Blow, Winds, and Crack Your Cheeks!

Mark and I went to see King Lear at the Goodman Theater. The Goodman has some of the highest budget theater around, and this production, directed by Robert Falls and starring Stacey Keach, had elaborate halls, kitchens, chandeliers, urinals, cars, and, of course, the storm.

At the beginning of the third act, when Lear is going mad, raging against the elements, Keach stood at the edge of the stage in an undershirt, rain pouring over him, and howled, “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!” You can’t help but feel good for him in that moment, because he is free from his daughters Goneril and Regan, free from the political constraints of kingship and court life. He is just himself – and whatever physical and spiritual strength still in him – at the whim of nature. And even though it’s a tragedy and you know he’s bound for the worst, you think in that moment that he’s going to win.

After everybody died and Edgar spoke the last word, we poured out onto the downtown sidewalk. It was bitterly cold – unusual for mid-October – and late; the fountains broadcasting electronic faces in Millennium Park were dark, taxis were thinning, even the panhandlers were growing weary. “She’s beautiful,” one said as we passed him by, “and she loves you.” By the time we walked the 20 minutes to the harbor, it was pouring rain, freezing drops blowing sideways in the western wind. The tenders had stopped service. We had to row home.

When I tell people I’ve just met about living aboard Mazurka, the inevitable first question is, “Yes, but what do you do in winter?” I have a standard answer: “There’s a heater, and Mark rigged up a furnace, it’s insulated, he wraps the whole thing in plastic. There’s a bubbler to keep the water circulating around the boat.” They look at me like I’m crazy – like it’s impossible to live on a boat in a Chicago winter. “Mark’s done it for two years,” I explain.

I always end my spiel with, “It’s not that bad. It’s pretty nice, actually. And how cold does Chicago get, anyway?”

The real answer, of course, is that it can get bad, very bad, and Chicago is damn cold, especially when the wind blows. Sure, there are January days when the sun shines and the wind is calm and the heater works and the furnace works and the plastic stays in place. Those days are even balmy. But on nights when the furnace pumps cold air, and the wind beats the plastic to hell and slithers up under the windows, and the temperature falls below zero, and the air sucks all the heat out of the river, and the water starts to cool…then it is not a vacation. Then you develop a different relationship to winter. It goes beyond just tolerating the cold, waiting it out – you have to like the cold, embrace it, invite it to bed with you –

It’s hard to explain why you would subject yourself to conditions like this when there are perfectly good heated apartments available in every neighborhood of the city. It’s hard to explain why you would want to row in the dark, freezing rain, or that when the wind caught us up and swooped us beyond Mazurka, I suddenly didn’t feel cold or wet anymore – I felt exhilarated. Would we be unable to row back? Would the wind take us all the way to the breaker wall, where we would wait out the night in miserable wet solitude? Mark rowed harder, trying to catch the stern of Mazurka, which was curving back and forth in the water, a whale not wanting to be caught. The freezing wind whipped snot from our faces, tears from our eyes, spewed ice cold lake water on us. We finally hooked the tail of the swim deck, scrambled aboard, skirted the ice on deck and spent the night under blankets in a cabin registering 41 degrees.

Winter is coming. And eventually, I will lose. But as long as I have strength to withstand the cold, I’ll rage against it. “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!” I’ll howl – ‘cause Lear didn’t lose his sanity in the elements – he found it.