This is a blog story I wrote shortly after graduating college. It was originally uploaded here, but must have been deleted at some point. Thus, I have reupoladed it for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.

In spite of the pale moonlight drifting down from above, it was difficult to discern the positively violent waves rumbling to shore on Lake Superior. Their only giveaway; the frothy white caps that they dawn as they roll shallower and shallower before collapsing on the soggy beach adorned with tiny clear puddles and gnarled rocks carved by the runoff back into the lake. As swells heave and crash together, white spray erupts from their bodies, mimicking the violent spittle of a screaming man. Yet, regardless of their near invisibility and total brutality, these forces of nature proved comforting from a distance. Each night as Jack and I faded off into darkness, into our dreams, the waves cradled and soothed our minds to sleep. A bit like a thunderstorm on the horizon or the white noise of raindrops pelting a roof, these tides gave me solace. It was predictable in a time of uncertainty. It was dependable. Not everyone finds such easement in the waters we were camped out next to, though. For many, it was the last thing they struggled to even see. 

As we rested our weary behinds next to the crackling fire we had fashioned, Jack and I reflected on the two sense-stimulating, awe-inducing, long-hiked days we had endured just about as far north as you can get in the lower forty-eight. The small fire wasn’t much but damn, was it nice. Looking around, the luscious reds, oranges, and yellows above us would tell you clearly it was Autumn. We were settling in for our last night of solitude after camping in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with our nightly ritual of Jack singing “Bagels roasting on an open fire” as we attempted to toast our sliced, plain bread over the flame with a stick. During the few nights we were there, that one joke had made the journey all good inside jokes go through—from funny to not funny, and back to funny again. Jack and I, despite spending two days together in his Subaru Crosstrek and another two days hot-footing our way along the paths of Pictured Rock National Shoreline, hadn’t done much in the way of chatting. There comes a time in any car ride when you run out of things to say to someone. And after a while, pointing out funny roadside oddities and other interesting sights outside the windows gets pretty old. In the midst of exploring the thick forest, we were usually out of breath, catching our breath, or too caught up in the natural beauty of where we were to speak. That night though, we finally had some time. 

“What an incredible place,” Jack let out with a sigh, amazement in his voice. 

I exhaled, stretching widely, “I know, man. It’s insane up here,”

“Too bad we have to go back,” I continued, accompanied by the sharp crack of the beer Jack opened. 

Jack reached into his hiking bag and pulled out another beer, ice-cold from the crisp air around us. I leaned forward and reached out for the tasty morsel, and when it hit my palm, it gave me a shiver. 

“You know,” Jack said, smirking, “We can’t come all the way up here and not jump in.”

My lips got tight, and my face tense. “I mean, I guess you’re right. How many people do we know that got to jump into a Great Lake?” 

I peered into the flames like a medium in a trance, wondering what brought me here to this voluminous land of tall, dark pines, illustrious birch trees dripping with brilliant fall colors, and seemingly endless cold waters. The fire reminded me of a truth not far removed from my mind: The chaos of the last year. 

Following months of lockdowns and restrictions brought on by the worldwide pandemic, we had all daringly made our way back to campus, cautious of every cleared throat and dry cough let out by our peers. It didn’t take long before my closest friend Jack, and I started drawing up plans to make our audacious escape into the unknown for Fall Break. Although unspoken, I could tell by a quick glance at his eyes that Jack and I had the same reason for wanting to journey into the land of the Yoopers. There aren’t many folks up there. We planned the trip with a few other close friends, but sure enough, one by one, they all canceled and went home for break. This meant the day of our maiden voyage into the cold north, Jack and I would be running it solo. Or… as a duo, rather. I thought this meant we would be able to pack more, but when the time came, we rushed around our mangled dorm room, looking under our unkempt beds and in our tangled drawers to find the fewest essentials we needed. 

Our living space, from an outside observer would appear to have been pillaged by burglarious raiders. The heaps of rank, worn clothes, which we lovingly christened “Mount Dern” spilled out into the middle of the room. Our desks were cluttered with developed pictures taken on a disposable camera, bottlecaps banished from their homes atop now empty beer containers, and homework assignments who had returned from their scrupulous examinations by professors. The bathroom was a complete mess with unwashed cups, razors, and hair creams. Oddly enough, no toilet paper could be found within, though. We packed the last roll. 

Knowing what I do now, it would have been wise to start packing the night before or to have even thought about what we should bring, for that matter. Instead, we haphazardly tossed changes of clothes, toiletries, and pillows into the car. 

‘Do we have a tent?” I asked, looking around the room.

“Nope,” Jack replied matter of factly.

“What about sleeping bags?” I shot back.

“I do, do you?” Jack said, digging under his bed for something. 

“Nope,” I replied quickly as I looked at Jack. I knew he knew I didn’t. 

“That’s ok, we’ll stop on the way and get a tent and a bag.” He said, pulling out some camping supplies. “We should probably pick up some food and water on the way too.” 

“And beer,” I chuckled. 

“Oh, you know what we should really do,” Jack hollered as he walked into the bathroom, “jump into Lake Superior!”

As I scanned the room for anything I hadn’t packed yet, I thought about it. I mean, it would be a really cool story to bring back and tell my buddies. We had discussed the notion in passing before, but never with any real intention behind it. It seemed we both began to seriously consider braving the frigid waters at that moment. 

“Why not?” I yelled back, “It’ll be a cool story at the very least!”

Our last few bits of necessary gear piled in our arms, we cautiously shuffled down the short flight of stairs leading to the parking lot, making sure to be careful not to drop anything from the precarious stacks we held. After we had ensured the gear was secure in Jack’s backseat, we exchanged a glance that indicated we were ready to leave. Now, the departure from our comfortable townhouse and well-traversed campus probably shouldn’t have felt like we were setting off on a covered wagon to discover what awaited beyond yonder hillside, but for me, it did. I longed for the quiet call of nature, and by God, we were on our way. We pulled out of that campus like a bat out of Hell. 

Draped in the rim lighting of the campfire, our figures casted elongated shadows out into the inky nighttime darkness. There was a familiar sensation of nervousness rising up within me, but with each swig of the frosty beverage sliding its way down my throat and into my stomach, it replaced the fear in my gut with confidence which permeated into every molecule of my essence. And with another beer, my conviction grew even more. 

“Ok, let’s do it,” I said, “but we need a plan.” 

So, as we sat on the hard logs arranged around the fire, finishing our drinks, we began to plan out the order of events as best we could. As we saw it, we wanted every step of the way outlined so we could be as safe and efficient as possible. Even just by looking at the water expanding into the distance like the infinity of outer space, Jack and I knew a plan was necessary because we knew it would be cold. We had no idea the extent to which the bone-chilling waters that raged 50 yards to our north would numb us to our core, though. In fact, it was probably a more hazardous task than either of us suspected. 

You see, Lake Superior, the northernmost Great Lake, holds 10% of the world’s coldest freshwater. With 31,700 square miles of 40° Fahrenheit water (on average), the lake is truly a spectacle to behold, but a dangerous one nonetheless. At the time of year Jack and I had ambitiously agreed to delve into its icy clutches, mid-October, the water was likely a bit warmer, probably around 45°. But even so, that’s still a polar plunge. Our campsite was nestled in the soggy leaf carpeted forest a short distance west of the aptly named Great Lakes Graveyard, something we were unaware of at the time. This ghoulish name comes from a sensible place considering more ships have been lost to the lake’s depths in that area than any other of the Great Lakes. Because of this, the frigid swells of Superior have caused the deaths of ten thousand sailors alone. To further illustrate the danger we were unknowingly facing, 2020 saw a grim ten-year record high of drownings in the lake, which claimed over fifty souls in those twelve months. In fact, the risk of drowning in Superior is still so concerning that the US Coast Guard has put out warnings to deter would-be swimmers from taking a dip. Riptides and large waves latch onto oblivious beachgoers and drag them out into the freezing open water. At the temperatures felt in Superior, exhaustion sets in after only eight minutes. If you’re lucky, you’ll drown from that before hypothermia takes hold. 

The singer Gordon Lightfoot sang “Superior, they said, never gives up her dead”. And while this poetic phrase may seem melodramatic, it has its roots planted firmly in reality. The shockingly cold water inhibits bacteria from growing, so drowned bodies do not bloat from gas or float to the surface. Instead, they are typically found buried in the sediment below the ripping waves. 

The tragedy of the Edmund Fitzgerald is a stark reminder of what can happen within the confines of the lake’s waters. Again, like Lightfoot sang, “as the big freighters go, it was bigger than most, with a crew and good captain well seasoned.” This was all true. The Mighty Fitz was built with a 729-foot long hull and was helmed by captain Ernest M. McSorley. The 63-year-old was highly respected by his crew, who regarded him as a seafaring master, but none of that mattered in the eyes of the lake. As she embarked on her ill-fated final voyage in 1975, the SS Edmund Fitzgerald left Superior, Wisconsin, for a steel mill on Zug Island near Detroit with a cargo load of 26,116 tons. Several hours later, around 5:30 p.m., the Edmund Fitzgerald was joined by another freighter, the Arthur M. Anderson, under the command of Captain Bernie Cooper. The weather forecast was rather typical for November in the region, indicating a storm would pass south of Lake Superior by seven in the morning. The forecast was gravely mistaken, though, and the storm passed directly over the entire area of the lake, requiring meteorologists to issue gale warnings for all ships in the soon-to-be treacherous waters. The oncoming storm forced the two ships to change course and head north to find shelter near the shores of Ontario. Instead, a winter storm lashing out gusts of 60 mph winds and waves ten feet high greeted them on their way to safety. During the early hours of the morning, another captain in the vicinity, Captain Paquette of the Wilfred Sykes, overheard McSorley radio that he had slowed the ship due to rough seas. 

“We’re going to try for some lee from Isle Royale. You’re walking away from us anyway … I can’t stay with you.” McSorley’s voice crackled over the radio at 2 a.m.

Turning downwind, the Edmund Fitzgerald attempted to find any kind of safety available. Paquette was shocked. McSorley was not known as the type to turn in the face of danger or head back from his directed course.

At that point, conditions appeared manageable for nearly 12 hours, but by 2:45 p.m., heavy winds intensified, and snow enfolded them from above, reducing visibility and causing the Anderson to lose sight of the Fitz. McSorley radioed Captain Cooper shortly thereafter to report that the ship had begun to take on water and had started listing strongly to one side. McSorley was then heard telling another captain in the area, Woodard, to not allow anyone on deck. He had lost both radars and was experiencing heavy seas cascading over the deck, saying it was one of the most severe storms he had ever endured. During the fateful evening of November 10, the ships in Lake Superior encountered bursts of wind reaching 86 mph and rogue waves exceeding 35 feet ramming the sides of the vessels. 

It was approximately 7:10 p.m. when the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald spoke their last words. 

“We are holding our own.” 

That night, all 29 crew members perished in the icy waters. No one ever saw them again, dead or alive. 

Where knowledge ends, speculation begins. I wish I had more insights into the final moments of the occupants of the Mighty Fitz, but there are too many unknowns. Perhaps that is why this gruesome story has remained in the public’s mind for so long. We don’t know why the ship sank, and we can never know what happened to the crew. It seems that most of the theories surrounding the ship’s tragic plunge focus on what went wrong. “How did the ship go down?” so many seem to wonder. I have no real urge to understand that aspect of the freighter’s destiny. I’ve always been far more fascinated in the tales of the sailors. What were their final moments on board the ship like? Were they scared? Did they know what fate would befall them? Why didn’t they send out a distress call? I wish we knew. 

It was about 7:30 pm. With only our towels wrapped around our waists, Jack and I gingerly crept northward. Our campsite was well-lit, and my eyes became well accustomed to it that night. The Subaru’s headlights and the campfire made sure of that. This made it difficult to see what was out in front of me, though. I felt as though the thicket, felled trees, and shrubs were blotchy strangers who invited me to stumble over them. But as we got further from the comfort of the warmly colored lights behind us, the darkness engulfed me and my eyes adjusted. Jack’s eyes adjusted quicker, though. 

“Watch out for that log!” he snapped at me in a whisper.

“Shit, thanks,” I whispered back, taking a big step over the beaver stricken log, “Nearly tripped.” 

Making our way to the edge of the timber with my vision updated for the dark, I thought through the plan Jack and I had made. Like I said, we knew it was going to be cold, so we made sure to have a strategy that got us in, out, and warm as quickly as possible. It was a reasonably simple six-step procedure. Step one; turn Jack’s car on and blast the musty heat. Step two; get naked and put our towels on. Step three; walk down to the beach. Step four; drop trou and run headfirst into the water (Literally. We agreed to drop our heads under). Step five; get back to the beach and put our towels back on. Step six; run to the car, get dressed, and hope to God we didn’t get hypothermia. 

Once the trees gave way to the full view of Lake Superior before me, suddenly the crash of the waves that had comforted me nights prior seemed like a titan thrashing with anger. Even then, we were witnessing a mere fraction of the true power the lake could dish out. Exacerbated by the subtle pull of the moon, they were some of the fiercest waves I had ever seen—like an unrestrained tantrum by Poseidon had scended into our realm . At that moment, we stood atop a sheer sand hill about 15 yards above the beach. Scaling the loose wall would have been a task in mountaineering equipment, but in only a towel and no shoes, it seemed perilous. I could only imagine trying to sprint back up it. I tried not to think about it. 

After taking my first few steps down the hill, my feet slid a few inches before they came to rest in the divots they created. Each time I slipped, I had to extend my arm back to catch myself, which sent miniature avalanches cascading down the slope. We made our way down, but I hadn’t realized just how wintry the air was until both of my feet were planted on the rough surface of the beach. A stiff wind howled past us from the west, biting at my fingers and toes. On the heavily packed sand, Jack and I left easily trackable footprints as we walked to the water side by side. The distance from the hill to the water was maybe 25 yards, and it probably only took us a minute to manage, but it felt more like 50 yards and an hour. With every step I took, sinking into the ground subtly, my mind raced a bit faster, and time slowed down. 

“What are we doing?” my inner monologue chimed, “This is a dumb idea.” 

Every excuse I could think of not to jump into Superior danced through my head.

“It’s too cold,” I told myself, “And what if someone sees us? Is this even worth it? I wonder what Jack is thinking. He would understand if I wanted to turn back. Or were we too far along?” 

 Suddenly we were both standing still. We stopped about 10 yards away from the walls of water roaring. If the wind hadn’t been blowing so earnestly, I’m sure I would have been dripping with sweat. And whether it was the cold or fear that had me shaking, I couldn’t tell. Jack and I looked at each other, nodded, and spread out a few feet so we wouldn’t catch a glimpse of anything that would turn this into something far more awkward than it needed to be. 

“Ok, ready?” Jack shouted above the wind, “One…” 

“This is a bad idea,” I thought. 

“Two…” Jack hollered. 

“No, this is a terrible idea.”

“Three!” Jack screamed.

Suddenly, my mind went blank. With a puff of sand and an explosion of water, the world around me collapsed. I pushed off the sand like an olympic sprinter as my vision was consumed in a tunnel, and all I saw were those waves getting closer and closer with each stride. There was no fear, no sound, no feelings. Only the mighty Superior beckoning me. 

Honestly, I don’t remember much about what happened once my body hit the water, or rather, once the water hit me. It was a frenzy of mental snapshots and intense emotions. I bolted in, raising my knees up as I ran to maintain my speed. As soon as I recognized the chill-inducing touch of Superior’s water, I let out an involuntary yell. The arctic tides consistently rolled past my legs every few moments, causing small pellets of petrifyingly cold water to shoot up  that made me recoil. When something is that cold, you don’t really feel it. All you feel is pain. I looked out, squinting to see what was in front of me after I finally rushed into the knee-deep surf. I could just barely make out a white-crested monster lumbered towards me, indifferent to whether I was standing in its path or not. By the time I saw it, it was too late, and the ice giant had tackled me with the force of a linebacker. The blow had thrown me into a daze, ragdolling me around in the shallows. When I finally got my bearings I pushed off the sediment below me to surface. My lungs uncontrollably gasped for air from the cold once my head was above water.

The only thing I could manage to think was “Where’s Jack?” 

My head shot to the left to look for his silhouette, but he wasn’t there. After a couple of seconds the bitter water reversed and tugged on my body as if it were asking me to go another round. My eyes darted to the horizon then; I knew another wave was coming, but it was impossible to see until it snuck it’s merciless form up over me. It was time to go, but I wasn’t getting out until I saw Jack was too. I looked around for Jack one more time. This time the shadow of his body appeared as he forced his way back to the beach, but another wave slammed over me as I turned to get to the shore. My body locked in pain. I was shaking from the cold now, no doubt about it. As I struggled against the currents pulling me into another ponderous wave, I stumbled onto the beach, teeth chattering so loud I think the neighboring campers could have heard me. My hand reached down for the towel instinctively, shaking so badly it was almost impossible to grasp it. Jack shouted as I wrapped it around my waist. 

“Come on! We have to go!” 

It was now a race against time. We both took off towards the hill, kicking up clumps of wet sand behind us as we ran. The grand dune grew taller as we approached it, and it seemed more like a mountain than what I had naively hoped it to be—a minor inconvenience in the campaign to safety. Clambering up felt like an eternity. The only visual I remember is my left hand extending out in front of me, trying to grab any leverage I could find to hoist myself higher. My mind still rings with Jack’s frantic yells, though. 

“Pierce, we have to go!” He shouted, “Hurry up!” 

Jack’s figure disappeared over the ledge, and I scampered over the top not far behind. He had already begun racing towards the headlights of his car glinting out into the woods when I had gotten to my feet. I was fast to chase after him. I knew the heaters inside the Subaru were my only refuge. As I ran, one hand secured my towel in place, and the other frantically swung in an attempt to force my legs to keep up. I was almost there when 

BANG

My right foot had clipped the top of the log I had so carefully avoided when we walked down to the beach earlier.. How could I have forgotten? My towel flew off, and I hit the ground hard; harder than any of the waves hit me. I was freezing, exhausted, and in pain. In the moment, I would have preferred to ryth around, but the clock was ticking, so I collected the makeshift loin cloth, draped it in front of my nether regions, and rushed to the car. 

Jack was already inside getting dressed when I arrived. I flung open the door and took my clothes from the seat. 

“What the hell happened?” Jack blurted.

“I fell!” I exclaimed, slamming the door shut again. 

As soon as I put on my underwear outside the car, I jumped in, shutting the door behind me. I started to put on my pants and shirt after a few heavy breaths. 

“Oh my god,” I began, “I’m freezing.” 

“Me too,” Jack shuddered. 

Just as I had thought we were finally in the clear, the real pain began. A burning rage erupted in my hands and feet, causing the aches I was feeling from my fall to disappear. I felt like someone had soaked my limbs in acid. I could hardly move them, but when I did, it seemed as though fire ants were striking every nerve I had. 

“Ahg! My feet… They’re on fire!” I exclaimed. 

“It’s OK,” Jack insisted. “The pain is good. At least you have feeling. Just try to move them and get them warm.” 

“You sure?” I snapped

“Yeah, just don’t warm them up too quick, you’ll cause permanent nerve damage.” He added. 

I looked at him in horror but was met with a sharp smile and a laugh. I laughed too.

“You’ll be fine,” he chortled. “Just a joke” 

I looked at the clock; it was only 8 p.m. The entire ordeal only took 30 minutes from start to finish and we were only in the water for about 20 seconds, but looking back, it seemed like it all happened in an instant. The pain subsided after a while, but the adrenaline didn’t. I felt like I was on drugs. The two of us were giddy with excitement and began recounting what we had just done with a conversation full of “can you believe that”s and “that was insane”s. There was an electricity flowing through us, and we realized we couldn’t just get ready for bed and sleep in the tent one more night. Our bodies were sick of the cold, so we let the residual emotions of intense excitement get the best of us. 

“I don’t want to sleep in that cold ass tent tonight, do you?” I confessed. 

“Hell no.” Jack replied. 

“Well… we could pack up,” I began, “and start our trip home a little early.” 

With those words, we got out of the Subaru, pulled apart the tent, put out the campfire, threw our bags in the backseat, and put the car into drive. We wasted no time gathering our things, and hoped the adrenaline would carry us on until we were required to stop for coffee. We sped down the rutted trail that had led us to our site two days earlier, our brake lights irradiating the scene with red in the rearview mirror. A ten-hour drive back home was in front of us. 

This story sat in my head for about a year before I began writing it. I couldn’t quite grasp it. What was the point of it all? It wasn’t until I researched the history of Lake Superior that I had any idea of what to write about. The lake is a modern wonder that draws viewers in from every corner of the country. But it’s a cruel mistress that holds the secrets of 10,000 mariners’ last moments. Like a safe whose key has been lost, she keeps her captives silent inside. It’s possible that my short moment in the lake’s power gave me some insight into their stories, but I’m not entirely sure. Still, I can’t imagine the dread that would fill my body if the shoreline weren’t within reach. How long would I have lasted? 

I struggled to find an eloquent way to wrap up this story in a fitting way, but upon telling Jack what I had found about Superior—that we were at serious risk of being washed out into deep water and drowning—he summed it all up better than I could.

“Man, we were idiots, huh?”