One (pre-festival) day about 6 a.m. Joe and I decided to take our small boat out onto the bay to test our new propane grill, specially designed for small craft. Suspended securely over the side it's capable of cooking up to four thick, nicely seasoned hamburgers.
As we navigated the river early that morning gulls flew overhead, screaming, while silent geese at the mouth of the river floated serenely in a tight flock, ignoring our slow passage. The sun was still just hinting, and the Grand Traverse Resort's glass walls, piercing the sky so far away, shimmered in eerie, reflected morning light.
By unspoken agreement we continued our slow, no-wake progression after clearing the river mouth, unwilling to penetrate the silence with unnecessary noise. The boat purred along happily, seeming eager to abandon her moorings for a quiet adventure.
The water was jet-black, and absolutely calm, its surface reminiscent of a slightly puckered patchwork quilt. Suddenly, well out on the bay, this smoothed to flat, inky black. And, I noticed something odd. Just a foot below the surface a distinct layer of -- something -- suddenly appeared. One instant there was nothing, the next, this presence. I exclaimed, and we stopped to more closely examine it. Algae? Hmmm ... I'd never seen such a massive, greenish-yellow, loosely connected blanket, which moved in perfect synchrony to the gently undulating water. (Later the Record-Eagle assured folks the unusual accumulation wasn't harmful, and would soon dissipate. But yuck! I wouldn't dive into it.)
All morning we stayed out there, enveloped in quiet, reading, watching the sunrise and noting spooky bubbles rising mysteriously from beneath that vast, slimy "blanket."
Voices traveled through the still air to our craft from faraway people settling down on their patios for coffee and chat. Their words were melodic mush.
An exhausted hornet found us; she landed gratefully on a seat and, after a rest, flew off refreshed. It was a huge distance for the insect to manage, which triggered a discussion about the impossible reality of bumblebee flight. Nature is amazing.
We grilled mid-morning hamburgers, then happily putt-putted home four hours later, with me out on the bow watching that fascinating algae blanket cleanly split by our prow. Well before we hit the shallower water, it abruptly vanished. Fishermen casting their lines at the river's mouth, with no inkling of what lay out there, nodded "good morning" as we crawled past.
Days later, after a rain, we biked back to "bilge" the boat, and found it vandalized. Invaders had undone the canvas, entered, thrown the radio into the river and tossed things about. Fortunately, the locked cuddy cabin prevented worse damage. An abandoned mountain bike, and beer cans tossed in the reeds nearby, had probably been part of this. The police said our neighbor's bigger boat had also been hit, more severely.
Joe, donning a wetsuit, felt around the river bottom for the solid-state radio, hoping to salvage it. Muck and limp water grass clung to his hair and body; a not-unpleasant earthy odor replaced his aftershave. As Joe toweled dry the policeman commented that night patrols had been discontinued due to budget constraints, but he'd request random nighttime boat checks. Small comfort for river berth folks ...
Later, at home, upset and depressed, I wandered into the secret garden to find three children admiring water drops sparkling atop the Lady's Mantle. One youngster chuckled. "Wow! If these 'diamonds' were real I could make lots of people happy ... like my mom, f'instance ..."
Knowing his mother already had her diamond, I laughed, much cheered.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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