Beyond Safe Harbor
Hurricane Marine Transport's Abraham Adventure.
Published: Wednesday, November 4, 2026 9:00 am
By: Gordon McGeough
Every worthwhile adventure begins with a decision to leave safe harbor. Clinical psychologist and author Dr. Jordan Peterson often describes the biblical story of Abraham as the archetype of that decision. Called by God to leave the comfort of home and venture into an uncertain future, Abraham's journey wasn't simply about geography. It was about voluntarily accepting risk in pursuit of a life filled with meaning.
That idea came to mind when my phone rang. "Are you going?"
"YES! I'm in." The invitation was irresistible: ride shotgun with Ian S. Fenberg and Team HURRICANE on a yacht delivery to Lake Tahoe, California. I would get Gordie's seat — Ian's dog, sidelined by medical issues. Even better, we were returning to the same destination featured in Hurricane's EYE of the STORM series, transporting another yacht for Ron Silvia and Jefferson Beach Yacht Sales.
While I counted the days, Ian spent weeks preparing. Studying the yacht's line drawings, he calculated it would load at 17 feet, 6 inches — 15 inches taller than the previous Tahoe trip. His first call was to Sarah Willoughby at West Chester Permit. "Sarah's my girl," Ian said, and together they tackled permits and routing while Ian coordinated route surveys and arranged for a bucket truck through Wisconsin and Minnesota. It wasn't required. It proved indispensable.
As permits trickled in, Ian studied every mile on Google Earth. "I'm no Google fan," he said, "but it's a useful tool, like the sand tables our soldiers studied before D-Day." He typed route notes for height pole escort "Trooper" Tom Dray, a retired 26-year Ohio State Highway Patrol veteran and Hurricane's longest-serving team member. Escorting the rear was Chris Smith, Tom's friend, on only his third transport.
The journey began June 1. After unloading a boat in Waukegan, Illinois, we rolled into Kenosha, Wisconsin, where we'd load the Sunseeker 55 Predator the following morning. On the way, I asked Ian about his many nicknames, including "The Captain."
"When you sponsor your beer league hockey team for 25 years," he laughed, "you get to wear the 'C.'"
Before sunrise, Hurricane's Waltron trailer, CV-6 — "The Big E"— stretched to 65 feet as the crew positioned pads and blocks with precision. Ian held a sheet of notes.
"What's that paper?," I asked.
"We document every boat we move. The second time we haul one, loading takes half the time." He wasn't exaggerating. In 45 minutes, the Sunseeker sat on the trailer at exactly 17 feet, 5 inches. "Full marks to my junior high math teachers, Mr. Gossman and Mr. Givens," Ian smiled. The IPS drives traveled in Hurricane's custom totes, while Kevlar protected the hardtop from branches and utility wires. "This is a thinking man's transport company," Tom proclaimed.
Around noon, Tom became ill and was later admitted to the ER with a kidney infection, leaving the crew shorthanded. "Chris really stepped up," Ian said. "I was proud of him." Then came another obstacle. Minnesota's permit still hadn't arrived after nearly two weeks, and Wisconsin's remained outstanding. When Wisconsin's permit finally arrived very late on June 3, Ian chose to wait another day, giving Tom added recovery time. "I don't like costing the customer money," he said, "but it was the right decision." Before sunrise the following morning, the convoy rolled.
Wisconsin immediately justified the bucket truck. Crew members repeatedly lifted wires so the 17-foot-5-inch yacht could pass. Five and a half hours into the day, we'd covered barely 100 miles. Near Pewaukee, after clearing three fiber-optic cables, we pulled over to let traffic pass. As Chris directed vehicles around the boat, an impatient woman stopped to complain before speeding forward to confront Tom. Moments later — WHAM! A school bus failed to stop and crushed the rear of her car. Thankfully, no one was hurt. Tom checked on everyone involved, and before long Team HURRICANE was moving again. By day's end, we'd covered only 235 miles.
The next morning brought more delays. Minnesota's permit still hadn't been issued, and the lead escort faulted into reduced power. Rather than push our luck, we stopped early near Red Wing. "HOW… do you stay so calm?" I asked.
"Steve Yzerman's the greatest captain in sports history," he replied. "I've never met him, but I've always tried to lead the way he did." Then he smiled. "Besides... cussing just reveals your lack of vocabulary."
Once Minnesota finally issued the permit, the miles came easier. We left the bucket truck at the state line and crossed into South Dakota, covering nearly 580 miles. In the Badlands near Rapid City, 40-mph winds and 104-degree temperatures pushed both escorts to their limits. Shade-tree repairs by Chris kept his Volkswagen alive long enough to reach civilization. The following morning, it finally surrendered. Only a few miles outside Rapid City, it overheated again. Ian changed on the fly. Tom dropped him at the airport, where he rented the last available vehicle — a brand-new Toyota Tundra. The rental clerk repeatedly let Ian know this was a “local rental” and returning the Tundra next week anywhere but this airport would incur a huge penalty. Then smiling, he asked, "Where are you headed?"
Ian paused. "Ohh...ahh… Mount Rushmore... Crazy Horse..." Then, low under his breath: "...Lake Tahoe."
By 11 a.m., the pickup had flags, strobes, warning signs, and a two-way radio. It had officially joined Team HURRICANE. Soon, Wyoming presented another challenge. The overpass to enter I-25 South was too low for the yacht. "We followed this route last year and almost high centered," Ian explained. Not this time. Waiting for an opening on I-25 North, Ian executed a flawless U-turn with the nearly 115,000 pound combination. "I don't need forty acres," The Captain laughed.
At the Casper Port of Entry, the yacht finally crossed a scale. "Perfect," the officer said. "109,990 pounds gross." Ian asked where we could stop that night. She smiled. "Honey... after Casper, there ain't no good place." She called the permit office, flirted with the technician, and had us rerouted through Riverton, WY. "Awesome burgers there at the Rusty Truck," Ian said.
June 9th belonged to the mountains. Outside Riverton, we began a five-mile climb through Wyoming's Wind River Range, crawling toward 8,800 feet at 25 mph. "Perfect Penske Power," Ian said, praising his Detroit Diesel Series 60. "Roger Penske is another hero of mine." Tom pulled ahead on the climbs, then stopped to — as Boston sings — "cool the engines." On the descents, the Jake Brake echoed through the canyons. "Same gear up, same gear down," Ian explained. He had eighteen to choose from.
Despite hauling a $3 million yacht, he never appeared uneasy. We followed portions of the old Mormon Trail, crossing the Continental Divide four times as historical markers passed by. After nearly 2,400 miles, I realized Ian had never turned on the stereo. "I need to hear my guys instantly," he said, tapping his aviation-style headset. "Last time that prevented a near disaster in Nevada." Instead, he listens to his truck. "THIS Western Star is the finest truck I've ever owned," he said. "I talk to it, just like Mark Fidrych talked to the baseball."
When empty, he listens to books — more than 100 in the past three years, mostly about business and military leaders, along with podcasts by Victor Davis Hanson and Mike Rowe. His music is equally eclectic: Turnpike Troubadours, Reckless Kelly, and Whiskey Myers.
"They sing about the road and lost love."
By afternoon we approached Salt Lake City, threading through the Wasatch Range as the Union Pacific tracks and I-80 squeezed us onto what Ian called a "goat path." The scenery was spectacular. Salt Lake City was not. Low bridges forced us off I-15 and onto city streets, frustrating motorists and testing everyone's patience.
"Hey, I'm #1 again!" Chris radioed after another driver expressed his opinion. This convoy had traveled places I never imagined, through cities and towns hundreds of miles from navigable water. Everywhere we went, horses, cattle, antelope, prairie dogs, and people, stopped to stare.
"I love the reactions," Ian chuckled. "Watch... read their lips." He was right. Then he looked at me. "This is as close as we'll ever get to knowing how it feels to be a pretty woman." He was right again. We'd been photographed almost as much as Cindy Crawford.
It took more than three hours to escape Salt Lake City before following US 6 southwest into the desert, tight-roping between oncoming Semis with no shoulder to spare. In Delta, we were the talk of the town, parking beside a Mexican restaurant and a Best Western filled with bikers and solar-field workers. After dinner, Ian and Tom flushed the escort truck's radiator at a car wash. Overheating solved.
Nevada brought even more breathtaking scenery. From Ely we climbed from 4,000 to 7,600 feet on narrow, winding roads with little visibility around the curves. "Eighteen comin' back," Tom radioed. "Nothing after that." Thankfully, traffic was light. Approaching Tonopah, NV Ian told me, "they trained B-24 crews here during World War II," slipping into historian mode. Tonopah would also be our last fuel stop before reaching our destination. The cost of diesel and the fuel taxes levied in California are head and shoulders above every other state.
"Newsom's not getting any revenue from us.", Ian half-jokingly said.
US-95 carried us to Hawthorne and another climb to nearly 9,000 feet before crossing into California. Ahead, the Sierra Nevada filled the windshield. Words are inadequate. North on U.S. 395, we followed the East Walker River before briefly crossing back into Nevada. In Minden, low wires demanded every bit of Ian's driving skill. No bucket truck this time. Just experience.
Soon we crossed back into California and began the last descent toward Lake Tahoe. The ‘Jake’ screaming down the six-mile, six-percent grade before we eased into Meyers and its decidedly un-truck-friendly roundabouts. The paparazzi returned. People stopped. Phones came out. A final left. A few low limbs. A final right. Then Hurricane's Western Star rolled through the gates of Tahoe Keys Marina. Mission complete.
Air horns. Hugs. High-fives. First to greet us was the beaming new owner, Tony, followed by Ron Silvia, and the JBYS team. Tom looked exhausted. Chris couldn't stop smiling. Ian quietly bowed his head. After 3,576 miles, the Sunseeker arrived without so much as a scratch.
That evening, Tony welcomed everyone to his lakeside home. To celebrate, Ian flew in ribeye steaks from the legendary 6666 Ranch in Texas and crab cakes from Jimmy's Famous Seafood in Baltimore. It was one memorable dinner. As the bourbon, laughter, and stories flowed, I noticed something.
Whenever Ian described a mistake, he began with the word "I."
"I should have…,” "I didn't..." — The responsibility was always his.
But when he talked about success, the first word changed. "We." “We made it. “ ”We figured it out.” That's the hockey code. That's our Captain.
Maybe that's what lies beyond safe harbor. In four days, we'd roll East for Michigan with Tony's trade-in, but that's a story for another day.
Photos by Chris Smith
tags: Hurricane Marine TRansport
