She called impatiently as I ran errands on a busy Saturday morning.  The errands would wait; I couldn't ignore the call.  I walked; it was cold and lightly misting, but it wasn't far.

The marina was barren, vacant of its summertime inhabitants of yachts and pleasure boats, now standing bellies exposed in dry-dock; an unfortunate pod of man-made beached whales.  Great chunks of ice take their place in the marina waters.  Butted up against each other, I had the sense that I could step out and walk across them as simply as crossing a bridge.  Past the marina, the waves rolled the icebergs in fluid motion, giving the channel the appearance that it was a long serpent breathing deep, deep breaths.

The pier was relentlessly being beaten by waves, which started to freeze even as they crashed over the top of the structure.  Thick, three foot icicles hung over its edge like eerie crystal stalactites.  The lighthouse at the pier's end wore an icy sheath, its paint a red undergarment peeking from beneath.

Gulls scavenged through tiny mussel shells that wash ashore.  No free handouts from sun-worshippers this season.  The sunbathers, swimmers, jet-skiers, and boaters - the fair weather visitors were gone.

A few cars were in the parking lot, occupants warmed by canned-heat, protected from the elements in their tiny capsules of safety.  No one else is about.  I had her all to myself.  Her voice was deafening here; the fierce howl of her wind as bitter as an old maid's memoirs.  The roar of her waves drowned out my small yelp as a gust slapped my face.

I've always loved Lake Michigan.  I spent many summers camping along her shoreline with my family.  Now decades later, living in South Haven just a few blocks from the lake, is a childhood dream come true.

I crossed the double row of snow fences, sinking up past my knees in snow covered with a fine layer of sand, like a sprinkling of cinnamon atop sugar.  I walked along the mountain ridge that sprang up from waves crashing upon waves, freezing, and building an icy barrier between the beach and water's edge.  It was captivating, but in winter the days are short - I still had errands to finish.

Back up town, a woman stopped me.  "Are you okay?" she asked more than once. "Uhm...yes?" I replied, wondering why she'd ask.  My pant legs were wet up to my knees, my shoes covered in wet sand, and a glimpse of my reflection in the plate-glass store front showed my hair to be a tangled mass whipped by wind.  I must have appeared to her as a wild woman.

She said she had watched me from her car for the longest time as I walked up the beach.  It was so cold and desolate, surely there had to be something wrong for me to be out there by myself. "You looked so small and alone", she explained.  I wanted to tell her that is part of the allure; there is excitement in being surrounded by something so powerful, so unforgiving; something that you have no control over.

"No really", I assured her, "I like it out there."  This admission seemed to do nothing more than convince her of my insanity. She hesitated, almost like she wanted to reach up and smooth my hair as one would an upset child, but I told her where to get a good cup of coffee, and she stopped questioning my sanity.

I forgave her for thinking I'd lost my mind, just as I forgave the Lake for making me appear insane.  I forgave her for her angry wind, her bitter chill - for this season of harshness.  That's where it ends; this forgiveness is not mutual.

She can not return some smallish human emotion such as forgiveness.  Maybe it's her right not to forgive.  Perhaps it is retaliation for doing the unforgivable ourselves - for polluting her waters, littering her beaches, and ruining her shoreline; for destroying miles of delicately fragile ecosystems of dune and forest to build houses and condos just so that we may gaze out at her beauty.  I think she's earned that right.