|
|
1998 Sailing Trip To Vancouver Island
by Doug Sanderson (copyright 1998)
Contents:
Part 1: Seattle to Victoria
Part 2: Victoria to Brooks Pennesula
Part 3: Brooks Pennesula to Tofino
Part 4: Tofino to Neah Bay
Part 5: Neah Bay to Port Ludlow
Part 6: Port Ludlow to Seattle
Part 7: reflections
Seattle to Victoria
Sunday, 6 days before the trip
The propane alarm blasted its warning into the night like a cannon. My
eyelids, having closed about 15 minutes before, were violently thrown
open from the screeching alarm, and the unsettling knowledge that my boat
was about to explode from a propane leak.
But, as I stumbled through my boat's darkness to silence the alarm, the
cobwebs started to clear from my mind, and I began to have serious doubts
about the credibility of the crisis. I had just returned from a weekend
sail out on Lake Washington. The sail was intended as mini shakedown cruise
for the upcoming 6 week maxi shakedown cruise, now less than a week away.
I had not used the stove at all during the weekend. If there was a
propane leak, why now? I sniffed the bilge ... no propane smell. False
alarm. Probably a faulty sensor. But, to be on the safe side, I turned
off all the electrical circuit breakers. I made a mental note to buy a
new propane sniffer, and stumbled back to bed.
Monday, 5 days before the trip
When I got back to the boat after work on Monday, one of the first things
I did was to turn on the propane sniffer. It quickly ran through its
initialization sequence, then displayed the "all clear" sign. No alarm.
No explosion. Just business as usual. I went about my evening routine
and eventually went to bed, convinced more than ever that the propane
sniffer had a nervous breakdown the night before, and that it would be
good to have a spare on board when it had its next spaz attack.
15 minutes after lights-out, the propane sniffer again blasted its
message of doom and destruction into the night. Once again, I went
through the same drill of stumbling through the darkness, silencing the
alarm, sniffing the bilge, and convincing myself that it was a false
alarm. Then, just for fun, I put the propane sensor outside the boat
and turned it on. No problems. Next, I moved the sensor back inside
the boat, and it shortly began to beep beep beep its little brains
out. Something was going on. I played the game of moving the sensor
outside and inside the boat for a while, and I eventually discovered
that the sensor would go into alarm mode immediately if held above my
boat's battery box. The battery was bubbling away from the effects of
the battery charger, which was needed after using the battery all of
last weekend without recharging it. I checked the propane sensor User
Manual, and yes, it would detect excessive levels of hydrogen gas.
If a battery is charged with too much of an electrical load, the battery
will "gas", giving off little bubbles of hydrogen and oxygen from the
plates inside the battery cells. Too many bubbles result in too much
hydrogen, and too much hydrogen will go boom with very little
encouragement. The propane sensor was not lying. I either had a
bad battery, or a bad charger. Again, I shut off all the electronics
on the boat, and went back to bed. I had roughly three days to
diagnose and repair whatever it was that was trying to blow up my boat.
Tuesday, 4 days before the trip
I was armed and dangerous. With my voltmeter and watch, I turned on the
battery charger and kept track of amperage and voltage for about 3
hours. Earlier in the day, I called the people who built the battery
charger, and they had suggested a few diagnostic tests which I also
conducted. Finally, I had purchased a hydrometer, and checked the specific
gravity of the acid in all the battery cells. The bottom line was that
the voltage was not dropping as it should after having been on the charger
for a while. The battery was several years old, and had tolerated a lot
of use and abuse from me over the years, so it seemed like the most
probable suspect. But, what I wanted was for someone to say that
such and such was definitely the problem, and that everything else was
okay. I hoped that I would be able to take my data to the charger
people and the battery people the next day and get the answer I was
looking for.
Late in the afternoon, I lost part of my hydrometer. The hydrometer
is basically a long glass tube with a plastic squeeze bulb at one
end. I had been leaning over the side of the boat rinsing the thing
in the lake when the two halves separated, and the glass tube
disappeared into the lake. I wanted to gather more hydrometer data
later in the evening, so I grabbed my snorkeling mask and jumped
into the lake for a little search and rescue action. But, the
combination of dim light, lake weeds, and 8 feet of depth defeated
me. I was also very annoyed that my breath holding capacity was
nowhere near what it had been in my college days. So, I made a
run to the store, bought a second hydrometer, and finished collecting
all of my electrical diagnostic data before turning into bed. I
decided to give the propane sniffer and the battery charger the night
off.
Wednesday, 3 days before the trip
I faxed my battery diagnostic data to the battery charger people on
Wednesday morning. They said that my numbers looked typical for my
charger, and suggested I buy another battery. So, after work, I headed
downtown to a company that sells boat batteries. I told them my tale
of woe, and asked them to check the battery (which I brought along with
me) before they sold me a new one. They hooked my battery up to their
tester gizmo, and then two of them tried to figure out how the tester
gizmo worked. I immediately started to have serious doubts about their
ability to give me an accurate diagnosis. After a lively debate
concerning which switches to switch and which dials to turn, they sort
of came to the conclusion that that the battery was probably okay,
and suggested that I have my charger examined. This was NOT the answer
I had hoped for. My search for a clear cut answer was rapidly turning
into a contest to see which marine equipment manufacturer could say
"our stuff looks fine" the fastest.
We talked about it for a while, and I ended up buying a new battery
just like the old one. In the best case scenario, the battery was
suffering from old age, and was some how causing the problem. In the
worst case scenario, the battery was okay, but it was old enough that
it would eventually not be okay, and now was a convenient time to
replace it. Of course, midway through the conversation, the battery
salesman told me I should relocate the battery so that gassing did
not put hydrogen gas into the cabin.
What the hell is it with marine equipment manufacturers? They all seem
to have this vision of the average boat being roughly 100 feet long,
with tons of rooms and compartments. Damn near every piece of marine
equipment ever made has some sort of written instructions to install
it in a "warm, dry, well ventilated space". Of course, this is not an
unreasonable demand, since your 100 foot yacht has lots of these spaces,
right?
I don't know about your boat, but my boat has some challenges
when it comes to finding a spare "warm, dry, well ventilated space".
For one thing, its not 100 feet long, its 28 feet long. As for the
"warm" part, that mostly depends on the outside air temperature. As
for the "dry" part, you can forget about that, too. My salt shaker is
kept in one of the driest parts of the boat, and a casual inspection
of its contents will confirm what the ravages of humidity will do in
even the driest part of the cabin. Of course, the closer you get to
the bilge, the more of a joke the "dry" criteria becomes. And "well
ventilated"? Most of the smaller pleasure boats, and certainly my
boat, are not built like a house with built in air ducts for
heating-this and air-conditioning-that. The boat is basically a
floating box, and if you want ventilation, you open ports and hatches,
and if its cold or wet, you don't open them.
If I had a "warm, dry, well ventilated space" on my boat, I would
certainly not put my battery there. I would put my bed there ... and
maybe the salt shaker, too. The arrangement of a small boat is a
collection of compromises. Having built a good part of "Spirit",
my Westsail 28 sailboat, I have
become intimately acquainted with this cruel fact of boating life.
There usually is no ideal location for anything. You give item "A"
less space than it really ought to have, so you have enough room to
cram item "B" beside it, and not disturb item "C" which you have already
installed. The battery box for the "house" battery was installed
below the main hatch. If it gasses, the hydrogen has at least some
chance of getting out the main hatch. There were probably 10 different
considerations when it came time to locate and install the "house"
battery. Its current location is a compromise of all 10 of those
considerations. I told the battery salesman that the battery was not
going to be moved. Period. End of discussion. Jesus...
I eventually headed back to the boat with the new battery, hooked it
up to my old charger, and started taking another round of diagnostic
data as the new battery was being charged. At the same time, I started
looking through the user manual for the charger. My charger basically
charged a battery in 3 steps. Step 1 was to really zap the battery with
a lot of amps and a lot of volts. Step 2 was to gradually bring down
the charging amps while maintaining the high voltage, and then bring
the voltage down. A timer was built into the charger so that step 2
would not exceed 1 hour. Step 3 was to maintain a very tiny charge
to keep the battery fully charged while it was hooked to the charger.
All this worked as advertised, except that the amps and volts stayed
too high for too long in step 2. The new battery gassed, but not as
badly as the old battery had gassed, and eventually the battery plus
charger went into the step 3 phase of the charging process, which
the old battery never seemed to reach.
Having been through all of that, I eventually concluded that at least
a portion of the blame fell on both the charger and the battery. The
old battery had indeed endured a lot of use and abuse from me over
the years, and it was probably pretty tired. The charger seemed to be
guilty of over enthusiasm in its duties, but the new battery appeared
to be more tolerant of the over-charging. I felt I now had a system
that, while not perfect, would at least get me around Vancouver Island.
I was still a little annoyed at loosing the original hydrometer, so
I went back in the lake for more search and rescue. It wasn't looking
very promising, even in the better light, because of all the lake
weeds and the silt I stirred up. But, in the last seconds of the last
dive, I spotted a blurred reflection, reached out through the weeds,
and grabbed the missing hydrometer. Life is good. Back on board, I
thought I would put the extra hydrometer in the compartment where the
boat's engine battery lived. I tried to wedge it under the battery
cable so it would not roll around and break in rough sailing conditions.
But, the battery cable was too strong, and the glass hydrometer
shattered. Sometimes, life is not so good. Or, maybe we are all
acting out some grand, well thought out scheme, and I was just not
meant to have that hydrometer. Whatever. I still had the other
hydrometer, so I cleaned up the mess, declared victory, and quickly
went to bed before anything else could go wrong.
Thursday, 2 days before the trip
When I got back to the marina after work, I was handed a piece of
paper from a city worker. Basically, it said (A) they had discovered
a sewage leak next door to the marina, (B) up to 3 million gallons of
sewage could have leaked into the lake over the past several weeks,
and (C) stay the hell out of the water until they gave the "all clear"
signal. I was now less than 2 days away from a 6 week trip, and
wondering if I was about to become violently ill with vomiting,
diarrhea, and headaches.
Friday, 1 day before the trip
I was extremely anxious to begin my trip, and I decided I would do
a preemptive strike by slipping out of the marina Friday afternoon.
They had reopened the area for swimming, which was a very good sign.
I immediately ran into a seemingly endless list of little things that
needed to be done before I left. It was rapidly heading toward
dusk when I finally backed Spirit out of her slip, and headed for
my overnight anchorage at Seward Park, just a few miles away. But,
Mt Rainier was standing proud in the evening sky, the air was
exactly the right temperature, and I was free at last. Life was
good. Life was very good.
After I had anchored for the night, Tim paddled his kayak out to
Spirit for an evening visit, then hopped back into the kayak and
disappeared into the night. A full moon was rising, and a zillion
stars dotted the sky. Best of all, I had no vomiting, no diarrhea,
and no headaches. I slept outside in the cockpit and wondered what
the next 6 weeks would bring.
The purpose of the trip was a "shakedown" cruise. For most of the
time I had owned Spirit, I had been building the boat, not sailing
it. This cruise was to find out what worked, and what did not. I
also wanted to see what kind of upwind performance I would get with
my boat. To that end, I selected a clockwise circumnavigation of
Vancouver Island. Most people who circle Vancouver Island do so in
a counterclockwise direction. The prevailing summer winds on the west
coast of the island are from the northwest, so a counterclockwise trip
makes the west coast a downwind run. I wanted to do it upwind to
see if my boat could fight through the contrary winds. Another
challenge would be to finish the trip in the month of October, when
the northerly winds would start shifting to their southerly, winter
time direction. So, headwinds would be likely on both the outbound
and return legs of my trip. I wondered if the boat was up to the
challenge. I wondered if I was up to the challenge.
September 5th
I woke up in a dew covered sleeping bag, and felt pretty good. No
vomiting, no diarrhea, no headaches. I spent some time doing a little
last minute changing and rearranging before pulling out of the
anchorage about 9am. I had to backtrack a little that morning, passing
by the marina on my way out, but I think that last night's early
get-a-way had been a good thing. You eventually have to say
"enough!" and leave. If you wait for everything to get done first,
you will never leave.
One of the things I wanted to do on my trip
was to make a little 8mm movie of my adventure, so I drug out the
camcorder and shot a little footage as I motored north along the
Mercer Island shoreline. I also used my pocket knife to cut some
notches in a new wooden dowel that would replace the broken sounding tube
for my diesel fuel tank; an activity that would come back to haunt me
in a few weeks. Then, after lunch by the Highway 520 floating
bridge, I motored over to the University of Washington canoe dock
to pick up Tim and Janet and baby Teal.
The boat trip from my marina to Puget Sound involves passing under 6
automobile bridges, and 1 train bridge. Most of these are draw bridges,
and I can get under all of them but 1, which has to open up before I
can pass. A couple bridges have just enough room for me to pass
under, and the University Bridge is one of them. Everything was
proceeding in an unremarkable fashion until I spotted a workman's
scaffolding hanging down from the center of the bridge. There were only
a few seconds to react. I could not turn to the right, because the main
part of the bridge was too low over there. I could not turn left,
because that would turn the boat into oncoming boat traffic that was
going under the bridge in the opposite direction. And, of course,
a 12,000 pound sailboat does not exactly stop on a dime. About all I
could do was watch in horror as the mast headed for the scaffolding.
Fortunately, the damage was very light. The mast itself never hit
the obstruction. My antenna and wind indicator
were both bent over, but both could be bent back to their pre-bridge
configuration. The incident also broke a plastic fitting, which Tim
figured out how to repair later that day. I got off lucky, but I
was NOT pleased with the TWITS that left their !#$@!*?! scaffolding
hanging from the middle of the bridge!
We stopped stopped briefly to top off Spirit's fuel tank, which Tim
and Janet generously offered to pay for, and then continued on to
the Ballard Locks, where Spirit and a few zillion other boats were
eventually lowered down to sea level. Next stop was Shilshole marina,
where Tim climbed up to the top of my mast to inspect and repair
bridge damage. Then, we we finally got to raise the sails for the
first time that day as Spirit headed out across Puget Sound for
Port Madison.
We eventually turned on the motor as the evening winds
grew light, and motored into the little bay at Port Madison. In
my past visits I had never gone very far up into the bay, but we
did on this occasion, and found it adequately deep with lots of nice
boats and homes along the shore line. We anchored in a well sheltered
spot and went to bed after a great pasta dinner. I again slept out
in the cockpit, watching the moon come up and genuinely enjoying the
beginnings of my cruise. No vomiting, no diarrhea, ...
September 6th
By 6am, Port Madison was already falling astern as Spirit motored
north into the morning air. We needed to make some miles before the
tidal currents turned against us after lunch. Our day's goal was
Port Ludlow, which we did manage to achieve by lunchtime with a
combination of some sailing and lots of motoring. As far as I was
concerned, we had met our goal of reaching our destination before
the tide turned against us. However, Tim suggested that we push on a
little further since it was so early in the day. I didn't have a
problem with that, although I had no intention of making a habit of
sailing against a foul tide in light winds if I could avoid it.
So we continued northward under power until we had rounded the northern
tip of Marrowstone Island. Port Townsend was now in sight, but we
decided to duck into the bay at Fort Flagler to have a look around. We
passed by a boat at anchor called Free Spirit. This boat normally lives
at the same marina as Spirit, just a few slips away from Spirit's slip.
But, no one was home on Free Spirit that afternoon, and we continued on
towards Fort Flagler.
I had been attempting to splice together the two ends of a small
diameter braided line that would be used by my self steering gear
that I called "Geeves". The small diameter stuff proved to be
much more challenging to splice than its larger diameter cousins,
and it took 5 attempts with 5 different approaches before the line
was finally spliced. Meanwhile, Tim was really in mileage-mode, and
he took Spirit past Fort Flagler and across the zig zag channel of
upper Kilisut Harbor into Mystery Bay, where we finally dropped the
anchor. There were a few houses around the bay, but it was a
generally rural setting, with lots of boats at anchor. One set
of sailboats were rafted together, and looked like they all
belonged to some common organization. Some of the rafted boats
had their anchors out in one direction, and others had their anchors
out in the opposite direction, so the raft seemed to be well secured.
We got the dinghy out, pumped it full of air, and presto; instant taxi
service! I call my dinghy "The Shuttlecraft", a name that comes from
the Star Trek television series. Little Teal thought the dinghy was
pretty cool, and couldn't wait to get in it, and seemed genuinely
reluctant to get out of it. Tim had made a boarding ladder for Spirit
just before the trip, and it worked just fine to make the transition
from big boat to little boat. Dinner had a Mexican flair, with yummy
beans and tortillas. The night was generally pretty nice, and I slept
out in the cockpit again. However, the wind did pick up overnight,
and there was the sound of engines and anchor chains from the rafted
boats as they adjusted their lines. Spirit seemed quite content to
stay where she was, and I quickly went back to sleep.
September 7th
It was a little foggy when I got up. My ship mates were sleeping-in
that morning, so I took The Shuttlecraft to shore, and set off on foot
to Fort Flagler. There, I found tired looking old cement ammo buildings,
and a couple of shore guns pointing out into the fog. Further on,
I came to the main part of the campground and beach. Free Spirit still
lay quietly at her anchor. The sky was blue over the beach, and I
could see the sun shining on Port Townsend across the bay, but a heavy
blanket of fog hung like a gray curtain to the north and east, blocking
everything but the occasional moan of a fog horn somewhere off in the
distance.
I returned to Spirit, and my crew took The Shuttlecraft for a little
shore leave of their own. I fussed around with a few projects and
checked the weather report, but mostly I was trying to figure out
how to get to Victoria in the fog. The fog was forecast to be a morning
event for the next few days, and the tidal current would turn against
us at about the same time that the fog cleared. Between the fog and
the foul current, there wasn't much time for a little sailboat to make
miles.
We pulled up our anchor in the late afternoon as the foul tidal current
began to ease off. Stowing the dinghy became a major challenge; I
could not for the life of me get it back in the same neat little
package that I had previously managed to achieve. In the end, we had
to settle for "close enough". The wind was really starting to blow, and
of course it blew from the direction we wanted to go. Sailing was
going to be slow progress, if any progress, so we motored up the bay
past Fort Flagler and over to the narrow entrance that lead to the open
water which separated us from Port Townsend.
Things got pretty rough in the little channel as Spirit struggled to
get out into deeper water. The Volvo engine was doing its best, but
the wind and waves were coming close to winning the tug of war.
Progress slowed to a snail's pace, and we talked about the merits of
continuing on or turning back. I was concerned about how many minutes
it would take to put Spirit on the beach if her engine quit. The
bowsprit, which is normally 4.5 feet above the water, was slapping the
tops of some of the waves. We were on the ragged edge, and I decided
to put up a double reefed mainsail to see if that would help to
balance out some of the forces a little better. Tim, who was at the helm,
reported a significant improvement in control as soon as the sail was
up. With the combination of engine and mainsail, we began to make
much better progress toward deeper water. I ran up the staysail, and
that added a tiny bit of speed as well.
When we got into deeper water, we shut off the engine and sailed most
of the way to Port Townsend. Free Spirit remained at her anchor, but
the waves were breaking on an unforgiving shoreline a little bit
downwind of her position. We were guessing the winds were somewhere
in the 30 to 34 knot range, though they eased up a bit as we approached
Port Townsend. We eventually tied up in a marina at Port Townsend,
and got a good night's sleep after hot showers and a pizza dinner
ashore. It was raining as we left the pizza house, and as far as I
was concerned, summer had just been displaced by autumn.
September 8th
I got up earlier than the crew, had breakfast ashore, took a little
walking tour of Port Townsend and the boat yards, and then headed
back to the boat after a stop at the grocery store. Janet and Teal
caught the bus back to Seattle, and I wrestled with the dinghy for
a while, trying to get it back into its previously compact stowed
configuration ... which I never did. Tim and I then cast off our
lines and motored out of the marina. We found Free Spirit had moved
to the Port Townsend side of the bay, so we sailed over to say hello.
We found out that she had transmission problems, and would try to
find the required parts in Port Townsend. We wished them well, and
sailed off toward the Strait of Juan De Fuca (or Juan De Puka, as it
was sometimes called) which connects Puget Sound with the Pacific
Ocean.
We were able to find some light winds, but they were taking us
further and further off course. We eventually motored back to the
Port Townsend area against a foul tidal current, and tied up to a
mooring buoy a little inside of Point Wilson where we spent the night.
I began to mess with the GPS, learning how to input waypoints, and
generally planning my strategy to get to Victoria in a timely manner
despite the fog and tidal currents. I was suppose to meet Leo and
Mona in Victoria on the 10th, and time was running out.
September 9th
It was now time for Tim to head back to Seattle, so I dropped him
off at a dock from which he "hoofed it" back to the bus stop in
Port Townsend. I continued westward into the Strait, sailing solo
in a nice wind under partly cloudy skies, and playing with the GPS
a little more. The winds eventually started to die out, so I
motored as far as Dungeness Bay, where I anchored to get some
lunch and consider my options. The original plan had been to
get as far as Port Angeles tonight, then dash across the strait
tomorrow as soon as the fog lifted. I eventually decided to
remain where I was overnight, since Port Angeles was not much
closer to Victoria, and Dungeness Bay was a much more scenic
environment than Port Angeles.
Dungeness Bay was an interesting place. I was anchored about a
mile from shore, and it was only 15 feet deep. This was definitely
not the typical Pacific Northwest anchorage. I had a nice afternoon
at anchor, although the wind and the foul tidal current both picked
up in the afternoon. There must be a big eddy in Dungeness Bay
on an incoming tide, because it was coming at Spirit from the
east. The wind was westerly, and the combination of these forces
turned Spirit's stern into the wind, which is not the typical
configuration while anchored. I messed around with more little
chores, and generally fretted about whether or not to dash across
the Strait that evening, or wait until tomorrow. I eventually
decided to stay put until tomorrow morning's outgoing tide.
I was a little uncomfortable spending the night in such an open
and windy anchorage. I ate a light dinner because I though that
my rolling home might lead to sea sickness before the night was out.
Before dark, I pulled up the lighter weight
Bruce anchor, and replaced it with my heavier plow anchor on an
all-chain anchor line. I input waypoint coordinates into the GPS
in case I was forced to head out into the Strait during the night.
I also set my watch to get up every 2.5
hours and have a look around to see if conditions were changing
for the worse, and I slept in my clothes in case a quick midnight
getaway became necessary. But, Spirit slept contentedly at her anchor
all night, and all my paranoia was unnecessary.
September 10th
I woke up to a great morning. The outline of the mountains could
be seen in the early morning light, and best of all there was no fog.
I was under way at 7:30. The Dungeness Spit lighthouse passed off to
port as I approached the shipping lanes. I guess it was rush hour
in the Strait, because there were a couple big freighters passing
through towards the west. I slipped behind one of them and motored
out in the general direction of Victoria. I cleaned up the boat as
I made the crossing. This is a pretty straight forward process at
the marina, but more of a challenge when you are alone on a moving
boat. There wasn't enough wind for Geeves to steer the boat, so I
had to constantly alternate between steering the boat outside and
cleaning inside. By the time I got back outside, the boat was
usually off course. So basically, I did "S Turns" for a good part
of the crossing.
I eventually finished cleaning the boat and grabbed some lunch as
the buildings of Victoria grew before me. It had turned out to be a
quiet, cloudy morning as I rode the outgoing tide across the open
water, but I was greeted by an explosion of activity as I entered
the harbor. It was here that I first encountered the Red People.
These were tourists riding in high speed inflatable tourist boats, and
they all wore these red suits, which the tour boat operators provided.
The red suits doubled as both insulation and a life jacket as they
zoomed across the water in search of skylines or whales or what ever.
There were also bigger tour boats and various pleasure craft.
Also, float planes used the channel as a runway for their landings
and take offs. I especially liked the little water taxis that scooted
around the inner harbor like little water bugs.
After checking in with Canadian customs, I tied up to the marina
in front of the Empress Hotel. Wow, what a great place to hang out
in a boat for a few days. The hotel is beautiful, there were
flowers all over the place, street musicians, downtown shops just
a block away, museums to see, all the activity out in the harbor,
and a very British-like overall atmosphere. Victoria is one of my
favorite places to visit. The public shower was a bit of a
disappointment, since both the hot water and water pressure were
not overly enthusiastic, but they got the job done. A
few hours later I met up with Leo and Mona. They treated me to a
great dinner at a waterfront restaurant, followed by a good night's
sleep in a quiet boat.
September 11th
Leo and I got up early and had a walk through some of the city streets,
then returned to pick up Mona before setting off for a Starbucks
breakfast and a bit of grocery shopping. Back on the boat, Leo set
to work trying to clean up some of the dirty gelcoat in the cockpit.
A boat came in a little later, and tied up on the other side of the
dock. It turned out to be a man from Japan who had sailed his boat
for 43 days single handed all the way across the Pacific. He had stopped
briefly for a few days in Port Angeles to fix some broken equipment before
crossing the Strait to Victoria. His english was not perfect, but it
was pretty good, and I helped him to get settled in, showing him where
the dockmaster's office was, and getting him in touch with Canadian
customs. He told me he was a Japanese police officer who had taken
an early retirement. I believe he intended to continue ocean hopping,
but he wanted to spend the winter skiing in British Columbia. The
Canadian customs people seemed happy enough to have him, but they
weren't too keen on his intended 6 month stay. I left him as he and
the customs agent headed off into the Sea Of Paperwork.
I spent the rest of the day walking around Victoria, sending email at
an Internet Cafe, mailing "snail mail" letters, and generally doing
tourist stuff. There was an amazing waterfront artist that I stopped
to watch, who used spray paints to create science fiction type pictures
while tourists like me looked on in awe. We ended up the day with
another great dinner ashore, and another good night's sleep.
Victoria to Brooks Pennesula
September 12th
I managed to get my laundry done and picked up a few more blocks of
ice before it was time to cast off and blast off. The harbor was busy
as usual as we motored out, but things got quiet after we motored out
into the Strait. Leo and Mona headed the boat west while I went
below to read some of the email I had downloaded yesterday at the
Internet Cafe. We got as far as Race Rocks, where we ran into a wall
of fog and wind that blocked any further westward travel. On our
side of the foggy wall it was a beautiful sunny day with pleasant winds.
But on the other side of the wall it was windy and cold and very
limited visibility. We sailed into the wall a few times, but quickly
turned back. It was nasty and dangerous out there, with offshore
rocks that were completely hidden from view. The actual lighthouse
on Race Rocks was no where to be seen.
After a few hours of lazy sailing on the sunny side of the wall, the
fog began to quickly evaporate, revealing the lighthouse and rocks that
had formerly been hidden from view. The wind and waves were still
very enthusiastic, and we were soon hanging on by our fingernails
as Spirit heeled way over in the strong winds. I only had 2 safety
harnesses on the boat, and I gave them to Leo and Mona, then reefed
the sails as best I could. We were still overpowered. The boat was
heeled over so far that the sinks were sometimes below water level.
I checked the bilge and found a lot of water down there. The water
was somehow finding its way into the bilge via the sinks. Mona
pumped out the water from the cockpit-mounted pump and Leo steered
the boat as I tended to the sails and the increasing mess down below.
We were getting beat up pretty good and not making much progress.
There was no way we would get to today's destination before dark.
It was time to retreat back to Race Rocks.
We turned the boat downwind and retraced our steps back to Quarantine
Cove, which was just inside the Race Rocks area. The wind continued
to howl after us, and diminished little even after we had crossed
back to the area which had formerly been the pleasant side of the
"wall". We got inside the little bay and made ready to anchor, and
STILL the wind hammered us with occasional gusts. We finally managed
to get the anchor down, put out 7:1 scope on the big plow anchor,
and called it a day. Wow, what a day!
September 13th
The wall of fog was back next morning. But there was no hurry, since
a fair amount of cleanup was in order after yesterday's thrashing.
Water had gotten everywhere it could possibly get in a heeled over
boat, and had even gotten into a few places where I didn't think it
could get. Soaked cardboard had to be put in the trash. The printer
for my computer had gotten wet, so that had to be set out to dry.
We needed more wraps around the drum at the bottom of the roller
furling, so I made that adjustment.
And, some rearranging was in order in case the same calamity happened
again. Eventually, we put everything in order, ran up the sails,
and started sailing back and forth to the fog wall, waiting for the
afternoon breakup.
The fog cleared out rather suddenly, and we headed back into the Strait.
There was quite a herd of sea lions on Race Rocks, and from our
downwind position, it smelled a lot like a livestock barn. But,
it obviously did not SOUND like a livestock barn. We had a nice
sail for a while, then switched over to the motor as the winds fell
light. We navigated our way into the anchorage at the beginning of
Sooke Basin using the range markers. It was not difficult in the evening
light, but would have been much more challenging if we had kept sailing
yesterday and tried to come into the anchorage after dark. Turning
back yesterday afternoon had been the right move, at least from
my perspective. Before I went to sleep that night, I noticed that the
fog had returned.
September 14th
Next morning, visibility was limited, but good enough to catch a
glimpse of the range markers in order to sneak out of the anchorage
and back into the Strait. From there on, it was navigation by
Braille. We headed out until the depth sounder registered 100' of
depth, and then turned to parallel the shore, which we would only
occasionally get a glimpse of through the fog. Using the compass,
we would turn a little north if the depth got greater, and a turn
to the left if we got too shallow. We were now a day behind schedule,
but there was a lot of trip left, and I felt we could make up for
the lost day.
At this point, I had pretty much resolved myself to the fact that
the trip was going to mostly be done with the trusty Volvo engine,
along with a little sailing thrown in here and there. I knew that
Lake Washington and Puget Sound often had either light winds or no
winds, but I had hoped that as we got closer to the ocean, a nice
steady sailing wind would become more consistent. It didn't.
Its an often overlooked fact that, of all the possible winds that
blow, there is only a narrow subsection of these winds that a boat
like Spirit can use. Of course, if there is no wind, you have to
motor. If there is light wind, you MAY be able to sail. However,
if you are in a hurry (light winds will only move Spirit at a couple
knots) or if you are fighting a foul tide, or if there is a sloppy
sea that is tossing the boat around, you have to motor to get anywhere.
Then, there comes the ideal sailing wind, which is 15 to 20 knots
for Spirit.
Above that, you run into more problems. As the wind
increases, you must start to reduce the amount of sail exposed to the
wind, which is achieved either through reefing the sail to a smaller
size, or taking the sail down completely. At this point, whether or
not you can continue to sail largely depends on where the wind is
coming from. If it comes from behind, you can certainly keep sailing
at a pretty good clip, even with less sail area. If the wind is blowing
from the side of the boat, you can probably keep going. But, if the
wind is blowing from ahead of the boat, you start slowing down as the
wind builds. Less sail area means less force pulling you forward.
More wind means bigger waves slowing you down.
At some point, the headwind gets strong enough that the sails alone
won't pull you forward. You will still move through the water, but in
the long run, the wind will push you sideways so much that it cancels
out the forward pull of the sail. You end up traveling perpendicular
to the wind, even though the boat is pointed into the wind. At this
point, your only hope of making further upwind progress is
motor-sailing, which is using the power of the sails and the motor at
the same time. The sails alone, or the motor alone, will not get the
job done. If the wind increases any more, you forget about making
any more upwind progress.
I'm basically a power boater. Friends that know me well would be a
little shocked to hear me say that, but its true. I use the engine
much more than the sails, simply because I seldom have the right
amount of wind coming from the right direction. Sailors like to
complain about how much they hate to use their engines, but you would
not hear a more blood curling cry than the cry of a sailor who has
just lost his engine. Sailors use their engine when there is not
enough wind, and when there is too much wind. They (i.e. ME) use
their engine to get in and out of the marina. They use it to motor
through narrow channels when tacking would be either too dangerous
or too much trouble. Sailboat engines are used to make progress
when the tide is against you. They are used to get into port when
you are in a hurry, perhaps because you want to get there when bad
weather (or continued bad weather) is on the way, or perhaps you are just
in a hurry to get in soon enough to get a good night's sleep. There
are even a few places (Seattle and Victoria are 2 that I personally
know about) where it is not legal to sail your boat, due to lots of
boat traffic in a narrow waterway.
You can probably "get there" by using only your sails. People have
sailed around the world with only sail power, in the older commercial
sailing ships, and more recently in pleasure craft, both cruising
and racing. But, if you do it without an engine, it can take days
to cover the same distance that your engine could cover in a few
hours. You will do less sleeping, and more night sailing. You will
also be exposed to some dangerous situations, when the wind abandons
you as your boat is drifting towards the rocks. (Sailors like me
conveniently forget about the dangerous situations that would happen
if our engines quit working while we motor past those same rocks.)
Don't even think about getting there "on schedule" without an engine.
Think about just getting there. Engines are expensive, noisy, and take
up valuable space on a boat. But, for me at least, and I suspect for
most other sailors as well, the advantages of having an engine on a
sailboat are an order of magnitude greater than the disadvantages.
I luvvv my trusty Volvo...
The fog started to break up in the early afternoon, but never
completely disappeared. We were able to do some sailing for a
while, but when the fog closed in and it started getting dark,
we turned on the engine and made a run for Port San Juan. Problem
was, we could not see Port San Juan, which was basically a bay
that cut into a relatively straight shore line that was unremarkable
in most respects except for the hardness of the rocks that lined
the shore. We would occasionally get a brief glimpse of white
water breaking on the shoreline rocks before the scene was gobbled
up by the fog again.
We made the boating equivalent of an IFR approach. In an IFR
(Instrument Flight Rules) approach, the pilot of an airplane makes his
landing approach by referencing his navigational instruments instead of
by reference to landmarks on the ground. I got out the chart, plotted a
series of dots on the chart that would lead us safely into the bay, and
programmed the latitude and longitude of each point into the GPS.
Everything was checked and double checked, since a mistake now
could put us on the rocks as we made our approach. But, everything
worked like a charm, and the GPS guided us safely into the bay,
even though we could not see either shoreline as we came in.
Near the spot where we planned to anchor, the fog finally yielded
to a zillion stars, which was a very nice ending to such a tense day.
September 15th
We were up at 3am, since we had a lot of miles to cover. The stars
had chased the fog out of our area, and we were able to let the
engine sleep late as the wind carried us downwind out of Port San
Juan. Eventually, the sky began to lighten up, as did the wind,
and we motored for mile after mile toward the seaward entrance of the
Strait. We eventually left the Strait as a right turn took us
northwest up the Vancouver Island shoreline, with nothing but Japan
off to port. After a 44 mile day, we made it into Bamfield, and
enjoyed an evening meal ashore, and a no stress night tied to a dock.
September 16th
I took a little time to stretch my legs and wander around Bamfield
in the first half of the morning. There was a nearby airport, so I
naturally had to check that out. It turned out to be a airplane-less
airport, with a few tie downs, but nothing to tie down. The airport
seemed to be a combination airport and gravel pit. The gravel runway
did not look to me like a place where you would want to land an
airplane with a brand new paint job. A little wooden building seemed
to be a multi purpose terminal building and control tower. If there
was a busy season at the Bamfield airport, today was definitely not it.
Later in the morning, we got the boat under way again, and headed out
into Barkley Sound. This is a really great area for kayakers, with
(literally) tons of little rocks and islands dotting the landscape.
We motored under sunny skies enroute to Effingham Bay, only a short
distance away. Though beautiful, the bay proved to be either too
deep or too narrow or both from an anchoring perspective. So, we ran
up the sails and continued on a little further to Joe's Bay, which
proved to be not only beautiful and quiet, but an excellent anchorage.
After the anchor was down, we were able to enjoy our anchorage
for several hours before it got dark, which a break from our usual
routine of rush rush. The fog returned, but that just made it all the
more peaceful. An occasional kayak or canoe would float by in the
distance, but that was about it as far as afternoon action went,
except for the call of a bird from somewhere along the blurry shoreline.
September 17th
We should have remained in Barkley Sound a second day, but we decided
to push on in order to make up for our lost day. It was another day
of light winds and fog, so we motored for several hours, guided by
the GPS. Miles of coast line slipped away to starboard, unseen. Every
now and then a fishing boat would appear through the gray curtain, then
be swallowed up again as it fell behind us. Finally in the afternoon,
the GPS said that we could turn towards land. The waves breaking on
the rocks were the first things to appear. Then, a few islands, then
the coast line, and finally some of the hills beyond the coastline.
We arrived in Tofino a few hours later, which was a nice little
town that seemed to be part fishing town, part tourist town, and
generally on the sleepy side. After some poking around the waterfront,
we eventually ended up at the "Weigh West" marina, land of hot showers
and dinner menus.
September 18th
Leo and I were up early, and walked into town for breakfast and a little
grocery shopping. Back on the boat, we motored over to the gas dock
to grab some ice for the cooler. There was a fair amount of tidal current
running along the shoreline, and I intended to use the current to slow
down the boat as we approached the gas dock. But for what ever reason,
the current at the gas dock was reversed, and my landing was one of the
less-than-graceful varieties. Thank god for fenders.
Having botched the first nautical challenge of the day, we grabbed our
ice and made good our escape. For most of the morning, we motored
through inland passages under cloudy skies. About lunchtime, we popped
back into daylight and passed between the barrier rocks back into the
Pacific. We switched over to sails as the wind picked up. But, we
were soon reefing the sails as the wind continued to build. We made
progress into the wind until we had to take in the yankee, which is the
largest and furthest forward of my 2 head sails. Once the yankee was
gone, our windward progress stopped. We were still sailing through
the water at a reasonable pace, but we were not getting any further
up wind.
The sails alone could not overcome the wind and waves, which were now
conspiring against us. The engine was also not capable of overcoming
the forces of nature thrown against us. However, we discovered that
with both the engine and the reefed sails, we could make some progress.
This was a bastardization of the sailing purist and the power boat
enthusiast, but its tough to argue with success. We continued to
motor sail until we reached Hot Springs Cove, our day's destination.
Though we arrived a little on the late side, Leo and Mona both took a
stroll ashore after we had tied up to the dock. Then, Mona whipped
up another in her series of award winning meals, and we all went to
bed quite content.
September 19th
On this day, our route took us along a coast line for which I had no
charts, only a large tourist map of Vancouver Island. Fortunately,
we had good visibility, and sailed up the coast line at a respectable
distance from shore. As luck would have it, there was a spot where
the cost line ran absurdly far out into the water. For someone
sailing at night along this coast without charts, it could easily
be a lethal combination. With either the sails or the engine or
some combination there of, we were able to remain well clear of
the dangers as we used the binoculars to gawk at the ocean swells
crashing into the offshore rocks.
Bligh Bay came into view by mid afternoon. It was very beautiful,
but again I found it too deep for my anchoring tastes, and we
went off in search of a better anchorage. While heading out of the
bay using the boat's engine, an increasing head wind began to slow
us more and more until we were hardly making and progress at all.
I decided to roll out the yankee to see if that would help, and it
made an amazing difference. It was like getting another 500 rpm
from the engine. I don't like sailing with the engine on, but I
was beginning to appreciate what a powerful combination it was.
We decided to take a crack at getting into Critter Cove. There
was a narrow and extremely shallow entrance guarding the cove, but
from the description in the guide book, there should be just enough
depth to let us sneak through. Leo stood out on the bowsprit with
his polarized sunglasses, and was able to call out the directions
necessary to safely navigate the watery hallway which soon opened
up into a completely land locked little anchorage. We had it all
to ourselves all night.
September 20th
We snuck out of Critter Cove as soon as there was enough light to
safely do so, with Leo once more out on the bowsprit checking for
underwater "critters". Once outside, we did not return to the
ocean as we normally did, but instead motored through a series of
narrow but deep passages that cut through the coast line. Clouds
eventually gave way to sunshine, and absence of the big rolling
swells was a nice change of pace.
About mid afternoon, we arrived at Queen Cove. Although very
beautiful, it was pretty deep, except for one corner of the
anchorage that seemed to have an ample supply of rocks either
near or above the surface of the water. Again, Leo headed for
the bowsprit, and after a half hour of exploring the anchorage
with the engine going at a snail's pace, we eventually dropped
the anchor at what we felt was an equal distance from all the
hazards around us. This was no hurricane hole, but it turned out
to be another beautiful and peaceful place to spend the night
and enjoy the remainder of one of my better birthdays.
Our evening routine was typically a yummy dinner fixed by Mona,
followed by dish cleaning duty by Leo, and finished off with a movie.
Movies may sound strange in a little sailboat, but Leo made it all
possible. He had a compact little electronic gadget that doubled
as a miniature television and an 8mm movie player. Back at home,
he had rented movies, and transferred them from the VHS rental
tapes to the compact 8mm tapes used by many camcorders. On the
boat, we just plugged his player into the boat's electrical power,
and watched the movies on the tiny screen. Of course, they were
all re-runs for Leo, but if he minded watching the movies a
second time, he never complained about it. Come to think about it,
I would be hard pressed to recall much of anything that Leo or Mona
complained about. Most of the movies were
ones that I had never seen, and I really enjoyed our evening movie
time.
September 21st
On this day, it was back to the Pacific. The boat rolled back and
forth drunkenly amongst the ocean swells. The offshore rocks and
islands were punished by the breaking waves as we either motored or
motor sailed up the coastline in light winds and sunny skies. We
eventually slipped into Kyuquot Channel and exchanged the big swells
for little wavelets generated from a pleasant, following breeze.
Dixie Cove, our day's destination, was another completely landlocked
little hideaway. Though the entrance was narrow, it was plenty deep,
and we slipped inside with no problems. Here, we spent another
great afternoon at anchor, surrounded by trees, and in general doing
as little as possible.
September 22nd
Because of the hills surrounding Dixie Cove, we were not able to get
a weather report. We motored out toward the ocean under clear early
morning skies, and were eventually able to get a weather report off the
VHF radio. They were calling for gale force winds in our area, and
of course the wind would be blowing from roughly the same direction
that we wanted to go. But, we decided to give it a go, and as it turned
out, the gale force winds never developed. It was just another
several hours of slogging through the swells far enough off shore to
avoid being pulverized by the waves breaking on the offshore rocks.
The rolling boat sort of got to me, and I definitely did NOT feel in
the mood for food. Fortunately, my stomach did nothing truly noteworthy.
Around lunchtime, we tied up to a mooring buoy in Columbia Cove,
absolutely delighted to have been spared the wrath of the gale.
We spent all afternoon enjoying an excess of warmth, sunshine, and
inactivity, and the absence of gale force winds and big rolling swells.
We got off easy this time.
September 23rd
We were now within striking distance of Winter Harbor, about 25 miles
away as the crow flies, but closer to 40 miles for us, since we had to
go around the Brooks Peninsula. We got up at 2am, thus beating any
records set so far for the ungodlyest hour of the morning. The winds
were forecast to be moderate, though it was dead calm in the anchorage.
We used all our electronic toys to sneak out of Columbia Cove under the
cloak of darkness. The night scope allowed us to see how close we were
to shore, the depth sounder showed us how close we were to the bottom,
and the GPS gave us the bigger picture of where we were headed. I had
plotted GPS waypoints all the way to Winter Harbor last night. With a
little luck, we should make it my mid afternoon. As it turned out,
though, luck was in limited supply.
As we eventually started to round the south corner of the Brooks
Peninsula, we started getting some of those sloppy, Pacific swells. I
assumed that the swells were left over from some recent gale. There was
a little wind blowing from the northwest, so we ran up the yankee to
add a little power to the engine's efforts. Leo and I were sitting in
the cockpit admiring the stars and talking about how to deal with a
side current using the GPS, when conditions began to rapidly deteriorate.
The sloppy swells were not left over by anything. They were were being
generated "as we speak" from a very enthusiastic wind. While under the
lee of the Brooks Peninsula for the last 12 hours or so, we had no clue
that such a strong wind was blowing out here.
There was a bit of a scramble to get into safety harnesses while the
boat pitched wildly in the swells and wind. The yankee was NOT the
sail to have up in these conditions. With all that sail area up forward,
the gusts tended to blow the bow further downwind, which caused the
boat to heel over even more. We needed a reefed mainsail now, but we
had been caught off guard. As soon as the safety harnesses were
strapped on and the seacocks under the sinks were turned off, we furled
the yankee. There was so much strain on the sail by the wind that we
had to put the furling line on the winch. One person just did not have
the required strength. It was quite an experience. The sail was
flapping like crazy as we tried to get it in, the boat was rocking like
crazy from the swells, and it was as dark as all get-out. When we
finally got the yankee furled, it was wrapped so tightly around the
forestay that we used up all the furling line before the sail was
completely wound up. But, it was close enough.
We then managed to set the mainsail, despite the Pacific's playful
attempts to toss me into the ocean. We also got the staysail set,
and with the engine still running, we made an all-out retreat back
towards the protection of the lee of the peninsula. During one of my
turns at the helm, I managed to get lined up with the wrong navigational
light. We had to close the main hatch to keep mischievous waves out
of the cabin, and with the hatch closed, the GPS lost its lock on
the satellites it was talking to. Without that lock, it gave some
amusing readings, but no useful information. I concluded that the
most convincing reason for an outside GPS antenna was not so much
that it got better reception, but rather, you could still get GPS
information without having to risk drowning the poor GPS in wet
conditions that were only tolerated by sailors with a low IQ. Anyway,
I caught my navigational mistake before we had wandered too far off
course, and we gradually left the chaos behind as the sky began to
lighten up.
It was so deceivingly calm in the lee of the peninsula, just another
beautiful morning in light winds and gentle little swells. There
was no comparison between the lee of the peninsula, and the madness
a few miles to the west. But, we felt that we were probably just a
little too early. They DID say "moderate" winds, didn't they? We
shut down the engine and the sails for a few hours to wait for
something that more closely approached the meaning of "moderate".
Leo and Mona had a light breakfast, and I just slept.
Around 9am we headed west for "round 2", and got the same reception
as before. Maybe the wind was a few miles per hour less, but not
much, and the gusts were still as enthusiastic as ever, as were the
swells. Not my idea of anything approaching the meaning of
"moderate". We turned downwind to retreat, and Spirit took a huge
momentary jump in speed. I have never seen the boat go so fast,
probably from a combination of too much sail and an extra push from
a passing swell. Our wake was an explosion of bubbles as the heavy
boat surged through the water. Wow, time to put on the brakes.
Instead of a full retreat back to the land of sanity, we hove-to
under double reefed mainsail in order to have a front row seat
whenever this "moderation" stuff arrived. It was still as windy
and rolly as before, but the boat rode in a surprisingly sedate
manner. I clipped my lifeline to a stanchion by the cockpit and
laid down for another nap in the morning sunshine. Of course,
there was not much hope for sleep, but at least the motion of the
boat was not too bad, and things seemed to be marginally under
control for a while. We hung out until a little past noon when
it was unanimously decided to "screw it" for the day and motor
back to the quiet refuge of Columbia Cove.
We had a little comic relief upon reaching Columbia Cove. On our
arrival yesterday, I had briefly hopped on the big mooring buoy to
pass our mooring line through the eye of the buoy. But, I found
it extremely unstable, and quickly got the hell off of there.
This time, I was back in the cockpit with Mona, and left it to
Leo to tie us up. I noticed he was getting lower and lower up there
on the bow, and I was a little alarmed when he dropped completely
out of sight. I went forward and found him UNDER the bowsprit,
partially hanging on from above, and partially supported by the
bobstay below. Leo had also found the buoy to be a little unstable.
Fortunately, he was able to remain above sea level as he gradually
relocated himself on the more conventional side of the bowsprit.
And I had observed the entire performance without once thinking about
grabbing my camcorder. Damn...
I was encouraged that, despite having been beat up again, the boat
was in reasonably good shape. We were getting much better at
being beat up. I had been monitoring the level of both fuel and
water every few days so as not to get caught off guard by low tanks.
So, after returning to our buoy, one of the things I did was to
check the tanks. I was totally caught off guard when I discovered
a grand total of 1 gallon of diesel fuel remaining in the tank.
I checked a second time and a third time and a fourth time with
the stick I used to measure the tank depth, but I kept coming up
with the same alarming answer. I had no idea how the tank got so
low so fast. The only possible answer I could come up with is that
I had not marked my sounding stick correctly.
The fuel situation, or more precisely the lack there-of, put
everything in a new perspective. We probably had enough fuel to
motor out of this harbor, and motor into the next harbor, but
definitely not enough to run the engine at all in between harbors.
With only sail power, we could only make windward progress with
less wind and less swell; neither of which seemed to typify the
Brooks Pennesula. In addition, we needed fuel to recharge the
battery. I was guessing that we would require 2 days and one night
of sailing to eventually fight our way upwind to Winter Harbor,
even after the winds eased. The navigational tricolor light would
probably eat up a goodly portion of the voltage that currently
remained in the battery, leaving us nothing much to spare. There
was not much to do except turn off the electronics and get out
the flashlights.
There was one possible way to add to our fuel supply. I had a little
extra kerosene stowed away that I intended to use for my
cabin heater. I thought I could probably pour the kerosene in the
diesel fuel tank to add to our limited supply. But, I wasn't sure.
On the one hand, I was of the understanding that kerosene was just
a cleaner relative of the diesel fuel family. Hell, the engine might
run better with kerosene. On the other hand, I did not know for
sure that this was the case. Adding the kerosene to my diesel tank
might kill my diesel engine, and the only thing worse than an engine
which was low on fuel was an engine that had self destructed. Could
I get into harbor with a dead engine? How many thousand dollars
would it take to replace the engine? I had a little less than a
gallon of diesel. I had a little less than a gallon of kerosene.
I thought about it for a long time, then poured the kerosene into
the diesel tank.
The bright side of the situation was that, if we had not been forced
to retreat from our planned day's passage, we would have suddenly
and completely unexpectedly run out of fuel somewhere between here
and Winter Harbor.
We listened with great interest to the weather forecast that night.
There was a gale warning for our area. Everyone agreed that we
should stay put tomorrow. We ate dinner before it got dark, then
went to bed after a very beautiful sunset. In the darkness, I thought
of all the what-if's looming in my future. What if I had just signed
my engine's death warrant by adding kerosene to my fuel tank?
What if the engine ran out of fuel at some critical moment when we
were close to the rocks without enough wind to sail? What if I was
unable to get Leo and Mona to a bus in time to get them headed south
towards a California wedding they were suppose to attend?
What if ... what if ... hey, what if a giant asteroid came down and wiped
out Vancouver Island, and put the whole planet in nuclear winter for the
next thousand years? It was silly to loose sleep over all the
what-if's. We would handle the future as it evolved as best we could.
Better to enjoy the present than to get all upset about future events
that might not ever happen. I decided that the only "what-if" I would
allow myself to think about is what-if Winter Harbor had no supply
of Coca Cola? Now THAT was a scary thought...
September 24th
We spent the day tied to the mooring buoy as wind gusts poured into
the harbor and gray clouds scurried overhead. We got a little rain,
but not much. I am a great believer in the balance of great cosmic
forces in the universe. So, to compensate for what I felt was likely
to be an intensely challenging day tomorrow, I tried to do as little
as possible today. Everyone got a lot of reading done. When we
listened to the evening forecast, the word "gale" once again figured
prominently in the summary for our area. We again decided to spend
another day in the protection of Columbia Cove. Another lost day.
September 25th
It was another blustery day. Sometimes the gusts would slam into the
bay with enough force to heel the boat over a little. A generally
cloudy morning was followed by steadily clearing skies in the
afternoon.
I decided to try to call my Dad in Iowa on the VHF radio. To do this,
you call a marine operator on your radio, and the marine operator
connects your radio transmission to the telephone system. I had a
"cheat sheet" card on the boat with radio frequencies, so I tried all
the frequencies it gave for marine operators. No response on any of
the channels.
Leo suggested I try on channel 22, and I immediately
got through to someone I will call "Operator #1". This operator placed
the call for me, but was only able to connect to my Dad's answering
machine. This doesn't work very well when you are placing a "collect"
call. You don't want to tell the marine operator to put the call
on your telephone credit card, because everyone in the world can
listen to you on their radio as you tell the marine operator your
credit card number (not a good thing). Later, I tried this again, and
spoke to "Operator #2", who said it would be much cheaper if I used
another frequency. I got no reply on the other frequency. We were
in an anchorage with mountains all over the place, so radio reception
was pretty limited. I later called on channel 22 again, and this time
spoke with "Operator #3", who told me I was not allowed to use this
frequency for a marine operator, and gave me another frequency to
try. The other frequency didn't work. The effort had not accomplished
much, but did provide some limited entertainment in an otherwise
uneventful day.
We had settled into a comfortable daytime routine during our stay in
the little harbor. Leo would read up in the v-berth. Mona would
either read or bake bread in the main part of the cabin. And, I
would put on warm clothes and read out in the cockpit. When we listened
to the weather report that evening, it sounded like we would finally be
able to make a dash for Winter Harbor the next day. Showtime at last!
September 26th
The day started out with more of a "thud" than a "bang". We motored
out of the harbor, then shut down the diesel for the rest of the sail
to Winter Harbor. However, without wind, the sailing portion of the
plan was not very successful. The best we could do for several hours
was to keep the boat pointed in approximately the right direction.
Progress was put "on hold" until Mona got busy in the galley. The
wind always seemed to pipe up whenever Mona tried to do anything in
the galley, and today was no exception. The other magical power that
Mona had was that, no matter how long a seal had played around the
boat, it always disappeared the instant Mona got out her camera.
Ya win some, and ya loose some, I guess. But, we were off at last.
Despite all hopes to the contrary, the west side of the Brooks
Pennesula remained in its classic lets-beat-up-a-sailboat mood.
I would guess that the swells were 5 to 10 feet, and the wind
gusts were at least 30 knots; maybe more. I had seen much worse
conditions years ago during a sailing trip in the Atlantic, but
this was pretty big stuff for little Spirit. We could not make
headway against that much wind and wave action.
Mona suggested a retreat to Tofino. This was an exceptionally
difficult plan to swallow, but the logic of it was inescapable.
Leo had made it clear from the very beginning that he wanted to
get off the boat in time to attend a wedding in California. I
had accepted this condition from the very beginning, and we were
now running out of time. It could take days to get around the
Brooks Pennesula. On the other hand, Tofino was a downwind run
of about 100 miles. If this wind held, we could make it in a day
or so under sail. We considered a shorter run into Walter's
Cove, but I decided against it. I had the necessary charts, but
it was too rocky an approach for a boat with a questionable engine.
I felt an attempt on Walter's Cove would put the boat at risk, and
I was not prepared to do that.
But, backtracking 100 miles would kill my circumnavigation.
I didn't have enough time to make up the lost
miles. Every cell of my body had been focused for months at
doing a 6 week clockwise circumnavigation of Vancouver Island,
and when I get focused on something, its very hard for me to give
it up. Turning around now also had major repercussions for my
long term planning over the next several years. I kept looking for
another option. There just wasn't another option.
In the end, I decided to turn around. Leo and Mona had been good
friends to me and a great help on my sailing trip. Their travel
plans were no last minute surprise; I had known about them from
the beginning. I didn't see any other alternative. I spent a
little time experimenting with some different sail combinations
to see how the boat would react; knowledge that I though might
come in handy on some future trip. Then, we turned downwind, and I
watched the Brooks Pennesula drop astern in the afternoon light.
I worked out the necessary GPS waypoints before it got dark.
The downwind sail through the night was, well, miserable. I was
in major need of a major attitude adjustment. Add to that a lack
of sleep on a boat that rolled drunkenly on the swells, and you
had all the ingredients for what-am-i-doing-here stew. Leo and I
shared the hours at the helm; one man in the cockpit trying to steer,
and the other in the cabin pretending to sleep amidst the racket
created by dishes, food, and gear as they were tilted one way, then
the other. The moon was somewhat of a diversion while it lasted,
as was the phosphorescence on the water behind the boat. There
were also the occasional lights of fishing boats, sharing the blackness
of the windy night (I made a mental note to never even consider
becoming a fisherman, in this life nor any that might follow). My
Walkman was also a major help to me. Give me a couple tapes and some
fresh batteries, and I'm good for another hour at the helm. But even
with the Walkman and Leo's help, it was a long, LONG night.
Brooks Pennesula to Tofino
September 27th
We pushed the boat as hard as we could all night, running under the
yankee when possible, and changing down to the smaller staysail when
the wind piped up. But, when the wind pooped out in the morning,
there was not much that could be done. The engine was "off limits"
until we got within a few miles of Tofino. They were still issuing a
forecast for up north with that "gale" word in it. That seemed to
justify our decision to retreat south, but I still wondered if we
could have made it. Probably not within our time frame.
We continued to struggle south in light airs. The boat was still
rolling a lot in the swells, and this tended to spill what little
wind was trying to push the sails. But, the wind remained from the
north, and picked up a little in the early afternoon. At least we
were now crawling south. Mona suggested we think about calling for
a tow if we got within a few miles of Tofino and found ourselves
bobbing around the rocks and fishing boats at the beginning of the
inlet with no wind or motor to maneuver. The idea of being towed
into Tofino was a horrible and humiliating concept for me to
swallow, but Mona was right; it might be the only way to keep the
boat off the rocks and make the bus connection. We also talked
about the possibility of having a boat come out and pick up Leo
and Mona, or maybe just deliver enough diesel fuel to us so that
we could make it in under our own power. The what-if's were back,
in force.
By nightfall, we were within striking distance of Tofino. The north
wind had never regained its strength of last night, but it had been
enough to chew up some more southbound miles. I did my GPS waypoint
homework well in advance. There were several different ways to get
into Tofino, and I finally decided to repeat the route we used to get
into Tofino last time. The plan was to use the north wind to slip
between the lighthouse on the left and the rocks on the right. This
would be the most dangerous part of the approach. But, the north
wind should be beam-on at that point, so we could use all our sails
to push past the dangers and get into the inlet. Once inside the
inlet, the north wind would probably eventually die out, and we would
hope the engine would get us the rest of the way to Tofino.
Leo and I got everything set up for our approach in the darkness. We
managed to avoid hitting a fishing boat, who seemed to take great
pleasure in blinding us with his spotlight as he passed by. The north
wind was holding, all sails were set, we got lined up on our GPS
waypoints, and approached the sweeping beam of the lighthouse, and the
rocks around it. That's about as much of the approach that went
according to my grand plan.
The first alarming development was a loud horn coming from the inlet.
Oh great, we now get to dance around in the channel with some ship
that has chosen this moment to come out. Luckily, the horn turned
out to just be the fog horn on the lighthouse. The next alarming
development was that the wind died just as we got close to the
lighthouse and its associated rocks. No fair! We had little choice
but to play our final ace. We turned on the engine, well ahead of
schedule. The next alarming development was the fog that was trying
to form. We could do most of the approach with just the GPS, but
we really didn't need any more challenges tonight, thank you very much.
Luckily, the fog did not spread. The next alarming development was
the smell of smoke. I figured my diesel was well into its self-destruct
mode, after I had poisoned it with the kerosene. Luckily,
the smoke (and I suspect most of the fog) was a result of the
wood burning appliances used by the local residents.
As the engine pushed the boat toward Tofino, I watched the charts and
the GPS and called out heading changes to Leo. Leo did the steering,
and picked out the navigational beacons in the darkness ahead. Throughout
our approach to Tofino, I was constantly developing strategies for
what to do if the engine died. I listened to the engine's steady
throbbing, and tried to brace myself for the horrible silence as it died
from either fuel starvation or kerosene poisoning. It wasn't until we
were tied up at the Weigh West resort in Tofino that I could relax. It
was around 1am. The engine had run the entire distance without so much
as a whimper. I was emotionally exhausted. I think its fair to say
that we were all very glad to be back in Tofino.
September 28th
I got up at 5am to put a call through to my Dad that we were all safe
and sound. It had been over a week since we had been in touch, and I'm
sure he was wondering where we had disappeared. I left a message on
his answering machine, then headed back to the boat for a little more
rest before breakfast. Leo and Mona not only paid for my breakfast, but
also for 2 nights at the marina; a very nice farewell gift. Then, we
carried all their gear into town where they caught their bus. After
chatting with my brother for a bit on the phone, I purchased half the
merchandise in the local coop grocery store, then abused my body by
hauling it all back to the boat in my backpack.
I kept busy with chores for the rest of the day. I put all my dirty
laundry through the washing machine at the resort. The boat needed a
good cleaning. I motored over to the fuel dock and not only fueled the
boat, but I also kept careful track of what the diesel pump said (in
liters) and what my dip stick said (in gallons). After recording all
the data, I put it aside for later analysis. Then, it was back to the
dock at Weigh West to fill up the water tanks.
One of the interesting events of the day happened during a late lunch.
I was munching a sandwich out in the cockpit, when I heard a number of
birds screaming about something. I turned around and saw 2 seagulls
in a seagull fight. Now, a seagull fight is just not a very big deal;
at least this one wasn't. It consisted of one gull trying to use his
beak to clamp down on the other guy's beak, along with a certain amount
of hopping around and wing flapping. There were a large number of
blackbirds watching the match, and the blackbirds were going absolutely
berserk. Some were excitedly jumping around down by ringside, and others
circled closely overhead. All of them were hopping and hollering like
this was the seagull battle of the century. Eventually, the older
seagull chased off the younger one, and the crowd quickly dispersed.
I didn't see any money exchange hands after the fight was over, but
after all that racket and excitement, I wouldn't put it past the
blackbirds.
I had a pretty good fish dinner at the Schooner restaurant that evening,
and looked through my guide book for a place to go anchor on the next
night. Then I left a phone message for Mike, who would be joining me
in the near future, and headed back to the boat for a good night's sleep.
September 29th
I talked to Mike on the phone before breakfast, and made arrangements
to meet him here in Tofino in about a week. After that, it was one
more breakfast ashore before buying the remaining half of the goods
in the grocery store, and returning to the boat.
The day's destination was an easy day's motoring, but it was a little
foggy, so I took some time to punch a few numbers into the GPS
before heading out. There wasn't much happening out on the waterways
that morning. I was passed by one sailboat, and the float plane from
Tofino Air passed by. The fog broke up around noon, and it turned out
to be a gorgeous day. I got to do a little sailing, but not much. As
I neared my anchorage, I saw a man in one of the Weigh West boats
catch a really good sized fish, then return it to the water.
Once the anchor was down inside Cannery Bay, I went up the mast with
my voltmeter and a fresh bulb to see why my tricolor navigation
light was not working. After fiddling with it for a while, I finally
discovered that the tiny little filament had come undone. If you
tapped it a few times, the loose end would make contact, and it would
light up. A few more taps to the bulb, and the loose end would break away
and the light would go out. Maybe this was another casualty of our
earlier encounter with the bridge. In any event, life at the top of a
sailboat's mast was not an easy one, especially in rough seas. I
replaced the bulb and declared victory.
September 30th
The last day of September was solid IFR, with about a tenth of a mile
visibility. It was foggy enough that I had to look twice to figure
out where the entrance to the bay had gotten to. I punched the
required numbers into the GPS, then pulled up the anchor and headed
out into the gray murk. The plan was to cruise around various
inland passage ways for a week, then return to Tofino in time to
pick up Mike for the return trip to Seattle.
For a while I played hide and seek with the
shoreline, using compass and depth sounder to feel my way along.
Sometimes the depth sounder would see the bottom before I saw the
approaching shoreline, and sometimes it was the other way around. In
either case, I would change course to roughly parallel the shoreline.
Then, when the land had been gobbled up by the fog, I would adjust my
course to head in toward the rocks once again. I suppose I could
have followed the GPS down the middle of the waterway, but I was
concerned about meeting some high speed power boat out in deeper
water. At one point I got quite a scare as the depth suddenly changed
to just 25 feet, and then into the teens. Reverse engines! But, it
turned out to be a false alarm. Maybe that big fish from yesterday
was swimming by. At any rate, the shallow depths vanished as quickly
as they had appeared. I resumed my course and speed, still unable
to see anything more that two or three hundred feet away.
I eventually used the compass and GPS to get over to the other side
of Tofino Inlet, and resumed my cat and mouse game with that shoreline.
At one point, I was mildly alarmed when a very hard looking shoreline
appeared ahead when I was not expecting it. I moved out a little deeper,
then stopped the boat long enough to consult the chart and figure out
what was going on. We resumed our journey, only to be confused a little
while later about what I was seeing and what I expected. I stopped
the boat again, studied the charts until I was comfortable about where
I was, then proceeded on again.
The fog lasted longer than I expected, and I crept through the narrow
Dawley Passage before the fog began to break up. The afternoon's
motoring took me through some really magnificent scenery under warm,
sunny skies. I wished that Leo and Mona could have been there to see
it. Mona had a medical condition that gave her a lot of pain if she
allowed herself to get cold, so she had to spend most of the trip
inside the cabin up in the v-berth. I think that Leo had also found
Vancouver Island to be a much tougher cruise than he had expected.
It was ironic that some of the most pleasant, warm sailing of the trip
would happen only a day or two after they left. It wasn't fair. I
was missing both of them already. Leo had made the boat much easier
to handle, and the quality of my meals had definitely dropped a notch
or two after Mona left. I especially missed Mona's yummy bread, which
she made right on the boat. By mid afternoon, I put the anchor down
in Quaite Bay, and called it a day.
October 1st
There was no sign of activity in the other sailboat anchored in Quaite
Bay as I motored out the narrow entrance. It was not foggy that morning,
but pleasantly warm and very cloudy. The clouds turned into rain, and
the rain stayed with me the rest of the day. Maybe Leo and Mona had
picked a good time to depart after all. But, I was glad to have
the rain. My outside varnish had started to turn into one giant salt
crystal. I tried to do a little sailing, but the winds just could
not generate the required enthusiasm. I would feel a breeze and run
up some sails, only to have the breeze fade away a short time later.
Eventually, I got enough of a breeze from astern to keep the yankee
filled, but that was about all. I passed several fishing boats, and
a float plane zoomed by at tree top level, trying to sneak under the
"weather" to get where ever he was going.
I arrived in little West Whitepine Cove by mid afternoon, and after
snooping around the anchorage for a bit with the depth sounder, I
finally anchored. I changed into dry clothing, then tried to generate
a little heat to dry out my wet clothing. I baked a round of cookies
first (not that I REALLY wanted the cookies, I was just trying to
generate some heat...) and then fired up my kerosene heater for the
first time in a couple years, I think. In the midst of all that, the
tide dropped a little, and revealed some rocks as they rose above the
surface a little ways off my stern. It was a wonder I didn't smack
them when I checking out the anchorage with the depth sounder. I
double checked the cruising guide, and sure enough, the rocks were
right where they were suppose to be. The boat never got near enough
to the rocks to be in any danger, but I re-anchored before dark just
to put a little more distance between me and them.
One of the afternoon projects was to look over the data I recorded
when I filled the diesel tanks a few days ago. I had added some
fuel, then recorded the quantity (in liters) displayed on the diesel
pump, then recorded the level on my sounding tube (in gallons), then
added a little more fuel. I discovered that the reason we had run
so low on fuel so unexpectedly was that the markings on the sounding
stick for my diesel tank were just plain wrong. The notches I had
put in the wooden dowel on September 5th bore no relation to the
actual quantities of fuel in the tank. Eventually, I would have to
drain the tank, and carefully make a new and very accurate sounding
stick. But for the time being, I made a new sounding stick based on
the data I had recorded. It would have to do for the rest of this trip.
October 2nd
After French Toast for breakfast, I motored out into a partly cloudy
morning. It felt a little cooler than the day before, but not bad.
I would not have looked forward to another day of motoring in the rain,
no matter HOW bad the varnish looked. The wind didn't even try to
make an appearance, so I motored along the shoreline, watching the
cloud fragments drift past the mountainous landscape. There were the
usual crop of fishing boats and a fish farm or two along the way. A
solitary float plane passed overhead. It was no adrenaline rush, but I
enjoyed watching it all go by as the engine pushed us steadily forward.
I entered Bacchante Bay in the early afternoon, chased in by a few
rain drops. The bay was a treat for the eyes, with steep wooded hills
all around. But, it was not an ideal location from an anchoring
perspective. It was fairly deep out in the middle, then got real
shallow real fast as you approached the end of the bay. I dropped the
plow anchor in 42 feet of water, then backed up and let out 200 feet
of chain. The water depth was 8 feet at the end of my anchor line.
Not good. I was reluctant to put out less than 5 to 1 scope in an
unfamiliar anchorage. But this was a well protected place, and it
was not yet low tide, so I pulled in 50 feet of chain, and that put
the boat in about 20 feet of water. Much mo bettah. As the tide
went out and the boat swung on its anchor line, the depth got as little
as 12 feet, but that would have to do for tonight.
Aside from the anchoring, the heater also had problems. I could
light it, but it would not stay lit for very long. I could hardly
blame it. After 2 years of non use, I was a little surprised it worked
at all. There had certainly been plenty of time to accumulate some
moisture in the fuel through condensation. It wasn't cold enough so
that the heater was really required, but it was nice to heat up the
cabin a little from time to time. I eventually gave up on the heater,
and just dressed warmly, puttering with small projects as the rain
sprinkled down on the cabin roof through the quiet afternoon.
October 3rd
It rained through the night, at times coming down with genuine
enthusiasm. There was a stream or waterfall (or both) hidden in the
trees nearby the anchorage which sounded like it was pumping a lot
of water through its system, much more than what I could hear on the
previous afternoon. The master plan had been to revisit Hot Springs
Cove today. But, the wet weather had dampened my enthusiasm, and I
suggested a rest day. The vote was unanimous.
My non functioning heater had been in the background of my thoughts
ever since yesterday afternoon, so I decided to tear into it this
morning. I got out the owner's manual and checked this and cleaned
that and generally made a mess with the soot and kerosene. But, when
I was done, I had a functioning heater, so I quickly declared victory
and cleaned up the mess. I also spent a little time that morning
giving some thought to what kind of schedule I wanted to shoot for,
as far as getting from Tofino back to Seattle in a timely manner. I
roughed out a timetable for the days ahead, and tried to build in some
flexibility for non user friendly weather conditions.
The first half of the afternoon was spent updating my journal. After
that, I did some reading and listened to classical CDs. The sun was
in a tug of war with the clouds for dominance of the skies, but the
clouds were generally winning. A few light showers passed by, and
fragments of clouds drifted past the cliffs above.
October 4th
By morning it was partly to mostly cloudy. The lack of rain overnight
had apparently been the cue for someone to turn down the volume of the
waterfall by the anchorage. After French toast for breakfast, I hauled
up the anchor, tried to keep away from the shallow areas as I got
everything secure on the foredeck, then motored out of the bay,
retracing my steps from two days ago.
I motored out of Shelter Inlet, back through Hayden Passage, and
then something unusual happened. The wind started blowing. After
hours and hours of motoring, I finally got to run some sails up and
give my trusty Volvo a rest. The wind came from ahead, and there was
enough of it to warrant a reef in the main, but overall it was very
nice sailing. The skies were still gray, but the rain held off, and
I was dressed warmly for the cool temperatures. We did a lot of tacking
up Millar Channel, with me handling the sheets. But, instead of Leo
on the helm, my self steering vane "Geeves" was doing most of the
steering. I was even able to put the reef in the mainsail while
Geeves steered with the two headsails pulling. The added weight of
the water bottle, which I had strapped onto Geeve's counterweight
back in Dungeness Bay a few weeks back, seemed to balance out the
self steering mechanism very well. Over all, I would say that Geeves
did a pretty fair job of driving the boat, although Leo was much more
fun to talk to.
The wind finally took a break about lunch time, and I motored the
remaining distance into West Whitepine Cove. This time, I took a
little more care to put the anchor down at a respectable distance
from the rock that I knew would pop above the surface as the tide
continued to fall. The wind returned in the afternoon, followed by
a little light rain. But, I was warm and dry inside the boat. For
the remainder of the afternoon, I tackled the cleaning job from hell
that was patiently awaiting me in the bilge.
October 5th
Overnight entertainment had not been hard to find. There had been
an on-going battle all night between the wind and the rain to see
who could hit the boat the loudest. And, if I tired of that, I could
listen to the bobstay and anchor chain, which seemed to be in a contest
to see who could first saw the other in half. The weather radio was
reporting that I wasn't the only one getting wind and rain. There
were gale warnings for my area, and even higher storm warnings up
north. However, for the last several days, the wind direction usually
had a southerly component, as opposed to the northerly winds that
Leo and Mona and I had struggled against so often. This switch from
north winds to south was just what the pilot charts had predicted
as the Pacific Northwest moved from summertime weather patterns to
fall and winter patterns. And, from the gloomy sky and light rain
over the anchorage that morning, it was definitely looking more and
more like classic Seattle winter weather.
The entrance to West Whitepine Cove is a shallow one, so I stalled
for a while before pulling up the anchor. By the time the anchor was
up, the "now you see em, now you don't" rocks in the anchorage were
below the tidal level, and I knew I had plenty of depth in which to
safely leave the cove. I motored through light winds until rounding
Clifford Point, where I found some wind. It was a headwind, as
usual, but Spirit grabbed hold of it with staysail, reefed yankee,
and a reef in the main. It was a wet sail with the showers passing
by at regular intervals, but it wasn't very cold. The Volvo took
a rest as Geeves steered the boat and I handled the sheets. A plastic
hook that was part of Geeves' steering mechanism gave way under the
strain, and at that point Geeves gave up in disgust. Fortunately,
Spirit sails herself fairly well upwind, and we continued to make
progress toward Tofino, where hopefully my new crew member Mike
would be waiting.
The wind pooped out past Morfee Island, and I furled all the sails
and started to motor. But, about the same time that the sails were
all put away, the wind returned. So, up went the sails again, and
the Volvo got to go back to sleep. We almost sailed to the Tofino
waterfront, but a weakening wind combined with a strengthening tide
made it necessary to put the sails away one last time and start up
the trusty Volvo. The tidal current was really cruising past the
waterfront. By the time I got to the Weigh West resort, it was
like maneuvering in a strong river current. The Volvo was just
about maxed-out, and I was just barely making headway. I maneuvered
Spirit into an empty slip, using more of my whitewater kayaking
skills than sailboat know-how, and tied up for the night.
After I checked in with the resort, the next priority was to
locate Mike. I called my answering machine in Seattle, and found
a message from Mike. His Aunt was dying from cancer, and he
would not be able to sail with me. This news caught me off guard.
I had always said that I was willing to do the trip by myself, but
it had looked like this would not be necessary, and I had not given
it any thought recently. But, having been beat up by wind and waves
on more than one occasion, I was a little alarmed to hear that it
would be just little-old-me out there. After I had some time to
think about it, I gradually warmed up to the idea. It was not like
I had to sail a zillion miles over open ocean. I could hop back to
Seattle the same way I hopped to Tofino. Basically, it was a matter
of waiting for the south winds to die down for awhile, then running
like hell before they were forecast to pick up again. Spirit and I
could do this. I just had to keep thinking ahead, and try to avoid
unnecessary risks, using my remaining vacation time wisely.
I made a few other calls, checking in with my family. When I got
back to the boat I picked up the latest forecast, and decided to
hold position in Tofino for an additional day in hopes of getting
less of a southerly wind to battle against. Then, after a so-so
meal ashore, and yet another failed attempt at getting my heater
going, there was little more to do than work on my journal and
listen to the south wind as it moaned in the rigging. The what-ifs
were back.
October 6th
It was cloudy for most of the day, but dry and mostly light winds.
This was a trend I hoped would continue. After breakfast ashore, I
tore into the heater again. This time I drained all the kerosene,
in addition to generally cleaning it out. I could clearly see a
small quantity of water in the old kerosene. I didn't know if that
was the root of my problems, but it couldn't have helped matters any.
I put everything back together, put the old fuel back in the tank
(minus the water) and added some fresh fuel as well. Other chores
included laundry, cleaning up the boat, grocery shopping, raiding one
of the local bakeries, mailing post cards, motoring to the fuel
dock to pick up more ice, and doing my GPS homework for the next day.
In the late afternoon, the water was rushing by again just like the
day before. I spoke briefly to a gal who was getting ready to row
out to some houseboats on the far side of the rushing water. She
seemed none too keen on the idea, and asked me to keep an eye on her
during her crossing. She was obviously not accustomed to ferrying
a boat cross-current, and she got turned around more than once. But,
she had a good rowing boat, and she eventually made it across to the
other side.
The weather report that evening sounded like what I was waiting for,
so I went to bed early, but slept poorly. I dreamed that a doctor
told me that I had a disease that was going to kill me in a few
months. I don't ever remember having a dream quite like it. I
initially thought the dream might have been some sort of subconscious
editorial on my single-handed sailing skills. On further reflection,
though, I think it came from the dreadful news about Mike's aunt. I
woke up from my dream, but Mike's aunt was living out a nightmare
with no escape. I felt badly about the unfolding tragedy, and thought
of her from time to time in the days ahead. I was glad that Mike had
decided to go see her one last time.
Tofino to Neah Bay
October 7th
The alarm went off at 0430. I quickly checked around the boat for
doctors, and found none. Ah, life is good. The moon was out, shining
through a thin overcast, and there was no wind. Show time! I
got dressed, fired up the trusty Volvo, and made good my escape.
The ebbing tide really gave me a ride out of town. I'm not sure
if it was trying to help out, or just glad to be rid of me. Whatever...
I picked my way out visually past the lighted buoys, and used the GPS
and the night vision scope to fill in any remaining blanks. We were
soon rocking and rolling in the Pacific swell again. The thin overcast
continued, along with some light haze. Winds were mostly calm. The
swells were genuinely annoying as we slid past the lighthouse on one
side and the rocks on the other side of the channel. Fortunately, the
swell smoothed out some as we ran out into deeper water, but it was
still bumpy. I passed the time listening to country music stations on
my Walkman radio, and re-tied some knots in a piece of line that I used
to hold the tiller in some fixed position so I didn't have to steer
100% of the time. Of course, there were some goodies from the galley
that I munched on. Anything to pass the time as the boat rocked back
and forth on its way south.
The radio reported that the rain was heading our way, though it was
a little behind schedule. Hey, no problem. I had assumed I would be
wet for most of the day, and not a drop had fallen yet. The overcast
increased, however, and eventually the fog swallowed up everything. I
was back into IFR motoring, trusting everything to the numbers I had
programmed into my GPS on the previous afternoon. The fog remained
for hours, just as it had when Leo and Mona and I had traveled north
along this section of coast. I was beginning to have serious doubts
that there even WAS a coast along here. If there was, I certainly
saw no evidence of it.
Late in the morning, still in the fog, I had to make a decision. I
had made plans for 3 possible destinations, and it was now decision
time. From here, I could go into Ucluelet, the nearest option. But,
it was too early in the day to stop now. I could also head for
Bamfield. This would put me in a good position to press on the
following day if I wanted. I could also head to our previous anchorage
at Joe's Bay in Desolation Sound, which would be a pleasant location
to wait for better weather. I had the GPS pre-programmed for all 3
options. I waited until the last minute, then listened to the most
recent forecast. The next day sounded wet and none too kind from a
wind perspective. The following day, however, sounded a little better,
though still a bit damp. I decided to head for a day's rest at
Joe's bay.
As I changed course toward the north, the visibility was somewhere
between nothing and damn near nothing. The only boat I had seen
all morning was a fishing boat headed towards Ucluelet. However,
as I approached Joe's Bay, the fog started breaking up. The increasing
visibility revealed rocks on either side of the channel I was in.
The GPS was doing its job. I think that Desolation Sound is best
suited for kayaks. For sailboats, its basically a mine field of rocks
waiting for you to make a mistake. And, in the fog, mistakes are
easily made. I think the Tofino area is the
sailor's cruising ground of choice.
I spoke briefly to a Parks Department official as he passed by in his
boat, then continued into Joe's Bay. By 2pm the anchor was down, and
I was safe again for a while. The sun was even trying to peek through,
and it seemed very warm and pleasant. I spent the rest of the afternoon
doing my GPS homework for the next 3 days of sailing to Victoria, and
updating my journal. I tried the heater that evening, but again it would
only run for a short time and then die. At that point, I gave up on
the heater for the remainder of the trip. When I got back to Seattle,
I could take it apart and give it a good cleaning, and install some sort
of water trap in the fuel line, all at my leisure. For now, I would
just have to dress warmly and hope that the engine generated enough
heat to dry out the boat a little. The wind and rain finally arrived
just before dark.
October 8th
There was wind and rain off and on through the night and early morning.
As the weather began to improve after lunch, I started getting restless.
I tuned in the latest weather report on the VHF radio, and heard the
magic word. "west" Port Angeles in the Strait Of Juan De Fuca had
a 20 know wind from the "west". After the many days of foul weather
from the south easterly storms, I was hungry for a west wind. I
shamelessly lusted after a west wind. Even a forecast of winds that
did not include the "e" word (east) was a major improvement. I
considered leaving for Port San Juan immediately, a run of over 40
miles. But, even with fair winds, I would have to sail most of the
night to get there. I have never been very good at staying awake all
night. If I'm lucky (or "motivated") I can hang in there until maybe
2am, but after that I need a couple hours rest. Sailing all night
alone was not a good thing. Besides, the "e" word was liberally
sprinkled through the weather report for just about everywhere else
in my neighborhood.
In the end, I decided on a compromise. I would hop over to Bamfield,
spend the night there, and push on towards Port San Juan early the
next morning. This plan had a couple of good points. For one thing,
it allowed me to negotiate the Barkley Sound mine field of rocks
during the daylight, whereas leaving for Port San Juan early tomorrow
morning would mean I would have to traverse the mine field in the early
morning twilight, and possibly in the fog. Leaving Bamfield in the
darkness of early morning was no problem. Another good thing about
leaving from Bamfield was that it cut a few miles off the trip to Port
San Juan; not a lot, but any decrease in a 40 mile trip was a good thing.
If I could get into Port San Juan by 10pm, I could get a few hours sleep
and then sprint to Sooke before the next meteorological "event" came out
of the southeast.
I got the anchor up and motored out of Joe's Bay. I didn't really need
the GPS because of the good visibility, but I followed it anyway out
of curiosity to see how it handled the mine field. It did a pretty
good job. Once clear of the highest concentration of mines, I put
the sails up. It was a good thing I did not set my sights on Port
San Juan that day. The local winds were southeast, and a series of
brief showers were passing through. After one of the little squalls,
the wind went light, and I replaced the sails with the trusty Volvo.
As I approached Bamfield, I was tying a fender to one of my shrouds,
and admiring a solid wall of rain that was conveniently passing just
behind me. Then suddenly, out of the wall came a brilliant flash of
lightning, followed by a loud blast of thunder. I quickly
decided that anything having to do with the metal shrouds would have
to wait for a while. The mast of my boat probably made a dandy
lightning rod. I even removed my safety harness for a while, since
it has a couple large metal rings. But, the lightning did not
return.
The light was starting to fade as I approached Bamfield, and I noticed
that the charger warning light was on. This meant that the alternator
on the engine was not charging the batteries. Leo had mentioned that
this light occasionally would go on for a while, then magically shut
itself off. He suggested maybe the belt was loose, which seemed like
a reasonable suggestion. Whenever I had seen the light come on, it
was only when the engine was running very slowly. All I had to do
was to increase the RPMs above idle speed, and the light would go
off. But that evening, the light was staying on, no matter what I
did to the engine speed. Without the alternator working, my batteries
would eventually go dead as I used them for things like starting the
engine and operating the navigational lights at night. Not good.
I tied up at the same place that Leo and Mona and I had stayed when
we first visited Bamfield. There was a very friendly man there who
helped me tie up, and collected the fee for using the dock overnight.
He said that I could check with Breaker Marine in the morning about
getting the alternator fixed, and that if I had to stay in Bamfield
while the alternator was being worked on, there would be no charge
for remaining at the dock. I later checked the belt tension and checked
the volts and amps coming out of the alternator. It was either dead, or
pretty close to it. Tomorrow would be Friday. Then, a weekend. Monday
was Thanksgiving Day in Canada. That means nothing much would happen
until Tuesday. It was beginning to look like I might be taking a
vacation from my vacation. A few more rain showers moved through
the area overnight, and I was glad I was not out in the cold
darkness looking for Port San Juan.
October 9th
I was waiting on the doorstep of Breaker Marine when they opened on
Friday morning, the alternator inside my backpack and ready for
inspection. The man said that I needed to go over to the motel
and ask the office if they knew where Nick Germani could be located.
Nick was the man who apparently did all the diesel engine work in town.
I found the motel office to be empty, but noticed a phone by the
door, and looked up Nick's number. There was no answer when I called
the number. For all I knew, he could be away fishing somewhere for
the long holiday weekend. I picked up the phone book again and started
looking through the yellow pages for marine service companies. Port
Alberni seemed to have quite a few places that looked encouraging.
As I waited outside the motel office, I happened to spot a notice on
the door that said bus service to Bamfield was being suspended. This
was another item on the rapidly building "not-good" list.
When the office opened up, I told the man about my problem. The good
news was that he did know where Nick was. The bad news was that Nick
was in Vancouver for a few days visiting his son who was in the hospital.
I mentioned the notice outside about the bus service. The man said that
about the only way to get to Port Alberni was on the ferry boat,
which made one-and-one-only stop in Bamfield on Tuesday Thursday and
Saturday, or try to hitch a ride with someone that was heading
that way. The "not-good" list was getting longer. I wandered back
to Breaker Marine, but there was really nothing they could do.
As I walked back to the boat, I thought over my options. Nothing was
going to happen in Bamfield until after Thanksgiving. And even then,
it could easily take days or weeks to get the alternator serviced and
returned to Bamfield. There was the combination gravel pit and
airport in Bamfield. Maybe I could fly to Seattle, get my spare
alternator out of my storage locker, and fly back to Bamfield. Not
cheap. I could try to sail to Victoria, hoping that the batteries
would last long enough to get me there. I would get there after
Thanksgiving, and it might be more easy to get the alternator looked
at in Victoria. ... correction ... It ABSOLUTELY HAD to be easier
to get the alternator serviced in Victoria. Then, it hit me. The
Neah Bay option. Neah Bay was a little town in Washington State,
across the Strait from Port San Juan. My last visit to Neah Bay
revealed a sleepy little fishing and tourist town that sort of
closed up for the winter. But, I might be able to catch a bus from
Neah Bay to Port Angeles, and get the alternator serviced there.
Port Angeles is a pretty fair sized town.
I looked at my watch. 0930. I could be outta here by 10am. It was
not the crack of dawn start that I had intended, but I felt it was
going to destroy me mentally if I had to hang out in Bamfield for 2
weeks. If I was going to have challenges, I preferred a game plan
that was more proactive. The risk, obviously, was that I could end
up with a dead battery and no engine in some southeasterly gale. But,
at the moment at least, I had a fair forecast (not great, but fair)
and 2 functional batteries. I put the alternator back on the engine,
and took off for Neah Bay.
The winds were mostly calm as Spirit climbed up and down over the
gentle rolling water which were the leftovers of the Pacific swells.
It was partly cloudy when I rounded Cape Beagle and turned southeast
toward the Strait of Juan De Fuca. There was some wind from the
southeast, and the waves and swells were either south or southeast.
I got as far as Seabird Rocks, and then progress slowed to a crawl.
I was fighting light headwinds, small waves and bigger swell, and an
outgoing tide. Spirit made regular progress through the water, but
we were making no progress past Seabird Rocks. I tried everything
I could think of. I tried motoring only. I tried motorsailing and
pinching a little into the wind. I tried motorsailing and sailing
with all of the telltales on the sails streaming back in their
most efficient sailing configuration. Nothing was working. I was
loosing ground to tide and leeway at exactly the same rate I was
gaining ground through the water. It was an extremely frustrating
experience for me, and there was no end in sight. This was as far
as I might get today. I might have to return to Bamfield. Even if
conditions improved and I got within a few miles of Neah Bay, I could
still be pushed back to Bamfield by rising wind and waves. I was
royally pissed off at everything; the weather and my boat and my
sailing skills were all horrible. It was probably just as well that
I was alone on the boat. I would not have been a very nice person
to be around that afternoon.
I eventually gave up on making any eastward progress between now and
next summer, and sailed out toward deeper water on the port tack.
I figured that, even though I wouldn't get anywhere, I could at least
enjoy sailing. I mean, wasn't there something about just "sailing"
that had appealed to me at some point in my distant past? Actually,
I was not even sailing; I was motorsailing. I had more fuel than
battery power, so once the engine was started, it continued to run
until the anchor was down. Starting the engine meant using battery
power. Besides, with the engine running, I could bask in the
illusion that I was sailing really fast in the light winds and making
mile after mile of progress. In a way, the engine was a hallucinogenic
narcotic for a sailor, and I was a completely addicted junkie. I
daydreamed of bigger sailboats, bigger sails, and bigger engines.
Eventually, I started making progress. I don't know exactly why, but
I suspect that the tidal current slacked off, and I think that by
tacking out into deeper water away from shore, I found more favorable
winds (or in my particular case, less unfavorable winds). However,
I wasn't getting my hopes up. I was still mentally resigned to the
possibility of being turned back by rising headwinds and waves. It
wouldn't take much to stop my little boat. But, for the next few
minutes, we were making a few miles toward the east. I even had
Geeves steering for a while, but he found it hard to concentrate in
the light winds, and I had to take over, steering by hand again.
Even if I had an electronic autopilot on the boat, I could not have
used it, since electricity was being strictly rationed.
I had dinner before sunset. It was a contest to see if I could
quickly accomplish one small task down below and then sprint back
to the helm before Spirit had changed course for either the rocks
on the left or Hawaii on the right. I was trying to mentally
prepare myself for being at the helm all night. It was cool but
not cold, and thank god there was not any rain. Still, it would be
a long night at best, and a miserable ordeal at worst. As I watched
a very nice sunset, I wondered about the night watches that were
not miserable; where you sailed through the night on a warm
beam reach, entertained by the stars and phosphorescence in the
water.
As it turned out, I did get to watch the stars in at least a portion
of the sky. I even saw a few falling stars race by and disappear,
the beautiful finale to their timeless journey through the solar
system. The lighted buoys in the distance blinked on and off through
the night sky. I watched the commercial ships come and go as they rounded
Cape Flattery on the northwest tip of Washington State, bound for
who-knows-where over the horizon. I could see the dim outline of
Washington in the distance, a slightly blacker outline in an otherwise
black background. Sometimes the swell would be mean and throw
the boat around, and sometimes it would smooth out to a reasonably
comfortable ride. The light headwind would come and go as it saw
fit, but before midnight it accidentally shifted far enough to the
south that I could motorsail closehauled, and hold a course roughly
parallel to the Canadian side of the Strait. I practically held my
breath, least I should do something to disturb the delicate balance
of forces that had temporarily shifted slightly in my favor. It could
all change so quickly, so easily, and any change was likely to be for
the worse.
I eventually decided to head for Port San Juan, on the Canadian side
of the Strait. I knew I could easily navigate my way in there, and
anchor for the night. I had no detailed charts for Neah Bay, and it
had been too many years since I had last been in there with Mike as
my crew. Port San Juan was just across the Strait from Neah Bay. It
would be no problem to hop over there tomorrow morning ... "IF" I was
able to get into Port San Juan tonight. I listened to the radio on my
Walkman, I listened to my tapes, and I occasionally listened to the
marine forecast on the VHF. I never turned on the compass light. I
didn't need the compass. I knew where my course was; it was upwind.
Always upwind. Occasionally, I would turn on the GPS, and make a
mark on the chart with my position and the current time. I was
making progress, slow progress.
Port San Juan was getting closer. Midnight came and went. The moon
eventually got high enough to peek through the clouds for a while.
Far to the east, an occasional flash of lightning; probably a little
thunderstorm near the Cascade Mountains. I huddled in the cockpit
to stay warm, peering out over the cabin top every now and then to
look for traffic. The wind was getting no stronger, but definitely
cooler. For the most part, Spirit steered herself, motorsailing
through the darkness. We eventually turned the corner into Port
San Juan. Fragments of fog drifted through the damp air, and it was
really getting cold. But, we had made it. The anchor went down
about 0130, and soon after that I was in bed trying to get warm again.
October 10th
I stayed in bed a little longer than normal that morning. There was
no pressing need to get up; it would be an easy trip across the
Strait to Neah Bay. I really wished my heater was working. Eventually
I got dressed, made some pancakes, and listened to the weather summary
on the VHF. The weather should be okay today, but start to deteriorate
later in the day as the next meteorological "event" approached the area.
It was during breakfast that it occurred to me that I didn't have to
fix the alternator. All I really had to do was make it as far as the
next marina, hook up to shore power at the dock, recharge my batteries,
and then take off for the next marina. The alternator, like the
heater, could wait until after I was back in Seattle. This revelation
was a very good thing, and meant that I actually had some chance of
making it back to Seattle on time. I got the anchor up after the galley
was cleaned up, and motored uneventfully across the Strait to Neah Bay.
Getting the anchor up had been a lot easier with Leo on board. Back
then, I just had to either pull up the anchor chain by hand, or more
commonly, bring it up with the hand operated anchor windless. Leo
would be down below, distributing the anchor chain evenly in the chain
locker. On my boat, the anchor chain, when it is pulled aboard,
naturally piles up in one steep little hill of anchor chain. This can
be a bad thing, because the motion of the boat can tip the little
hill over during the course of the day's sailing (or, if you are in
the Pacific Ocean, over the course of the day's "swelling"). By the
time you reach the next anchorage, the portion of the chain that needs
to come out first might be buried under other chain that comes out
later. If its bad enough, this anchor chain chaos can get clogged up
and jam. On a list of good things and bad things, this definitely
falls on the bad-thing-list.
So, with just me on board, this is the drill I would go through to
get the anchor up. First, remove any chafe protection that I had set
up to protect the varnish on my bowsprit. Then, remove the short
length of rope that I normally attach to the anchor chain for varying
reasons. Next, pull in 25 feet of chain. If there is any mud on the
chain, use a bucket of seawater and a brush to clean it up before it
gets into the boat (mud in the bilge is also on the bad-thing-list).
Then, stop everything, go below, and rearrange the last 25 feet of
chain so it is evenly distributed in the chain locker. Then, go back
on deck and do the whole thing over again for the next 25 feet of chain.
I generally anchor in about 30 feet of water, and with 5:1 scope, it
means that I generally have 150 feet of anchor chain to stow before
I can get under way.
Another lucky break awaited me at Neah Bay. Since my last visit here
with Mike, they had built a new marina. And next to each new slip in
the new marina, was a new shore power box. Cool! I tied up to the
first dock I came to, and went ashore. The marina manager was not
around, so I decided to check in with US Customs. In Victoria, checking
in with Canadian customs was no big deal. You pulled up to the
Customs dock, called the 1-800 number for Canadian Customs, and that
was about it. Well, for one thing, there was no Customs dock at
Neah Bay. But, US Customs could not be damned for a failure to have
a dock in every possible town along the US coastline, so I found a
public phone, and looked for the 1-800 number in the Yellow Pages.
Not only did I not find a 1-800 number, I could find absolutely no
number at all for US Customs. I called the 1-800 directory assistance
number, and asked for the toll free number for US Customs. I was
told there was no such thing. I then called the normal directory
assistance number, and got a phone number for US Customs in Seattle.
No answer. It must have been their administrative office, which was
of course closed on weekends. It was becoming obvious that the phone
number for checking in with US Customs was a secret. This made perfect
sense if you were a US government Customs bureaucrat, since your office
could operate on a much lower annual budget if you didn't have to
answer a bunch of silly phone calls, ESPECIALLY on weekends.
It was now turning into sort of a game for me. How could I find the
secret phone number for US Customs? Lets see, there was a ferry boat
that regularly went from Victoria to Port Angeles. That meant that
US Customs probably had an office in Port Angeles. I went back to
directory assistance and asked for the US Customs phone number in Port
Angeles. The good news is that I got the phone number. The bad
news is that it turned out to be a number for a fax machine or
computer modem. Obviously, the US Customs bureaucrats were skilled
players in this secret phone number game. I thought about the
sailor from Japan I had met in Victoria, and I wondered how he would
have made out if he had first come to Neah Bay and attempted to
check in with US Customs. Undaunted, I called back directory
assistance, confessed that I was not fluent in the language of
fax machines, and asked if there were any other phone numbers in
Port Angeles for US Customs. There was, I got through to a real
live Customs person, and was officially let back into the country.
I made another failed attempt to find someone at the marina office,
then called my Dad to see what was going on in Iowa. By then it was
raining, and I retreated back to the boat to do my GPS homework for
the next leg from Neah Bay to Port Angeles. Wow, 50 miles; that was
going to be a long day. Plus, I would be fighting an outgoing tide
for a portion of each day. Port Angeles was going to be a very long
day. I would need a half-way decent forecast and a very early start
to make it there before dark.
The GPS homework was a little time consuming, but definitely not tough.
First, I would look over the charts, identify where the buoys were and
where the hazards were, and then pencil-in a series of dots that I
would pass by along the way, and my heading would generally change a
little each time I passed by one of the dots. Next, connect the dots
with a straight line. This may seem like a silly step, but I had
learned the hard way that it was an important step. A few weeks ago,
when sailing from Cannery Bay to Quait Bay in the fog, I had been
surprised when land appeared where I was not expecting it. The problem
was that, on the previous night when I did my GPS homework, I had
drawn the dots on the chart, but had "eyeballed" the route between
the dots instead of drawing the line on the chart. Using this casual
"eyeball" technique, I had not noticed how closely I would come to
land at one point ... until it popped out of the fog the next morning!
After that, I always connected the dots with a line on the chart.
Each of these dots become waypoints, and each waypoint is assigned a
name. I use names like alpha/bravo/charlie/etc for my waypoints,
which accidentally makes it really easy to define your route later
on, but you can call each waypoint anything you want. I record the
name of each waypoint on a sheet of paper, then use the chart to
pick off the latitude and longitude of each waypoint. This data is
then entered into the GPS. Next, you tell the GPS to create a route
for you, and you identify the route by telling it the names of all the
waypoints along your route (this is where it happens to be a little
easier if the waypoint names are selected in alphabetical order).
With this data, the GPS calculates the direction and distance between
each of the waypoints.
There is one last step that I think is extremely important. You go
from one leg of your proposed trip to the next, and make a rough check
between the course and distance on the chart, and the course and distance
calculated by the GPS. I have found mistakes this way, resulting from
entering a wrong number into the GPS for latitude or longitude. This is
an easy "reality check", and is much better done when you are doing your
homework in the comfort of your boat in the safely of your anchorage,
rather than wondering if you made a mistake as your boat is cutting
through the fog at your normal cruising speed. The first time Leo and
Mona and I entered Port San Juan, I did all the GPS homework as we were
sitting outside the Bay in the Strait in the fog as darkness was falling.
Even then, I still did the last step of the GPS homework before we
started our approach into Port San Juan. Poor Leo, who had been at
the helm while I did my GPS homework that evening, had to sweat out
the approach, trusting that I had some vague idea of what I was doing.
But after doing that last step, and seeing the GPS results matching
what I saw on the charts, I was relatively comfortable that the stuff
ahead of us in the fog was wet and not hard.
Another trip to the marina office was no more successful than the
rest. But, a policeman flagged me down, and called the marina
operator on his cell phone as we all huddled beneath a shelter in
the late afternoon rain. The policeman left a message on the marina
operator's answering machine, which was about as much as anyone was
going to be able to do that day. I headed back to the boat, and was
wet by the time I got there. The electrical outlet next to my boat
was a 50 amp circuit, and I only had plugs for a 30 amp or 20 amp
outlet. So, I would not be able to use the electrical heater on
my boat, nor the kerosene heater. I went below, bundled up, and
baked some cookies (for the heat, of course) and then baked some
potatoes, and then baked some salmon. It tasted great, the oven
warmed up the boat a little (not a lot, but a little) and I retreated
to a warm, dry bed as soon as the dishes were done, catching the
latest marine forecast before lights-out. The rain and
wind continued through the night. I was glad I was not out in the
Strait, but I could not stay in Neah Bay forever.
Neah Bay to Port Ludlow
October 11th
I hopped out of bed long enough to turn on the VHF radio, then
listened to the latest forecast after running back to my bed. It
sounded like I was definitely not going anywhere today, and probably
not tomorrow. I got up again, grabbed breakfast (a banana), and ate
it in bed. I finally put on my long johns and other clothes, and
headed outside in search of a slip with a 30 amp circuit. I ran
into the marina operator on the dock, and made arrangements to move
my boat to another slip. It was dry but fairly windy, and without
his help, I would have had to make more than one attempt to get
Spirit into her new temporary home.
I was up at the office paying my bill, when the marina operator asked
about the weather. I told him I had heard that it would be wet on and
off for the next several days, with either east or southeast winds,
probably stronger today than tomorrow. He said that southeast winds
should not give me a problem, since the Strait runs roughly east-west
and I would be partially protected my land from a southeast wind. I
was a little skeptical of that analysis. I had a feeling that a
southeast wind would probably bend around a little to flow down a
natural corridor like the Strait of Juan De Fuca. But, it was an
interesting thought. Maybe if I snuck along the Washington shoreline,
I could get a little protection from the wind. Even so, I would still
have to deal with the tides, and 50 miles was a lot of miles for a
28 foot sailboat. I figured I still needed a half-decent
forecast before I set out.
The marina operator also said something else of interest. He said
that the last of the sailing-to-California crowd had passed through
a few weeks ago. We both agreed that the meteorological "door" had
probably now closed on that activity until next summer. He told me
about the sailors who had come to Neah Bay last year, when the door
closed a little earlier than usual (El Nino?). He said they woul |