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Portland To Seattle (the long way...)
by Doug Sanderson (1993)
--- preparations ---
It just sat there. The boat was moored there so long that I
expected to see it put on a nautical chart with its own little
"nb" symbol for "neglected boat". It was a half finished
Westsail 28 with a green sheer stripe, its mast laying
horizontally on the cabin top, and its wood trim looking like it
was past all hope of recovery. Personally, I think the other
boats made fun of it as they went by. Like a dog chained to the
garage, it could watch and wish but never follow. Year after
year, Greg would give me a ride on his sailboat, and we would
pass by it on the way out of the slough to the Columbia River.
Despite the years of accumulated grime from the jets using the
Portland Airport, it was still a boat that Greg and I lusted
after, or at least one of them. I even thought about leaving a
"hey I'm interested in your boat" card on the hatch when I
started getting serious about buying my own boat, but I didn't.
I knew I could never afford a Westsail 28 and I figured the boat
would probably remained tied to that dock forever.
The boat, however, had other ideas.
Two months after I started seriously looking for my own boat, I
suddenly found myself the owner of that half finished boat with
the green stripe. Negotiations for the sale of the boat had been
awful. There was offer and counter offer. There were arguments
about who should pay for the repair of the blister damage to the
hull. Worst of all was the brass windlass, and whether or not it
was included in the price of the boat. The owner would like to
have kept the windlass; a seed for his dream of "that next boat
someday". But, he needed the money, and I was a jerk. I took
not only his current dream, but the seed for the next one as
well.
Having purchased the boat, I was faced with the problem of
working on it when I lived in Seattle and it lived in Portland,
180 miles south of my garage. The logical choice was to have the
boat trucked to Seattle, but then, what did "logic" have to do
with owing a sailboat? After spending all that time tied to the
dock, I was sure the boat would much rather leave town under its
own power. Besides, I was looking forward to sailing to Seattle.
I therefore became a weekend commuter; 3 hours to Portland on
Friday after work, and 3 hours back Sunday evening. I figured I
would build a dinghy while the boat spent 3 or 4 months having
its hull blisters repaired, and then spend the spring and summer
getting the boat ready for the big sailing trip. Both
predictions turned out to be about as accurate as a Seattle 5 day
forecast.
The first winter was spent discovering how not to build a cold
moulded dinghy. My little 9 foot creation seemed to have a mind
of its own, and made it clear that it wanted to be a fiberglass
dinghy, not cold moulded. I finally surrendered to its demands,
though it still took a year and a half to finish. When the big
boat emerged in the spring with a nice new blue bottom, I found
myself building the dinghy on weeknights, and the big boat on
weekends. Recreation, as I had know it, ceased to exist. In the
first year, I framed in the engine compartment, put in a few
bulkheads, painted the sheer stripe blue, and refinished the
exterior woodwork. The following winter was mostly spent in
mortal combat with the dinghy. The second year dragged on with
refinishing my bowsprit, building a boom gallows, and hooking up
the engine to all its diesel life support systems (controls,
fuel, coolant, and electrical). Then, "cool" things started
happening. The dinghy was finally finished in the early summer,
and given the name "Ding". The mast went up for the very first
time in July. A month later, the diesel started for the very
first time. And finally, about the first of September, "Spirit"
took her very first sail.
The maiden voyage was a story in itself. Greg and Paul made the
mistake of showing up early on the big day, and I immediately put
them to work doing the thousand and one things that remained
undone. By noon, any ideas about a leisurely day's sail had long
since disappeared amongst the boxes of hardware and the sealing
compound, both of which were everywhere. I was concerned about a
possible mutiny, which would not have looked good on my sailing
resume since the boat had not even left the dock yet. However,
the second wave of friends (victims?) arrived in the nick of
time, and descended on the to-do list with energy a-new. The
boat's departure was either an hour or a year late, depending on
your perspective, but we finally cast off the lines and backed
away from the dock. Peggy had the sails up so fast I hardly had
time to shift into neutral, and we coasted out of the marina
under sail for a festive afternoon of sailing on the Columbia.
After the maiden voyage, I had only the month of September to get
the boat ready for her first passage. In addition to this, I
made a pitiful attempt to repay some of my Portland friends for
their help by taking some of them sailing on Sunday afternoons.
By the first of October, the boat was still not ready, but by
then I had a secret weapon, and his name was Mike. Mike not only
agreed to help sail the boat to Seattle, but also volunteered to
help me get it ready. I took the month of October off from work,
and we both attacked the to-do list. There were some long hours
that first week, and I think the low point was jury-rigging some
battery powered interior lights at 2 am. Even with a few do-dads
like lights and a sink, the interior of the boat was still
basically undone. However, the hard work paid off and, thanks to
Mike, we were ready to leave the second week of October. We
tried not to think about the fact that the boat had never been
away from the dock overnight.
For those not familiar with weather patterns in the Pacific
Northwest, October falls into the "damn late in the season"
category for messing about on Washington's coast. Winter is the
gale season on this part of the North Pacific Ocean, and October
is dang close to winter. My sailing friends generally thought I
was crazy. My insurance company wanted a healthy addition to my
regular premium before they would insure the trip. And, if I had
followed through with my earlier idea to do the trip single-
handed, I think Greg would have hidden the boat keys until
spring. However, I had a great crew member for the trip, and
with 3 weeks to get to Seattle we could afford to wait a long
time for any nasty weather to pass through. Besides, the boat
was finally ready, and the thought of commuting to Portland
during the winter was unbearable. It was time to go.
--- Sunday ---
In the days that followed the trip I am about to describe, people
have asked me if I was "relieved" to have the boat safely in
Seattle. Although it is certainly nice to have the boat so close
to home now, I must say that the real moment of "relief" was when
I packed away my boat building tools into Mike's van on the
Sunday of our departure from Portland. The thought of having a 3
week vacation from boat building was even more intoxicating than
the thought of 3 more weeks away from my job. By the time Mike
and I returned from buying groceries in Jantzen Beach, the crew
was assembled. On this first day of the voyage, we were to be
joined by Mike's wife Sharon, Dennis and his son Tye, and my
"sailing partners in crime" Peggy and Gregg. Also, I mustn't
forget Mya The Wonderdog, the ship's mascot for the day. They
would all be picked up by Dennis's wife Maria at the end of day,
leaving Mike and I to push on by ourselves on Monday.
While Peggy stowed the groceries and Dennis and Tye tried out
"Ding", I took a little time to say good-bye to my friends at
Tomahawk Island Marina. Their friendship and assistance had been
a big help to me, and I was sorry to leave them. There were
"boat warming" presents, too! Dennis and his family gave me a
very official looking ship's logbook, and Peggy gave me a
wonderfully warm Pategonia shirt, both of which were used on a
regular basis throughout the trip. We cast off the lines at 1:30
pm on October 10th, 1993, and motored up the slough one last
time. I surrendered the helm to more capable hands as quickly as
possible, and kicked back to savor the moment. We soon passed
the spot where that "boat with the green stripe" use to live. As
we passed the Portland Yacht Club, someone was playing the
bagpipes in the clubhouse doorway. I'm not sure what was going
on inside, but I pretended he was playing just for us.
We had not been in the Columbia long before Peggy sensed some
wind, and we were soon under sail. We were able to sail for much
of the afternoon, initially under cloudy skies, and then later in
sunshine. I spoke briefly to the railroad bridge tender on the
VHF radio, and he held the bridge open long enough for us to
scoot by. After that it was one lazy tack after another, idly
chatting amongst ourselves as the anchored cargo ships and the
Vancouver waterfront were slowly left astern. Dennis and Tye
even tried a little fishing from the dinghy as we towed it along,
but I guess the fish were as lazy as I was.
Late in the afternoon, I perked up a little as a large ship
hauling a cargo of new cars started to approach us from down
river. The wind was light and "Spirit" was a little sluggish, so
I popped down below to get the keys in order to start the engine.
The keys were missing, and I was starting to get a little
concerned about their unexplained disappearance when Tie proudly
produced the keys, which he had placed in his safe keeping. I
was instantly transported back in time to a hotel in Omaha,
Nebraska, where I had performed the same "service" with my
father's car keys. As I quietly took the keys and headed back to
the cockpit, the admiration for my parents eased up a few more
notches.
There was no definite pre-planned destination for the day as we
passed from the Columbia River briefly upstream into the
Willamette River, and then downstream again in the Multnomah
Channel. We paused near a houseboat moorage, and hailed the
skipper of a sailboat that had passed us earlier in the day. He
told us about a park a little ways downstream where we could
spend the night. We quickly spied a short dock, but saw no
obvious indication of a park behind it. I was concerned about
running aground before we got close enough to tie up, so I asked
Mike to search further downstream for a more suitable moorage
while I went below to rig up my lead line for testing the depth
of the water. We had an electronic depth sounder on board, but
someone on the boat's long bowsprit could use the lead line to
discover dangerously shallow water long before the depth
sounder's transducer would be able to issue its warning. I
didn't expect Mike to dock the boat until he was more familiar
with how it handled, so I tried to rig the lead line as quickly
as possible. However, just as I was ready and stuck my head out
of the main hatch, I discovered that Mike and the rest of the
crew had quietly located the real park, and expertly moored the
boat on a nice long dock in nice deep water. The lead line would
just have to wait for another day.
We were at a place called Hadley's Landing Marine Park on
Sauvie's Island. Dennis contacted Maria on a cellular phone he
had brought along, and instructed her to pick everybody up in
front of the park. They all packed up their gear, including Mike
who would be returning in the morning. It was not real obvious
where the shortest path to the road was located, so we picked the
one that looked the most traveled and headed out as the evening
light began to fade. I walked along with the group for a bit,
but I didn't want to risk loosing my way in the darkness and
therefore soon left my companions to wander on toward the road
while I headed back to the boat.
It was very peaceful on the boat. The slough was dark and quiet,
and there was only one other boat at the dock. I had been
messing around with various odds and ends inside the boat for a
while, when I heard a distant "Good night, Doug" come through the
dark woods ashore. I figured they had found the road, and after
walking down it a way, they had discovered where it passed within
hailing distance of the dock. A short time later, another "Good
night, Doug" floated by on the night air. Finally, one last
voice interrupted the silence of the evening: "Good night, John-
boy"! Greg will always be my favorite wise ass.
I was starting to give some serious thought to dinner, when I
heard someone walking along the dock. I popped my head through
the hatch to say hello, and was greeted by Peggy and Mya. I
figured I must be an awfully romantic fellow to have lured Peggy
through the darkness and back onto my unheated boat. However, as
the rest of the crew began to also return, my male ego was bashed
with the news that they had found nothing more than a locked
gate, and absolutely no trace of the road. Dennis suggested that
we motor back to the houseboats, where it would be much simpler
to find the road, but he was concerned that we had to move
quickly or Maria might miss them in her search for the roadside
park that was nowhere near a road. That late night "interior
wiring" marathon a few days back paid off, now. I turned on the
red interior lights, switched on the navigation lights, and we
were soon chugging upstream back toward the houseboats.
When we reached the houseboats, it was quite dark. We located an
empty boat slip where the crew could disembark, but it was
difficult to see it very clearly. Peggy suggested we just motor
past it the first time to check things out, and this was exactly
what I should have done. Instead, I blundered on in, and managed
the worst landing that the boat had ever been subjected to. As
the crew clamored ashore, I made arrangements with Mike to pick
him up at the same place at 10 am the next morning. That done, I
headed back to the park, nursing the second bruise to my ego, and
hoping it was not as bad as the bruise I had just inflicted on my
hull. The good news was that I had wanted to single-hand my boat
for a long time, but had never found the time. Now I finally got
to do it, even though it was only a 5 minute trip. I located the
dock without any problems, tied up the boat without any further
tests of the hull's structural integrity, and heated up some soup
on the great little gimbaled propane stove that Greg had loaned
me for the trip.
As I finished dinner, I figured that all the excitement for the
day was over at last. Wrong again. More footsteps eventually
came walking down the dock, and this time it was Maria and baby
Erika and a local guide! As Dennis had feared, they had missed
their rendezvous. Maria had been unable to find the park, and
eventually found a woman who was able to guide her through the
darkness, passed the locked gate, and on to the boat dock. I
told the "night travelers" where I had deposited my crew, and the
local woman started talking about how far the houseboats were
from the main road, and the wrong turns that could be made along
the way. There was nothing to be done except retrace their steps
back to the road. Fortunately, Sauvie's Island is not that big
of a place, and Maria eventually found Dennis and the rest of the
crew. As for me, the remainder of my evening was a quiet one,
with no more footsteps on the dock. Best of all I had a great
night's sleep, secure in the knowledge that whatever tomorrow
would bring, it wouldn't be boat building.
--- Monday ---
Although it rained a little overnight, it turned out to be a
pleasant, partly cloudy morning. I motored back up to the
houseboats at 10:00 to pick up Mike, and tried to get into the
same slip as the night before. This time there was plenty of
light, but also plenty of current running perpendicular to the
slip. I not only botched the landing for a second time, but the
owner of the boat next door was afraid that I might rearrange the
self steering gear on the back of his boat. I managed to get
Mike on board and escape from the moorage without touching the
self steering gear, though the number of ego bruises was getting
out of hand. My landings at night and in cross-currents would
either have to be done much more skillfully, or I would have to
start using the dinghy to get people on and off the boat in those
situations. It must be very painful for a boat to break in a new
skipper.
Despite the embarrassing start, the remainder of the morning was
very nice. Mike and I both enjoyed motoring down Multnomah
Channel. It is much narrower than the main channel of the
Columbia, and seemed more intimate and interesting. There were
houseboats here and there of every description, and we passed
several moorages as well. Greg had told me of a moorage we would
pass that had more bowsprits per foot of dock than any marina in
Portland, and he was right. I couldn't believe all the beautiful
cruising boats tucked away in such an out of the way marina.
Most of the shoreline was either wooded or farmland, though we
did pass by a lumber mill where a little boat was busily herding
some floating logs into a log raft. There was plenty of bird
life since much of the area remained in its natural wooded state.
There were also lots of smaller waterways leading inland that
would be fun to explore in a canoe or kayak. The foliage was
that typical faded green of late autumn, exhausted from its
summer labors, and bracing for the long months of cold rain to
come.
When we got to Coon Island, we tied up to the park dock long
enough to stretch our legs a little, and make use of the solar
powered outhouse. The outhouse was quite a contraption, 2
stories high, and using the sun's energy to break down the
sewage. As outhouses go, it was pretty high class. We were soon
under way once again, eventually re-entering the main channel of
the Columbia shortly after passing the town of St Helens. After
a cozy little waterway like the Multnomah Channel, the Columbia
struck me as rather homogeneous and uninteresting. To make
matters worse, there wasn't any wind, and a few little rain
showers were moving through the area. I'm sure the ocean going
cargo ships found the river very interesting as they weaved their
tons of bulk between the shorelines of Washington and Oregon.
However, it just failed to hold my interest for long, and I
resolved to do a little more travel off the beaten path before
reaching the ocean.
I was looking forward to anchoring in Martin's Slough that
evening. This is a small anchorage that can be partially seen
from Interstate 5. I had passed it a zillion times in the past 2
years on my commute between Seattle and Portland. I always
looked for anchored boats as I drove by, trying not to drift
across too many lanes of traffic while my attention was
temporarily distracted from the monotony of driving. Mike
piloted the boat past the shallow waters on the downstream end of
the island, then turned us upstream and into the slough. The
rain had stopped, and a few friendly truckers gave us a honk as
we ran parallel to the interstate. At least I assumed they were
honking at us, and not some absent minded commuter drifting
across the traffic lanes in front of him. From the slough, a
narrow channel leads into a nice sized bay in the middle of the
island. I finally got to use my lead line. Mike slowly piloted
the boat through the narrow channel as I stood at the tip of the
bowsprit taking soundings. We made it through without any
problems, the minimum channel depth being about 8 feet deep.
There was no one else anchored inside, but we would be spending
the night with a large number of log rafts. We decided to tie up
in the middle of a gap made by the log booms, with one line off
the bow and another off the stern to keep us at a safe distance
from the floating beasts. However, with so many recent ego
bruises, I opted to play it safe. Mike went in first with the
dinghy and set up all the necessary lines, and then I brought in
"Spirit" when all was ready. No bruises that night. Afterwards,
I did a little splicing on the end of the lead line, and Mike
hooked up a two burner propane camp stove that Greg had loaned us
for the trip.
The anchorage was very still, except for the noise from the
interstate traffic. There were lots of mosquito looking bugs
about, and I thought we were going to get eaten alive, but they
either were not mosquitoes or they were not very hungry. At
dusk, a flock of Canadian geese passed by, and their honking
reminded me of late autumn on the backwaters of the Chesapeake
Bay. In the past, this place had always been nothing more than a
quickly passing way point. On the southbound drive, I felt like
I was on the last stretch of my commute when I passed by here.
On the northbound drive, I tried to resist eating my dinner
sandwich until I passed by here. Tonight, though, it wasn't a
way point, it was a destination. I liked that. As I put up
Greg's kerosene anchor light for the night, I was glad I finally
got to spend a night in Martin Slough. And, I was glad we went
down the Multnomah Channel.
--- Tuesday ---
We were up reasonably early the next morning. The anchor light
was out, but it didn't matter; the anchorage was as deserted as
the night before. We cast off our lines and motored out, this
time finding only 6 feet of water in the little channel.
Already, the ocean was making its presence known, even though we
were miles upstream of the river's mouth. It was a cool, calm
morning with low clouds and intermittent drizzle. The nearby
hills were a misty green, and as the hills retreated into the
distance they became lighter in color and less distinct until
they were eventually consumed by the low clouds. This seemed
like a great idea to me, and I headed down into the galley to do
a little consuming of my own while Mike took the boat down the
Oregon side of Sandy Island. In what was to become a precedent
for the remainder of our time on the river, we re-entered the
main channel of the Columbia only long enough to cross over to
the other side and duck into another side channel. They were
dredging the shipping channel of the Columbia near the upstream
entrance to Corrolls Channel, and all the machinery laboring in
the morning drizzle made the river even less attractive that it
was before.
Soon after entering the channel, Mike spotted what looked like a
coyote trotting along the bank. This was another spot where the
interstate passed close to the water, though I never remembered
seeing a sailboat traveling along this section of water. I was
beginning to think we would have to motor all the way to Seattle,
but a light wind from behind gave us an excuse to set sail and
let the engine take a rest. When the weather improved a little,
I figured I would put my rain boots to good use, and began
scrubbing my dirty decks. After 2 years of boat building they
were pretty filthy, and I worked on it a little at a time for the
rest of the day before completing the task. It was important
that "Spirit" look her best when she was introduced to the
Pacific.
We only got as far as the Longview bridge before the wind
deserted us and we had to resort to the "iron beast" once again.
The engine compartment did not yet have any soundproofing.
Indeed, the engine compartment was not even completely closed off
from the living quarters inside the boat. This made it somewhat
less than restful when the 23 horsepower Volvo was doing its
thing, and Mike and I took advantage of the sails whenever we
could. The Longview waterfront was as uninspirational as ever.
The smokestacks from the lumber mills fouled the air as the ocean
going ships lay patiently at anchor, waiting for their turn to
haul away our forests. We were now out of Corrolls Channel and
back in the main channel, but not for long. We crossed the
shipping channel once again and headed down the Oregon side of
Lord Island. Here, the shore line was once again undeveloped and
wooded, with an occasional log raft tied up near shore. At the
end of this channel were some rocky cliffs, with water 60 feet
deep very close to shore.
When we returned to the main channel of the river, I returned to
my cleaning chores as the drizzle returned to its precipitous
mischief. Mike noticed some long, low waves following us
directly down river. They did not appear to have come from any
passing vessel, and we wondered if some combination of current
and tide was generating them. Inquiring minds want to know.
Aside from the waves, which soon disappeared, the only
distraction was from gill nets strung across the water, and an
occasional ship heading upstream. Upon reaching Wallace Island
late in the afternoon, we left the main channel of the river
again. Mike did a great job of getting the boat over the
shallows near the head of the island, and we were soon motoring
down Wallace Slough on the Oregon side of Wallace Island.
We planned to spend the night anchored near the downstream end of
Wallace Island. This was yet another spot I had wanted to bring
the boat for a long time, since it was very close to my favorite
windsurfing location at Jones Beach. When we reached the spot I
had in mind, there were no windsurfers or anyone else for that
matter. However, things were pretty much the way I remembered
them, and I was happy to have returned after my windsurfing
career had been put on indefinite hold 2 years earlier. It was
all very nostalgic. Mike and I anchored a safe distance from the
island, and took "Ding" and the lead line closer to shore in
order to get an idea of how close to the island we could safely
anchor. I had a lot of fun plopping the lead line into the water
and measuring the depth of water. Mike, however, got the hard
part as he rowed both of us back to "Spirit" against the current.
We pulled in the 22 pound Bruce anchor, which was mostly on a
rope anchor line, and moved the boat to the spot we had picked
out in the dinghy. This time, we would be dropping the 35 pound
plow anchor on an all chain anchor rode. This involved using the
windlass, which had turned out to be an extremely sensitive
mechanism to operate. Its favorite trick seemed to be ignoring
its brake and letting the chain roar out of the chain locker
totally out of control until the anchor eventually hit the bottom
of the river. Bringing the anchor up was suppose to be a slow
but easy maneuver with the windlass, which was accomplished by
moving a handle back and forth. However, this too would
sometimes work and sometimes not. Mike and I had experimented
with the windlass during the week we were working on the boat,
but with limited success. For something that had been so painful
to acquire, it was turning out to be a real pain in the ass to
operate as well. When Mike had the boat properly positioned, I
began to slowly let the anchor down with the windlass, and sure
enough, it raced out of control at the first opportunity. There
was no damage done, but something would have to eventually be
done with the windlass. Additionally, we needed to eventually
put some markings on the anchor line so we would have some idea
how much line had been let out.
From my windsurfing experience, I knew that the current would
start flowing upstream when the tide changed later in the
evening, so we dropped the Bruce downstream and swung to 2
anchors that night. Because we were not anchored in a spot that
was recognized as a common anchorage, it was very important that
we set up the anchor light for the night. This would identify us
to any fishing boats that might choose to zoom down the channel
in the middle of the night. I trimmed the wick on the kerosene
anchor light, made sure it had plenty of fuel, and lit the
lantern, leaving it in a very visible location part way up the
staysail stay. That done, I retreated below to a great spaghetti
dinner that Mike brewed up. When the dinner dishes had been
cleaned up, I got enthusiastic and headed to the cockpit for an
"almost shower". This was accomplished by splashing myself with
cold river water, then lathering up, then dumping a bucket of
water over my head that had been warmed up on the stove below.
It was a fairly successful operation, except that the pre-
lathering wet down had been a little on the cool side.
The anchors held well both before and after the tide turned, and
I am happy to report that we were not carried to either Portland
or Astoria during the night. The anchor light, however, was up
to its old tricks again, and only burned for a few hours before
it too turned in for the night. This was really strange, because
Greg had great success with the anchor light in the Caribbean.
Perhaps the anchor light, like the owner of the anchor light,
preferred cruising in lower latitudes. When I went topside to
check on things and found it extinguished, I was too sleepy to
mess with it, so I just turned on the boat's navigation lights
and went back to bed. The anchor light would wait until
tomorrow.
--- Wednesday ---
After a pancake breakfast, Mike and I prepared to get under way.
I let out all the chain, which allowed us to drift back far
enough to retrieve the Bruce. However, getting the chain back
aboard proved to be a very frustrating experience with my
temperamental windlass. I eventually resorted to the brutal but
effective technique of hauling in the chain by hand. Since we
had a light easterly breeze, we got the mainsail ready to go
ahead of time, and we were able to start sailing as soon as the
river bottom released its grip on the plow. Leaving Mike to fend
for himself, I hopped into the dinghy for a quick reconnaissance
of Jones Beach. With the exception of an asphalt parking area, I
was glad to see that it mostly remained in its classic
undeveloped state of sand, dirt, and thick brush; good old "Hotel
Jones". Afterwards, I took a little time to get a few pictures
of "Spirit" from the dinghy with Jones Beach in the background.
That done, we gave the downstream end of Wallace Island a wide
berth as we crossed over the main channel of the Columbia and
headed down the Cathlamet Channel on the Washington side of Puget
Island. The wind once again deserted us and we continued our
journey downstream, compliments of the "iron beast". Aside from
the lack of wind, it was a beautiful day. While I was in the
driver's seat, Mike hauled out all the rope and chain used by the
anchors, and spread it neatly on the deck to dry out. We passed
close by some high cliffs on the mainland side of the channel,
and had very deep water while only a boat length or two off the
shoreline. Soon after going under the bridge that crossed over
from the mainland to Puget Island, we left the town of Cathlamet
off to starboard. It had a rickety little waterfront that
reminded me of the movie "Popeye".
After lunch, I set to the task of marking the lengths on our two
anchor lines with rigging tape. While doing so, Mike took us to
the end of Puget Island, then headeded upstream in the main
channel of the Columbia for a short time. This brought us to the
entrance of yet another slough called Clifton Channel, which was
on the Oregon side of Tenasillahe Island. There was a huge
structure just inside the entrance to this slough, and Mike and I
figured it was probably an old wooden dry-dock from the Port of
Portland that had been taken to this out of the way spot to die.
We passed some incredibly rundown and overgrown houseboats, whose
only claim to fame was a great waterfront view in a very pretty
location. As I measured and marked 25 foot lengths of chain and
rope, Mike threaded the boat past islands with names like Quinns,
Tronson, and Horseshoe. The waterways were as small and intimate
as the Multnomah Channel, and we both thoroughly enjoyed the
drive. The shoreline was either covered by tall grass or thick
woods. The islands were generally low, though on the mainland
side the hillsides rose more steeply as they climbed up toward
the mountains of the Coast Range further south. As for the
channels, they were generally over 15 feet deep; more than enough
for our 4'4" draft. However, Mike kept a cautious eye on the
chart, kept the boat in the deepest portion of the channel, and
slowed down whenever the depth sounder warned of shoaling waters.
Shortly after I had put our anchor lines back in their lockers,
we reached the spot where Warren Slough enters Knappa Slough.
Here, I once again abandoned Mike for the dinghy, where I did a
little investigation with the lead line to be sure that "Spirit"
would have a deep enough anchorage for the night. When I was
back on board, Mike helped me put out our newly marked anchor
lines; one upstream and the other downstream as we had done the
night before. It turned out that Warren Slough was basically a
big loop; starting and finishing in the same place. Mike set out
in the dinghy to row its entire length before dark, and I
attacked the anchor light one last time. Last night's experiment
of setting the wick higher had accomplished nothing other than
filling the lantern with soot, which soon attacked my nice clean
decks. With some old rags and a little kerosene, I cleaned up
the anchor light, end-for-ended the wick, trimmed the end of the
wick, and made sure it had plenty of fuel. By now the lantern
was looking pretty good, but the cockpit and I were a mess. I
managed to get most of it cleaned up before dark. Meanwhile,
Mike returned with "Ding", having successfully circumnavigated
Warren Slough. I lit the anchor light one last time and retired
below.
It had been a pretty enjoyable day, and we topped it off with
another spaghetti dinner. Again, the boat was moored in an
unusual location, so an anchor light was a must. I checked on
the anchor light after dinner, and found the little monster sound
asleep. By now, I had expended all the time and patience on the
gizmo that I felt was reasonable. However, cruisers have to be
flexible, so I decided to work on Plan B. One of the nice things
about building your own boat is that you become intimate with all
of the toys you install. Since I had done most of the wiring, I
knew how I could create an anchor light. There are two lights at
the top of the mast, and I was using the white one as a "steaming
light", which is required when the boat is moving at night under
power. By doing a little re-wiring, I was able to hook the light
to a switch on my circuit breaker box that would allow me to use
it either as a steaming light, or all by itself as an anchor
light. I had brought along a multimeter, a propane soldering
gun, and other electrical toys like wire and shrink tubing and
connectors. It took a hour or so, but by the time I was done, we
had a fairly reliable anchor light for the remainder of the trip.
By now, I was being visited by "The Dream" at night. This is a
reoccurring dream I have when sailing, which continues a week or
so after the end of the trip. In the dream, I am inside the boat
in my bunk, and I become aware that the boat is drifting. Over
time, I become increasingly guilty that the boat is possibly
drifting toward danger, and fear eventually drives me out of my
bunk to take a look outside. In actuality, I really do get out
of bed and look outside. This is particularly comical when I'm
at home after the trip. I walk over to my bedroom window half
asleep, and puzzle over how the boat could have drifted so close
to my neighbors' houses. I suspect that when I do my little
sleep walking routine on the boat, the crew figures that the
skipper is just being careful that everything is okay. Little do
they know.
Greg told me a great story about a similar dream he had while
cruising in the Caribbean. The crew was on watch during a
passage while Greg took a nap below. Greg then has a dream that
the boat is anchored, and that the anchor is dragging. About
that time, he leaps out of his berth, pops his head out of the
hatch, and seeing nothing but ocean all around him, figures that
the boat has drug its anchor all the way out of the anchorage and
out to sea. Greg's crew at the time reported that when he first
looked out the hatch, still half asleep, they had never seen his
eyes open so wide! Ah, the sailing life...
--- Thursday ---
Thursday started off with overcast skies, reasonable
temperatures, and no precipitation. Although our anchor lines
had twisted around each other a bit, we were able to eventually
sort things out with the help of the engine. When it came time
to pull in the chain, I let Mike do the honors, although for some
strange reason he seemed to do it a lot faster than I had done it
the day before. As soon as both anchors were on board we
continued our journey down the remainder of Knappa Slough, and
then made a left turn when we arrived at Russian Island.
Although human life forms were in limited supply, it was just
another working day for the bird population. There were heron,
gulls, ducks and geese. When they flew close to the quiet water,
their reflections could be seen flying after them. The area
seemed to be opening up a bit. There were no hills between us
and the main channel of the Columbia, but wide expanses of grassy
islands and marsh still hid the river from our view. On the
mainland side we were seeing more houses, an indication that we
were not far from Astoria.
Upon reaching Prairie Channel, we turned norhwest into Cathlamet
Bay. We now had a clear view of the Columbia, which had grown to
a sizeable expanse as it neared the ocean. We could also see the
hills of Washington on the far side of the river where they
mingled with the low clouds in the distance. When a rain shower
came calling, I surrendered the helm to Mike and scurried below
to make some lunch. With the exception of a wrong turn at a
buoy, we reached Tongue Point without incident and set off down
the main shipping channel for Astoria. There was certainly no
lack of human life forms here. The city of Astoria hugged the
riverbank and climbed up into the hills beyond. In front of us
were anchored many ocean going ships, waiting their turn to steam
upstream to a place like Longview or Portland. Between the
ships, smaller tugs and pilot launches scurried across the water
to service the needs of the larger vessels. Above the ships
loomed the Astoria bridge which spanned the 4 mile length of
river to the Washington shore.
We tried to set the sails in order to enter the city in style,
but the wind was not up to the task and we were soon under power
once again. After crossing under the bridge, we turned into the
Port of Astoria marina and found a slip where "Spirit" could rest
from her labors for a day or two. That done, Mike and I headed
into town to pick up a book of tidal current tables. We also
visited the Safeway store for fresh supplies, since it was not
obvious when we would again be close to a large grocery store.
The return trip to the boat seemed to be much longer to me as I
carried along my sacks of groceries. Fortunately, we reached the
boat before the sacks had completely mangled the bones in my
hands. That done, we set about stowing "Ding" on deck.
"Ding" was a nesting dinghy, which meant that it broke down into
two halves, the front part fitting inside the back part. This
arrangement allowed it to be a nice sized dinghy when in the
water, but converted to a much smaller package when it came time
to store it on deck. The good news was that the design had
worked, and it was a really nice little rowing dinghy when in the
water. The bad news is that it seemed to weigh about the same as
my car. Getting it on and off the boat required at least 2
fairly strong people. We used one of the halyards to raise and
lower it to and from the water. Thank goodness we had the 2
speed genoa winches, and even then it took a fair about of effort
to raise it up. We went through this exercise several times
during the course of the trip, and each time poor Mike had to
endure my latest and greatest ideas about how to accomplish the
task. Over time, we got to the point where we could complete the
process without too many emergencies along the way. However, I
eventually was forced to admit that the dinghy just wasn't going
to work if I ever began single-handing the boat on a regular
basis.
The forecast for Friday was not particularly inspiring, so it was
decided to lay over in Astoria for a day and head out on
Saturday. Sharon drove in from Portland to spend the night with
Mike in a nearby motel. This left me alone to luxuriate in all
the nice things that come along with the shore power electrical
connection available at a marina. I had electric lights clamped
all over the place, and my electrical heater worked full time on
the cabin floor. All this and a boat full of groceries made for
a pretty comfortable evening.
--- Friday ---
It was a very "kicked back" kind of a day. After breakfast on
the boat and a hot shower ashore, I had a chat with the skipper
of "Shamrock", which was a large fishing charter boat based at
the marina. The skipper was a classic old fisherman. His skin
was tan and hardened from the many years of working outdoors. A
cigarette seemed permanently attached to his lips, and it jumped
about excitedly when the man spoke. Unlike the cigarette, the
skipper was not at all excitable, but was comfortable in his
environment and spoke with the authority of someone with many
years experience at his trade. He was very friendly and answered
all the questions I put to him. He even invited me up to
wheelhouse to look over a few charts. I really enjoyed the
visit.
Other than that, I did a few chores and enjoyed the sunshine that
came out for part of the afternoon. Mike and Sharon dropped by,
and we chatted for a while. After they departed, I put a little
more diesel fuel in the tanks, studied the tidal current tables,
and caught up on the entries in my new log book. Mike returned
later in the afternoon, and managed to fix the tempermental
windlass with nothing more than a little WD-40. Apparently, the
only problem was that the heavy grease inside the windlass was
not allowing one lever to move as freely and quickly as it should
have. From then on, there was no more pulling in the chain by
hand. What a relief!
Mike and I wondered into town for dinner at an Italian restaurant
I had spied earlier. The food didn't exactly taste like it came
straight from Sicily, but it was adequate and a pleasant
diversion from the meals on the boat. Later, I programmed some
information into the loran; yet another item in the long list of
boat toys that Greg loaned me for the trip. It seemed unable to
figure out where it was when we tried out the loran in the
marina. The manual predicted this problem since we were so close
to so many other sailboat masts. In the parking lot it was still
a little reluctant to commit itself, but eventually figured out
where it was and gave us our exact location, which was in
complete agreement with the chart. With an improving weather
pattern predicted for the next few days, we both went to bed that
night with the knowledge that we would be out in the ocean
tomorrow.
--- Saturday ---
Neither Mike nor I had much in the way of food Saturday morning,
hoping that this might make us a little less prone to sea
sickness. I had experienced sea sickness once before, and I did
not want to do anything to encourage an encore performance.
After one last run to the restroom on shore, we cast off our
lines and Mike drove us out of the marina and back into the ship
channel. After a while I noticed that we had strayed out of the
main channel. It was an easy mistake to make. The river was so
wide in this area that there was a naturally tendency to figure
that it must be correspondingly deep out in the middle. However,
the chart indicated that was not always the case, as the wind,
waves, current, and tide all conspired to randomly arrange deep
water and shallow water throughout the many square miles of
territory that the river shared with the sea. As soon as we
realized that we were straying off the beaten path, Mike quickly
got us back in the shipping channel, which the Army Corps Of
Engineers keep well dredged so the ship traffic could safely
pass.
We anchored for a while near the northern tip of Clatsop Spit to
wait for just the right time to cross "the bar". The Columbia
River bar is basically where the river ends and the ocean begins.
Its not really a sandbar or anything you can point at on the
chart. Its just sort of a general area, partially protected by a
rock jetty on both sides that runs out toward deeper water
parallel to the river. It can be a very rough place at times,
since it is here that 3 great forces do battle. One force is the
ocean swells. These are usually long, low waves that can quietly
travel for hundreds of miles across the ocean. As they encounter
shallower water, they build in height. Along the ocean
shoreline, they put on quite a show as they build up and
eventually topple over in the surf. Because the shipping channel
is kept so deep, the swells don't always break out there, but
they can break if the swells are big enough. The second great
force is the river's natural current, which is pushed out into
the ocean by all the water upstream of the river's mouth. The
third force is the ocean tides. When the tide is going out, it
helps the river current to slam into the oncoming waves. When
the tide is coming in, it helps the oncoming waves slam into the
river current. Also, as the tide lowers the depth of the water,
the shipping channel becomes a little shallower, and the waves
become correspondingly larger.
The worst time to mess with the Columbia River bar, or probably
any river's bar for that matter, is when the tide is ebbing
(falling). The water is getting shallower, and the tidal current
is helping the river current to hit the incoming swells with as
much resistance as possible. This generates some big momma
waves, and if the ocean swell was already big from an offshore
storm, the waves can get so nasty that not even the big ocean
going ships will mess with them. When things get this bad, the
Coast Guard "closes the bar", warning ships to stay away until
conditions improve. A better time to cross the bar would be at
"low slack", when the tidal current gets tired of ebbing out, and
starts to think about flooding in for a while. However, the
water depth is still as shallow as it gets, which may or may not
be a problem depending on how big the incoming swells are. The
best time to cross the bar is at "high slack". In this
situation, the tidal current has stopped momentarily, and the
water is as deep as its ever going to get.
I had done the necessary homework the night before with the tidal
current tables, and we now waited at anchor for "high slack" to
come, which would be around 2 in the afternoon. Actually we
would head out a little before high slack to give us time to
motor out to the bar and cross over the most potentially
dangerous part of the river's mouth at just the right time. Mike
and I had plenty of company where we anchored, since several
pleasure boats were using the weekend morning to do a little
fishing, put out a few crab pots, and generally relax from their
weekday labors. The shoreline was part of a park, an there were
several people walking along the sandy beaches. Out on the water
it was a little choppy, where the remnants of ocean waves kept
all the boats bouncing up and down. The seagulls seemed to be
very interested in the boats that were pulling up crab pots and
tossing the less interesting stuff overboard. There were also
quite a few seals that popped to the surface with their dog-like
faces, checked out the nonsense going on above water, then
retreated back into the secrecy of the depths.
About 1:00, we listened one last time to the coastal forecast,
and hearing nothing particularly ominous, pulled in the Bruce and
motored toward the bar. As usual, there was little wind. I had
stowed the jib below, fearing that some great wave might try to
tear it off the lifelines. However, the mainsail and staysail
were ready to set if the "iron beast" decided to stop working at
some critical point of the passage. This business of the engine
stopping part way across the bar has actually happened more than
once. I'm told the larger waves can start bouncing the boat
around, and sediment in the bottom of the fuel tank gets stirred
up and eventually clogs the fuel lines. Bummer. However,
"Spirit" had clean tanks, hand-strained fuel, and a good set of
sails, so I was not too worried about the engine. However, I was
a little concerned, partly because I had never crossed over the
bar before, and partly because of all the stories people just
loved to tell about the various boats that had come to grief on
the Columbia River Bar.
We crossed "the bar" exactly at high slack, and it was a piece of
cake. The dragon was sleeping at the moment, and the ocean
swells from its slumbers gently moved past us like low rolling
hills. "Spirit" was careful not to awaken the dragon, and
quietly slipped away toward deeper water, or at least as quietly
as the "iron beast" would allow. A few ships passed by as well
as some fishing boats, and the Corps had one of their dredges at
work on the north side of the bar, but that was about it. We
stayed in the channel until we were in comfortably deep water,
then headed north along the Washington coast.
We motored through the afternoon as the sun shone weakly through
the thin layer of high clouds. Near sunset, a light northerly
breeze sprung up, so we set all the sails and gave the motor a
rest. It cooled off a little as the sun went down, but I put on
extra clothing and managed to stay comfortably warm. We had a
nice orange sunset, and later the stars came out except for a few
areas where the clouds remained. We were about 5 miles off
shore, and the houses on Long Beach created a single line of
lights that kept us company for several hours. Occasionally, a
low swell would roll past, and as we sunk into the trough behind
it, all the lights would disappear at the same time, as though
everyone had turned off their lights at once. A few moments
later we would ride up on the next swell, and all the lights
would come back again. I also made an important discovery with
the binoculars. If you looked through the binoculars at the line
of lights ashore, and moved the binoculars around as you looked,
it was possible to draw designs as the lights ashore turned into
a hundred 4th of July sparklers, each drawing the same wiggly
line as the light next to it. It made me think of the sparklers
and fireworks back in Iowa where I had grown up. A lot of water
had passed under the bridge since those times.
Currently, water was passing not under the bridge, but under the
hull. This resulted in a trail of phosphorescence following in
our wake. Occasionally, we would pas by an area of water that
seemed to be glowing on its own. I suppose there were fish
swimming below which were stirring up the phosphorescence, but I
could not see any fish and it looked very out of place in an
otherwise dark ocean. Another strange phenomena were the UFOs
that suddenly darted through the sky. Fortunately, these turned
out not to be aliens looking for slave labor, but rather seagulls
and ducks flying past our masthead light. I'm not sure why the
birds would be flying about the ocean at night, but I guess they
thought it was a good idea. Another thing that went "bump in the
night" was the sound of fleeing ducks. They must have been
floating on the water when the boat sailed near them. The ducks
could not be seen, but you could hear them as they half flew and
half ran across the surface of the water to get out of the way.
Aside from these occasional diversions, there was not a whole lot
to do except sail the boat, watch the stars, and occasionally
take a look around for other boats or ships.
Mike and I took turns napping and steering through the night,
though there were no formal watch schedules. While the wind was
blowing we sailed northwest until reaching a depth of about 120
feet, then tacked inshore until about 60 feet of depth, then head
out once again. This worked well for several hours, but the wind
eventually went to sleep and we had to fire up the "iron beast"
once again. We generally tried to use the red colored interior
lights when someone was topside steering, so as not to mess up
their night vision. I was down below with the red lights on when
I noticed a really ugly duffel bag near the quarter berth. I had
a nice red white and blue bag, but the bag I was now looking at
was a really ugly combination of colors. I thought the bag
probably belonged to Mike until I started looking for my own, and
eventually figured out that the ugly bag was mine. The red light
had changed all the colors.
When we were motoring, I preferred to take my foam pad and
sleeping bag up to the foredeck for sleeping. It was about as
quiet a place as there was on the boat when the "iron beast" was
throbbing away. I would clip my safety harness to one of the
stanchions, bury myself under the sleeping bag, and in this
configuration I managed to sleep reasonably well. Mike seemed to
be able to sleep in the V berth even with the engine going,
though I don't understand how.
--- Sunday ---
During the night we traveled the length of the Long Beach
peninsula and passed the entrance to Willapa Bay which was marked
by a lighted buoy that flashed the morse code letter 'a'. After
leaving that astern, we eventually picked up the red and white
beacon that lead us to to Westport. At dawn we located the jetty
that protected the entrance to Grays Harbor, and followed the
buoy and range lights into the bay. It was a little foggy as we
came in, and the sun was a dull orange ball in the eastern sky,
looking more like the moon than the bright sun. The tide was
still ebbing a bit, but Grays Harbor was smaller than the mouth
of the Columbia, and the ocean was reasonably quiet, so we went
on in without waiting for slack water. The bar crossing gave us
no problems, and as we motored in we passed a spot where I had
done some windsurfing in years gone by.
We tied up in the Westport Marina. This was a different marina
than I was use to, since the majority of the boats inside were
commercial fishing boats. It was early morning in the off
season, which made it very easy to locate an empty slip in the
marina. We found the town to be as quite as the marina, but
eventually found the harbor master's office and registered
"Spirit" for a one day layover. That done, I went to a little
restaurant for breakfast, and was inundated by a truck load of
food that appeared on my plate. I guess either the fishermen or
tourists must generally have one heck of an appetite. The food
was good and the hot chocolate was great, not the watered down
cocoa that is generally served in restaurants. I wound up eating
too much, but fortunately it didn't count since I was on
vacation. I waddled back to the boat and proceeded to do as
little as possible for the rest of the day.
I found the marina to be a refreshingly down to earth kind of
place. There were no locked gates at the head of the docks, no
yacht club types oiling their teak, and very few rich man's toys
tied up in the slips. What was there was a lot of no nonsense
working boats and local people trying their luck at a little
Sunday fishing. There were reports of big salmon lurking about,
and several people of all ages wandered the docks with their
fishing poles trying to outsmart their prey, generally without
success. Other folks were trying to lure the local crustacean
population into their crab pots, but generally only found the
smaller juveniles when the pots were hauled back up to the dock.
Despite the lack of success, everyone seemed to be having a good
time.
I liked the boats, too. These were boats that measured their
day's catch not by the pound, but by the ton. There was little
evidence of polished brass or bright varnish. Every item on
these boats had one and only one purpose: profit. If a yachtie
comes up with some extra cash, he will generally spend it on
something that will either make his boat a little faster or more
comfortable. However, these frivolous items don't even enter the
equation with the fishing fleet. Given the choice between buying
new paint for the topsides or a better block to haul in their
nets faster, you can bet that the fisherman will leave that can
of paint on the shelf. I enjoyed reading the names of the boats,
too. The yachties tend to embarrass their boats with names like
"Wild Turkey", "Sasquatch", and "All Knight Long". Fishing boats
tend to have names that invoke images of strength and pride;
names like "Crusader", "Ocean Mist", and Western Dawn". Its just
a basic difference in philosophy. The yachties concentrate on
"spending it", while the fishermen concentrate on "making it".
Fishing ports are very interesting places.
--- Monday ---
Although it had rained overnight, it was dry when "Spirit" left
the marina the next morning. The temperature was cool, and the
clouds threatened to bring the rain back at any time for an
encore performance. As we motored through the water of the bay,
we could already feel the swell that had come in off the ocean.
I had figured that we would encounter about the same conditions
that we had experienced yesterday morning when we came in, but it
was looking as though things could get a little more interesting
on the bar this morning. There was a nice southerly breeze
blowing the clouds around, so I decided to get a little cocky and
do this bar crossing under sail. Mike put all the sails up and
we sheeted them in on the port tack. He then secured all the
ports, placed the wooden drop boards in the main hatch, and
generally battened things down as we sailed between the jetties.
The dragon was still asleep that morning, but he was sleeping
restlessly. His swells had steeper faces than before, but we
encountered no breaking waves. They were breaking in the
shallower water next to the jetty. "Spirit" seemed to be
enjoying herself, and sailed confidently through the swells out
into deeper water. There was one playful little splash that made
it onto the foredeck, but aside from that the decks remained dry
until a rain shower moved through the area. When it left, so did
most of the wind. After turning north we were headed downwind,
and the sloppy waves kept the motion of the boat pretty lively.
With so little wind, the sails were making an awful racket as the
boat rolled. I rigged a combination downhaul preventer on the
main boom which helped a little, but as the the wind continued to
lighten up the sails spent less and less time powered up. We
eventually took the sails down and the "iron beast" ruled the air
waves again.
I played with the loran for a bit. It seemed a little unsure as
to just where we were. I eventually gave it a "hint" by
inputting our approximate position, and from that it eventually
gave us a more exact location. I disagreed with the fix that it
gave. However, the instrument and I had figured our positions
within a few miles of each other, so the difference was not that
big a deal. Maybe I was the one that was off; it wouldn't be the
first time. The terrain began to change as we moved north. Gone
now were the long stretches of low, sandy beaches. These were
replaced by rocky cliffs with higher hills further inland. In
some areas, great rocks and small islands extended out into the
ocean. On one of the larger rocks, the ocean had eroded away the
center of the rock, making it a natural arch. When the boat was
in just the right location we could see clear through it. We
began to notice that air collected at the top of the engine's
water strainer if were motoring in rough conditions. If
neglected long enough, the air would eventually displace most of
the water, which is bad news for the engine's cooling system.
About all we could do was to keep an eye on it, which we did.
Late in the afternoon, as we were approaching Destruction Island,
some clouds rolled in and brought along some wind. We shut down
the engine and sailed into the approaching night. I had a little
soup and salad for dinner, and made a sandwich to help me through
my night watches. Then, with extra layers of clothing, rain
gear, and safety harness, I relieved Mike at the helm. It was
soon raining as darkness closed in. We were close hauled on the
port tack, with Destruction Island off to starboard. The island
had a rotating light beacon on it. Four equally spaced rays of
light left the beacon to pierce through the rainy night,
constantly sweeping around the horizon. I imagined it to be a
great 4 legged spider that hung suspended below the clouds by a
hidden cord, spinning round and round in the night sky. It was
difficult to judge how close I was to this lighted spider, so I
kept it off the beam and sailed around it on a circular path.
I was startled as we passed over another patch of ocean that was
lit up by phosphorescence. I thought this might indicate rocks
close to the surface, but the depth sounder assured me that the
water was quite deep. As we passed by it, it seemed to me like
someone had just forgotten to turn the lights off in their
underwater living room. I became aware of a strange, periodic
sound behind the boat, and eventually identified it as some sort
of porpoise that broke the water only long enough to take a
breath. It was fascinating to watch. I could not see the
animal, but I could see where it had just passed because it left
a "vapor trail" of phosphorescence in the water behind it.
The boat was moving well through the rainy night as we slowly
made our circle around the island. However, as the rain changed
to a light mist, the wind began to die until only the sloppy
waves remained. I eventually gave up on the wind and began to
take down the sails. I'm sure I made a commotion that not even
Mike could sleep through, because he eventually joined me on the
pitching deck to furl the sails. I was alarmed to discover that
he was not wearing his safety harness. Apparently, it just
didn't fit over the top of all the warm clothing he was wearing.
Some skippers just make it a standing rule that no one leaves the
cockpit after dark without a harness. However, I also know that
other skippers don't wear them at all. I decided that the crew
should make up their own minds about whether or not to wear the
harness, and live (or drown) by their decision. Afterwards, I
offered Mike the use of the Larakis harness that Greg had loaded
me, and I wore the extra harness that I had brought along. I was
pleased to see Mike wearing the Larakis.
It had been Mike's burden to try to sleep with me banging around
on the deck, and it now became my burden to try to sleep with the
engine running again. Since it was still raining lightly, I
retreated to the V berth for my off-watch slumber, though
slumbering was pretty limited. At least it was dry down there,
though the boat was still bouncing around in the sloppy waves. I
rested for a while, and eventually returned to the cockpit to
releave Mike. I couldn't believe it when I stepped outside.
There were brilliant stars everywhere, except behind us where the
spider was still trying to pierce through the clouds that
surrounded it. There were 3 or 4 lights on the western horizon,
and I speculated that they might be shipping traffic headed
towards the Strait of Juan de Fuca, but Mike told me they were
just part of the local fishing fleet. There was a very light
breeze from behind, so Mike helped me set the main and staysail
before going off watch.
--- Tuesday ---
By 2 am we were approaching the town of La Push. I had wanted to
stop here, but I was not willing to cross their bar in the
darkness, and I was not excited about the idea of hanging around
for 6 hours until it was light enough to go in. I decided to
pass La Push, and head out towards deeper water as we continued
northwards. The wind again went light, and I bombarded poor Mike
with more deck noise as I set the jib and tried to keep us moving
under sail. As usual it was all in vain, and Mike joined me on
deck long enough to strike the sails and get the engine running.
I was a little embarrassed at continually waking up Mike with my
sail handling, so when we had resumed our course under power I
chased him back down below so he could get a little more sleep.
I munched on my sandwich and pretzels and admired the stars for
about an hour until Mike appeared again to relieve me. It wasn't
long until I was back asleep on the foredeck, covered by my
sleeping bag, and tethered to the boat by my safety harness.
It was still dark when I got up and relieved Mike. One of the
first things to catch my eye was a patch of darkness to the east.
Most of the shoreline was still hiding in the darkness except
this patch, which appeared as a black "smear" on the night's
almost black canvas. It could have been an island or a point of
land extending seaward farther than the rest of the shoreline. I
suppose it could even have been a patch of fog, but there was
something out there and it's mysterious presence made me
uncomfortable. I took over the helm, and was made even more
uncomfortable by the fact that we were only in about 115 feet of
water. This would have been plenty of water further south, but I
wasn't sure how safe it was this far north. Mike suggested I
continue his present course, and keep a blurred, blinking light
off the starboard bow, which he assumed was the light off
Flattery Rocks. I was uneasy with the situation, but had no
concrete evidence to justify my feelings.
Fortunately, one of us had enough brains to check the chart, and
it was Mike. He discovered that the Flattery Rocks light had a
different time interval for its flashes than the blurred light
ahead. The bottom line was we didn't really know where we were,
and this increased my paranoia level by an order of magnitude. I
tried to play the part of the cool skipper, and told Mike I would
just head for deeper water and wait for the sun to come up so we
could locate our position. Mike headed for some rest in the V
berth, and left me alone in the cockpit with an unknown light
ahead of me and an unidentifyable black smear at an unknown
distance to the east. For the first and only time on the trip, I
was really scared.
The feeling of danger was too strong to ignore. I could see the
north star, and so I knew which direction we were heading. I
immediately changed course toward the northwest, hoping this
would take the boat into deeper water and not straight into an
offshore rock. The numbers on the depth sounder seemed to take
an agonizingly long time to increase even by a few feet. I
occasionally glanced back and tried to pick out the black smear.
Was it really there? At one point I thought I heard surf
breaking ahead, and my paranoia level increased another order of
magnitude. A horrible feeling was starting to burn in my gut.
Were we sailing into shallow water, or worse yet, were we sailing
into rocks? No, the depth sounder showed no sign of shoaling
water. I had probably just heard a little wave breaking in the
choppy water. After a while, the number on the depth sounder
increased another foot. What a night.
When we motored into water that was deeper than 125, I began to
relax at last. Eventually, the eastern sky began to lighten as
dawn approached, and I relaxed further, seeing that we were now
well off shore. I scanned the ocean to the east of us with the
binoculars, and eventually identified the red blinking light off
Flattery Rocks. Behind us, tucked in close to shore, was a piece
of land that I assumed was Ozette Island. We were in safe waters
now, but a nagging question remained: were we ever in danger, or
was it just my over active imagination? I briefly left the helm
long enough to grab the chart, then returned to the cockpit to
study it in the early morning light.
There was absolutely no explanation I could come up with for the
blurred, blinking light we had seen a few hours earlier. I
thought it may have been an airport beacon that was reflecting
off some low clouds on shore, but I could find no airport within
any reasonable distance of our current location. Perhaps the
light on Destruction Island was hitting some of the inland
clouds, but this was also pretty hard to believe because of our
distance from that light. I couldn't figure it out. We never
did figure it out.
As for the water depths and the black smear, that too was open to
debate. As you follow the chart northward, you first pass Ozette
Island and then Flattery Rocks, with the Flattery Rocks light
buoy on the "outside" of the rocky area. The island was pretty
close in to shore, but Flattery Rocks extend out there a ways.
If a boat was sailing north towards the rocks at low tide, its
depth sounder would read somewhere between 72 and 138 feet as it
approached the hazard. The boat would probably have to get
fairly close to the exposed rocks before the depth sounder would
register the rapidly shoaling water. Mike and I knew that we
could travel from Destruction Island to La Push in safety by
maintaining a minimum depth of 100 feet of water. However, we
didn't closely examine the water depths north of La Push since we
expected to stop at La Push. I had simply bungled my
responsibilities as skipper by not doing my homework. I don't
know how close we were to Flattery Rocks when I altered our
course toward deeper water. I only know that we would not have
cleared Flattery Rocks if we had stayed in 115 feet of water, and
that by the time I sighted the Flattery Rocks light buoy in the
pre-dawn light, we had passed outside of the danger. I guess
that as I slept on the foredeck that night, "The Dream" was
actually happening. As I write these lines it has been over a
month since the trip, and I still think about that night.
We had a very nice red sunrise, and a beautiful day ahead of us.
When Mike was awake, we headed toward Cape Flattery close hauled
with all sails set. We were sailing into a fresh northerly
breeze, and "Spirit" had all the wind she could handle. We were
heeling over far enough that I felt a reef was in order, and set
about trying to jury rig some sort of reefing lines on the boom.
However, in the end, "Spirit" made it known that if I couldn't do
a proper job of reefing the sail then the sail would just have to
go unreefed. We tried lowering the staysail, which didn't seem
to have much effect. We also tried lowering the jib, which
slowed us down to an unacceptable crawl. It was obvious that I
would have to install jiffy reefing before any more serious
cruises, and I was even starting to lust after some rolling
furling gear for the jib. In the end, we just put all the sails
back up and let her go. And man, did she go. I even got to sit
on the bowsprit a while when a school of porpoise were playing
around the boat.
It wasn't until a few days later that I realized the full
significance of that moment. Not so long ago, the boat was
simply "that old Westsail with the green stripe". It remained
forever tied to the same slip at the same dock as the passing
seasons and the passing jets deposited layer after layer of grime
over everything. It was the essence of neglect, a dream that had
not survived the financial realities of life. Now, two years
later, with her pretty blue stripe, oiled brightwork, clean decks
(well, almost clean), and practically new sails, "Spirit" played
with the porpoises on the edge of the largest ocean on the
planet. I don't think I will ever forget the satisfaction of
that day, or the fear of the night before.
The wind rounded Cape Flattery as we did, so we were still close
hauled as we made our way eastward into the Strait of Juan de
Fuca. After all the stories I had heard about the ship traffic
in this waterway, I figured we would be dodging freighters all
day. However, we mostly had the water to ourselves, except for a
passing fishing boat and a Coast Guard cutter. Although we were
having a lot of fun, we weren't making very rapid progress toward
Neah Bay, our destination for the day. Mike took us in closer to
shore in the afternoon, and found the wind blowing from a much
more favorable direction. With this lift, we were able to make
much better progress, and sailed into Neah Bay late in the
afternoon.
Although Westport had not exactly been a hot bed of activity, it
was Grand Central Station compared to Neah Bay. Mike eventually
brought the sails down and we motored around the bay looking for
a marina. The town may not have rolled up its sidewalks for the
night, but it certainly dismantled its marina for the winter.
All the docks had been moved ashore, and only the vertical
pilings remained in the water. Apparently, the winter storms are
strong enough in this area to make it necessary to take in the
docks at the end of the season. We eventually put the plow down
in about 20 feet of water, and let out plenty of chain. A
fishing boat was anchored nearby, but only a dog had been left
aboard. It howled a little, but it was not a loud, annoying
howl. It was a gentle, low howl that reminded me of the noise
that the wind makes in a sailboat's rigging. We fixed another
great batch of spaghetti for dinner, then turned in for a very,
very, good night's sleep.
--- Wednesday ---
In the morning we discovered that another cutter, "Glad Tidings",
had joined us in the anchorage some time during the night. It
was a handsome yacht, a little longer than "Spirit", with a sexy
self steering vane hanging off her transom. Mike joked that if
she had tried to get here before they rolled up the sidewalks,
she was too late. We bolted "Ding" back together and rowed
ashore to make a few phone calls and stretch our legs. It seemed
to be a nice little town, but there wasn't much going on. It
looked like the empty travel trailers and motels were probably
intended mostly for the summer months when the tourists came to
do their fishing vacations. Near the phone booths, a man was
transferring fresh salmon from one container to another, pausing
from time to time to throw another shovel full of ice over the
catch. We walked down to a local store to look for munchies and
postcards. It was a great store that had everything from shotgun
shells to sourdough bread. We bought a few do dads and then
returned to the boat for some serious goofing off.
We brought "Ding" back on board late in the afternoon, and hauled
in the plow at about 6 in the evening. I cannot describe how
wonderful it was for the windlass to bring in all that chain, now
that Mike had it working properly. We had a lot of miles to
travel before we would reach Port Angeles, so we left now to give
ourselves plenty of time to reach it by tomorrow afternoon.
Hopefully, we would be sailing at least part of the way. For the
moment the wind was light, so we motored eastward along the
Washington shore. I was doing a little cleaning up after dark
when I accidentally dropped my canvas bucket overboard. Mike
circled back to try and locate it, but I was doubtful that I
would ever see it again. I was standing on the bowsprit just
about ready to give up when the bucket appeared dead ahead. Mike
had somehow brought the boat back to the same exact spot in total
darkness. What a guy! Afterwards, we discussed our little
maneuver, and Mike said that if he had it to do over again, he
would try backing up instead of circling around. Even this would
not be a sure thing, since the boat would travel forward a way
before it could be stopped, and backing my boat in a straight
line was no simple task. However, it probably didn't matter,
since the odds of dropping something else were pretty minimal (we
thought).
Mike steered us into the night as I made dinner. Even though
there were some waves on the water, it seemed pretty peaceful
compared to the sloppy wave patterns we had encountered on the
ocean. Mike and I were both delighted to have been spared the
agony of sea sickness while coming up the coast. Now we could
pretty much eat whenever we liked and as much as we liked.
Afterwards, I took over for Mike who fixed a little dinner and
then retired to the V berth for a snooze. Time was passing very
slowly, and I thought it was going to be a horribly long night.
Eventually, some traffic appeared further out in the channel.
First there was a westbound tug and barge, then a larger
westbound ship, then a westbound fishing boat, then an eastbound
fishing boat. It was fun to watch the lights through the
binoculars to identify what was approaching and what direction
they were heading. Later in the night I started munching on some
nibblies, which helped pass the time. I also eventually started
listening to my walkman radio for the first time on the trip. I
found some great Canadian stations, and the music helped a lot to
pass the time. I was wearing so much gear that I began feeling
like a storage closet. I had on several layers of warm clothing,
plus my foul weather gear, plus the binoculars, plus the walkman,
plus my hand bearing compass. With all the entertainment, I was
really enjoying myself when I first caught sight of the fishing
net racing toward us.
We had already passed several of these gill nets on our trip down
the Columbia. Its a long net that hangs straight down in the
water, suspended by a line of little buoys connected to the upper
edge of the net. During the day, we generally sighted a large
orange buoy first that was tied to one end of the net. With the
binoculars, we would then look for the little buoys that would
run away from the big ball. This would tell us exactly where the
net was, and we could easily avoid it. At night, its not so
easy. In this case, the only warning I got was a little light
out in the water. I was studying the light with the binoculars
in an attempt to figure out what the devil it was. At the time,
I didn't realize that it was marking one end of the gill net. We
were fighting a tidal current that was running against us, and
though we weren't moving very fast along the shoreline, we were
moving quite fast through the water. Since the gill net floats
free in the water, we were approaching it too fast to avoid it by
the time I saw the line of little fluorescent floats dead ahead.
About all I had time to do was shift into neutral to minimize the
changes of getting the propeller wrapped up in the net.
Fortunately, the net slid down under the full keel of the boat
and was quickly left behind in the darkness. I put the engine
back in gear and continued on, now keeping watch for any more of
those strange little lights on the water.
We had originally decided to try to keep the boat's speed
reasonably slow that night, so if we hit a log in the darkness it
might not hole the boat. However, as the tidal current running
against us had gradually increased, I had applied correspondingly
more power. I now had the engine running much faster than I
would have liked, and we were hardly making any progress at all
against the shore line, due to the strong west running current.
By 2 am the contrary current was at the height of its ebb, and I
lost patience with the game that I was loosing. I turned the
watch over to Mike. While I snoozed on the foredeck, the
currently gradually diminished, and Mike was able to able to
start making progress toward the east.
I relieved Mike at 6 am, and listened to the walkman a little
while waiting for dawn. It seemed strange to be listening to the
trials and tribulations of the morning's rush hour commute while
I was so isolated from the maddening crowd. We had not seen any
of the Olympic Mountains during our trip up the coast. Mike said
we were in too close to shore. However, I could see a little of
them now, and they looked beautiful and cold in the morning
light. There was a little snow on the higher slopes, but I
assumed it was last year's snowpack. Despite the night's battle
with the current, we were now approaching Port Angeles. The
factories around the town were belching great quantities of filth
into the air, and the resulting orange haze was rather repulsive
after so many days away from any industrial activity. I could
not bear the thought of taking "Spirit" into such an evil looking
place, so I decided to press on.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of heading up to the San Juan
Islands, but it seemed sort of out of the way. If time allowed,
I was thinking of visiting a few spots on Puget Sound that I had
not yet been to. Port Townsend was on the way, and I had really
enjoyed my visits there in the past. It was so nice to have
enough time off to make all these options possible. Where ever
we decided to go, we would likely be there for a day or two,
since the weather bureau was calling for some rainy weather
tomorrow. In the end, I elected to head for Port Townsend.
It took us the rest of the day to get to Port Townsend, and all
of it was under power in light winds or no winds. As we passed
Port Angeles, we got to watch a big freighter come in, pick up a
pilot, then continue on toward some destination in Puget Sound.
I remember passing a little white bird that was sleeping on a
floating log. Its head was twisted around and resting on its
back. It didn't awaken until the boat was passing by, and the
first thing it saw was this noisy white monster with a blue
stripe. It looked quite alarmed, but never flew away. Maybe it
was so scared that it forgot to try to escape. A little later,
Mike accidentally dropped his waterproof walkman overboard. We
were better prepared this time. Mike put the boat in reverse as
we had discussed, and backed up to where the little yellow case
was floating. We not only retrieved it, but discovered that it
still worked! In the final hours of the afternoon we reached
Port Townsend, tied up in the Port Townsend Boat Haven, and spent
the evening basking in the luxury of shore power and hot showers.
--- Friday ---
Friday was mostly a lazy day, though we did get a few things
done. The marina wanted us to move to a different slip near by,
but I was not keen on the idea of backing the boat in a crowded
marina with such blustery winds blowing. We wound up moving the
boat entirely by pulling it along with ropes that Mike threw from
the pier where we were going to the pier where the boat and I
were currently located. It was a new and fun experience for me,
and we got the boat into her new slip with a minimum of fuss.
Despite the rain, Mike walked into town for a look around. I
eventually made a run to the grocery store, then took a tour of
the marina and the adjoining boatyard. I happened to be just in
time to see the launching of a boat that had been purchased by a
woman. The little sloop was all decked out with flags, and was
lowered into the water with an all female crew aboard. There
were some interesting boats in the marina, as there always seemed
to be in Port Townsend, but I didn't see anything that really
caught my eye. I was pretty happy with the boat I had. Mike's
eye was on a Babba 30, which I had to admit was very nice. In
the evening, we both wandered into town, and had an acceptable
dinner at the Fountain Cafe.
--- Saturday ---
We left the marina Saturday morning for what turned out to be the
most interesting and exciting leg of our trip. Arrangements had
been made to rendezvous with Mike's wife Sharon in Anacortes on
Monday. It seemed we would be visiting the islands after all.
Although the weather report called for improving conditions, it
was rainy and windy when we headed out. We started out under
just the mainsail. This was an adequate sail for a while, but
the southerly wind began to ease as sailed through the lee formed
by Marrowstone Island. Mike ran the jib up to keep us moving.
When we sailed out of the protection of Marrowstone Island, the
wind began to build. Eventually, we became overpowered and the
boat heeled over and rounded up into the wind. We already knew
that reefing the main was not going to work, so we tried
something a little different. Since we would be running north
with the southerly wind behind us, Mike dropped the mainsail and
we let the jib alone pull us north. It turned out to be a great
idea, since the sail was pulling us in the direction we wanted to
go, making steering very easy. Although it was occasionally
raining and boat was rolling its way along through the choppy
water, Mike and I were both having a ball. I told him that you
just had to love sailing to be able to enjoy these kind of
conditions.
There was not much in the way of shipping, though a few ships did
pass by. Mike identified one as the same ship we had seen a few
days earlier. I had hoped to travel all day without the need of
the "iron beast", but after passing Smith Island the wind went
light as the sun began to peek out from behind the clouds. We
took the sails down and continued toward Cattle Pass under power.
I noticed a fog bank to the west, and had just enough time to fix
our position on the chart before visibility dropped to less than
a mile. I was amazed at how quickly the fog closed in. Mike
used his hand compass to steer until the fog burnt off a while
later. When we could see better, we discovered that we were
right on course. Another bull's eye for mariner Mike. We
motored up to Cattle Pass under hazy sunshine, but found the
current ebbing against us. I put the jib back up to help out the
engine, now that we had run into a little wind. A short time
later I set the main as the wind built a little stronger. We
eventually got enough power from the sails to punch through the
sizeable waves being formed by the strong current. The sails now
seemed to be giving us all the power we needed, so we gave the
"iron beast" a rest.
The wind was coming strong from behind again. Since we were
without a whisker pole, and since the boat did not go well
directly downwind with both jib and main, we began tacking
downwind. We were going great guns again, and each jibe was
pretty exciting. Also exciting was the fact that Shark reef
extended further off the shore than I would have guessed. I
could see that it might be easy to hit at night if the chart was
not carefully consulted. We could see it plainly though, so
avoiding it posed no problem. We held on to both sails for as
long as we could, but we were eventually overpowered. The main
then came down and we continued on to Turn Island with just the
jib.
I decided to tie up to one of the park buoys at Turn Island,
though I knew that a "real" cruiser would never choose an
unfamiliar mooring buoy over his own well known ground tackle.
It was the easy way out, but I was not at all comportable with my
decision. Mike brought the boat into the anchorage under power,
and as we came along side the buoy, I grabbed it and tied us up.
It was very gusty in the anchorage, and neither "Spirit" nor her
skipper could get very comfortable. Even after attaching 2 lines
to the mooring buoy, I still wasn't particularly comfortable with
the situation. The buoy was theoretically very strong, but if it
broke for any reason during the night, we probably wouldn't know
about it until the boat hit the rocks along the island's
shoreline. After the second line to the buoy was secure, I set
about trying to quiet the various lines that were banging on the
mast. Eventually, I got things about as secure as they were
going to get above deck, and retreated below for a hot dinner, a
good book, and finally, bedtime.
--- Sunday ---
Sunday was a warm, sunny day, but with very little wind.
Although we sailed off our mooring buoy, we soon had to go back
to the engine to get us the relatively short distance to Spencer
Spit. We reached our new anchorage in just a few hours, and tied
up to another mooring buoy. After securing the lines to the
buoy, Mike and I assembled "Ding" and lowered it into the water.
Mike and "Ding" were soon off to explore the sand covered
peninsula, which formed the bulk of the state park ashore. I
decided to concentrate on reading. By day's end, I had finished
one book, and completely read another. There were a few other
boats in the anchorage, and many people ashore wandering around
the park. However, when evening came, just about everybody
headed home to get ready for work or school on Monday morning. I
was delighted not to be among them.
--- Monday ---
Monday almost turned out to be as exciting and action packed as
Sunday had been. We motored out of the anchorage on a cold but
clear morning. It was about the only morning on the trip when it
was cold enough to make condensation inside the hull a problem,
albeit a small one. Lining the hull with insulation was still on
the things-to-do list. We were headed for Anacortes to pick up
Sharon later in the day, and motored as far as Guemes Channel
before encountering any wind. The day was still young, and I was
a little reluctant to spend the rest of it tied up to a dock.
After raising the sails, Mike did a little checking and
determined that we had sufficient time for a side trip, so we
turned northward to circumnavigate Guemes Island. We beat up
Bellingham Channel in a nice wind, and as we went along I
inspected the hills and bluffs on Cypress Island, some of which
looked like they might be fun to scramble up.
When we reached the northern tip of Guemes Island the wind gave
out, but not before I beheld the most beautiful sight through the
binoculars. Looking toward the east, There was the dark, shaded
shoreline of Guemes Island. Farther out, a gray fog bank
concealed the mainland shore and some of the lower hills beyond.
Above that were pine covered foothills. And towering above it
all was the bright, snow covered peak of Mt Baker. The contrast
between the dark foreground and bright background was striking,
and the binoculars brought in Mt Baker so close that it dominated
the viewing field. It would have been a postcard quality
picture, but I lacked the proper camera and telephoto lens to
capture it. But that was okay, since everything does not have to
be captured to be enjoyed.
After gawking at the scenery a while longer, I helped Mike take
the sails down and activate the "iron beast". It came to life
with a delighted roar as we headed south down the eastern shore
of Guemes Island. An hour later the wind returned from behind
and were able to exchange the jib for the "iron beast" as our
means of propulsion. It was a pleasant afternoon, and we
eventually made our way down the shoreline, between Saddlebag and
Hat Islands, and concluded our journey with a nice reach under
full sail to the entrance of Anacorte's Cape Sante Marina. It
was here that Sharon rejoined us for the remainder of the trip.
We took full advantage of the shore side facilities, including
shore power, hot showers, and grocery shopping. In the evening
we wandered downtown, finding a narrow gauge railway that ran
about 5 blocks, a hardware store with all sorts of cool boating
toys in the display window, and a great Mexican restaurant to top
off the day.
--- Tuesday ---
There were high clouds overhead when we headed south out of the
marina next morning. "Ding" was back in the water, and happily
followed behind us on its painter. The big adventure of the day
was to be the passage through Swinomish Channel, which I had
never traversed. It was another windless day, with Mike at the
helm, Sharon and I studying the chart, and the "iron beast"
making as much noise as possible. The channel that leads to the
high bridge is a narrow one, but well marked. Although there was
a large expanse of water on either side, it was very shallow
water. We passed by mud banks, but had plenty of water within
the confines of the channel. After passing under the high bridge
that lead to Anacortes, we continued down Swinomish Channel.
This too was a small but adequate channel, with trees or farmland
close by on either bank. Mike continued to pilot the boat down
the channel, occasionally passing a fishing boat that went by as
fast as possible.
We soon passed through the town of La Conner, which was a big
surprise to me. I wasn't surprised that we reached it, but
rather at how nice of a town it was. There were marinas hidden
everywhere, with very nice boats tucked away inside. Waterfront
stores and restaurant were plentiful, well maintained, and some
quite modern looking. There were also lots of beautiful
residential houses lining the banks of the channel with their
manicured green lawns and the standard piece of driftwood or old
rowboat carefully landscaped into the grounds. There was no
Boeing plant that I could see, nor Microsoft headquarters, nor
any other big money making industry, but there was obviously
plenty of money in La Conner. Where did it all come from?
Sharon tried to explain that this was a tourist town, with the
local flower farms contributing to the commerce. This may have
been the case, but I found it hard to believe that a few tulip
bulbs and antique shops could support such a prosperous little
town. Whatever it is that they do, they must do it well.
I was still trying to justify La Conner's existence after we had
motored through it and headed south into Skagit Bay. The
afternoon was mostly motoring, though we did manage some sailing.
I watched a most interesting flock of birds for a while. They
were a rather generic collection of small birds that all flew
close to one another, and as one turned, so turned the others.
The thing that made them so interesting was that when they headed
one direction, each bird presented such a small profile to our
eyes that the whole flock seemed to evaporate. Then they would
quickly change directions again, their wings becoming much more
visible, and the flock would "reappear". As seen from our
vantage point some distance away, the flock appeared to be a
gracefully moving clump of matter that would alternate between
well defined and practically invisible. It was a little like
watching someone playing with venetian blinds in the distance.
I'm not sure I have ever seen anything quite like it, or if I
had, I had never been sufficiently bored to take the time to
study it and appreciate its beauty.
Sharon and Mike looked over the charts and tour books for an
appropriate place to moor for the night, and eventually decided
on Coupeville. We arrived late in the afternoon under overcast
skys, and dropped the plow off the town's waterfront. It looked
pretty quiet ashore, but Sharon and Mike took "Ding" ashore to
seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where
"Ding" had not gone before. I chose to stay on board, thinking
that someone should stick around to guard Sharon's homemade
chocolate chip cookies from pirate attacks, or at least eat as
many of them as possible before the pirates arrived. As it grew
dark, it appeared that my electric anchor light was not working.
As a beacon to the starship "Ding" and its crew, I turned on the
spreader lights for the night, hoping that their craving for the
boat's electrical reserves was not as great as my craving for
Sharon's cookies. However, as it turned out, both the batteries
and the cookies survived the night ... mostly ...
--- Wednesday ---
It was so foggy in the morning that we could hardly see the
shoreline. I suppose we could have chastised Sharon for bringing
this uniformly blah weather with her, but we refrained since she
had also brought the cookies. I decided to see if the loran
could figure out where it was. I tinkered with it for a while,
but it just couldn't make up its mind. As a last resort, I took
it into the cabin and placed it on the galley table, whereupon it
immediately locked in on our position. Amazing. I turned it off
for a bit, then re-activated the loran. I don't think it ever
figured out where it was again. Since not knowing our current
location was a skill I had already mastered, I abandoned any
further attempts at its usage. Personally, I think the loran was
conspiring with the kerosene anchor lamp.
We got under way despite the fact that we usually could not see
as far as the shoreline. We navigated with the depth sounder,
hand compasses, and dead reconning. With not enough wind for
sailing, I found this latest navigational challenge to be very
interesting, and was a little disappointed when the fog began to
clear after a half hour or so. I resisted the temptation to
anchor until the fog returned, and continued to plow southward
over the calm waters of Saratoga Passage. We crossed over from
the Whidbey Island shore to the Camano Island shore, eventually
reaching Lowell Point. Mike and Sharon were once again
researching the charts and literature for an appropriate
destination for this day's wanderings. Sharon suggested we try
Langley, which not only had a small marina, but the tour book
indicated that the town had "numerous purveyors of refreshments".
As we crossed back over to Whidbey Island we were again engulfed
in fog, so I happily resorted back to my depth sounder and hand
compass navigation. As we approached the shore, the fog once
again cleared off. However, as a consolation, a light breeze
eventually developed that allowed us to silence the "iron beast"
and race forward at speeds that sometimes approached as much as 2
knots. Although we were not in any particular hurry, it
eventually became obvious that it would likely take half the
night to cover the remaining 2 miles to Langley, so we fired up
the engine and motored the remaining distance to the marina.
After all, we didn't want to keep the "purveyors of refreshments"
waiting too long.
After tieing up, Mike hoisted me to the top of the mast so I
could replace the bulb in our anchor light, only to find that it
was now working just fine. Langley seemed to me to be a scaled
down version of La Conner. It didn't have a lot of marinas, but
the small one it did have was very adequate. The town itself was
not as big as La Conner, but it too was still very nice, and
exhibited the same puzzling characteristics of prosperity,
tourist shops, and nothing that I would consider "significant
industry". How were all these people managing to not only
survive, but to survive very nicely, thank you. Maybe they all
worked in Seattle but made their home here. I just couldn't
figure it out. We dined ashore again, this being the last night
of the sailing trip, and deserving of some special recognition.
I can't vouch for the success or failure of the "purveyors of
refreshments", but the fish and chips were quite good. The real
entertainment, however, was back at the marina.
In the marina was a fish pen where they were raising salmon
fingerlings for later release. As we returned from dinner,
Sharon noticed an otter that had taken command of a small fishing
boat moored next to the fish pen. I thought it might be some
sort of public relations scheme, like "you really otter spend
your money in Langley". However, this otter cared not for the
P.R. business, but was entirely consumed by its desire to figure
out how to get inside that fish pen, where an otter's salmon
dinner banquet awaited. When it was not inspecting the fish pen
from every conceivable angle, it scrambled up onto the fishing
boat and did its best to portray itself as the cutest, the most
adorable, and the most deserving-of-a-handout otter in the entire
universe. His otter antics kept us captivated and grinning for
quite some time as it alternated dashing about the boat and
laying on its back grooming itself. It was a one otter show, and
by far, the most interesting thing I had seen in Langley.
--- Thursday ---
The final day of our trip was gray. It didn't rain, there was no
significant fog, and it wasn't too cold; it was was just a dull,
uniform, windless gray day. I don't think that 3 days of
motoring under gray skys had exactly intoxicated Sharon with the
"romance of sail". As for me, I had my fill of motoring, and was
looking forward to a safe and timely termination of the voyage.
The "iron beast", noisy but dependable, took us out of the
Langley marina reasonably early in the morning. We slipped down
the coast of Whidbey Island, past the ferry landing at Clinton,
and then southeastward to the mainland. The hillsides along the
Sound began to fill more and more with houses as we drew closer
to Seattle. We passed towns, trains, and huge oil tank farms
ashore. On the water there were a few tugs, a few far off ships,
and lots of gill nets. Mostly, though, there was just a lot of
water, and a hazy horizon.
I called the Shilshole marina in Seattle on the VHF, and found
out they would have room for us. I still needed to find a
permanent home for "Spirit" in Seattle, but she could stay
temporarily at Shilshole. As we approached the marina in the
afternoon, I was thinking that this had been a genuinely
uninspirational day, when a group of porpoise showed up. I think
this improved everyone's attitude, and I felt that a porpoise
escort into the marina was a sure indication that my boat would
be happy in Seattle. We unloaded our gear and waited for Mike's
sister to pick us up. Tomorrow, I would drive my crew back to
their home in Portland.
From where we were waiting in the Shilshole parking lot, I could
still see the top of my boat. It had been quite a trip. Despite
the light winds, October had been much kinder to us than we had
any right to expect of her. Although I had lost count of my many
blunders over the past 19 days, "Spirit" had brought us safely
through our 467 mile journey. She now took a well deserved rest,
with a new city surrounding her, and a porpoise or two to keep
her company.
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