Waves of Change: A plan B in Two Harbors
The plan, as plans so often go, was straightforward. We would drive up the shore, take in the bracing air, and enjoy a couple of dives along the craggy beauty of Gooseberry State Park. It is, I should say, a rather splendid place—cascading waterfalls, dramatic lakeside cliffs, scenic trails, and the general sense that you have stumbled into a postcard. Last year, it welcomed some 750,000 visitors, which is remarkable when you consider that, on this particular 30-degree Monday in March, there were exactly three other souls present.
Spring was trying—melting snow, a shuttered visitor center, and the kind of raw, indifferent beauty that Lake Superior does so well. Our intended dive site featured a fascinating underworld of submerged boulders and thrilling little swim-throughs, the sort of thing that makes you feel like a bold explorer rather than, say, an overgrown child in an expensive swimsuit.
The wind was obligingly gentle from the northwest, which should have meant calm conditions. And yet, for reasons best left to those with actual meteorological expertise, the lake had other ideas. The surface looked untroubled, lightly rippled even, but beneath it, great undulating rollers—three to four feet high—came crashing in with all the subtlety of a Viking invasion. These were, I suspected, the remnants of some overnight tempest, though I freely admit that my qualifications in such matters amount to looking at the sky and nodding knowingly.
Gateway to the Northshore
Much as I had been looking forward to the dive, the notion of gamely clambering across a field of wobbling, half-submerged boulders while being periodically walloped by rogue waves seemed a less than stellar idea. After a suitable amount of sighing and solemn nodding, we decided to retreat to the more civilized waters of Two Harbors and its blessedly sheltered break wall.
Now, I’ve dived this spot before, and while it lacks the thrill of undiscovered territory, it makes up for it with ease of access. You can hug the break wall or venture north, where the shoreline plummets away dramatically. In theory, the break wall should have offered calm entry conditions, and yet, in a baffling turn of events, there was still a surprising amount of surge down to 30 feet. Fortunately, I find this sort of thing rather delightful. There’s something vaguely magical about being swept backwards several feet only to be flung forward again, like an exceptionally uncoordinated superhero.
Some of these were 3 and 4 foot high!
The descent brought an unexpected little victory—a shot of Heather framed perfectly against a rock wall with the waves breaking above. The color, I must say, was superb. As we dropped deeper, the surge waned, the light dimmed, and yet the visibility held up surprisingly well given the lake’s earlier histrionics.
The dive itself was smooth, relaxed—exactly the kind of experience one hopes for. I’ve often found that as I descend further, a small, nagging part of my brain begins loudly suggesting that I’ve had quite enough fun, thank you very much. But lately, that voice has quieted. This time, I felt at ease from start to finish. Which, if you pause to consider it, is fairly astonishing. After all, I spent an hour submerged in 34-degree water, dropped to 70 feet, and genuinely enjoyed myself. What a wonderful thing.
