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