If Kentuckians envision the Ohio River as an avenue out of town, it offers them only two directions - southeast toward Fort Knox or northeast toward Cincinnati. Somehow, I doubt many kids lull themselves to sleep with dreams of those two destinations.
Lake Michigan, though, presents a seeming infinity of options. When I was young, I'd look out over the lake and see nothing but horizon. Any time I pondered that distant line, I couldn't help but feel anything was possible.
I recall being seven or eight and sitting in the back seat of my father's sun-tanned copper 1960 Chevrolet Impala, the kind with the horizontal wings in the back and a white whoosh denoting a jet trail on either side. We'd be heading east toward the lake on a late Sunday afternoon, mainly because Ma wanted to get the hell out of the house.
To me, the lakeshore was a wild, exciting pace, picket-fenced by Gold Coast apartment towers and filled with odd things like countless silvery, staring bodies of washed-up perch and boat tie-down plugs that looked like so many Easter Island statues. Just south of Navy Pier, police marine cruisers and pleasure craft would pull up to the concrete landing as the sun began to set. Boaters would make the three-foot leap from their decks, the cops' keys and handcuffs jangling, and land with a strange mixture of awkwardness and grace. They'd go in to Rocky's, a fried fish shack, and buy a pound of fish and chips or clam strips. I looked at those men the way, I'm sure that some Portuguese kid looked upon explorers returning from the New World.
I had my own death-defying adventure some years later, in 1999, when I was a Coast Guard-licensed sea captain. I piloted a DUKW, more commonly known as a Duck, ferrying tourists along the lakeshore, regaling them with information about the lake and the city as well as the occasional funny story. I won't recount the stories here because they were only funny to visitors from Iowa or Kansas who, being on vacation, their pockets filled with pre-crash cash, already were in a giddy mood.
It was a warm and bright May Sunday afternoon. The Duck was filled with adults and kids. The city couldn't have been prettier. It was only a week and a half after a Duck had sunk in Lake Hamilton near Hot Springs, Arkansas, killing some 13 people, but no distant tragedy could dampen our good feelings. We splashed into the water at the Burnham Harbor ramp between Soldier Field and McCormick Place. The kids screamed in excitement and the adults grinned as broadly as people with pockets full of cash can.
I hadn't even begun my usual patter when suddenly what sounded like a thousand sirens began shrieking in my ears. Just as suddenly, a half-dozen roaring jets of water began gushing high out of the boat's emergency bilge pump outlets along the gunwhale. For the briefest of moments - a time that seemed to my adrenaline-amped senses to be endless minutes - I couldn't figure out what the hell was happening.
I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw some two dozens faces staring at me in terror. They wanted me, the captain, to make everything right. Gulp.
The craft seemed heavy. I tried to steer but the Duck hardly budged off the straight line. I eased off the gas but the engine still roared, automatically throttling up to run the emergency pumps. I wasn't confused any longer - we were sinking.
I floored the gas pedal and the Duck inched forward. The jets of water spewed even higher, 25 feet in the air. As long as I kept the pedal to the metal, the emergency pumps would work at full capacity. First one, then several women screamed. They were wearing flip-flops so they knew before anybody else that the floorboards were now flooded. My mind flashed to the horror in Hot Springs.
If the passengers were hoping I'd say something soothing, allay their fears or even make a joke, they would be sorely disappointed. All I could think of was how to get this half-century-old pile of shit back on land.
With the engine thundering, I swung the wheel to the left, virtually willing the tiny rudders to pitch us into a u-turn. A man reached up into the overhead compartment and pulled down a life jacket. I shouted out an order for the rest of the passengers to follow his lead. The Duck moved glacially, describing an excruciatingly broad circle in the harbor. Water began splashing over the gunwhales.
I glanced again in my rear-view and saw the entire assemblage looking at me, pleadingly. I'd never held an audience so rapt. By now, even strollers and fishermen on the shore gaped at us, knowing full well they might be witnessing something that would haunt them.
After what seemed hours, we circled around and hit the ramp hard. The Duck was so heavy with water that we got hung up on the lip of the ramp. No matter, we wouldn't go down now. I finally spoke into my microphone. "We did it," I announced, breathlessly. "We'll be okay now."
We waited for about 10 minutes so the emergency pumps could empty enough water from the hull to allow us to move again. Then we slowly climbed the ramp and pulled over next to the harbor master's house. My rapt audience cheered as if I'd just scored the winning touchdown for the Bears in nearby Soldier Field.
I jumped down from the pilot's seat, got on my hands and knees and looked under the Duck. I saw a gaping six-inch hole out of which spewed water. It took a good 45 minutes for the hull to empty out. Some of the male passengers hunkered down next to me to conduct their own examinations. They pounded me on the back and shook my hand again and again. Safely off the Duck, the moms rocked their mewling kids in the lawn.
I never loved the lakeshore so much as on that Sunday afternoon.
