountain range of lights that is downtown, the black night forest of Belle Isle punctuated by glimpses of headlights as cruisers look for whatever they seek at night on Detroit's island park refuge, the aroma of cooking barley malt in the process of whiskey distilling permeating the air coming from Hiram Walker's world renown fortress of spirits, to the blinking and nodding channel markers showing the way back to safe harbor, all leaving their indelible stamp on each of the crew's memories that will be recalled over and again growing in grandeur with each telling.

The idea of sailing on such a night may not appeal to all or even to most, but to those that do decide to escape their lives ashore, to experience life to it's fullest, sailing in the evening in the fall of the year on one of Michigan's greatest lakes is worth the effort and adrenaline.

Those that sail these cool autumnal twilight cruises experience the best boating the region has to offer. Why wait until next year when you can sail on an blustery evening and have your own stories to tell deep into the shroud of the cold winter ahead. Where the only sailing other than iceboating is done in your head while you slave away at work, remembering the one October evening...

Capt. Darkened Stormy