We just wrapped up ten unforgettable days in the Georgian Bay, the section of the Great Loop I’ve looked forward to more than any other. After dreaming about this part of the journey for years, I wondered if it could ever live up to the expectations. It did—and then some. We’ve anchored in some of the most beautiful, quiet, and private coves I’ve ever seen. Other days were the opposite—rafting up with friends, swimming, laughing, and enjoying long afternoons together on the water. One day we took the tenders out to a waterfall for a swim. Another time we navigated up river rapids to explore a maze of hidden waterways. We’ve seen a black bear, found wild blueberries, and crossed paths with aquatic wildlife I never expected. Apparently giant snapping turtles call this place home. It’s been everything I hoped Georgian Bay would be. This stretch is truly one of the crown jewels of the Loop.

We started this morning at the top of Swift Rapids after a peaceful night on the wall. It was smooth cruising until we hit the Big Chute Marine Railway—always a highlight, always a wait, and this time… a mechanical delay too. After an hour and a half in the queue, we fought gusty crosswinds to get positioned in the sling—only to be waved off when something went wrong with the big boat setup. Eventually they got it sorted and called us back. We rode up and over, with the swim step hanging in thin air like a carnival ride. It’s such an iconic part of the Loop, one we’ve all read about and watched from afar. But man, there’s just no substitute for doing it in your own boat. Feels totally different when you’re the one hanging off the back edge looking at dry ground 30 feet below. This is what makes the Loop so unforgettable: familiar places experienced in unfamiliar ways.

Today we planned to head for Big Chute Marina, but a broken bridge ahead had everyone turning back. Most boats that left early were forced to return to Orillia Marina, told the bridge was down for the day. But just as we were about to scrap our noon departure, a message came in: someone made it through. Cue dockside debates and group huddles… is it worth the risk? Should we go? In the end, we were the only ones to leave. And when we arrived? The bridge opened for us. Smooth cruise. No delays. Just that quiet satisfaction that comes from trusting your gut—even when it goes against the crowd.

Last night we anchored at Balsam Lake—841 feet above sea level, the highest point in the world reachable from the ocean by continuous waterways. Maybe the thin air went to our heads, because we were up early to begin locking down starting with the Kirkfield Lift Lock, the second highest in the world. Some drama: we lost a fender in a lock and launched a dinghy rescue mission… but a kind crew in the next lock scooped it up for us. 💪🏼🚤 The day that followed was a mix of nerves and awe—extremely narrow, shallow canals with sheer rock faces just below the surface, all visible in the crystal clear water. Eventually, we crossed a calm Lake Simcoe and pulled into Port Orillia, where we finally connected with other Loopers we’ve crossed paths with before. Tonight: docktails with new friends. Tomorrow: errands, fuel, and prepping for the next leg of the journey.

After 10 days on the hard, Big Wave is back in the water. Last Friday, I ran us hard aground at cruise speed—wrecked the props, shafts, and struts. 100% my fault, plus a bit of bad luck. The silver lining? We limped into one of the best boatyards I’ve ever encountered. Skilled, generous, and hard-working people who got us back together faster than I could’ve hoped. Grateful doesn’t begin to cover it. Today we’re moving again—but I’m not the same skipper. Every channel marker gets my full attention. The throttles come back at the slightest hint of shallow. I’m vigilant. A little spooked. A lot humbled. Out here, we all live on the edge. Calamity can strike from just beneath the surface. But that’s the deal, isn’t it? If we wanted safety, we’d be home on our chesterfields. Here’s to the risk, the repair, and the ride. 🛥️💥🛠️

Everyone knows the old adage: the most dangerous thing on a boat is a schedule. Before I set out on the Loop, I told myself I’d avoid that trap—I’d cruise without deadlines or expectations. But now I realize: that’s just not possible. If you want to stay at a marina, you need a reservation—often nonrefundable. If your boat needs work, you book appointments weeks in advance. If you need parts or supplies shipped, you need a destination and a delivery window—and you need to be there when they arrive. In other words, schedules are unavoidable. And they’re often at odds with a mode of travel where so much is out of your control. Weather, mechanical issues, and—most maddening of all—lock delays can completely unravel the best-laid plans. Today was one of those days. We arrived at our first lock right at opening, only to find a wall of boats already waiting. That first delay set the tone for the day—long waits at nearly every lock became the norm. Our original plan evaporated before we even got started. We covered just 23 miles and made it through 8 locks, but it felt like a grind. Progress, yes—but hard-fought, and nowhere near what we’d hoped. And yet… in terms of natural beauty, today set a new high-water mark. Cruising through Clear Lake and Stony Lake was an experience I won’t forget. A maze of islands, channels, and winding turns surrounded us, each view more jaw-dropping than the last. Stunning cottages tucked into hidden coves only added to the magic. I felt a powerful urge to slow down, to stop and explore, to linger in this place that seems to exist just beyond the edge of a dream. But onward we must go. The schedule calls.

Today was, without a doubt, my favorite cruising day on the Loop so far. The weather was perfect—cool and comfortable, with gentle clouds softening the sun’s rays. For once, the wind gave us a break, and the stillness made the experience even more peaceful. What made the day truly special, though, was cruising along the winding river through cottage country. The shoreline was dotted with charming homes, each one whispering its own story. As I passed by, I found myself imagining the families who return to these places summer after summer. I pictured kids growing older each year, their laughter echoing across the water, while parents reconnect with old friends and neighbors whose lives have become part of their seasonal rhythm. There’s something deeply romantic about it all—the continuity, the memories that take root in these cabins, and the way generations pass the torch. Children become parents, and the cycle repeats, carving out a legacy of summers soaked in sunlight, water, and love. It made me feel quietly honored to witness it from the water, just for a moment.