Autumn brings in cold offshore winds that stir the water of Lake Michigan, creating waves parallel to those of a calm ocean. This is when it perfectly mirrors the sea. And if I close my eyes, I can almost smell the salt. The sun is going down earlier than ever, so I push off down the bike path to my favorite place—the one where the waves embrace.
As I pass the marinas, the dry-docking chatter is accented by the hum of the rusted shiplift as it takes boats from the harbor towards their winter homes. I watch as the rich-colored leaves loosen their grip on the trees. Meandering through two bridges, the path takes me away from the water and around sports fields where groups of children begin practice. Geese cling to puddles near the bike path, a possible sign of unruly waves. Arriving at my destination, I park my bike and rest my legs in two broken indentations in the concrete steps on the northern edge of the beach. The waves are high, the air is warm, and I arrive just in time.
Slivers of orange sunlight creep through the gaps in tall buildings and rest on the white, bubbling crests of the waves. Without a tide to push them in, the sets are infrequent, yet driven, as if they, too, are enjoying the last of summer. Looking north along the concrete steps, remnants of what look like rusted shipwrecks stick out of the water. They aren't wreckage, but a type of breakwater or revetment designed to dissipate their force before they eat at the concrete. The sound of waves hitting the side of a steel breakwater is hollow, like a metal latch striking a wooden door in a storm. This design is featured all over the encroaching and relentless Great Lakes. These structures were installed by the Corps of Engineers, seemingly (and unsurprisingly) without consultation from coastal geologists. In a perfect world, these structures would not exist, and the “littoral” drift of sand and sediment would be allowed to shift and move as it has since Lake Michigan’s infancy (around 14,000 years ago). Of course, that would mean it would take our infrastructure with it. The solutions to nature’s “encroachment” on the land we stole from it often lie within nature itself. Mangroves are a prime and relevant example of this. They protect coastlines from storms and slow storm surges for equatorial shores. For Chicago, however, protecting the coast from the waves may lie in a soft-shore approach where excess sand is compounded to create a type of “beach-barrier”. But for now, the revetments stand, and I ignore my internal monologue of the Lake’s various ecological issues to settle in and watch my favorite fall program.
The breakwaters “block” oncoming waves, sending them backwards to disarm the force of the ones that follow. When two cresting waves collide in a “clap,” they create a slow-motion, sculptural dance of water. I only feel the spray after it’s gone; a witness to its first and last moments. If the waves hit each other just right, they form a sculpture tall enough to set aflame with the tangerine glow of the setting sun. That’s why the timing is precious. The mix of warm wind, high waves, and clear skies makes this phenomenon a beautiful rarity. And with the shifting sands of the lake shore as it has done since the end of the Paleolithic, this place may shift too. But so long as it's here, I’ll be its witness, cherishing the fleeting sculpture garden that only reveals itself in the early whispers of Autumn.
Sources:
https://chicagoreader.com/news/on-the-beach-2/
Essentials of Oceanography, Wave and wave dynamics, chapter 8
https://topex.ucsd.edu/ps/trujillo_waves.pdf
U of Illinois/INHS Ancestral Lake Michigan write-up
Shoreline Protection Project Chicago.gov