Late August Lessons

We’d been home for about three weeks, and maybe — just maybe — a little bit of adventure was starting to miss us. Or perhaps it was missing Tom. Either way, we decided to leave the Thousand Islands and head toward Kingston, at the edge of Lake Ontario, determined to squeeze every last drop out of late summer.

We joked that we were going to say hello to Lake Ontario. A small part of us missed the open water — the movement, the sense that anything could happen. Tom was starting to get a little fidgety, that familiar restlessness that comes from missing time on the water. Maybe it wasn’t just the water he needed… maybe it was the calm it brings him.

With barely any wind, we motored along and simply enjoyed being out there. Calm water. Sunshine. One of those easy days where everything feels settled. T om at the helm. Me tucked in, audiobook playing, fully relaxed.

Until it wasn’t.

Tom had what can only be described as a butter-fingers moment and “threw” his phone off the back of the boat — straight into Lake Ontario.

Phone number two for the summer.

Clearly, it was time to invest in phone lanyards… or maybe just ban phones from the cockpit altogether.

We stayed out to watch the Shark 24 race, and honestly, I never get tired of it. There’s something magical about watching those saucy little boats dart across the water, heeling hard, dancing with the wind. I was glad they had just enough breeze to put on a good show.

That night, we were staying at Kingston Marina, so we followed the race boats in — or at least, we thought we were. It turned out there were quite a few coming in behind us. It was our first time at this marina, and we had no idea where we were going. We swung by the fuel dock, hoping to get our bearings and spot our slip.

That’s when things got… interesting.

The Sharks — all without motors — completely took over the tight space. Suddenly we were trying to maneuver with rocks on one side, docks on the other, boats ahead of us, and a current that clearly had its own agenda. The wind picked up fast, and those speedy little sailboats seemed to be everywhere at once, adding to the chaos.

After a while, we managed to turn ourselves around and line up for our slip. By this point in our journey, Tom was a confident dockhand. He could back stern-to like a pro, hop off, and tie us up without assistance. Tight spaces didn’t usually rattle him — all he needed was me as a second set of eyes, calmly calling distances and angles.

But Mother Nature had other plans.

Between the strengthening current and the now-howling wind, we couldn’t make it work. Five attempts. Each one ending with the boat pushed just enough off course to force us to abort. We exchanged a look — no panic, just trust — and made the call to switch to an empty slip on the other side of the finger so the current could help instead of fight us.

“Easier” is a relative term.

It took six people — men and women, muscles straining — fighting the wind to pull us close enough to safely tie off. Lines flying. Wind roaring. Strangers calling out encouragement and instructions, working together like they’d known us forever.

WOW.

Mother Nature was not playing fair.

When we were finally secured, the relief washed over us. Deep breaths. Shoulders dropping. That quiet moment when you realize you’re safe, tied off, and the hardest part of the day is behind you.

That evening, Kingston wrapped us in calm. A quiet marina. Gentle dock lines humming in the breeze. Dinner aboard. Laughter. Gratitude — for each other, for the helping hands, and for another lesson learned.

The next morning greeted us with softer winds and kinder water. The sail back to the Thousand Islands was smooth and unhurried, as if the lake was making amends. No drama. Just steady motion, sunlight on the water, and that familiar sense of peace returning.

Sailing has a way of keeping you humble. Just when you think you’ve mastered a skill, it reminds you that trust — in your partner, in yourself, and sometimes in complete strangers — is just as important as experience.

And the water, always, gets the final say.