Southwind_E01 – 28. 11. 2020

It was the day after Labour Day, vacationers who took advantage of the warmth of late summer had gathered for this long weekend on the still “recreational” shores of this corner on the south side of Minneapolis.

When we launched our boat most of them had already left this little resort town in their disproportionate RVs. The few people still present curiously attended this baptism which took place without a spectacle. Southwind touched the Mississippi water quietly, without surprises.

After being rapidly dragged from the launching ramp to the floating pontoon where we could moor, the boat began to play its role and attract people.

The first questions were about its mode of propulsion: is it a steamboat?

Then about its origin: did you make it?

Finally, about our own origin: where do you come from?

After answering yes, partly yes and Europe, we said that we wanted to get to New Orleans aboard this boat. It didn't take much to start a discussion on any topic.

The combination of two Europeans wishing to navigate the entire river on a steamboat was enough to arouse the deepest fantasies.

Quickly the two men suggested we pick up the remaining wood they had brought for their weekend fires. We had no idea how much wood the boiler was going to consume, but it was already a good starting point.

The film crew assisted us and filmed us. All the time I kept one eye on the boat, one eye on them. I hoped that we’d quickly find a way to work, I motivated them to be independent, to take over the project, their point of view was welcome.

Paper, kindling, stump, blowtorch, that’s it, the boiler was heating up. We only had a vague idea how long it was going to take; we’d only used the boat once, for an hour at most, on Pleasant Lake in Michigan, which meant we had no experience.

While waiting for the pressure gauge to rise, I checked the pipes like a racing driver, I visualised the course of the water from the river to the wheel. Every chicane, every acceleration, every valve. I needed an overview in the hope of mastering this archaic machine.

Two hours later at 160 PSI the safety valve was activated. We could no longer build up pressure and had to leave. Without artifice, without the public, without difficulties, without noise, we were there, heading south.

The wheel was turning slowly, the boat was manoeuvring quietly, and at times it was as if we had been doing this all our lives. How was that possible?

A few hours later we had a more precise idea of what our daily life was going to be like for the next 50 days. We were navigating at an insignificant pace, 2 or 3 knots, sometimes 4. The boiler was indeed greedy, very greedy, Kenneth had warned us. The machine was so loud that we couldn’t communicate in any other way than shouting, but the crew slowly found their place.

The solar panels I had installed on the roof were working and we had electricity on board. This level of comfort reassured us, because the next few weeks promised to be rather restricted, although it was not fatigue that we feared but the fact of not being able to talk to each other during the day. However, thanks to our computers we could at least write and continue our transcription of the project.

The arrival at the first lock seemed to take forever, we had wasted so much time stuck in the shallows in the middle of the river. The first lesson was to stay in the channel despite our shallow draft, which made us think that we could cut the path and take shortcuts. When the lock keeper handed us the rope to tie us up, the sun was already low, the day was over in the blink of an eye. We had no idea if we were going to achieve our goal of getting to McGregor.

The pontoon that I had identified for our first stopover ended up revealing itself behind a wide metal bridge, Mark was manoeuvring the boat but missed it by a few meters, trying to go upstream so that we would arrive with more ease, as with a sailboat.

Night fell quickly in this time of late summer, the mist was setting in, and soon we had no visibility on our way. Only our phones told us where we were approximately. It was impossible to see if a tree trunk blocked our path or if we were in the channel.

At this point we try to go up the river, but we have little pressure left because Kenneth had told us that perfect navigation is when you arrive safely, boiler empty and fireplace cold.

We miss.

By blowing on the embers for 45 minutes, head in the hearth, I revive the fire that I had intentionally let die. Mark puts the electric motors to full force, but they are of no help, we gradually lose the battle against the current which takes us away from our goal and leads us to the centre of the river where it is stronger. Suddenly we are bathed in a blinding light, it is a huge projector capable of casting light for kilometres coming from the top of a pusher boat, with twenty barges in front of it. We think it’s there to help us, we wave to the boat which seems still far away, but we can’t get out of the current. We no longer have electricity for the back-up engines or pressure in the steam engine. We’re not able to manoeuvre a flat-bottomed boat in the middle of the Mississippi, and a city-sized boat is heading towards us. We drop anchor to secure our position, the pressure eventually allows us to move away from the waterway, and the pusher boat and its load avoid us. It quickly moves far away from us and only its overpowered headlight scans the shores and the surface on the lookout for any potential problems.

I still have my head in the boiler, blowing on the embers as if the danger were still imminent, when a much less intense light shines on us. It’s our film crew, who took the initiative to ask a fisherman on his way back to the port to assist us. From his motorised boat, a big guy with red hair throws us a rope and pulls us to the port of McGregor.