I feel amazed to see a few people out walking on south pier, Muskegon
harbor. I wonder why our local Coast Guard detachment doesn't simply
shut down the walk when waves grow six to seven feet in height? The
coasties are driven by a heroic custom. They'll make sure they reach a
swimmer drowning or a boat foundering. They are passionate about
making certain all men overboard will reach the shore again. There is
a guarantee that if your lost soul can be retrieved from Lake Michigan
by the strength of the Coast Guard, it will be done. There is no
guarantee that the Coast Guard seaman who goes in after a careless
pier walker will return to shore again. And beyond totally, ever
always preparedness and team work, the seaman asks for no guarantee.
So it is simply cruel to put yourself in hazard by walking the pier on
a day like this, setting up a situation where a young American will
put his life before yours to rescue you. What is more relaxing that a walk out to the end of a pier in calm
weather. It feels like walking upon the deck of a ship, although one
never leaves shore. It places one out among the waves, but the surface
never rocks. Yet, there's always a reminder of the danger. Many of
these piers are marked with reminders of those who the lake claimed.
One is a tombstone. Another features pictures of the young men claimed
by waves. We have a few surfers trying themselves on the unsalted waves. We had
a few kite boarders throwing sail into the gale force winds, but for
the most part, they've called it quits, waiting for a nice breeze
later. In fact, through the windows of Captain Jack's dining room, I
see a pair dismantling their parabolic sails, folding them into small
packages. At least these daredevils have learned how to swim strongly. In 2009, the September blow came after the Labor Day Weekend. This
year, it has arrived early. I miss seeing the volleyball players in
the evening around the courts beside Captain Jack's. I always drove by
the lake in July and August and looked at the lake and toyed with the
idea of a swim and knew I had a few weeks to take advantage of the
possibility. I swam in the Lake more this year than any other year, at
least once a week. Today, I don't feel the promise arising from the
metal gray waters, waters that once filled with brilliance from a
generous sun. I will have to take a lesson from a friend, a writer,
who has departed for California. While in West Michigan, she began
swimming in the first weeks of April and continued well into October. Driving along the beach, the sand moves as if alive, and city crews
will be needed to clear the paramecium sand creatures crossing the
lake shore drive. As a geologist once wrote in the Muskegon Chronicle,
we could rebuild Pigeon Hill in a matter of seasons. We only need to
leave the snow fence off the beach and maybe toss our sand dredging
upon the beach. During the September blow, the power of wind to
rebuild this lost sand dune is quite apparent. The city of Holland cut
a few too many trees along the Kalamazoo River near Saugatuck, and the
Saugatuck dunes buried the town of Singapore. Adam Schuitema, who wrote the book Freshwater Boys, has claim to a
powerful metaphor, a claim he laid in the short story, "The Sand
Thieves". We come out to carry our sand away in bushels for our
sandboxes. We sleep upon it as we sunbathe. We bring it into our
houses if we fail to clean and empty our shows. And we find it hard to
enjoy a day without looking at this strange earth that moves easily
with the wind, that grows only the toughest of plants. In fact, after
staring over Pere Marquette as I wrote this journal entry, I finally
feel I have my "fill" of the sand for a weekend and I can drive inland
to that land of loam and silt.
harbor. I wonder why our local Coast Guard detachment doesn't simply
shut down the walk when waves grow six to seven feet in height? The
coasties are driven by a heroic custom. They'll make sure they reach a
swimmer drowning or a boat foundering. They are passionate about
making certain all men overboard will reach the shore again. There is
a guarantee that if your lost soul can be retrieved from Lake Michigan
by the strength of the Coast Guard, it will be done. There is no
guarantee that the Coast Guard seaman who goes in after a careless
pier walker will return to shore again. And beyond totally, ever
always preparedness and team work, the seaman asks for no guarantee.
So it is simply cruel to put yourself in hazard by walking the pier on
a day like this, setting up a situation where a young American will
put his life before yours to rescue you. What is more relaxing that a walk out to the end of a pier in calm
weather. It feels like walking upon the deck of a ship, although one
never leaves shore. It places one out among the waves, but the surface
never rocks. Yet, there's always a reminder of the danger. Many of
these piers are marked with reminders of those who the lake claimed.
One is a tombstone. Another features pictures of the young men claimed
by waves. We have a few surfers trying themselves on the unsalted waves. We had
a few kite boarders throwing sail into the gale force winds, but for
the most part, they've called it quits, waiting for a nice breeze
later. In fact, through the windows of Captain Jack's dining room, I
see a pair dismantling their parabolic sails, folding them into small
packages. At least these daredevils have learned how to swim strongly. In 2009, the September blow came after the Labor Day Weekend. This
year, it has arrived early. I miss seeing the volleyball players in
the evening around the courts beside Captain Jack's. I always drove by
the lake in July and August and looked at the lake and toyed with the
idea of a swim and knew I had a few weeks to take advantage of the
possibility. I swam in the Lake more this year than any other year, at
least once a week. Today, I don't feel the promise arising from the
metal gray waters, waters that once filled with brilliance from a
generous sun. I will have to take a lesson from a friend, a writer,
who has departed for California. While in West Michigan, she began
swimming in the first weeks of April and continued well into October. Driving along the beach, the sand moves as if alive, and city crews
will be needed to clear the paramecium sand creatures crossing the
lake shore drive. As a geologist once wrote in the Muskegon Chronicle,
we could rebuild Pigeon Hill in a matter of seasons. We only need to
leave the snow fence off the beach and maybe toss our sand dredging
upon the beach. During the September blow, the power of wind to
rebuild this lost sand dune is quite apparent. The city of Holland cut
a few too many trees along the Kalamazoo River near Saugatuck, and the
Saugatuck dunes buried the town of Singapore. Adam Schuitema, who wrote the book Freshwater Boys, has claim to a
powerful metaphor, a claim he laid in the short story, "The Sand
Thieves". We come out to carry our sand away in bushels for our
sandboxes. We sleep upon it as we sunbathe. We bring it into our
houses if we fail to clean and empty our shows. And we find it hard to
enjoy a day without looking at this strange earth that moves easily
with the wind, that grows only the toughest of plants. In fact, after
staring over Pere Marquette as I wrote this journal entry, I finally
feel I have my "fill" of the sand for a weekend and I can drive inland
to that land of loam and silt.
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