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• A Shorewood homeowner has drawn ire for aggressively chasing people off the Lake Michigan beach in front of his property, reigniting debate over who can use Wisconsin’s Great Lakes shoreline.

• Unlike neighboring states, Wisconsin grants private owners exclusive use of publicly owned beach up to the Ordinary High Water Mark, which expands private control during low-water years.

• A University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee professor deliberately walked the disputed beach, got ticketed for trespassing and wants to lose in court and appeal to challenge Wisconsin’s unusual shoreline law.

• The homeowner’s elaborate beach compound has previously triggered local and state scrutiny over permitting and alleged shoreline violations.

Reports have surfaced in recent months of a not-so-jolly buccaneer working Lake Michigan’s Caribbean-clear waters just north of Milwaukee. He has gained an almost mythical status among southeastern Wisconsin’s swimmers, boaters and internet surfers. 

He is not shaking down sailors for sugar, silk or gold. He is after something arguably more precious – the sole right to use the Lake Michigan beach behind his home and yard on the 4000 block of North Lake Drive, the second property north of Atwater’s swimming beach in the village of Shorewood.

“I dont want to be the dick but I stopped swimming there because a dude would always come out in a little black zodiac (raft) and yell. Stuff like ‘this is a historical site you cant be here,” grumbled one Redditor in an early December post. “…Watched the dude chase off all approaching boats too.”

Added another: “dude who lives just north of atwater is a menace. Hes yelled at me for swimming 100+feet off shore and came out in his little zodiac. Yall know the house lol.”

The house he is talking about is indeed an eye-catcher.

Distinct among other waterfront properties in Shorewood, this residence has a cluster of huts and an expansive deck at the bottom of a private cable car built to shuttle the owners from the main house on Lake Drive to the beach some eight stories below.

To call the beachfront development a patio, deck or even cabana doesn’t do it justice. It looks more like someone bought the set from the 1960s sitcom “Gilligan’s Island” — walled cabins, thatched roofs, boat ramp, surfboards, the works — and plopped it on a sandy Wisconsin beach that’s frozen half the year.

“Someone needs to introduce them to some Jimmy Buffet,” another Redditor posted in the December conversation. “You build a tiki porch… you share drinks and make new friends. Isn’t that a requirement to get the building permit approved?”

And that raises a question: How did regulators from the village of Shorewood and the state Department of Natural Resources allow this homemade Margaritaville to be built so close to the public’s lake?

Wisconsin’s curious shoreline law

Paul Florsheim is a 66-year-old clinical psychologist and a University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee professor who grew up on Lake Drive several houses north of Atwater Park. That was an era when he says the beach behind all the private homes perched atop the bluff was commonly treated as a public right of way, like a sidewalk. People were free to walk up and down it and enjoy it — within reason. Walking a kid and maybe a dog, yes. Tapping a keg or having a luau smack in front of someone’s house, of course not.

That’s why it bugged Florsheim when he moved back to Milwaukee after a tenure on the faculty at the University of Utah and saw signs posted at the edge of Atwater Park that read “Private Property Beyond this Sign – Trespassers may be subject to citation.”

Florsheim didn’t see things that way and, legally, they aren’t.

Those signs should actually read: “Public property beyond this point: No trespassing.”

And if that doesn’t make sense to you, it didn’t to Florsheim either.

Two of Wisconsin’s neighboring states on Lake Michigan – Indiana and Michigan – have laws that ensure public access to the lake’s shoreline, as long as beach walkers leave their limbo sticks at home, keep moving and stay below the “Ordinary High Water Mark” (OHWM), commonly understood as where the sand stops and terrestrial vegetation starts.

Wisconsin is different. It acknowledges public ownership of the beach up to that line, but it gives “exclusive” use of that public beach to the private property owner adjacent to it. The law is based on a 1923 Wisconsin Supreme Court ruling that beachcombers are free to walk the shoreline, so long as they stay in the water, even if it’s only enough to keep their feet wet.

This means, if you want to abide by the letter of the Wisconsin law while walking the beach, you have to skitter along the beach like a sandpiper, only in reverse – ever chasing the lapping waves back toward the water instead of running away from them.

And, while the Ordinary High Water Mark remains relatively fixed, the water level does not.

The level of Lake Michigan can, in fact, fluctuate by 6 feet over a period of several years. This means in low-water years, such as 2025, what was just recently a submerged public lakebed becomes vast expanses of exposed sand that becomes, in essence, private beach.

A Shorewood beach showdown 

Florsheim wants that to change, so in late July he walked down the 100-some steps to the beach at Atwater Park. Then he crossed the park boundary by scrambling over a dock-like concrete structure (called a revetment) jutting into the water separating Atwater Park from the neighbors to the north.

On the other side of the revetment that morning was tiki compound owner Daniel Domagala, who was preparing to take his kids out on their kayaks on an 80-degree, flat-as-glass water morning, conditions he described in courtroom testimony last month as “perfect.” Then he saw Florsheim, whom he did not know, making his way over the revetment with a couple of dogs.

“You’re in my backyard,” Domagala said he told the stranger after he cleared the concrete structure. “Why don’t you turn around and go back to Atwater?”

“No, I’m not,” he said Florsheim replied before ambling north.

Domagala said he was baffled by what he saw as a brazen attitude toward his property rights.

“Just imagine somebody is in your house telling you: This is not your house,” he testified.

Domagala said he remained calm and courteous during the exchange. He called police, but Florsheim was gone by the time they arrived.

A surveillance camera Domagala has placed at his beach compound revealed Florsheim returned to walk the dry sand above the water line in the following days. Florsheim even cordially ignored face-to-face warnings from Shorewood police who, cordially, told him to stop.

Police finally wrote him a trespassing citation that packs a $313 fine. Florsheim was happy to get what he saw as a ticket to where he really wanted to go — Shorewood Municipal Court.

On Dec. 2 Florsheim appeared at trial without a lawyer to make his argument that Wisconsin’s Lake Michigan shoreline should be open to the public up to the Ordinary High Water Mark.

At the conclusion of the folksy four-hour trial (Florsheim called his 95-year-old dad to testify that he and his shorefront neighbors always viewed the beach abutting their homes as public property), Shorewood municipal judge Margo Kirchner said she would render a decision in the coming weeks.

Florsheim said he hopes to lose so he can appeal his case all the way to the Wisconsin Supreme Court, which he hopes will see things his way.

The ramifications of Florsheim’s summer hike are potentially staggering. In low-water years, such as 2025, vast expanses of dry sandy beach can appear in places where, just a few years earlier, that lakebed was completely submerged. If Florsheim were to take his case all the way to the state Supreme Court and get a favorable ruling, the result could open untold thousands of shorefront acres on Wisconsin’s roughly 800 miles of Great Lakes shoreline to the public for beach walking, at least in low-water years.

Records show past shoreline violations

Meanwhile, it appears the compound owner has his own history of violations on the same stretch of beach Florsheim was ticketed on.

Shorewood Planning & Development Department records show in August 2015 Domagala, who did not respond to emailed questions from Wisconsin Watch, applied to build a fence and a covered patio on the beach adjacent to his property, in front of an aged concrete breakwater at the base of the bluff.

Domagala didn’t stop with the covered deck and the fence that separates the public beach from his property. He ultimately built a larger deck that, in high-water years, stretches almost to the water along with two enclosed cabins. Most of that work received permits, but not all of it.

In 2018 the village notified Domagala that one of those cabins was out of compliance with village regulations because Domagala, who identifies himself as the contractor in documents submitted to the village, equipped it with a bathroom that had no connection to the village sewer system.

A letter from the village instructed Domagala to “Remove all plumbing fixtures including the Separett toilet, shower stall and sinks from the boat storage house as it is in violation of State Plumbing Codes and Village of Shorewood Municipal Codes.”

Separett toilets are composting devices that are designed to aerobically decompose waste but require regular disposal.

Domagala told the village he installed the plumbing so his family and guests wouldn’t have to shuttle up and down the towering bluff just to relieve themselves.

“This issue is important to me because I cannot imagine hanging around the beach all day without a toilet or running water,” Domagala wrote to the Shorewood planning department in October 2018.

The village stood firm and ordered the removal of all plumbing fixtures – toilet included.

Domagala was not happy.

“I’m really bothered by the complaint,” Domagala wrote to Shorewood building inspector Justin Burris. “These people have nothing to do but be in my business. I think we have some good track record of working together and following the rules. I once lived in the country full of communists who thought they can tell you how to live…. This is deeper than a complaint for me. It’s the idea, and if it continues I will move out of the area.”

Domagala went back to the village later in summer 2020 after his wife reported a drone flying over their property during an unsettling time due to the pandemic and public demonstrations against the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis.

“Can you confirm that it was not (a) village of shorewood drone?” he wrote to building inspector Burris, who informed him he did not believe it was.

“… This situation is becoming more and more annoying. Between People from out of town who want to use my front lawn as their own,  My driveway being constantly blocked by cars on a day like yesterday,,Atwater being occupied by A crowd that does not live in shorewood where I can’t go to the playground with my own kids and perhaps meet a neighbor, the trespassers, the riots and finally the village chasing me whenever there is some communist with the idea that they want a piece of my beach, I’m trying to find reasons to stay in shorewood and Justify 25K spent on taxes every year.”

Burris, who described Domagala as cordial and cooperative in all his dealings with the village, nevertheless ordered the ramp shortened so it did not trespass on the public’s lakebed.

“I ask that you obtain a permit for the deck/boat launch structure that was constructed without a permit,” Burris wrote on June 19, 2020. “The structure will have to be modified so it does not project beyond the OHWM.”

Domagala did that work but he also drew attention from the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources that summer for installing piles of rocks directly in front of his compound to protect it from encroaching water after Lake Michigan water levels had climbed dramatically. State regulators found that the fortification was in an area they considered clearly below the Ordinary High Water Mark, where structures are not allowed without meeting rigid permit requirements.

“This would require a DNR permit for a structure on the bed of a waterway,” the DNR’s Michelle Hase wrote to the Shorewood Planning & Development Department on June 4, 2020. She said the DNR wasn’t about to grant such a permit. “Even if this area was exempt from permitting for rip rap/revetment, this project would not meet the exemption standards and would require a permit. It is also very unlikely we would permit this amount of fill/type of structure.”

Several days later, the DNR backed off.

“We received some guidance on Lake Michigan erosion control projects and unless there is a major resource impact, the DNR is not pursuing active enforcement,” Hase wrote to Shorewood’s planning department.

After hearing that news from the village, Domagala asked Burris if he should ask the DNR whether it would require any other modifications.

“You could contact the DNR, but how I read it was that they’re not going to be following up or asking you to remove or modify anything,” Burris wrote to Domagala. “That isn’t to say that they may not in the future, but the old adage says, let sleeping dogs lie.”

The DNR did not answer Wisconsin Watch’s question about why it took no enforcement action. A spokesperson wrote: “A member of DNR’s compliance team did reach out to the property owner regarding unpermitted shoreline erosion control, but the matter did not result in elevated enforcement.”

Questions about shoreline enforcement

Since then it seems most of the barking has been coming from Domagala; he testified at the Dec. 2, 2025, beach-walking trial that he had called police to report people trespassing on the beach last summer “at least” 50 times.

Todd Ambs, a former head of the DNR’s water division, says the agency does not routinely police Wisconsin beaches for development violations. It instead relies on public complaints to point out potential problems that, in turn, prompt the DNR to investigate.

The standing-room-only trial last month has indeed riled an avid lake-advocating community eager to point out potential problems with Domagala’s property. It includes Cheryl Nenn of the conservation group Milwaukee RiverKeeper. She has spent more than two decades working to protect the region’s waterways, and when she looks at the compound that has sprouted from the Shorewood sands in the past decade she is left with one word to describe it.

“Crazy.”

She is not alleging the compound as currently configured is out of compliance but says, from her experience with waterside developments, it appears that the compound may at least partially sit in the no-build zone below the Ordinary High Water Mark, especially when she compares it to the high-water line the DNR drew for nearby Atwater Park. That line goes right up to the greenery at the base of the bluff.

“It would be a good idea to have someone from the DNR get down there and delineate the Ordinary High Water Mark,” she said of the beach in front of Domagala’s compound, adding she isn’t looking to cause trouble for the homeowner. Quite the opposite. The no-build rule below the high-water mark, she says, “protects the lake and public rights, but it also protects the landowners …because the lake can be a mean, mean bitch.”

Dan Egan is the author of the New York Times bestseller “The Death and Life of the Great Lakes” and the Brico Fund Journalist in Residence at the Center for Water Policy in the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee’s School of Freshwater Sciences.

Public property. No trespassing? Man hopes his $313 ticket will reshape Lake Michigan shoreline access is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

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This story was produced in partnership with the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Investigative Journalism class taught in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication.

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• The state reported five deaths from people falling through the ice on Wisconsin lakes last winter, compared with seven over the previous five years.

• There were 10 Madison lake rescues the previous two winters (plus another one in the last week of December 2025) after only one in 2023.

• More dangerous ice conditions are having a negative effect on businesses and tourism.

When Alec Hembree fell through the ice on Lake Wingra last winter, he remembered, “it was instantaneous.”

It was just after dark on Jan. 20. The temperature was around 2 degrees. Hembree was riding his bike across the frozen lake from his work on Madison’s east side to his home on the west side, a commute he had tried successfully for the first time the previous week. When he fell in, his feet couldn’t touch the bottom. He barely had time to be scared.

“I think there were a couple people on the lake,” Hembree said. “They wouldn’t have been able to get to me before I got out.”

The air was so cold, Hembree’s leather gloves immediately froze to the icy surface of the lake when he tried to pull himself out. After about 30 seconds in the water, he was able to pull himself and his bike out. It all happened so fast, he wasn’t sure how he did it. He thinks his training from being an Eagle Scout helped. 

“Everything was in an ice shell at that point,” he said. He biked 10 minutes to a co-worker’s house, where he used a hair dryer to thaw his jacket zipper and get out of his frozen clothes before his co-worker gave him a ride home.

Hembree’s experience is becoming more common on Wisconsin’s lakes. For some, falls prove deadly. The Department of Natural Resources last winter recorded five people statewide who died falling through the ice on off-highway vehicles across the state. Between 2020 and 2024, similar accidents accounted for a total of seven deaths.

According to the Madison Fire Department, the Lake Rescue Team was dispatched four times to rescue people who fell through the ice this past winter and six times the previous winter, though only once in 2023. Through the end of last winter, the department had responded to 39 incidents of people falling through the ice since 2016. On Dec. 27 (as this story was being finalized for publication) the department rescued another individual who had fallen through the ice on Lake Mendota.

But those are only the incidents where the Lake Rescue Team was dispatched, so the stories of Hembree and others who fell through the ice and managed to escape aren’t included.

“This (past) year has probably been one of the more dangerous years on ice that I can remember,” said Lt. Jacob Holsclaw, the Wisconsin DNR’s off-highway vehicle administrator.

Treading on Wisconsin’s frozen lakes has gotten more dangerous, creating cost for taxpayers and business owners and calling into question the future of an important state pastime.

A growing trend

Trekking on Dane County’s frozen lakes is a common winter activity for southern Wisconsin residents.

“Walking on frozen lakes” was the most common activity on the lakes among respondents to a 2010 Dane County Land & Water Resources Department survey. At 28%, that was more common than swimming, kayaking, boating, or fishing from a boat or pier. Other ice-related activities such as skating and fishing were more popular than water skiing, jet skiing and sailing. The study authors estimated that close to 110,000 Dane County residents — more than a fifth of the population — walked on the county’s frozen water bodies at least once in 2010.

The heavy usage of the frozen lakes provides a revenue stream for numerous Dane County businesses and nonprofits. For example, the Clean Lakes Alliance hosts the annual Frozen Assets Festival, in which hundreds of participants take part in a fundraising 5K on frozen Lake Mendota and others enjoy scientific demonstrations, ice skating, kiting, boating and other ice-related activities.

But the future of frozen recreation in Dane County is in peril. Madison winters are getting shorter and less predictable. And falls through the ice are becoming more common.

Ron Blumer, a Madison Fire Department division chief who heads the department’s Lake Rescue Team and has been with the city since 1995, said in recent years his team has conducted “a lot more responses” to calls to rescue people who fell through the ice.

Part of the uptick can be attributed to climate change and the shrinking number of days of 100% ice cover on the Yahara lakes. Since 1855, when the Wisconsin State Climatology Office began consistently tracking Lake Mendota’s freezing and thawing dates, the lake has stayed frozen for an average of 102 days every winter. But only in four of the last 25 years has Mendota been frozen that long. During the 2023-24 winter, the lake was frozen for 44 days — a more than 20-year low. Last winter it froze for 69 days.

There’s no ‘safe’ ice

While information about how thick ice should be for walking or driving varies between sources, there is some consensus: No ice is ever completely safe.

“We really shy away from saying that there’s ever any ice that’s 100% safe,” Holsclaw said. The DNR’s website offers no hard and fast rules for what’s considered a “safe” thickness.

“You cannot judge the strength of ice by one factor like its appearance, age, thickness, temperature or whether the ice is covered with snow,” the website reads. “Ice strength is based on a combination of several factors.”

Air temperature is just one of those factors. But others include wind, sunlight, whether the ice is near a spring or other moving water, and whether the ice is frozen water (black ice) or mixed with snow (white ice).

“Black ice can withstand a lot more force (than white ice),” said Adrianna Gorsky, a freshwater and marine sciences Ph.D. candidate at UW-Madison. “Even if you have really thick white ice, it might not be as strong as if you had black ice only.”

Fluctuations in temperature during winter can also have a marked effect on ice thickness and quality. In January and February of 2025, it wasn’t uncommon for temperatures to fluctuate by tens of degrees within a single week in Dane County. On Jan. 21, the day after Hembree fell through the ice, Madison temperatures were in the single digits. A week later, on Jan. 28, the high temperature was 49 degrees. This frequent melting and thawing back and forth, Gorsky said, could result in mixed layers of black and white ice that would compromise the ice’s structural integrity.

Variations in temperature can also make lake ice expand or contract, causing pressure heaves or large cracks to form in the surface of the ice.

“And there will be a gap in there where there’s thin ice or no ice at all,” said Jon Mast, a lieutenant on MFD’s Lake Rescue team. These areas can be especially dangerous to walk near.

For as much that is known about factors affecting ice thickness and qualities, “there is a lot of unknown,” said Gorsky. That’s because winter limnology is relatively understudied compared to other areas of marine science.

“There’s a lot of things we still don’t know and a lot of theory that we’ve based off summer open water season that doesn’t really hold true for winter,” Gorsky said.

Increasingly visible effects of climate change on lake ice have precipitated “a cry for more research” in winter limnology, Gorsky added. And it can’t come soon enough. Because falls through the ice are costing local businesses, nonprofits and taxpayers money.

The cost of thin ice

In Madison, there are no fines associated with being rescued from falling through the ice. Because, Blumer said, “we want people to enjoy the lakes and to have fun.” But that fun still comes at a cost.

Businesses and organizations that rely on the ice for income are feeling the strain of weakening lake ice too.

In 2024 the Clean Lakes Alliance canceled all on-ice events for its Frozen Assets Festival, including the annual 5K. According to Sarah Skwirut, the Clean Lakes Alliance’s marketing coordinator, only around 200 participants participated in the on-land “winter workout” the organization hosted in lieu of the 5K, down from 800 who ran the 5K the previous winter, which generated around $30,000 for the nonprofit.

“If the lack of ice becomes more common in the future,” Skwirut said in an email, “we will need to adapt and find new ways to engage the community and promote our work.”

Small businesses are equally if not more affected by the phenomenon. In 2022, Pat Hasburgh purchased D&S Bait and Tackle in Madison, “very aware of what I was getting myself into as far as climate change and running a business that kind of depends on ice,” Hasburgh said. He admitted the recent, mercurial winters have made it difficult to plan for the ice fishing season.

“I mean, I had a pile of augers waist high in 2022,” Hasburgh said, citing that people are less likely to need such a high-powered tool to break through the ice in warmer winters. And 2024 was even worse.

“We had four weeks of ice, as opposed to three months,” he said. “That was a rough one to try to make it through as a business.” Hasburgh is used to around a third of D&S’s business coming from ice fishing, but guessed that it was probably less than a quarter in 2024.

Beyond Madison

The increase in falls through the ice is easier to see in a populous part of the state like Dane County. But the trend is apparent across Wisconsin. And in many cases, the cost is more than just lost business or an icy bike ride.

The five deaths this past winter happened in Pewaukee, Kenosha, Fond du Lac, Superior and Westfield, an hour north of Madison, where a man died on Jan. 6 after falling through the ice on Lawrence Lake while riding a UTV.

In a Facebook post, the Marquette County Sheriff’s Office urged the public “to avoid venturing onto frozen lakes or rivers unless they have confirmed the ice is thick enough for safe activities.”

The temperature in Westfield on Jan. 6 was below freezing and had been every day the previous week.

An October 2024 study published in Nature Reviews Earth & Environment warned that lakes between 40 and 45 degrees north latitude — a range that includes all of Wisconsin south of Wausau — could lose all safe ice for the winter sometime this century.

A solution may lie in more research. Gorsky said predicting the future of what winter is going to look like for lakes “is a really big research topic.”

For Hembree’s part, he considers himself lucky to be alive. But he has “no concerns” about going back on the ice. He’s enjoying it while he still can.

“If I do go out commuting on the lake again I will be, certainly, more cautious,” he said.

On thin ice: Falls through the ice on Wisconsin lakes are becoming more common. There’s more than just warm weather to blame. is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

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A version of this story was originally published by the Door County Knock, an independent, nonprofit news organization covering Door County, Wisconsin. Subscribe to its newsletters here.

The 143-foot tug boat Donny S. sits aground in a few feet of water on the northeast side of Baileys Harbor. One cannot miss it, whether buying smoked fish from Baileys Harbor Fish Company, renting a waterfront cottage, hiking at Toft Point State Natural Area or watching a sunset from the Baileys Harbor Yacht Club. 

Depending on who you talk to, the forsaken tugboat is a hazard, an eyesore or a curiosity. No matter what folks think about it, there is no question the Donny S. is something of a local celebrity. Hundreds of social media posts have been made about the vessel on what William Stephan, the chief engineer of another tug, calls “boat nerd” sites.

Attempts to move it have failed. Municipal, county, state and federal agencies have received complaints and inquiries about it. State representatives have gotten involved. The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources has convened four working group meetings and issued citations and fines to the boat’s owner, Jeremy Schultz. 

But the Donny S. remains mired on the lakebed, its status and fate uncertain.

The curious second life of the Donny S.

Before it came to rest in Baileys Harbor, the tugboat had a long and industrious life. Built in 1950 and named the G.W. Coddrington, it eventually wound up as the Donny S. in Sturgeon Bay. Owned by Selvick, and then Sarter Marine, the tug broke up ice for the winter fleet at Fincantieri Bay Shipbuilding and performed other commercial tugboat operations. 

The boat was decommissioned  in 2020 and sold to private owner, Jeremy Schultz, after it was unable to meet regulatory requirements laid out by Subchapter M. The rule, issued by the U.S. Coast Guard in 2016, established new protocols and standards for commercial tugboats and marine towing companies. 

Schultz moved the Donny S. to Baileys Harbor in 2021, with the intention of eventually taking it to Manitowoc to be scrapped, according to Mike Cole. Cole owns Ironworks Construction in Baileys Harbor. He also owns the dock the Donny S. was tied to when it arrived in Baileys Harbor. 

Sometime after August 2021, Schultz began preparing the tug to be moved to Manitowoc, Cole said. Preparation included “de-ballasting” the tug  – removing the water from ballast tanks that keep the heavy vessel from moving around in wind and damaging the dock. Schultz also got the boat moved farther away from the dock and  “pointed in the right direction,” Cole said. In order to do so, the Donny S. had to be untied, but at least one line was kept between the tug and the dock once it was situated where Schultz wanted it, he added. 

All of the ballast water had been pumped out of the vessel, a float plan was approved, and the tug was ready to go, Cole said. Then the Coast Guard received a complaint about possible contaminants on board, he said, and moving it was delayed.

It was just enough time for weather conditions to go from ideal to difficult. Autumn storms pushed the Donny S. aground, according to Cole. It has not moved since. 

Not for lack of trying, according to William Stephan. Stephan is the chief engineer on the Cheyenne, a tugboat owned by Five Lakes Marine Towing in Sturgeon Bay. Schultz worked on the Cheyenne and had arranged to have it tow the Donny S. to Manitowoc, according to Stephan.

The DNR issued its first citation to Schultz for obstruction of navigable waters in October 2022. On Dec. 22, the Cheyenne tried to move the Donny S. Stephan was on board. 

It was a zero-degree day, with a cold fog settled over Lake Michigan, he remembered. When the Cheyenne got to Baileys Harbor, the Donny S. was “high and dry,” he said, which was a surprise to him and the rest of the crew, as they thought it was ready to be moved. Instead, the 500 ton Donny S. was grounded firmly on the bottom of the lake and surrounded by ice chunks.

The Cheyenne tried a few maneuvers anyway, Stephan said, but it could not get close enough. The water around the Donny S. was too shallow and the Cheyenne did not have enough line to reach it from deeper water. 

“It was a wasted trip,” Stephan said. The Cheyenne’s crew had volunteered their time in exchange for getting a cut of the salvage from the Donny S., he said.

 “(Schultz) still owes me a port light,” he quipped. 

Tug condition, knowns and unknowns

Reports and observations vary regarding the condition of the Donny S. and what exactly is on board. There have not been any formal state or federal assessments made of the tugboat recently, and that is part of the reason nothing is being done about it, according to Mike Kahr. 

Kahr is a Baileys Harbor resident and civil engineer who owned Death’s Door Design and Development, a marine construction firm, for 35 years. 

“I believe it’s sitting on solid rock now with soft sediment around it,” he said, “and I believe if it starts moving in the storm, it’s going to pop a hole in it, and the oil in the bilge is just going to end up on the beach. I firmly, firmly believe that it’s not a question of if, but when.” 

Kahr became concerned about the tugboat when it first went aground in Baileys Harbor, he said. He has since contacted the Coast Guard, the DNR, the Town of Baileys Harbor and the Door County government, alleging it is an environmental hazard. Kahr is also part of a working group convened by the DNR in August 2025 to address the stranded vessel. 

In August, Kahr boarded the Donny S. and took photos, soundings and measurements that he claimed prove the boat is an environmental threat. There is upwards of 3 feet of “oily liquid” in the bilge and about 112 different fuel tanks present on board, he noted. The engines are still in the boat as well, though the transmission has been removed, he said. 

Kahr also took hull measurements with an ultrasound meter and the steel hull is pitted with rust and is ½ inch thick, he said.

It was the Coast Guard’s understanding that all potential pollutants like fuel had been removed from the Donny S. prior to attempts to remove it from the harbor, according to a phone conversation with Lt. Nathan Herring on Dec. 5.

Herring is the commander of the Coast Guard’s Marine Safety Unit in Sturgeon Bay, the office responsible for inspecting commercial vessels, waterway safety and pollution response. He attended the first DNR working group meeting on Aug. 28 and heard about Kahr’s findings for the first time.

“That was, I think, new news to everybody in the meeting,” Herring said. 

A current inspection and evaluation of the boat’s environmental condition and contents, by an authorized entity, is crucial for any progress toward removing the Donny S., according to Tressie Kamp, assistant director at the Center for Water Policy at UW-Milwaukee.

The organization is an interdisciplinary research center housed in the School of Freshwater Sciences, and it works with scientists, academics and technical experts inside and outside the UW system to review policy related to state waterways. 

The center published a policy brief in September regarding abandoned vessels in Wisconsin waters. 

“Government actors need to go on the boat and understand what the conditions are years after the last Coast Guard inspection,” Kamp said. Anyone who wants to do something about the tug, whether government or private actors, cannot know what efforts will consist of, or how much it will cost, until that happens, she added. 

Hazard, eyesore or curiosity?

The Donny S. has been drawing interest, and ire, ever since it’s been grounded. 

Mike Kahr is not the only one worried about the potential environmental fallout of the tug. Baileys Harbor Fish Company owner Todd Stuth has also been concerned about the Donny S. since it arrived in Baileys Harbor. It’s easy to keep it in mind, he said, because the tug is right in front of his business. 

“We get questions (from customers) every day,” Stuth said. 

As a commercial fisherman, Stuth has years of experience in the boating world, and he speculated that there is lead paint on the hull of the Donny S. Red lead paint was widely used as hull coating in the 1950s, when the tug was built, he said, which means specific abatement processes need to be followed in order to cut the boat apart for salvage.

Stuth is also certain that the Donny S. will leak at some point, spilling the contents of the bilge into Baileys Harbor waters, which would be a disaster for the watershed, he said. Toft Point State Natural Area and the Ridges Sanctuary are nearby. 

“I’m a little miffed that the state and county haven’t made a stronger push to have it removed,” he said. “We can put a man on the moon … but we can’t get a tugboat out of a harbor.”

Cole with Ironworks Construction asserted there are no contaminants on board the vessel, and everything potentially harmful has been removed, during a phone conversation on Dec. 8. In order to move it from Sturgeon Bay to Baileys Harbor, a float plan and inspection needed to be approved by the Coast Guard, he said. That was done and all potential hazards were removed at the time, he added. 

Captain Lynn Brunsen does not think the Donny S. is an imminent environmental threat either, he said. He works for Shoreline Boat Tours, operating out of Baileys Harbor, and said tourists are always intrigued by the tugboat. 

“I get within one hundred feet of it every time we do a tour,” Brunsen said. “There’s no evidence of oil, no slick or sheen in the water, no smell.” He does agree that eventually a hole will rust or break through the hull and whatever is in the bilge could spill out, he said. 

Brunsen also does not consider the tug a navigational hazard, he said, as it is sitting in about two feet of water. Nothing much bigger than a kayak can get next to it, he added. 

He is concerned about the tug as a safety hazard however, and has observed people climbing aboard the vessel via knotted ropes hanging down the side,“like something you would see on a pirate ship,” Brunsen said. 

Earlier this summer, someone lit what appeared to be smoke bombs or fireworks on board as well, he added. 

Whether a hazard or not, Stuth said, the Donny S. needs to go.

“The entire shoreline community in Baileys Harbor is pretty perturbed and wants it gone,” he said. 

Accountability in limbo

Whose responsibility is it to remove the Donny S.? The tug’s owner, Jeremy Schultz, is the obvious answer, according to municipal, county, state and federal agencies. The DNR has issued over a dozen citations for “unlawful obstruction of navigable waters” to Schultz from October 2022 to February 2024. Fines levied were upwards of $20,000. 

According to court records, Schultz’s fines were paid in June 2025. No fines or citations have been issued since. Notes obtained from the DNR’s working group meetings this fall stated that the owner does not have the means to remove the vessel. 

Schultz could not be reached for comment. 

“What people want to see happen is it is boarded and inspected by an official authority. We want to understand what’s on the boat and for someone to take responsibility for it,” Baileys Harbor town chairman David Eliot said in a phone call Dec. 3. (Disclosure: Knock editor-in-chief Andrew Phillips previously worked for a company owned in part by Eliot. Phillips was not involved in editing this story.)

The town sent a letter to the DNR in March 2025, and will be sending another, Eliot said. According to the letter, the town has received “many inquiries and complaints” from the community and considers the tug an eyesore and a hazard. 

Baileys Harbor was informed by the DNR that the Donny S. is not under the town’s jurisdiction, according to Eliot.

The Door County government has a similar position, Corporation Counsel Sean Donohue said. They would like to see the tug removed, but do not have jurisdiction or funds to do it themselves. Both town and county representatives have attended DNR working group meetings. 

The state authority is the DNR, and they have fined the owner and convened four stakeholder meetings since August to try to address the problem, but have taken no other action. The agency did not respond to inquiries in time for publication. 

From a federal standpoint, the Coast Guard’s involvement is only triggered if there is active pollution or a navigational hazard posed by the vessel, according to Lt. Herring. The Coast Guard does not deem either of those things a concern at this time, with the Donny S. 

“The first step in taking action would be if there’s an active pollutant coming from the vessel into a waterway,” Herring said. “We would be able to federalize that case, or that vessel, to where we can remove those contaminants from it. But as far as removing the vessel itself, there’s nothing that the Coast Guard would do at the onset.” 

Any costs incurred by Coast Guard removal or pollution cleanup would be forwarded to the owner of the tug, he added, and additional civil penalties and fines would be levied. 

One of the reasons cited by municipal, county and state authorities for abdicating responsibility for the tug is that the Donny S. is privately owned. There is no explicit definition of an abandoned vessel under Wisconsin law, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The state statute regarding abandoned property may suffice, but there is also no formal process for dealing with abandoned vessels, according to an administrative policy review in 2015 by NOAA’s Marine Debris Program. 

“The state is still wrestling with the Baileys Harbor case,” Kamp at the Center for Water Policy said, but the courts can make a determination as to whether the Donny S. is abandoned. Even if it is not abandoned, a government entity could seek an inspection warrant to board the vessel, she said. 

A lack of any clear mandate for government action further complicates the problem of removal, Kamp said. A number of government entities have authority to remove the tug, including municipal, county, state and federal agencies, she explained, but nothing that compels them to do so.

The situation is “a perfect storm” for creating confusion and questions on the part of government entities, she added, as indicated by the town and county government believing the situation is outside of their jurisdiction.

An expensive problem

Even if the jurisdictional and enforcement waters were not murky, removing the tug is no small undertaking, according to those who have already tried and members of the DNR working group. Notes from the group indicate initial estimates from salvage companies are upwards of $1 million. 

Those estimates are ridiculous, according to dock and Ironworks’ owner Cole, and he said he thinks he would be able to remove the tug for much less. 

“No one has asked me though,” he said. 

If the Donny S. does indeed contain lead paint, tanks with residual fuel, and contaminants in the bilge, that makes for a complicated removal, according to commercial fisherman Stuth. In order to scrap it properly in that case, it would need to be cut up on the water, requiring a crane, a barge and mitigation around the vessel to block anything leaching into the water, he speculated. 

Unclear authority over the tug, as well as its uncertain abandonment and hazard status means “no salvage company wants to touch it,” he added. 

Door County Corporation Counsel Donohue also indicated that even if it turns out various authorities have jurisdiction over the tug, or are found legally allowed to remove it, the funding to do so is simply not there. 

There are grants available for marine debris and abandoned or derelict vessel removal. The DNR provided information to Schultz about available grants and indicated he would need municipal or county government cooperation in applying for them, according to notes from the working group meetings. Neither town nor county officials have been contacted by Schultz regarding grant funding at this time. 

Removing stranded vessels should be covered by a statute requiring penalties of the vessel’s owner and compelling them to act, according to Kamp. If the owner is insolvent or there is no appetite for government enforcement, she said, there are other potential funding sources. 

Existing environmental funding streams, like grants, are used up very quickly in Wisconsin, she said. The Center’s policy brief advises giving the legislature authority to create a designated funding program for abandoned vessels, based on what some other states have done. 

However, the Center advises Wisconsin “emphasize ways to not put the taxpayers on the hook for addressing these things,” Kamp said. “Keep the responsible entities (the owners) on the hook.” 

Abandoned vessels statewide

The Donny S. is not the only recently grounded vessel in Wisconsin, but it is by far the largest. The Deep Thought, a Chris-Craft Roamer, became grounded near Bradford Beach in Milwaukee in 2024, after the owners ran out of fuel. The boat was beached for several months, becoming a popular local attraction. In May 2025, Milwaukee County ended up paying for its removal.

In the summer of 2024 another boat, this time a motor yacht named the Sweet Destiny, beached in the St. Croix River, near Hudson, Wis. After months of complaints and fines, the boat was removed through volunteer efforts and donations.  

The 33-foot and the 54-foot pleasure boats were newer and much smaller than the Donny S., with fewer potential environmental issues. 

These cases illustrate gaps in Wisconsin law when it comes to abandoned vessels. The DNR is the lead agency responsible for administering the patchwork of laws that address abandoned vessels, public nuisances and waterway obstruction, according to information from NOAA’s Marine Debris Program. 

Though the Center for Water Policy did not do a broad survey or count of abandoned vessels in the Great Lakes, Kamp said, “the fact we have these examples, and mechanisms to deal with them in other states indicates this is not a one-off problem.” 

Fourteen other states have state-level programs concerning abandoned vessels, including designated funds. Wisconsin lawmakers introduced a bipartisan bill earlier this year that would clearly define abandonment of a vessel, and threaten owners of such vessels with up to nine months of jail time and a fine of $10,000 if they do not remove it within 30 days.  

An anonymous letter sent to local media and the DNR called out State Sen. Andre Jacque and Rep. Joel Kitchens for their perceived lack of response to the Donny S. A hand-painted banner reading  “Jacque and Kitchens are fine with this” hung on the tugboat at one point this fall.

According to local legislators themselves, they are aware of the issue and have had some involvement. Jacque sent a staffer to the first DNR working group meeting, and his office has researched options for removal and funding.

Kitchens was invited to the first meeting in August, but did not attend, as it conflicted with a hearing for Northern Sky Theater’s tax status, he said. 

“We write laws but have no enforcement,” Kitchens said in a phone call on Dec. 3, “We have the least ability to do anything.” 

If there are contaminants on board, Kitchens said it is “certainly up to the DNR to take steps.” 

Ultimately, it is the owner’s responsibility though, he added.   

Sen. Tammy Baldwin is also aware of the situation, according to Alanna Conley, Baldwin’s deputy communications director.

“At this point, according to public statements from the Coast Guard and folks on the ground, this feels like an issue we would support funding for,” Conley said. “The Town of Baileys Harbor could apply for a debris removal grant. Baldwin’s office supports funding.”

While legislators legislate, officials meet and discuss, shoreline property owners complain, tourists take photos, and everyone waits for someone else to act, the Donny S. remains mired in the lakebed and a gray area of accountability. 

The DNR and Coast Guard did not respond to open record requests in time for publication.

‘We can put a man on the moon … but we can’t get a tugboat out of a harbor’: Who will move the abandoned Donny S.? is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

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This story was originally published by Bridge Michigan, a nonprofit and nonpartisan news organization. To get regular coverage from Bridge Michigan, sign up for a free Bridge Michigan newsletter here.

Western religions say it worked once. Now, some are exploring a Noah’s Ark strategy to save whitefish from collapse in lakes Michigan and Huron.

Once abundant in these lakes, stocks have plunged so sharply that scientists fear entire bloodlines could vanish within years. With no cure in sight for the mussel invasion that has made the big lakes so unlivable, some want to move whitefish to inland lakes or ponds, where they would live as refugees until conditions improve.

“We need to make sure that, 20 years from now, if the lake is ready again, we can return the descendants of fish that came from here,” said Jason Smith, a scientist with the Bay Mills Indian Community who is winning some early interest in his “genetic rescue” strategy.

Modeled in part on a successful pond stocking program in the Upper Peninsula, the idea echoes a global trend. As human-caused harms push millions of Earth’s species to the brink, interventions that once may have seemed far-fetched are becoming routine.

“We’re going to see more of this,” said Gregory Kaebick, a senior research scholar at the Hastings Center for Bioethics, a nonprofit think tank based in Garrison, New York.

“The extinctions right now are almost entirely due to human intervention in the first place. So there’s a sense that if we’ve caused the problem, then we ought to be contributing to trying to fix it.”

The pond rescue idea is just one among many to save whitefish, none of which are sure bets. But there’s evidence it could work: For several years, the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians has reported success raising small numbers of whitefish in ponds, then releasing them into lakes when they are larger.

“It’s more hands-off and the fish are exposed to the environment,” said Rusty Aikens, the tribe’s fisheries enhancement coordinator.

Expanding upon that methodology to keep the fish in ponds indefinitely would require millions of dollars and coordination among the tribal, state and federal agencies that co-manage the Great Lakes fishery.

But the idea speaks to desperation to prevent a loss that would not only corrode a key piece of Great Lakes culture but ripple through the food web and regional fishing economy.

“We think of Atikameg as the canary in the coal mine,” said Smith, using the Anishinaabe word for whitefish. “They’re the ones struggling first, but we would be foolish to think they’re the only ones.”

Whitefish in exile

Whitefish are endangered by tiny quagga and zebra mussels, natives of Eastern Europe that came to the Great Lakes in freighters and were first spotted here in 1989. They now blanket the bottom of four out of five Great Lakes, siphoning nutrients and plankton and leaving behind crystal-clear water with barely anything for whitefish to eat.

Scientists are searching for a solution, but a breakthrough could be decades away, and the effort is poorly funded compared to other Great Lakes threats.

Though whitefish remain stable in Saginaw Bay, lower Green Bay and Lake Superior, scientists fear the mussels could eventually harm those fish, too. Even if not, shrinking a deep gene pool down to a few smaller populations creates a risk of lost fitness and inbreeding. And tribes leading the whitefish rescue effort say it’s about more than ecology.

The fish are kin, deserving protection in exchange for the millenia they have spent sustaining human diets.

“If they’re extirpated, or if they’re diminished such that we don’t have access to them, we’d be lesser as a community,” said Doug Craven, natural resources director for the Little Traverse Bay Band of Odawa Indians.

Advocates of pond-rearing view it as a cheaper, more humane and more promising alternative to raising fish in hatcheries, where they are often packed into concrete raceways or plastic tanks that require lots of electricity and constant monitoring.

Studies also show that fish raised in these tightly controlled environments have less knack for surviving in the wild.

For the past five years, the Sault Tribe has been raising small numbers of whitefish in ponds near Sault Ste. Marie (225,000 this year) until they are several months old, at which point they’re trucked to the north shore of lakes Huron and Michigan. It’s a workaround, meant to protect them from the zooplankton shortage that kills hatchlings in the Great Lakes.

Unlike hatchery-raised fish, these fish must learn to feed themselves, steer clear of predators and deal with changing weather and other variables. The mortality rate in ponds is higher than in hatcheries. But Aikens said that’s not necessarily a bad thing:

“The ones that do make it to this point? They’re fitter,” he said as Sault Tribe scientists netted the 3-inch fingerlings in preparation for transport to Lake Huron.

The trouble is, the stocking program is tiny. And it will take years to know if it’s working. Young whitefish disappear into the deep water and typically aren’t seen again until they return ashore to spawn years later.

“There’s a lot of hurdles they need to overcome between now and then,” Aikens said.

So from Smith’s perspective, there’s a need for a backup plan.

Encouraged by the promise of pond-rearing, he began talking with U.S. Forest Service officials last year about finding some ponds in the Hiawatha National Forest where whitefish could hunker down indefinitely, perhaps for multiple generations, until the mussel invasion subsides.

“Time is of the essence to see if there’s consensus that we should do this or some other preservation measure,” Smith said. “It’s not simple, it’s not inexpensive, but it might be really important.”

Officials with the Little Traverse Bay Band are open to partnering on such a project, while state regulators and The Nature Conservancy have also shown some interest.

One barrier to more coordinated action: There is no comprehensive rehabilitation plan for whitefish, unlike lake trout and sturgeon. Tribal, state and federal experts have begun discussing whether it’s time to write one, said Steve Lenart, a fish biologist with the Michigan Department of Natural Resources.

“I don’t think anybody’s thinking that it’s not a pretty urgent topic,” Lenart said, but “coordination and collaboration — those things take time.”

Get used to it

If circumventing species loss by moving fish to a whole new environment sounds radical, get used to it.

Human forces including habitat loss, climate change and the spread of invasive species are pushing nature to the brink, forcing emergency rescues and heartbreaking decisions about what not to save.

Life on Earth is vanishing at a rate unmatched in human history, with some 28% of species assessed by the International Union for Conservation of Nature at risk. In Michigan, state officials have designated 407 species as threatened or endangered.

“We are in an extinction crisis, no question about it,” said Budhan Pukazhenthi, a scientist with the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. “But the challenge is also, what can we do to either slow it down or to completely stop it?”

Groups like his have cloned endangered animals. Governments are freezing animals’ tissue samples “just in case” and establishing massive seed libraries like the “doomsday vault” on the island of Spitsbergen, Norway. Zoos around the globe — including in Michigan — are breeding and releasing rare animals into the wild.

Still, it won’t be feasible to save everything. Some officials have begun using a framework known as Resist, Accept Direct to help them decide when and how to intervene.

“We know these systems are changing,” said Abigail Lynch, a scientist with the USGS National Climate Adaptation Science Center. “We can either acknowledge these difficult issues now and make more informed decisions, or we can ignore them and let those decisions be made for us.”

Time is running short for many of the lower lakes’ whitefish. In some areas, almost no hatchlings have survived to adulthood for nearly two decades. Most whitefish left in those waters are grandparents that will soon die of old age.

In Little Traverse Bay, the average whitefish caught in fishing nets is more than 20 years old. It’s growing difficult to even catch enough fish for experiments that aim to save this genetically distinct population.

Smith knows some might see the pond rescue idea as extreme. But to him, risking the fish’s disappearance from the lower lakes is far moreso. Money, time, uncertainty about whether it will work — he sees those all as worthwhile sacrifices to save an icon of the Great Lakes.

With one caveat:

“If we do it, does that absolutely obligate us to bust our ass to fix the lakes?” he said. “One-hundred percent.”

Time running out for Great Lakes whitefish. Can ponds become their Noah’s Ark? is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.