I knew the layout of the islands
clustered there in the western part of Lake Erie. From the eastern harbor of Put-in-Bay, I knew
our first stop would be Middle Bass Island, just north of where we were. That island was populated—even had a winery—Lonz
Winery—that looked like a castle, a place, I’d read, that tourists loved to
go. And drink. It sat right on the waterfront.
I was terrified that we would stop
there—guaranteeing that we’d be late getting back to Put-in-Bay, but Harriet
assured me that she’d overheard the college students say that they were just
going to look at the nearby islands,
not dock and go ashore and look around.
And drink.
I wasn’t all that interested in
Middle Bass, anyway. The island I was
really curious about was the third one we would see. Green Island, almost directly west from our
departure point, only about two miles away.
From my reading, I’d learned a few things about Green.
It was once the home to a
lighthouse—actually, more than one. The
first one, opened in 1854, burned on New Year’s Eve, 1863, in the brutal
cold. Rescuers—risking their own lives—crossed
the thin ice between the two islands, tried to fight the fire. But without any success, though people did
run in and out of the burning structure with important items—including clothing
for the bitterly cold night, perhaps as low as 25 below zero. Everyone spent a very uncomfortable night but
returned across the ice to Put-in-Bay the following morning.
Another lighthouse arose in 1865,
but in 1926 the residence was abandoned—and then vandals burned the
structure. I’d read, though, that the
shell of the old lighthouse remains I’d
read that there were caves on the island, too—and that the whole area was
heavily populated by double-crested cormorants, large dark water birds that
look almost prehistoric with a wingspan of up to four feet. Their surging cries are sharp, piercing.
I really wanted to see that
island—the ruined lighthouse, the crying birds.
But knew I wouldn’t. Like Middle
Island down on the Ohio River, Green is a wildlife refuge administered by the
U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service. No one
lives there. In fact, you can go there
only with permission. So I knew we would
approach Green but not dock there. It just
wasn’t allowed.
Harriet whispered her “plan” to me
in the dim closet. When I heard it, I
couldn’t decide which was more dim—the closet or her plan.
“We’ll hide here until we’re mostly
past Middle Bass,” she said. “Then it’ll
be too much trouble for them to take us back—and they’ll have to let us stay with them the rest of the trip.”
She sounded excited—as if she’d
just cracked some impossible code—or won some dumb quiz show on TV.
“But what if they just put us off
on the first island they come to?” I asked.
“Did you think of that?” I was
starting to move from fear toward anger.
This was without question the dumbest thing I’d ever done. And I’d done it for only one reason: Harriet.
“Oh, they wouldn’t do that,” she whispered. “They’re much too nice!”
I sulked rather than answered.
Soon, I felt the craft slowing
down, and we could hear voices from outside the closet, voices that were
speaking excitedly about the Lonz Winery.
They could apparently see other young people having a good time out on
the balcony of the winery. Some of our
fellow passengers (the legal ones!) wanted to go ashore and join the party.
But I was relieved to hear the
voice of the one Harriet was obsessed with say: “No, we don’t have time. I promised my dad we’d be back by 5.”
Sounds of groans of
disappointment—but not from me.
I felt us cruising slowly—probably
along the short Middle Bass coast—and then we began moving faster once
again. “Just a few more minutes,” said
Harriet.
That’s what I was afraid of.
No comments:
Post a Comment