I
can't believe the skill of Ron and Gary (or rather, I can - but I'd never
seen it in action like this). I can't imagine paddling through the water Gary
went into to get that boat, never mind snapping on a tow line and then bringing
both boats in safely to a tricky landing. I was also very, very impressed
with Nancy: she was so calm and collected. She got out of her boat, she hung
out on the rock where her feet could touch, and she swam out to my boat -
and then, with Ron's help - in to shore, without a hint of panic. Even more
impressively, she got back into that boat less than two hours later - and
went right back into the same conditions. I know what they say about getting
back on horses, but here's my character: when I was 12, I got tossed off a
horse. I didn't get back on, no sir, I declared that horses suck and stalked
off in a huff. I haven't been on one since.
Nancy's
courage notwithstanding, the wind had picked up even further, and our next
crossing was 8 km to the Chickens, with thunder rumbling in the background.
There were were, all set to go, and I realized, I didn't need to go see the
Chickens, really, my compass has a mirror. So I yelled over at Ron, "you *do*
hear the thunder?", and that was enough to get Ron to call for us to wait
it out for an hour or two - and we landed at a cottage dock near where we
were at that point. Two hours later, I was shivering and miserable, and the
wind hadn't died down, and I decided I needed dry clothes with rain gear over
top, and a hot drink. At the same time, the guys realized that we needed a
tarp, and a flurry of activity ensued. The tarp hanging job was so good that
nobody wanted to leave it, and since the water made no move to calm down,
we had to get over our aversion to trespassing and pitch our tents on the
rocks around the cottage. It was all we could do, really, or else Ron and
Gary would have had a busy afternoon rescuing five paddlers over and over
again. John asked at one point, "so, we did about six kilometers today?" and
Gord shot back "sure, three up, three down". In reality, John was close: we
had covered seven in the seven hours since we'd launched form Desjardins Point.
Oh boy.
The
cottage night was a departure from my usual routine: I did not have an afternoon
swim (I was just as wet, though). I did, however, have my afternoon beer,
together with Gord (we had each brought a beer for every day minus one of
the trip. The damn things are sold in six packs, not seven packs), and it
turned into a fun evening all the same. The fun was further enhanced by the
second half of Nancy's raisin loaf (we demolished the first half the first
night) and then some chocolate. When conditions suck, you must eat lots of
treats. And our bags were still full of treats!
But
hey, it's Georgian Bay, and on Georgian Bay, when it rains, it only does so
for a short time, and then the sun comes out. And it did: we woke up to sparkling
skies and big rollers, but none of the confused mess of the day before. I
was a bit worried about getting seasick, given my last experience with big
rollers in the Charlottes, but I was fine, and having fun (turns out, Gary
was not so fine, and the day was probably not fun for him - but he didn't
complain.
He didn't talk to any of us either, but hey, I hardly knew the guy, maybe
he's the sullen sort). We stayed out in the deep water for the most part,
and it seemed like we were 
having
a lunch break and heading for the Bustard Rocks in no time. At the Bustard
Rocks (which have three 
lighthouses,
they must be serious boat-munching rocks to warrant that), Gord and I realized
that we both knew of the same campsite in the Bustards, and we were on a mission
to spend the night there. Ron humoured us, and we took the lead to get there.
The landing was crap, the site was great, and there was swimming, followed
by the afternoon beer, followed by complaining that I was too hot (of course,
as Gary pointed out, I chose to bake my brains out after 
the first bout of swimming, but beer tastes better in the sun), more swimming,
and watching the march of an army of ants from Gary's tent to the kitchen
and back (foolish ants, clearly they did not hear Gary's suggestion that he
open his Ziploc full of 
garbage
and then, when they were in there, shut it and put it in the sun and fry them.
Apparently, vets know all sorts of ways to kill critters. Ron was much nicer,
he decided to feed them a gumdrop. They were not interested). And then there
was dining. I had already reached the part of the trip where my dinners involve
words like Lipton Sidekicks, and I had a hard time working up the enthusiasm
to go through the whole thing. Lucky for me, Gord to the rescue! (note that
I had a much easier time working up enthusiasm for 
the chocolate chip cookies Gary pulled out after I had already declared myself
too full to eat another bit of Liptons, please help me Gord!)
The sun continued… and we had an easy paddle day the next day, we were only planning to head as far as Champlain Island. Ron gave us a bearing. I noticed
we
were not following it too closely, but brushed that off with "magnetic declination"
explanations to myself. But those explanations didn't cut it after an hour:
I have been to Dead Island often enough, and I was pretty sure we were heading
straight for it - and thus due east, not southeast. I didn't entirely trust
my judgment, though, 
and I didn't want to question Ron's navigation - but then, I also didn't think
it felt right, so I surreptitiously turned my GPS on - and *then* I had the
confidence to call out to Ron. The GPS was right, we did a detour, but were
still on the Churchills in time for our morning pitstop and at Champlain Island
for lunch.