We are one of the first twenty boats to arrive on Mackinaw Island, and we receive a prime docking spot. The crew stumbles ashore on wobbly sea legs. After two days at sea our first steps on solid land are unsteady, as your inner ear balance continues to slosh around. Mackinaw Island is a picturesque vacation spot, stuck in a 19th century time warp. No motorized vehicles are permitted anywhere on the island.
All transportation is via bicycle, horse buggies and wagons.
The island's busy main street filled with every description of horse drawn tour carriages, delivery wagons, and buggies, which serve the islands many turn of the century hotels and inns. Now and then a hotel porter darts in and out of the horse drawn traffic on his sturdy delivery bike, as he peeks around a mountain of suitcases and luggage precariously stacked on his front basket. We walk down main street to the clomp of horse hooves, to the Pink Pony bar, unofficial race headquarters to review the preliminary race postings. We are recorded as first to finish in our class , but the thirty year old Tartan 34, with a generous race handicap, has corrected over us. For this race, Mirage will settle for second in class.