I’m sitting in a hotel from a gilded era, The Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan, awaiting my husband and son as they sail the 333 mile Race to Mackinac. The boys and six other men left two days ago, and I’ve just learned that two members of another boat died in a violent storm last night. I do not believe anyone’s ever died in the Mac before this. I’m in a state of suspended disbelief.
My husband and I are scheduled to sail to a nearby island for our 20th wedding anniversary, which is in two days from now. I cannot even let myself think about that journey. I am entirely focused on my boys’ safe return. My other two kids are running around the hotel…which is as Grand as promised, and I am fighting tears. The flag at the top of the hotel has been lowered to half staff.
I am trying my best not to cry, but I am failing.
I received a voicemail from my husband this morning, very brief, letting me know that they dropped their sails in anticipation of the storm and that they’re all fine. The call was quick and to the point, but it said exactly what we needed to hear.
“Hey, uh, it’s us. I know you called a couple of times, uh, but we were, uh, preoccupied with, uh, incoming storms. I just wanted to let you know that, uh, it hit, uh, but we got the sails down and we’re fine…but anyway, it’s uh late, um, I’m sure we’ll get a chance to talk at some point tomorrow. Love you and we’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”