Crossing Lake Michigan

We took an auto ferry across the lake from Milwaukee to Muskegon,
Michigan.  It was a bit of a rough crossing.  High winds made for
six-foot swells and the boat heaved and pitched for most of the  
three-hour passage.  Initially jubilant families around us were 
silenced mere minutes into the ceaseless plunging.  By the time we
at last reached the far shore, most of these poor panting souls were
making frequent use of little complimentary bags handed out by the
crew.  An older woman seated in front of us turned to her husband
upon landing.  From the folds of her headscarf, with calm, lawmaking
finality, a voice gray and dripping with Eastern Europe, she told him,
"Never. Again."

Our breakfast fortunately held strong, though our faith in its resolve 
to stay put was certainly tested.  Megan had entered a meditative 
state so as to endure, envisioning the motion as giant clockwork.  
Each second was disciplined and she was not to be disturbed.  
Midway through I went up on deck for some air.  Imagine gentle 
giants giving you surprise shoves every few seconds, heedless of 
strangers' bodies or thigh-high railings.  The view, however!  The 
magnificent violence of the wind!  What a wonder to see a panorama 
of flatness, of inky blue, landless horizons, to have all the imagery of 
an ocean, and to know all of it was fresh water.