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Port Colborne is a charming little town perched along the banks of the Welland Canal at the intersection with Lake Erie. There is something about the feel of the place that is from another time, without the contrived trappings of an "Historical Town." It still is what it always was. Port Colborne is a town defined by the Welland Canal and the ships that use it. For decades, Lakers and Salties (ocean ships) have passed the banks en route to distant places. Sometimes they tie up while waiting for upbound ships to pass. Suffice it to say, many a Laker crew has passed the time at Port Colborne. Being a canal, Port Colborne doesn't lend itself to parades of sail. On the other hand, dock space is plentiful and the people are predisposed to like ships. Watching ships go by, and coping with drawbridges, is ingrained in Port Colborne's world view. It's a scenic sort of place in its own way, what with the lift bridge towering over everything, and the massive cut stones left from an earlier canal. A lot of work had been done to prepare for the ships. The waterfront fairly sparkled with fresh paint, pristine flowerbeds, and newly poured sidewalks.

The tall ship fleet stretched for almost a mile bow to stern, bow to stern along the quay at Port Colborne. Bars and restaurants and vendors of all types stood cheek by jowl along Water Street which runs beside the canal. For the duration of the visit, Water Street was closed to vehicle traffic thus creating the perfect setting for a giant block party to flourish. And for four days it was so. Rock bands, folk singers, and sea shanteymen vied for the air space while libations flowed like water. I even summoned the energy to go see Steppenwolf perform on the night of our arrival. By day, visitors lined the promenade, eager to see the ships and get their Tall Ship Passports stamped. Visitation ran to about 3,000 per day, and one day it topped 4,000. For all the crowds and stimulation, Port Colborne retained a cozy feel. The crew could easily walk to everything they might need: a post office, a stationary store, a supermarket, a pharmacy, and even a quiet park across the canal. The organizers bent over backwards to assist the ships. There was even Internet access for the crews at the Town Hall.

An unexpected honor at Port Colborne was receiving First Place in the race from Kingston for the Cruising Class. The cruising class was created to accommodate vessels that have difficulty meeting the 50% youth quota but still want to participate. I guess for every race, even one that doesn't go the distance, there is a winner. This time it was us, for Pride II had sailed farther and faster than anyone else in her class.

The weekend passed all too quickly and then it was time to go. Race Two and Cleveland were waiting. Again, there was a nice breeze for the race start. Again it was from the west. And which way is Cleveland? West. For the next 24 hours, the wind remained on the nose, but it was a comfortable Force 3 to 4 the whole time. Pride II is a fairly weatherly vessel and moves along well in light air so these conditions actually made for pleasant sailing. At the change of the watch, we would flop over onto the other tack and alternately stand in toward the American or Canadian shore. A pretty little schooner yacht, the Grand Nellie, kept with us through the night. Around midnight we witnessed some of the most evil looking lightning I have ever seen. Orange talons reached down from above as if to pick up a schooner and take her away. The murky mess passed away to the north without any wind and come morning no schooners were missing. Perhaps of greater concern was the fact that there were three occasions during the race when other vessels, two of them big ships, had no awareness that they were fast approaching Pride II. It was only through persistent radio calls and using our spot light that close quarters situations were avoided. A word of warning: the running lights may be on and the radar may be spinning, but that doesn't mean anyone is home.

Though the Pride had sailed a good race, by noon the next day the bulk of the fleet was still boxed in back at Long Point with many miles remaining. Light headwinds had stymied nearly all the participants. Once again, ASTA had to call the race early so that the other vessels could get to the festival in time. When the race ended at 1600, the nearest competitor was the Grand Nellie ghosting along with the afternoon sun on her sails against the verdant hillsides of the American side, three miles astern.

The crew shortened down to a mere foresail and staysail before dark. A cold front was approaching and we had covered the necessary mileage to Cleveland. The 20 knots that the weatherman called for turned out to be more like 30, and I was glad of our situation. Pride II was all snugged down for a beam reach and sailed comfortably through the night, despite a hefty sea building. Toward morning, we set a course downwind to Cleveland and docked that afternoon. Of course, we had to go back out and do it all again for the Parade of Sail a couple of hours later, but that's just part of the fun.

Compared to our previous two ports, Cleveland was a big city. The crowds were big, the venue was big, everything felt big. There were dockside events, daysails, and, of course, public visitation during the day. During the event, the U.S. Coast Guard dedicated a Sail Training room at the local Coast Guard station. On behalf of Pride of Baltimore, Inc., I presented a wooden plaque depicting the Pride of Baltimore II enwreathed by her classic elegant logo. The crew all received free entrance to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, just a short walk from the ship. There were nocturnal excursions down to The Flats, the re-developed industrial waterfront that is now the main hub of Cleveland's nightlife. Julie Longhill, a veteran of the old Pride, befriended the crew and put her artistic skills to creating a group caricature of the entire crew.

A number of crew changes occurred at Cleveland. Our cook of the past month, Ann Costlow, left us to return to her desk job in Baltimore. That Ann cooked pretty darn good for a stock broker. No one went hungry. An old friend of the ship's, Diane Carey, stepped in to pick up the reins of the galley. Other changes included Dave Bradley signing off and Dave Briddle moving from Bosun up to Second Mate. A Pride II veteran from last year, Paul Gill, joined as Bosun and Michelle Glynn took over from deckhand Chris Whitlock who had to get back to Maryland. Once again, Pride II won her class coming from Port Colborne and was awarded a gleaming varnished box clock.

Did I tell you that crew member P J Meyer hails from Cleveland? On the one night that no events were scheduled for the ship, her family hosted the crew out at their place for a backyard barbecue that couldn't be beat. The drive out was as soothing as the evening itself. Leaving the city, the car drove down hot shadeless streets, past the stark gray shapes of urban decay and into the politely shrubbed suburbs that, in turn, gave way to rolling farm country, ponds and woods and hills and horses, and the cool colors of dusk, salted with fireflies amid the aroma and the whisper of damp grass. Upon arriving, the swirling milieu of faces and food stands and endless questions that characterize carnival life ceased. For a few hours we were utterly pampered in the tranquility of the Meyer's household and, boy, it was nice.

The next day, Pride II pressed on to Detroit. Our guest crew consisted of three couples: a husband and wife, a father and son, and two brothers. One of the brothers had built a beautiful model of the Pride of Baltimore II and had come to see the real McCoy. There was no tall ships race for this passage and we were able to take advantage of the break to anchor one night in the lee of Pelee Island in western Lake Erie. The next day it was onward and upward to Detroit City: Motown. Due to lack of wind and the confines of the Detroit River, this turned out to be a motorboat ride. But the silver lining was that it was a chance to do some shipboard maintenance. One quickly notices that conducting routine maintenance becomes nearly impossible when participating in these sorts of tall ship events. Yet there is a certain obligation to bring the ship into port looking beautiful and spiffy for the public. The only way to reconcile the two seems to be to leave more time between ports. But since this doesn't seem possible, we are simply roping off parts of the ship during public events and painting anyway, hoping nobody minds, and hoping nobody steps in it.

The tall ships event at Detroit was the centerpiece in a year-long celebration of Detroit's 300^th birthday. The ships were berthed at Hart Plaza in downtown Detroit. The weather was hot and muggy, yet people came by the thousands to pack along the waterfront. The celebration extended across the river to Windsor, Ontario, where a somewhat smaller contingent of ships docked. A highlight of the visit was an invitation to all the crews to attend a Tigers-Yankees game at Tiger Stadium. The Yankees were trounced 12 to 4. It was embarrassing. Ted Lilly pitched for the Yankees. That guy has got to go.

On another night, Stevie Wonder performed at Hart Plaza. Wonder is a native of Detroit but hadn't performed there in something on the order of fifteen years. There wasn't even standing room. The Detroit Yacht Club rolled out a very plush red carpet indeed for the captains and crews during our stay. I attended a memorial service at the Old Mariners Church hard by the river. The church is immortalized as the Maritime Sailors Cathedral in Gordon Lightfoot's ballad The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald: "the church bell chimed twenty-nine times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald."

Another crew change occurred at Detroit. Chief Mate Pamela Coughlin headed home to San Francisco and another PrideII veteran, Amy Strange, stepped in. Amy was last aboard as Second Mate outbound to Asia sometime late in the last century. Amy has spent a significant portion of her career in the Great Lakes.

Before sailing, my own family joined me aboard as well.

The departure from Detroit was an orchestrated Parade of Sail. The problem was that all the ships were already docked at the best place from which to view them. A solution was found by sending all the ships back down the river on the morning of departure where they would hide until noon and then magically re-appear right off Hart Plaza with all sail set. So that's what we did. After the show, most of the ships proceeded north toward Lake St. Clair. But the spectator fleet didn't go home when the official Parade of Sail ended. Instead they followed along through the afternoon and evening, dodging across the channel, cutting across our bow, and abruptly changing course at the least opportune time and with the least possible regard for common sense and seamanship. A friend of mine once said, "Dan, sometimes common sense ain't so common." This I knew, but I wasn't expecting a total boycott on it either. At nine o'clock that evening, we arrived at Algonac, Michigan. It had been a 35 mile parade of sail lasting nearly twelve hours. That must be some sort of record. You could look it up.

Algonac is a small town just off the St. Clair River, which flows out of Lake Huron. Our experience at Algonac was extraordinary and refreshing. First of all, Algonac was not an official stop for the ships. And yet the ships had to stop somewhere between Detroit and the next leg of the Great Lakes Challenge on Lake Huron. So this little town, spearheaded by the local Historical Society, stepped to the plate and opened its doors to the entire fleet for a night. So here we are, ascending the St. Clair River at the end of a very long day, wondering how we will pick out the dock in the failing light. As we rounded the last bend, I scanned the shore through the binoculars, hoping to spot our destination. Suddenly the field of vision was filled with several thousand faces extending along a grassy verge beside the river. I guess this must be the place.

Some ships were visible alongside and others were bringing up the rear. The local law enforcement vessels shooed away the cloud of mosquito-like power boaters that hovered around us and cleared a swath of navigable water to the dock. We nosed in just in front of the fabulous schooner Bluenose II. As we came alongside and sent our lines ashore, the entire waterfront erupted into a spontaneous round of applause that lasted quite some moments. Now, you would think that after the schedule of the previous days and the insanity of the day's navigation that the last thing in the whole wide world we would want to see is another crowd of people. But the welcome was so warm, so genuine, and so unimposing that it had the opposite affect. This day's end exchange seemed to recharge our nearly drained batteries rather than kill them outright. Volunteers courteously made fast our lines to the nearest park bench and the crowd of well-wishers dispersed for the night.

The next day the crew was treated to church-style breakfast ashore under a tent, and the Historical Society opened early so that we could visit their museum before getting on our way. Some group prepared beautiful box lunches for all hands and dropped them by before departure. The cook was loving this action. We departed with a standing invitation to return anytime and stay as long as we liked. Now that's hospitality!

Pride II proceeded up the river the next morning, bucking the current en route to Port Huron. The ship spent a quiet night docked at an enclosed terminal on the St. Clair River, just below the Blue Water Bridge at the foot of Lake Huron. There was not much to do at Port Huron. Ashore were neighborhoods full of people just living, mowing lawns, watering plants, weeding gardens, doing normal summer stuff. Stimulation of any kind, social or otherwise, can become addictive. After so much "face time" with the world-at-large, having nothing to do was a strange tasting medicine. Evening fell and thunderheads built in the west as we rested at the water's edge. Tomorrow we race again.

Watch Below,

Captain Daniel Parrott