Another cruise aboard 'Truant'

   The following is an account by F.C. Walter of a cruise on Lake Michigan aboard “Truant,” my grandfather’s 50-foot yawl. My grandfather, Leonard P. Matson (“Pawp”) is mentioned in the account. By coincidence, a gruesome detail is shared with a similar account of another cruise, written by my grandfather -- a body found floating in Lake Michigan at the end of the cruise.

TRUANT’S CRUISE -- 1944

F.C. Walter

FOREWARD

There follows the story of the cruise of the “Truant.” If it sounds like scores of stories you have read in “Rudder” and “Yachting,” please send your complaints to them; we can’t change our style.

In that nothing is so aggravating s to read a story about going places and not having the slightest idea of where these places are, a beautifully drawn and meticulously labeled chart of Lake Michigan is here attached.

THE STORY

The cruise started in midwinter of 1943-44. The dirty work on arrangements of the charter was carried on by Fred Walter. No detail was overlooked and no expense (by Formica Company) was spared. A preliminary session of the proposed crew was held at the Wyoming Country Club. Drinks and food being overabundant, it was found necessary to hold a second session to finish up details and a few leftover drinks, this by all courtesy of Bob Short. In order that preparations be completed to the Nth degree, the navigators had a practice meeting and located the Schaeffer house roughly in Ohio. Blanket and duffle were sent ahead (by courtesy of W.A. Barrows, Porcelain Enamel Co.).

Like Christmas morn to a 10-year-old came Saturday, July 29th to the crew. 8:15 found the gang on the “Riley,” Chicago-bound (tickets courtesy of Siekmann’s and the LeBlond Co.).

Eight good men were on hand with only one slight mishap. The carefully purchased rain suits of Cochrane and Short were left in a taxi. John Schaeffer, wife and three kids were found two cars ahead after we got under way.

We were met in Chicago at 12:30 by Stew Walsh and whisked to the Columbia Yacht Club. After much stretching of necks and pointing of fingers, the yacht, “Truant,” was finally identified at the far end of the basin, a good one-half mile away. Groceries were collected, duffles rounded up and clothes changed. By this time, “Truant” was brought to berth and all hands met Holmes and Matson [my grandfather, “Pawp”], the co-owners. By 2 p.m. sails were uncovered, motor explained, deviation chart gone over, gas taken on and by 3 p.m. all was ready. The original plans called for Walsh to have sails up, motor idling and hatchet in hand when we arrived. This didn’t quite work out -- but we still made a pretty fast start.

The crew to start, was to have nine brave men. 1. Handsome Jack Siekman. 2. Honest Hal Siekmann (purser). 3. Frankie the Fef Pfefferle. 4. Fearless Freddie Walter. 5. Boisterous Bob Short. 6. Indian John Schaeffer. 7. Jovial Jack Cochrane. 8. Primeval Austy Barrows. 9. Old Sea Dog Stew Walsh.

Special mention should be made of Stew Walsh, skipper, through his vast experience in things nautical. Cochrane, as slum burner and photographer through his vast experience in things culinary and photographic. Short and Schaeffer, as navigators, through their vast experience in things astronomical. The rest, as crew, through their vast experience period.

So-o-o, sail was raised at 3 p.m. and Matson rode out a couple miles to see that all went well. Holmes dogged after us in his 22 meter racing job and took off Matson - so abandoning us to our fate.

Regarding the “Truant,” she stacked up as follows: length 49 feet 11½ inches plus an eight-foot bowsprit and five-foot bumpkin, 12-foot beam and reported 7½ feet draft yawl rig; mainmast 72 feet high, working sail area over 1,400 square feet; auxiliary Ford V-8 conversion; sleeps six; 40 years old; was a centerboarder but rebuilt five years ago and changed to keel; very squat in the water and quite stiff; steered by a wheel and balanced perfectly under main, mizzen and Genoa.

The first night out was uneventful, much the same as last year in the “Serenade.” Fitful winds and the lights of Chicago and Michigan City in the horizon most of the night.

The second day brought light winds and in due time the east coast was picked up. The navigators worked like fury. John came up at 3 p.m. for a breath of air and a new pencil. A city was sighted and identified by the navigators as South Haven, but as St. Joseph by those who had been there before. On we sailed north and as night fell we picked up Grand Haven according to the navigators and Muskegon according to those who had been there before.

A restless night was spent by your reporter. The moderate winds freshened and the Genny (Genoa) was still carried. From on deck could be heard murmurs of the crew: “Down to the rail” - “Think that Genny will take it?” - “How about rousting out the crew to wrestle in the Genny?” The soft hum of the speedometer generators was mounting to a higher tone. But finally the wind eased, died, so at 5:30 I got up and took a swim, joined by Fred, who just didn’t feel like sleeping at all during the night and Jack Cochrane, who got up to see what went on anyhow.

Monday morning brought good sailing on a good boat with good food and a good crew. certain of the crew had spent some hours in a horizontal position fighting off old “mal de mere.” Now they were forgetting it all. Consolations and regrets were being offered to Bob Short. He must be left at the next port.

Monday afternoon we entered White Lake and tied up at the White Lake Yacht Club. The daily inland-scow race was in progress. Some of the old salts were troubled with sea legs and all indulged in a famous White Lake Yacht Club malted milk to ward off scurvy after 48 long hours at sea. Dinner honors were awarded to the Michalinda Inn in fancy style just to ease the strain on the galley slave. After toasts and farewells to Bob Short, we pushed off again at dusk.

The Monday night run was uneventful and in the early morning we spotted the hard-to-spot entrance to Portage Lake. We tied up at the picturesque wharf at Onekema. With apologies to Siekmann’s, we must state for the record that this was the deadest town in Michigan.

In mid-afternoon we pushed off into the big lake again. There followed a most remarkable night of sailing. The sea was dead calm. Hopes of making Mackinac had been abandoned as too far and course was set northwest to lay Porte des Morte. A very light wind held from the southwest and the moon was full.

In spite of practically no wind and a dead calm sea, “Truant” laid over to a 10-degree heel and sailed all night at three to four knots. Those below put on equal strain on all parts and slept like logs. Those on deck lounged and drank in the night while “Truant” sailed on and on. Yes, “Truant” would sail herself. A little trimming and fiddling - the jigger eased a bit and the wheel set on just the right spot and “Truant” would sail by the hour, heading five degrees high to luff the mizzen, then falling off five degrees for the mizzen to fill.

Yes, quite a boat was “Truant.” Everyone on Lake Michigan knew her, had sailed her, or had owned her. By now, we had pawed and hauled our way through the sail locker and after discarding several torn and mildewed rags ended up with a mainsail, a working jib, a mizzen, a Genoa, a Wallooner, a mizzen staysail, a fore-topsail, a storm trysail, a storm jib. This assortment required a crew of four to handle -- there were no winches to help.

Going about with the Genny was quite a chore. A man was stationed on the bowsprit to haul the sail between the head stay and the jib stay. The Genoa was about 25 feet on the foot and 65 feet on the luff. To haul this canvas ahead as we went about took some fighting. In fact, the maneuver was seldom completely successful. Trouble was, the boat would come about before the Genny could be hauled forward of the spreaders. Then it would back-wind and stay hung on the spreader. The boat would come to a stop, the rudder useless and she would lay in a “hove-to” position until some other sail was adjusted to break up this beautiful by annoying balance. Many swear words on this situation.

Old “Truant” could take it, too. On the run from White to Portage Lake, I stuck my head up the companionway to see how was things that dark night and almost got it chopped off in an accidental jibe in a nice stiff breeze. A six-inch boom 22 feet long swishing inches over your head in a dark night with no clothes on is some fun. Yes, I was sleeping a la nude and spent 15 minutes on deck in that state helping straighten up this jibing business. And to this day, Fred claims he just made a couple of fast tacks. incidentally, several nights called for two pair of pants, wool shirts, sweaters or rain suits, just to keep warm at the wheel.

But getting back to business: After that beautiful sail of Tuesday night, we picked up land shortly after sunrise. This was a little sooner than expected for the course set, but in all quite satisfactory, especially when a large white lighthouse was identified as Sturgeon Bay Light. Schaeffer, as navigator, was warmly congratulated on his good work, but retired below muttering that the course held should have taken us some 15 miles north of Sturgeon Bay. Oh well, what the hell! We would just go around Door Peninsula right to left instead of left to right. But there did seem to be something not quite right with our navigation.

The Sturgeon Bay Canal had to be negotiated under power. Afternoon was spent in the bustling little town, Sturgeon Bay. John had trouble getting food. Most restaurants were marked, “No Indians Served.” His suntan and red plaid shirt did it. A cherry canning factory at the wharf was in full swing and hands full of the famous Door County cherries were enjoyed by the crew.

Off again at 7 p.m. Always we started at night. Somewhere back the line we got on this night time schedule and just couldn’t seem to get off. Captan Stew flourished the fish horn and blew two feeble blasts for the two drawbridges at Sturgeon Bay. They majestically swung open without a minute’s hesitation. What a thrill! Oh, Oh! A freighter coming the other way. We got through the first bridge; freighter toots whistle frantically and keeps on acomin’. Sailboats have the right of way -- no, that’s not right. We are under power. Motor quits. Doggone freighter keeps coming -- blows whistle like hell; we’re dead ducks. Nope. There she starts; now let’s get the hell out of here -- made it! Beads of perspiration. God! that freighter is big and look at her go!!! Great visions of kindling wood - conversation zero - feeling of humility.

The war is on at the Sturgeon Bay Ship Building Company. Arc welders and lights of the yards made a pretty picture in the dusk. We eased by and into the two-mile wide bay and tossed out the hook. To heck with this night sailing - temporarily.

Off at dawn Thursday for Marinette and Menominee, 18 miles across the bay. A gentle breeze meant a morning of loafing. I climbed the mast to the spreaders for pictures and excitement. Cameras were hauled up. Land was quite close. Shoal water ahead! “Bear north,” I yelled. “We must tack,” yelled Fred at the helm. “Well tack,” said I, which we did. Now with the Genny to starboard, I got a different view. What a view! We were practically on top of an island. “Good Gosh! You can see the bottom,” said Fred. “See it, hell. We’re on it. We are standing still.” “Toss the lead.” “One fathom scant.” “What? Five and a half feet.” “She draws seven and a half!” “Well, we proved different, unless we are two feet in the mud, but that’s beside the point. We are agound.” “Start the motor.” “That’s no good; drop the sails.” “Wait a minute; let’s thnk this one out.” “You know what Chapman says. You end up with the anchor anyway; -- you might as well start with it.” So we did, and much to our surprise, we pulled her around and off by hand, with some slight help by the motor and none by the anchor windlass.

Well, that was the payoff. That compass deviation chart so graciously supplied by the owner must be cockeyed. After figuring we are five miles south of course, we decided to check compass at Marinette. This was done by our indubitable navigator, Mr. Schaeffer, and to our surprise, dismay, rage and relief (on the part of John), we find the compass ranging up to 43 degrees off a certain headings instead of the mere 20 degrees claimed by the owner. Later we found some compensating magnets in the binnacle which, when removed, seemed to eliminate most of the error. But we didn’t want to recheck deviation; so let them lay.

Marinette in the afternoon offered a swell yacht basin and a chilly swim. Stew insisted on getting a steak dinner miles out of town, and upon arriving at the joint, we found we couldn’t eat for two hours, so came back to town, ate and again were ready to sail at about 7 p.m. Warnings of the terrors of Strawberry Shoals by a yachtsman with a beautiful 80-foot racing sloop prompted us to set a course north of Chambers Island to get to Horseshoe Island where we wished to spend the night (what would be left of it). I almost made the fatal error of stepping on the deck of this fellow yachtsman’s craft with my gym shoes on. This intention of mine brought violet yells and an explanation of four hours work scrubbing those decks and bleaching them with Oxydol! The owner’s dog was on the deck and I went away muttering “cranky old so and so” under my breath.

The compass now checked OK apparently, but we still were not quite sure; anxious moments were spent after rounding Chambers north buoy. We even tacked once, then tacked back in a few minutes; luckily, for later we picked Strawberry Shoals out in the dark just where we might have been.

We felt our way under sail into Horseshoe Island Bay, as sweet an anchorage as there is anywhere. At 1 a.m. we turned in for the night, after being hailed by the “Samara” of Michigan City.

Following morning brought exploration of Horseshoe Island and picture taking. A brisk wind made picture work difficult. We logged 7½-8 knots under jib and jigger. Finally we put up a reefed main and sailed back and forth while Jack, on shore, furiously snapped four or five cameras. We worked hard, too.

Friday afternoon was spent in Nicolet Bay. Jack Cochrane, through the great brotherhood of Boy Scouts, lined up a ride around Peninsula State Park. To Jack and me, this was old familiar territory. Eagle Bluff Tower, the ski slide, Svens Tower; the swimming in Nicolet Bay was the best of the trip. The underbody of “Truant” was examined. Five and one half feet was the correct draft. She also had a steel rudder that dropped lower than the keel.

Heavy winds of the morning died in the afternoon and the two-mile sail to Ephraim turned to power. Ephraim is a remarkable little town -- full of life, clean, dry (not even beer). It is on a beautiful bay and has a neat small yacht club with racing often. We decided to lay over for the night. Indian John left to look up an old squaw friend and eliminate the drought at Sister Bay, four miles north. We sadly bid him farewell, not expecting to see him for some time, and afraid we would not want to see him when he came. The evening was spent at the soda joint, listening to Mexican Cherry Pickers sing, and swapping yarns with the owner of “Samara.”

As we turned in, John returned, in a merry mood, quoting Shakespeare by the yard and insisted in trying on Frank’s false teeth.

Saturday, we were off in the morning with cloudy skies and barometer falling. Stew was worried about this. We did some bad sailing trying to avoid Sister Reefs. At 12 we were just off Chambers Island. Quite frankly, we loused things up in setting our course. In a burst of indecision, we edged up to Sister Shoals, not knowing whether to leave them to port or starboard. The wind was hauling clockwise to add to the confusion, and shortly made up into a thunderstorm. The sky darkened menacingly and working canvas was down, storm sail set, and oilskins tried out. Jack Cochrane took an imposing set of photos of the crew in true Scott’s Emulsin regalia.

The storm hit with reasonable wind and much rain. But it was over shortly, sail was raised and we worked north. The usual calm following storm failed to materialize and we sailed north past Porte des Morte.

Someone dug up a history of Porte des Morte (Door of Death) and found that it was so named after a massacre of the Sac Indians, and not as we had supposed because of the hazardous sailing conditions of the channel.

By late afternoon the wind was holding strong from northwest and a very heavy sea was making up. Any further work to north would be rough going. Fayette-Little Bay de Noc, or even north of Washington Isle looked far away in face of this sea running rail under and afraid something might let go.

So, we about-faced and under jib and jigger ran through Porte des Morte, our main destination, Bailey’s Harbor. We spotted one range light at 11 p.m. and sailed south an ungodly time, trying to find the other range. Finally it was picked up and we down sail to power directly into wind. By the time the sail was down, we lost the second range. Bucking with the heavy wind under full power, we could only make one and a half to two knots toward the only light in sight. Cutting back north, after a half hour, we finally picked up a bell buoy and the second light again. At 1 p.m. we dropped the hook and turned in, worn to a frazzle.

Sunday morning, we went ashore for supplies and then were off to Manitowec. Heavy seas were still running, but a dead calm from the northeast set in and for several hours in the afternoon the wind blew straight up and down. Sails slatted from side to side, the mast swept back and forth, and the heat was bad. Finally sails were lowered to save the boat. For dinner the cook said, “Anybody as wants any, go get it.” Three of the crew responded and the rest turned a shade greener.

Manitowec finally came along about 11 p.m. as usual. And as usual, we had one hell of a time with the lights, traffic lights, breakwater and channel range lights. And this time, to add to the confusion, the flashing white light listed in the light list turned out to be flashing red.

Monday was started unexpectedly early by a yell from Stew at 7 a.m., “Here comes a sub.” Surenuff, through the drawbridge and within spitting distance came sliding the biggest damn sub you ever saw. It was swarming with Navy and heading to the lake for test dives.

The morning was spent looking over the shipyards where six more subs were in various states of construction. A beautiful steel-hulled auxiliary by Burger was admired. A Gloucester schooner of about 80 feet was examined with interest. It was being lined up by some rich gent. It had several staterooms, forecastle, large galley, head with bathtub, and steam heat. Too bad about the dry rot apparent in several spots.

John Schaeffer was to leave here and copious tears were shed, partly for John and partly for ourselves, as we now theoretically were a ship without a navigator.

We are out in lake at noon again and in contrast to the previous day, we now sailed downwind through heavy pulling seas. This condition held through the night and it was very difficult steering to keep from yawing. This resulted in tacking downwind and at the end of a trick, the helmsman was a nervous wreck from trying to avoid a jibe. A preventer was rigged of ¾” line and once the boat yawed so badly that we jibed and the line parted like string. No damage done. Milwaukee Harbor was entered Tuesday morning. Here Stew Walsh, being home, decided to stay there and finish cutting the grass. We tied up at the Milwaukee Yacht Club and recalled the swell dinner we had had here last year. During last winter, the clubhouse had burned to the ground and now the place looked sad indeed.

Tuesday afternoon the wind was from the south, just where we wanted to go. So, not having anything else to do, we sailed 10 miles out into the lake and 10 miles back again, ending up four miles south at the South Shore Yacht Club of Milwaukee. Here we loafed, swam, met another former sailor of the good ship “Truant” and turned in early so we could get off to an early start Wednesday morning.

Came the dawn Wednesday morning and the whole crew was sawing wood like hell -- all but yours truly. Rising to the call of duty at 7 a.m., I painfully arose, started the engine and untied us. Of course, no one could sleep with that engine going, so the crew crawled up into the companionway and gave advice on how to operate a 50-foot yawl singlehanded. For my violent efforts, I was now to be known as “Slave-Driver Barrows.”

All day and all night and all day we beat into the wind. From dead reckoning, we were still some way from Chicago and as acting navigator, I predicted Chicago by 12 to 1 Thursday night. Navigation being somewhere in error as usual, we fetched Chicago waterfront about 5 p.m. The wind had made up quite strong and we tried jib and jigger. This combination was not worth a hoot on the wind and we finally downed sail and started to motor in.

Just about then we spotted what appeared to be the gruesome sight of a body of a man floating in the water. After circling around a few minutes, our stomachs settled back to normal. should we go on and report to the Coast Guard? Tie an anchor on him! Hoist him aboard! Put him in the dinghy! Forget it! We finally threw a couple lines around the poor guy and hauled him up out of the water and headed for the Coast Guard Station, feeling rather silly.

Jack Cochrane semaphored the Coast Guard the sad news and they met us with stretcher and took over, which was well with us. No one had suggested turning the fella over so we could see what he looked like. He was quite obviously dead a week or more.

Thursday night saw the joyful return to ties of home. Vi Walter, Helen S., Ailene Pfefferle, and Jean, Bill and Gail Barrows had come to Chicago. Family obligations prevented your author from participating in the doings shore, but no one ended up in jail.

Friday afternoon, sail into the lake with the women aboard ended the cruise. All that was left was a fried chicken dinner at the Wyoming Golf Club, reminiscing and movies and pictures by Cochrane, Pfefferle and Barrows.

Oh, yes! One other little matter: The purser submitted his report and for the record it came to $5.50 per day per man. This added up to $66.60 for those who took the complete deluxe tour, plus $13.54 rail fare. Who can offer a better vacation for this money!