I wasn’t particularly steady on my feet, but by holding the railing I was able to methodically get myself down to the lobby. I passed a man at the door who nodded when I held it open for him.
Outside I tucked the briefcase under my arm and made my way for the bright lights of downtown. Because, after all, business actually hadn’t been going very well for me, and it was undeniable that it was time for a change. My friend Sam Vincent had just made one possible.
HI, I’M GOD
by Steve Thayer
Duluth (Up North)
The Tempest
All day long a Canadian cold front had been sweeping south along the lake, bringing with it the first real storm of the winter season. By the time the sun went down the temperature was dropping at a rate of one degree a minute. Snow flurries raced by sideways. Droplets of lake water shot by like bullets. Waves thirty feet high crashed ashore, driven by winds up to fifty miles per hour. These ungodly crests hit the Duluth Ship Canal with a force so potent, so ferocious, that the earth shook beneath the concrete.
The three high school boys standing at the foot of the canal that hellish night had no way of knowing the November gale was about to become another enchanting piece of North Shore lore, a haunting story that would be embellished and embossed and then served over beers at waterfront bars for years to come. The boys themselves had polished off a six-pack on their way down to the ship canal. Sensing the storm, they had come to the lake to play the game. But now, facing waves as tall as buildings, they were a lot less enthusiastic than when they had started down the steep hill.
“Have you ever seen them like this?”
“Never. My dad said in the old days they got this big, but I never believed him.”
“That is one angry lake.”
“You guys talk like it’s some kind of avenging spirit.”
“It is.”
“Bullshit… it’s just friggin’ water.”
It was Pudge Abercrombie who muttered the bold remark. Pudge topped out at 5'7" in a pair of football spikes, and his weight often rolled past 170 pounds. He was a dark-haired, curly-haired, relatively handsome kid with something of a bulldog visage, which at an early age had earned him the nickname Pudge. And though he may have appeared short and pudgy, he was a good athlete. One of those bowling-ball type of runners. Built low to the ground. Hard to tackle, with good speed. Whether on a football field or a hockey rink, his stubby little legs had carried him fast and far. On the stormy night at the end of football season, those angry little legs of his had led him and his pals Jack Start and Tommy Robek down to the waterfront.
Along the canal where the giant ore ships came in, there was a long, wide walkway that speared its way into Lake Superior. The walkway was about the length of a football field. It ended at a lighthouse. On sunny summer days, crowds of people would line this walkway to watch the ocean-going vessels sail beneath the famous Aerial Lift Bridge and into Duluth Harbor. But at nighttime, the ship canal was a no-man’s land. Shabby and neglected. Poor lighting. Once in a while, the Harbor Patrol would cruise Canal Park looking for prostitutes and drunken sailors, but for the most part the area was forgotten about until the sun came up.
The game the boys had come to play was as stupid as it was daring, and more than once in Duluth’s long history the dares had proven deadly. The object of the game was simple: Sprint out the long walkway after a retreating wave, leap up the wide steps, tag the lighthouse, and then race back to shore before the next monster wave could wash over you. The concrete was wet, so the footing was treacherous. Debris washed over the walk. The strong northerly wind was right in your face. Worst of all, year round Lake Superior had only one temperature. Freezing. Paralysis could occur in seconds. Hypothermia took only minutes. If you timed it right, and you could run really fast, you could get back to the safety of the lift bridge without ever getting wet. But if your luck ran out—
These storms with the killer waves were at their deadliest in the early weeks of November. “My dad said, never challenge the lake.”
Pudge Abercrombie smiled at his lifelong friend, the revolving beam from the lighthouse sweeping over his snow-soaked face. “But that’s what makes the game so much fun, Jack. There is the real chance we could be killed.”
Jack Start shook his head. “How many beers did you have?”
“Just two.”
“Was she worth two?”
“You tell me.”
Standing and shivering alongside Pudge Abercrombie and Jack Start that fateful night was Tommy Robek. Where Pudge and Jack had been the halfback and the quarterback, respectively, Tommy Robek didn’t play sports. He was just the skinny kid from the neighborhood. The three boys had run together all their lives.
A malicious grin broke over Pudge’s round red face. “Let’s all go together. I mean, same time. One big wave.”
Jack Start glanced out at a lake gone crazy. Glanced over at his friend. He shrugged his wide, athletic shoulders and smiled. Then he looked into the storm and quoted a line from one of their favorite movies, Little Big Man. “It is a good day to die.”
They waited for a real live one, gambling that the wave that followed it, the wave that would be chasing them back to shore, would be the smaller of the two. They didn’t have to wait long. A big black monster came crashing over the lighthouse like an invading army. Tons of freezing water splashed over the canal walls and raced up the walkway with a speed and rage the boys had never before seen. The angry lake water reached all the way to the tips of their toes. Washed over their ankles. Then suddenly the wave began its fast retreat. The two other boys echoed their quarterback’s sentiments. “It is a good day to die.” And the three boys were off and running.
They ran after the wave as fast as their young legs would carry them. Out onto the canal they ran. Out into the great lake. They hurled over the storm-strewn debris and struggled to keep their balance on the slippery concrete. They were screaming. They were laughing. They were so filled with adrenalin, youth, and beer, that all of the reasoning in the world could not have stopped them from challenging the lake. They were just seventeen, they were incredibly healthy, and their whole adult lives lay before them. And so what if they got a little wet.
Pudge Abercrombie reached the lighthouse steps first. Jack Start was right on his tail. The skinny kid brought up the rear. Pudge and Jack slapped the lighthouse wall, turned, and leapt back down the steps. That’s when Jack Start slipped and fell. Pudge put on the brakes, barely keeping his balance. He turned and helped his friend to his feet. Now Tommy Robek tagged the lighthouse, jumped down the steps, and crashed into them. All three of them went rolling through the icy slosh. Their laughter was almost hysterical. They were having a real time of it because they knew it was going to be close. So now they were up and running. Running through the wind-driven sleet and snow. The Aerial Lift Bridge bathed in silver-blue spotlights looked like a giant goalpost, and they were about three-quarters home when the enraged lake caught up with them. It slapped them down onto the concrete and then buried them in freezing water.
The boys disappeared in an instant. All that could be seen was a ghostly wall of water washing down the canal. The giant ray of light from the lighthouse revealed nothing. Then, almost miraculously, all three boys toppled out of the storm, now separated by yards. They lay flat on their faces as the tail of the wave swept over them. When they lifted their heads, looks of pure fright graced their faces. The monster wave had stopped in mid-stream and now it began its determined return to the sea. The quarterback curled into a ball and steadied himself for the onslaught. Tommy Robek dove for a lamppost. He hugged it with all of his might. Pudge Abercrombie raced for another lamppost across the way, but he didn’t make it. He went toppling down the walkway with the outbound water, somersaulting toward the lighthouse. When the wave was in full retreat, Jack and Tommy staggered down the walkway after him and retrieved their buddy Pudge just before he could be swept into the night. Now the three boys locked arms, the famous flying wedge, and they stumbled along the walkway as fast as their heavily sodden legs would carry them, trying to beat the next oncoming wave. At last, with only seconds to spare, they collapsed on their backs before the lift bridge. They were shivering. Coughing and swearing. Savage lake water swept under their heels.