January Borrowed a Few Days from March
January had decided, briefly and without explanation, to stop being January.
For several days the temperature hovered in the 30s and even flirted with 40, which in northern Minnesota counts as a tropical event. This rare atmospheric clerical error produced what divers like to call “a window,” and what everyone else would call “still wildly unreasonable weather to voluntarily enter Lake Superior.” Naturally, we took full advantage.
On Monday, Heather and I were joined by Adam under conditions that were, by winter standards, suspiciously perfect: light west winds, sun, and air warm enough that your face didn’t immediately seize up in protest. On the drive up, we were waved down by two young fellas whose SUV had committed itself fully to a roadside ditch. We pulled over, ready to help, only to discover they were uninjured, already had assistance on the way, and were mostly just standing there with their phones out, waving at passing traffic. As we drove off, we watched a highway patrol car pull in behind them, which felt like the natural next chapter in the story.
When we passed the same stretch of road later that day, the SUV was gone, the ditch was empty, and the highway had been updated with a helpful digital sign reading, “In the ditch? Stay in your car.” Heather and I both laughed at the timing. It felt less like general advice and more like a personalized message, hastily programmed for two guys who had just finished standing on the shoulder proving exactly why such reminders exist.
At Split Rock Lighthouse, we signed in at the visitor center, because the diver parking lot is locked and because, I assume, the park prefers to know exactly how many people are voluntarily sinking beneath ice-cold water. The ranger greeted us cheerfully, then looked up and said, “Oh—you’re here to dive, Heather, right?” Her name was once again the only one on the diver sign-in sheet. Winter diving in Lake Superior, it turns out, occupies roughly the same place in the spectrum of recreational pursuits as learning to play the bagpipes underwater.
I had come prepared with a new padlock to replace the rusted one on the diver gate—having mentioned this plan many times previously and forgotten to execute it every time. This time, I had a lock, had programmed it to match the old combination, and felt unreasonably proud. Heather then gently pointed out that I had, once again, transposed the numbers. The correct combination was 1967, not 1976. I could reprogram the lock, but only if I had brought the key—which I had not. We laughed. I aged another year.
Adam met us in the lot, hauling twin steel 100s. Heather and I were both on closed-circuit rebreathers, which meant our limiting factor would not be gas, but cold—specifically, how long fingers, batteries, and morale would cooperate. We dragged gear down to the shore using the plastic sleds I’d originally brought as a joke, something to film for winter-diving absurdity. Surprisingly, they worked extremely well. I briefly considered designing a purpose-built SCUBA sled before realizing the market likely consisted of exactly two people…
Smiling because it’s absurd, efficient, and slightly heroic—hauling scuba gear in a bright red kids’ sled beats anything else in January.
The dive itself was excellent. Visibility was generous, and we explored a different section of the Madeira. The massive winch remains photogenic and stubbornly difficult to capture the way it deserves, which means I will obviously need to return. I did manage a solid shot of Adam on the bow, another of Heather in the smokestack, and third of Adam and Heather together near the wooden hatch at 120 feet—dark, quiet, and dramatically lit in that way that makes diving look both serious and slightly theatrical.
The surface conditions had deteriorated by the time we exited. Despite the west wind, waves were just energetic enough to keep things interesting. Heather was knocked over, Adam briefly knelt in surrender, and I attempted to move quickly, which is always a mistake in full CCR gear. I ended up face-down in the water, laughing into my loop, grateful once again for rebreather mouthpieces that forgive indignity. No damage done, just damp pride.
We spent the next hour hauling gear, talking, and lingering in the kind of January warmth that feels borrowed and must be returned promptly.
The following day, Heather and I returned to Gooseberry and swam north. The bottom there was a series of wave-sculpted sand ripples—five or six inches high—interrupted by fingers of rock that made the whole scene beautiful, in Nordic sort of way.
The only real annoyance was a persistent slow leak in my left dry glove. I’ve tested it repeatedly without success. New, slightly smaller O-rings arrived yesterday, and I’m hoping the tighter seal will solve it. Information on the PCI glove system is sparse, and while I like how easy they are to don and doff—especially with cold hands—I’ve been chasing leaks for a year now. Today’s agenda includes further investigation, mild frustration, and optimism.
With any luck, next week will bring dry hands and perhaps a few more tolerable days. The forecast, however, is threatening highs below zero—a level of cold that seems cruel even to the most committed shore diver. Heather may disagree. Possibly on principle.