Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [81]
I had chosen Port Huron as our escape point not because of its historical significance but because it appeared to have the shortest distance of water between the two countries. The St. Clair River was only about a half mile wide, and on the Canadian side sat the city of Sarnia, Ontario. But when we arrived in Port Huron and looked across to Sarnia, it was truly an ugly site. Taking up what seemed to be the entire riverbank was either an oil refinery or a chemical plant (the large DOW sign, which could be seen across the river, might have been the giveaway).
There had been a point on the drive to Port Huron when Jacko had wondered if we could just swim across to Canada (I think he said this to piss Ralph off). But one look at the St. Clair River dispelled any notion of trying that, if it had in fact been a notion at all. It seemed like if you threw a match into the St. Clair it would light up like Cleveland.
There was only one way to take a car across to Canada, and that was over the Blue Water Bridge. Standing below the bridge we could see what appeared to be serious checkpoints on both ends of the crossing. These did not look welcoming. We decided that the bridge would not work. We would instead use Joey’s boat.
Our task then became finding a place to launch the boat to a spot straight across the river in Canada that looked desolate enough for us to not be caught. Immediately north of the bridge Lake Huron began, and it widened out so fast that within two thousand feet there was already at least five miles of lake between the two countries. Just south of Port Huron was a small town called Marysville. We drove there and found a city park with a boat launch on the river. There were no police or immigration people around. There was still a lot of industrial-looking muck across the river in Canada, but just to the north of that appeared to be a long stretch of fields and woods. That seemed to be our best bet.
Joey backed his car down the path of the boat launch to the edge of the water. Ralph was nervous about our chances of getting caught, and I kept my eyes peeled straight across the river looking for Canadians. I could see none, and the late afternoon sun from the west lit up the Canadian shore to reveal absolutely no activity. There were no border guards with binoculars keeping their eyes on us, no patrol boats protecting their sovereign territory. Just a half mile of river lapping up on our land in the same way it lapped up on theirs. Although this was just supposed to be a dry run, there was a part of me that just wanted to take that boat, right then, across the St. Clair and not return.
That was not going to happen. Joey let out a loud “Shit!Fuck!Shit!” and I got out to see what the problem was.
“No fucking motor! My dad took the outboard off! Fuck!”
“What the fuck, Joey?!” Ralph kicked the boat’s trailer a few times, but neither kick made the outboard motor appear. “How could you be so fucking stupid?!”
The Eagle Scout with the rowing merit badge spoke up. “Hey, it’s like two thousand feet of river. There’s four of us. Let’s just row!”
“We don’t have any oars,” Joey said quietly, feeling the shame of having wrecked our Great Escape. “My dad musta taken it off to work on it. We just used it last week. Can’t believe I didn’t see it missing when I left.”
“Great. Just great.” Ralph was still pissed. “You know I can’t swim.” We knew.
“We’re not swimming,” Jacko chimed in. “We’re gonna grab