1998 sailing trip: Vancouver Islandby Doug Sanderson (copyright 1998)Contents: Seattle to VictoriaSunday, 6 days before the tripThe propane alarm blasted its warning into the night like a cannon. My eyelids, having closed about 15 minutes before, were violently thrown open from the screeching alarm, and the unsettling knowledge that my boat was about to explode from a propane leak. But, as I stumbled through my boat's darkness to silence the alarm, the cobwebs started to clear from my mind, and I began to have serious doubts about the credibility of the crisis. I had just returned from a weekend sail out on Lake Washington. The sail was intended as mini shakedown cruise for the upcoming 6 week maxi shakedown cruise, now less than a week away. I had not used the stove at all during the weekend. If there was a propane leak, why now? I sniffed the bilge ... no propane smell. False alarm. Probably a faulty sensor. But, to be on the safe side, I turned off all the electrical circuit breakers. I made a mental note to buy a new propane sniffer, and stumbled back to bed. Monday, 5 days before the trip When I got back to the boat after work on Monday, one of the first things I did was to turn on the propane sniffer. It quickly ran through its initialization sequence, then displayed the "all clear" sign. No alarm. No explosion. Just business as usual. I went about my evening routine and eventually went to bed, convinced more than ever that the propane sniffer had a nervous breakdown the night before, and that it would be good to have a spare on board when it had its next spaz attack. 15 minutes after lights-out, the propane sniffer again blasted its message of doom and destruction into the night. Once again, I went through the same drill of stumbling through the darkness, silencing the alarm, sniffing the bilge, and convincing myself that it was a false alarm. Then, just for fun, I put the propane sensor outside the boat and turned it on. No problems. Next, I moved the sensor back inside the boat, and it shortly began to beep beep beep its little brains out. Something was going on. I played the game of moving the sensor outside and inside the boat for a while, and I eventually discovered that the sensor would go into alarm mode immediately if held above my boat's battery box. The battery was bubbling away from the effects of the battery charger, which was needed after using the battery all of last weekend without recharging it. I checked the propane sensor User Manual, and yes, it would detect excessive levels of hydrogen gas. If a battery is charged with too much of an electrical load, the battery will "gas", giving off little bubbles of hydrogen and oxygen from the plates inside the battery cells. Too many bubbles result in too much hydrogen, and too much hydrogen will go boom with very little encouragement. The propane sensor was not lying. I either had a bad battery, or a bad charger. Again, I shut off all the electronics on the boat, and went back to bed. I had roughly three days to diagnose and repair whatever it was that was trying to blow up my boat. Tuesday, 4 days before the trip I was armed and dangerous. With my voltmeter and watch, I turned on the battery charger and kept track of amperage and voltage for about 3 hours. Earlier in the day, I called the people who built the battery charger, and they had suggested a few diagnostic tests which I also conducted. Finally, I had purchased a hydrometer, and checked the specific gravity of the acid in all the battery cells. The bottom line was that the voltage was not dropping as it should after having been on the charger for a while. The battery was several years old, and had tolerated a lot of use and abuse from me over the years, so it seemed like the most probable suspect. But, what I wanted was for someone to say that such and such was definitely the problem, and that everything else was okay. I hoped that I would be able to take my data to the charger people and the battery people the next day and get the answer I was looking for. Late in the afternoon, I lost part of my hydrometer. The hydrometer is basically a long glass tube with a plastic squeeze bulb at one end. I had been leaning over the side of the boat rinsing the thing in the lake when the two halves separated, and the glass tube disappeared into the lake. I wanted to gather more hydrometer data later in the evening, so I grabbed my snorkeling mask and jumped into the lake for a little search and rescue action. But, the combination of dim light, lake weeds, and 8 feet of depth defeated me. I was also very annoyed that my breath holding capacity was nowhere near what it had been in my college days. So, I made a run to the store, bought a second hydrometer, and finished collecting all of my electrical diagnostic data before turning into bed. I decided to give the propane sniffer and the battery charger the night off. Wednesday, 3 days before the trip I faxed my battery diagnostic data to the battery charger people on Wednesday morning. They said that my numbers looked typical for my charger, and suggested I buy another battery. So, after work, I headed downtown to a company that sells boat batteries. I told them my tale of woe, and asked them to check the battery (which I brought along with me) before they sold me a new one. They hooked my battery up to their tester gizmo, and then two of them tried to figure out how the tester gizmo worked. I immediately started to have serious doubts about their ability to give me an accurate diagnosis. After a lively debate concerning which switches to switch and which dials to turn, they sort of came to the conclusion that that the battery was probably okay, and suggested that I have my charger examined. This was NOT the answer I had hoped for. My search for a clear cut answer was rapidly turning into a contest to see which marine equipment manufacturer could say "our stuff looks fine" the fastest. We talked about it for a while, and I ended up buying a new battery just like the old one. In the best case scenario, the battery was suffering from old age, and was some how causing the problem. In the worst case scenario, the battery was okay, but it was old enough that it would eventually not be okay, and now was a convenient time to replace it. Of course, midway through the conversation, the battery salesman told me I should relocate the battery so that gassing did not put hydrogen gas into the cabin. What the hell is it with marine equipment manufacturers? They all seem to have this vision of the average boat being roughly 100 feet long, with tons of rooms and compartments. Damn near every piece of marine equipment ever made has some sort of written instructions to install it in a "warm, dry, well ventilated space". Of course, this is not an unreasonable demand, since your 100 foot yacht has lots of these spaces, right? I don't know about your boat, but my boat has some challenges when it comes to finding a spare "warm, dry, well ventilated space". For one thing, its not 100 feet long, its 28 feet long. As for the "warm" part, that mostly depends on the outside air temperature. As for the "dry" part, you can forget about that, too. My salt shaker is kept in one of the driest parts of the boat, and a casual inspection of its contents will confirm what the ravages of humidity will do in even the driest part of the cabin. Of course, the closer you get to the bilge, the more of a joke the "dry" criteria becomes. And "well ventilated"? Most of the smaller pleasure boats, and certainly my boat, are not built like a house with built in air ducts for heating-this and air-conditioning-that. The boat is basically a floating box, and if you want ventilation, you open ports and hatches, and if its cold or wet, you don't open them. If I had a "warm, dry, well ventilated space" on my boat, I would certainly not put my battery there. I would put my bed there ... and maybe the salt shaker, too. The arrangement of a small boat is a collection of compromises. Having built a good part of "Spirit", my Westsail 28 sailboat, I have become intimately acquainted with this cruel fact of boating life. There usually is no ideal location for anything. You give item "A" less space than it really ought to have, so you have enough room to cram item "B" beside it, and not disturb item "C" which you have already installed. The battery box for the "house" battery was installed below the main hatch. If it gasses, the hydrogen has at least some chance of getting out the main hatch. There were probably 10 different considerations when it came time to locate and install the "house" battery. Its current location is a compromise of all 10 of those considerations. I told the battery salesman that the battery was not going to be moved. Period. End of discussion. Jesus... I eventually headed back to the boat with the new battery, hooked it up to my old charger, and started taking another round of diagnostic data as the new battery was being charged. At the same time, I started looking through the user manual for the charger. My charger basically charged a battery in 3 steps. Step 1 was to really zap the battery with a lot of amps and a lot of volts. Step 2 was to gradually bring down the charging amps while maintaining the high voltage, and then bring the voltage down. A timer was built into the charger so that step 2 would not exceed 1 hour. Step 3 was to maintain a very tiny charge to keep the battery fully charged while it was hooked to the charger. All this worked as advertised, except that the amps and volts stayed too high for too long in step 2. The new battery gassed, but not as badly as the old battery had gassed, and eventually the battery plus charger went into the step 3 phase of the charging process, which the old battery never seemed to reach. Having been through all of that, I eventually concluded that at least a portion of the blame fell on both the charger and the battery. The old battery had indeed endured a lot of use and abuse from me over the years, and it was probably pretty tired. The charger seemed to be guilty of over enthusiasm in its duties, but the new battery appeared to be more tolerant of the over-charging. I felt I now had a system that, while not perfect, would at least get me around Vancouver Island. I was still a little annoyed at loosing the original hydrometer, so I went back in the lake for more search and rescue. It wasn't looking very promising, even in the better light, because of all the lake weeds and the silt I stirred up. But, in the last seconds of the last dive, I spotted a blurred reflection, reached out through the weeds, and grabbed the missing hydrometer. Life is good. Back on board, I thought I would put the extra hydrometer in the compartment where the boat's engine battery lived. I tried to wedge it under the battery cable so it would not roll around and break in rough sailing conditions. But, the battery cable was too strong, and the glass hydrometer shattered. Sometimes, life is not so good. Or, maybe we are all acting out some grand, well thought out scheme, and I was just not meant to have that hydrometer. Whatever. I still had the other hydrometer, so I cleaned up the mess, declared victory, and quickly went to bed before anything else could go wrong. Thursday, 2 days before the trip When I got back to the marina after work, I was handed a piece of paper from a city worker. Basically, it said (A) they had discovered a sewage leak next door to the marina, (B) up to 3 million gallons of sewage could have leaked into the lake over the past several weeks, and (C) stay the hell out of the water until they gave the "all clear" signal. I was now less than 2 days away from a 6 week trip, and wondering if I was about to become violently ill with vomiting, diarrhea, and headaches. Friday, 1 day before the trip I was extremely anxious to begin my trip, and I decided I would do a preemptive strike by slipping out of the marina Friday afternoon. They had reopened the area for swimming, which was a very good sign. I immediately ran into a seemingly endless list of little things that needed to be done before I left. It was rapidly heading toward dusk when I finally backed Spirit out of her slip, and headed for my overnight anchorage at Seward Park, just a few miles away. But, Mt Rainier was standing proud in the evening sky, the air was exactly the right temperature, and I was free at last. Life was good. Life was very good. After I had anchored for the night, Tim paddled his kayak out to Spirit for an evening visit, then hopped back into the kayak and disappeared into the night. A full moon was rising, and a zillion stars dotted the sky. Best of all, I had no vomiting, no diarrhea, and no headaches. I slept outside in the cockpit and wondered what the next 6 weeks would bring. The purpose of the trip was a "shakedown" cruise. For most of the time I had owned Spirit, I had been building the boat, not sailing it. This cruise was to find out what worked, and what did not. I also wanted to see what kind of upwind performance I would get with my boat. To that end, I selected a clockwise circumnavigation of Vancouver Island. Most people who circle Vancouver Island do so in a counterclockwise direction. The prevailing summer winds on the west coast of the island are from the northwest, so a counterclockwise trip makes the west coast a downwind run. I wanted to do it upwind to see if my boat could fight through the contrary winds. Another challenge would be to finish the trip in the month of October, when the northerly winds would start shifting to their southerly, winter time direction. So, headwinds would be likely on both the outbound and return legs of my trip. I wondered if the boat was up to the challenge. I wondered if I was up to the challenge. September 5th I woke up in a dew covered sleeping bag, and felt pretty good. No vomiting, no diarrhea, no headaches. I spent some time doing a little last minute changing and rearranging before pulling out of the anchorage about 9am. I had to backtrack a little that morning, passing by the marina on my way out, but I think that last night's early get-a-way had been a good thing. You eventually have to say "enough!" and leave. If you wait for everything to get done first, you will never leave. One of the things I wanted to do on my trip was to make a little 8mm movie of my adventure, so I drug out the camcorder and shot a little footage as I motored north along the Mercer Island shoreline. I also used my pocket knife to cut some notches in a new wooden dowel that would replace the broken sounding tube for my diesel fuel tank; an activity that would come back to haunt me in a few weeks. Then, after lunch by the Highway 520 floating bridge, I motored over to the University of Washington canoe dock to pick up Tim and Janet and baby Teal. The boat trip from my marina to Puget Sound involves passing under 6 automobile bridges, and 1 train bridge. Most of these are draw bridges, and I can get under all of them but 1, which has to open up before I can pass. A couple bridges have just enough room for me to pass under, and the University Bridge is one of them. Everything was proceeding in an unremarkable fashion until I spotted a workman's scaffolding hanging down from the center of the bridge. There were only a few seconds to react. I could not turn to the right, because the main part of the bridge was too low over there. I could not turn left, because that would turn the boat into oncoming boat traffic that was going under the bridge in the opposite direction. And, of course, a 12,000 pound sailboat does not exactly stop on a dime. About all I could do was watch in horror as the mast headed for the scaffolding. Fortunately, the damage was very light. The mast itself never hit the obstruction. My antenna and wind indicator were both bent over, but both could be bent back to their pre-bridge configuration. The incident also broke a plastic fitting, which Tim figured out how to repair later that day. I got off lucky, but I was NOT pleased with the TWITS that left their !#$@!*?! scaffolding hanging from the middle of the bridge! We stopped stopped briefly to top off Spirit's fuel tank, which Tim and Janet generously offered to pay for, and then continued on to the Ballard Locks, where Spirit and a few zillion other boats were eventually lowered down to sea level. Next stop was Shilshole marina, where Tim climbed up to the top of my mast to inspect and repair bridge damage. Then, we we finally got to raise the sails for the first time that day as Spirit headed out across Puget Sound for Port Madison. We eventually turned on the motor as the evening winds grew light, and motored into the little bay at Port Madison. In my past visits I had never gone very far up into the bay, but we did on this occasion, and found it adequately deep with lots of nice boats and homes along the shore line. We anchored in a well sheltered spot and went to bed after a great pasta dinner. I again slept out in the cockpit, watching the moon come up and genuinely enjoying the beginnings of my cruise. No vomiting, no diarrhea, ... September 6th By 6am, Port Madison was already falling astern as Spirit motored north into the morning air. We needed to make some miles before the tidal currents turned against us after lunch. Our day's goal was Port Ludlow, which we did manage to achieve by lunchtime with a combination of some sailing and lots of motoring. As far as I was concerned, we had met our goal of reaching our destination before the tide turned against us. However, Tim suggested that we push on a little further since it was so early in the day. I didn't have a problem with that, although I had no intention of making a habit of sailing against a foul tide in light winds if I could avoid it. So we continued northward under power until we had rounded the northern tip of Marrowstone Island. Port Townsend was now in sight, but we decided to duck into the bay at Fort Flagler to have a look around. We passed by a boat at anchor called Free Spirit. This boat normally lives at the same marina as Spirit, just a few slips away from Spirit's slip. But, no one was home on Free Spirit that afternoon, and we continued on towards Fort Flagler. I had been attempting to splice together the two ends of a small diameter braided line that would be used by my self steering gear that I called "Geeves". The small diameter stuff proved to be much more challenging to splice than its larger diameter cousins, and it took 5 attempts with 5 different approaches before the line was finally spliced. Meanwhile, Tim was really in mileage-mode, and he took Spirit past Fort Flagler and across the zig zag channel of upper Kilisut Harbor into Mystery Bay, where we finally dropped the anchor. There were a few houses around the bay, but it was a generally rural setting, with lots of boats at anchor. One set of sailboats were rafted together, and looked like they all belonged to some common organization. Some of the rafted boats had their anchors out in one direction, and others had their anchors out in the opposite direction, so the raft seemed to be well secured. We got the dinghy out, pumped it full of air, and presto; instant taxi service! I call my dinghy "The Shuttlecraft", a name that comes from the Star Trek television series. Little Teal thought the dinghy was pretty cool, and couldn't wait to get in it, and seemed genuinely reluctant to get out of it. Tim had made a boarding ladder for Spirit just before the trip, and it worked just fine to make the transition from big boat to little boat. Dinner had a Mexican flair, with yummy beans and tortillas. The night was generally pretty nice, and I slept out in the cockpit again. However, the wind did pick up overnight, and there was the sound of engines and anchor chains from the rafted boats as they adjusted their lines. Spirit seemed quite content to stay where she was, and I quickly went back to sleep. September 7th It was a little foggy when I got up. My ship mates were sleeping-in that morning, so I took The Shuttlecraft to shore, and set off on foot to Fort Flagler. There, I found tired looking old cement ammo buildings, and a couple of shore guns pointing out into the fog. Further on, I came to the main part of the campground and beach. Free Spirit still lay quietly at her anchor. The sky was blue over the beach, and I could see the sun shining on Port Townsend across the bay, but a heavy blanket of fog hung like a gray curtain to the north and east, blocking everything but the occasional moan of a fog horn somewhere off in the distance. I returned to Spirit, and my crew took The Shuttlecraft for a little shore leave of their own. I fussed around with a few projects and checked the weather report, but mostly I was trying to figure out how to get to Victoria in the fog. The fog was forecast to be a morning event for the next few days, and the tidal current would turn against us at about the same time that the fog cleared. Between the fog and the foul current, there wasn't much time for a little sailboat to make miles. We pulled up our anchor in the late afternoon as the foul tidal current began to ease off. Stowing the dinghy became a major challenge; I could not for the life of me get it back in the same neat little package that I had previously managed to achieve. In the end, we had to settle for "close enough". The wind was really starting to blow, and of course it blew from the direction we wanted to go. Sailing was going to be slow progress, if any progress, so we motored up the bay past Fort Flagler and over to the narrow entrance that lead to the open water which separated us from Port Townsend. Things got pretty rough in the little channel as Spirit struggled to get out into deeper water. The Volvo engine was doing its best, but the wind and waves were coming close to winning the tug of war. Progress slowed to a snail's pace, and we talked about the merits of continuing on or turning back. I was concerned about how many minutes it would take to put Spirit on the beach if her engine quit. The bowsprit, which is normally 4.5 feet above the water, was slapping the tops of some of the waves. We were on the ragged edge, and I decided to put up a double reefed mainsail to see if that would help to balance out some of the forces a little better. Tim, who was at the helm, reported a significant improvement in control as soon as the sail was up. With the combination of engine and mainsail, we began to make much better progress toward deeper water. I ran up the staysail, and that added a tiny bit of speed as well. When we got into deeper water, we shut off the engine and sailed most of the way to Port Townsend. Free Spirit remained at her anchor, but the waves were breaking on an unforgiving shoreline a little bit downwind of her position. We were guessing the winds were somewhere in the 30 to 34 knot range, though they eased up a bit as we approached Port Townsend. We eventually tied up in a marina at Port Townsend, and got a good night's sleep after hot showers and a pizza dinner ashore. It was raining as we left the pizza house, and as far as I was concerned, summer had just been displaced by autumn. September 8th I got up earlier than the crew, had breakfast ashore, took a little walking tour of Port Townsend and the boat yards, and then headed back to the boat after a stop at the grocery store. Janet and Teal caught the bus back to Seattle, and I wrestled with the dinghy for a while, trying to get it back into its previously compact stowed configuration ... which I never did. Tim and I then cast off our lines and motored out of the marina. We found Free Spirit had moved to the Port Townsend side of the bay, so we sailed over to say hello. We found out that she had transmission problems, and would try to find the required parts in Port Townsend. We wished them well, and sailed off toward the Strait of Juan De Fuca (or Juan De Puka, as it was sometimes called) which connects Puget Sound with the Pacific Ocean. We were able to find some light winds, but they were taking us further and further off course. We eventually motored back to the Port Townsend area against a foul tidal current, and tied up to a mooring buoy a little inside of Point Wilson where we spent the night. I began to mess with the GPS, learning how to input waypoints, and generally planning my strategy to get to Victoria in a timely manner despite the fog and tidal currents. I was suppose to meet Leo and Mona in Victoria on the 10th, and time was running out. September 9th It was now time for Tim to head back to Seattle, so I dropped him off at a dock from which he "hoofed it" back to the bus stop in Port Townsend. I continued westward into the Strait, sailing solo in a nice wind under partly cloudy skies, and playing with the GPS a little more. The winds eventually started to die out, so I motored as far as Dungeness Bay, where I anchored to get some lunch and consider my options. The original plan had been to get as far as Port Angeles tonight, then dash across the strait tomorrow as soon as the fog lifted. I eventually decided to remain where I was overnight, since Port Angeles was not much closer to Victoria, and Dungeness Bay was a much more scenic environment than Port Angeles. Dungeness Bay was an interesting place. I was anchored about a mile from shore, and it was only 15 feet deep. This was definitely not the typical Pacific Northwest anchorage. I had a nice afternoon at anchor, although the wind and the foul tidal current both picked up in the afternoon. There must be a big eddy in Dungeness Bay on an incoming tide, because it was coming at Spirit from the east. The wind was westerly, and the combination of these forces turned Spirit's stern into the wind, which is not the typical configuration while anchored. I messed around with more little chores, and generally fretted about whether or not to dash across the Strait that evening, or wait until tomorrow. I eventually decided to stay put until tomorrow morning's outgoing tide. I was a little uncomfortable spending the night in such an open and windy anchorage. I ate a light dinner because I though that my rolling home might lead to sea sickness before the night was out. Before dark, I pulled up the lighter weight Bruce anchor, and replaced it with my heavier plow anchor on an all-chain anchor line. I input waypoint coordinates into the GPS in case I was forced to head out into the Strait during the night. I also set my watch to get up every 2.5 hours and have a look around to see if conditions were changing for the worse, and I slept in my clothes in case a quick midnight getaway became necessary. But, Spirit slept contentedly at her anchor all night, and all my paranoia was unnecessary. September 10th I woke up to a great morning. The outline of the mountains could be seen in the early morning light, and best of all there was no fog. I was under way at 7:30. The Dungeness Spit lighthouse passed off to port as I approached the shipping lanes. I guess it was rush hour in the Strait, because there were a couple big freighters passing through towards the west. I slipped behind one of them and motored out in the general direction of Victoria. I cleaned up the boat as I made the crossing. This is a pretty straight forward process at the marina, but more of a challenge when you are alone on a moving boat. There wasn't enough wind for Geeves to steer the boat, so I had to constantly alternate between steering the boat outside and cleaning inside. By the time I got back outside, the boat was usually off course. So basically, I did "S Turns" for a good part of the crossing. I eventually finished cleaning the boat and grabbed some lunch as the buildings of Victoria grew before me. It had turned out to be a quiet, cloudy morning as I rode the outgoing tide across the open water, but I was greeted by an explosion of activity as I entered the harbor. It was here that I first encountered the Red People. These were tourists riding in high speed inflatable tourist boats, and they all wore these red suits, which the tour boat operators provided. The red suits doubled as both insulation and a life jacket as they zoomed across the water in search of skylines or whales or what ever. There were also bigger tour boats and various pleasure craft. Also, float planes used the channel as a runway for their landings and take offs. I especially liked the little water taxis that scooted around the inner harbor like little water bugs. After checking in with Canadian customs, I tied up to the marina in front of the Empress Hotel. Wow, what a great place to hang out in a boat for a few days. The hotel is beautiful, there were flowers all over the place, street musicians, downtown shops just a block away, museums to see, all the activity out in the harbor, and a very British-like overall atmosphere. Victoria is one of my favorite places to visit. The public shower was a bit of a disappointment, since both the hot water and water pressure were not overly enthusiastic, but they got the job done. A few hours later I met up with Leo and Mona. They treated me to a great dinner at a waterfront restaurant, followed by a good night's sleep in a quiet boat. September 11th Leo and I got up early and had a walk through some of the city streets, then returned to pick up Mona before setting off for a Starbucks breakfast and a bit of grocery shopping. Back on the boat, Leo set to work trying to clean up some of the dirty gelcoat in the cockpit. A boat came in a little later, and tied up on the other side of the dock. It turned out to be a man from Japan who had sailed his boat for 43 days single handed all the way across the Pacific. He had stopped briefly for a few days in Port Angeles to fix some broken equipment before crossing the Strait to Victoria. His english was not perfect, but it was pretty good, and I helped him to get settled in, showing him where the dockmaster's office was, and getting him in touch with Canadian customs. He told me he was a Japanese police officer who had taken an early retirement. I believe he intended to continue ocean hopping, but he wanted to spend the winter skiing in British Columbia. The Canadian customs people seemed happy enough to have him, but they weren't too keen on his intended 6 month stay. I left him as he and the customs agent headed off into the Sea Of Paperwork. I spent the rest of the day walking around Victoria, sending email at an Internet Cafe, mailing "snail mail" letters, and generally doing tourist stuff. There was an amazing waterfront artist that I stopped to watch, who used spray paints to create science fiction type pictures while tourists like me looked on in awe. We ended up the day with another great dinner ashore, and another good night's sleep. Victoria to Brooks PennesulaSeptember 12thI managed to get my laundry done and picked up a few more blocks of ice before it was time to cast off and blast off. The harbor was busy as usual as we motored out, but things got quiet after we motored out into the Strait. Leo and Mona headed the boat west while I went below to read some of the email I had downloaded yesterday at the Internet Cafe. We got as far as Race Rocks, where we ran into a wall of fog and wind that blocked any further westward travel. On our side of the foggy wall it was a beautiful sunny day with pleasant winds. But on the other side of the wall it was windy and cold and very limited visibility. We sailed into the wall a few times, but quickly turned back. It was nasty and dangerous out there, with offshore rocks that were completely hidden from view. The actual lighthouse on Race Rocks was no where to be seen. After a few hours of lazy sailing on the sunny side of the wall, the fog began to quickly evaporate, revealing the lighthouse and rocks that had formerly been hidden from view. The wind and waves were still very enthusiastic, and we were soon hanging on by our fingernails as Spirit heeled way over in the strong winds. I only had 2 safety harnesses on the boat, and I gave them to Leo and Mona, then reefed the sails as best I could. We were still overpowered. The boat was heeled over so far that the sinks were sometimes below water level. I checked the bilge and found a lot of water down there. The water was somehow finding its way into the bilge via the sinks. Mona pumped out the water from the cockpit-mounted pump and Leo steered the boat as I tended to the sails and the increasing mess down below. We were getting beat up pretty good and not making much progress. There was no way we would get to today's destination before dark. It was time to retreat back to Race Rocks. We turned the boat downwind and retraced our steps back to Quarantine Cove, which was just inside the Race Rocks area. The wind continued to howl after us, and diminished little even after we had crossed back to the area which had formerly been the pleasant side of the "wall". We got inside the little bay and made ready to anchor, and STILL the wind hammered us with occasional gusts. We finally managed to get the anchor down, put out 7:1 scope on the big plow anchor, and called it a day. Wow, what a day! September 13th The wall of fog was back next morning. But there was no hurry, since a fair amount of cleanup was in order after yesterday's thrashing. Water had gotten everywhere it could possibly get in a heeled over boat, and had even gotten into a few places where I didn't think it could get. Soaked cardboard had to be put in the trash. The printer for my computer had gotten wet, so that had to be set out to dry. We needed more wraps around the drum at the bottom of the roller furling, so I made that adjustment. And, some rearranging was in order in case the same calamity happened again. Eventually, we put everything in order, ran up the sails, and started sailing back and forth to the fog wall, waiting for the afternoon breakup. The fog cleared out rather suddenly, and we headed back into the Strait. There was quite a herd of sea lions on Race Rocks, and from our downwind position, it smelled a lot like a livestock barn. But, it obviously did not SOUND like a livestock barn. We had a nice sail for a while, then switched over to the motor as the winds fell light. We navigated our way into the anchorage at the beginning of Sooke Basin using the range markers. It was not difficult in the evening light, but would have been much more challenging if we had kept sailing yesterday and tried to come into the anchorage after dark. Turning back yesterday afternoon had been the right move, at least from my perspective. Before I went to sleep that night, I noticed that the fog had returned. September 14th Next morning, visibility was limited, but good enough to catch a glimpse of the range markers in order to sneak out of the anchorage and back into the Strait. From there on, it was navigation by Braille. We headed out until the depth sounder registered 100' of depth, and then turned to parallel the shore, which we would only occasionally get a glimpse of through the fog. Using the compass, we would turn a little north if the depth got greater, and a turn to the left if we got too shallow. We were now a day behind schedule, but there was a lot of trip left, and I felt we could make up for the lost day. At this point, I had pretty much resolved myself to the fact that the trip was going to mostly be done with the trusty Volvo engine, along with a little sailing thrown in here and there. I knew that Lake Washington and Puget Sound often had either light winds or no winds, but I had hoped that as we got closer to the ocean, a nice steady sailing wind would become more consistent. It didn't. Its an often overlooked fact that, of all the possible winds that blow, there is only a narrow subsection of these winds that a boat like Spirit can use. Of course, if there is no wind, you have to motor. If there is light wind, you MAY be able to sail. However, if you are in a hurry (light winds will only move Spirit at a couple knots) or if you are fighting a foul tide, or if there is a sloppy sea that is tossing the boat around, you have to motor to get anywhere. Then, there comes the ideal sailing wind, which is 15 to 20 knots for Spirit. Above that, you run into more problems. As the wind increases, you must start to reduce the amount of sail exposed to the wind, which is achieved either through reefing the sail to a smaller size, or taking the sail down completely. At this point, whether or not you can continue to sail largely depends on where the wind is coming from. If it comes from behind, you can certainly keep sailing at a pretty good clip, even with less sail area. If the wind is blowing from the side of the boat, you can probably keep going. But, if the wind is blowing from ahead of the boat, you start slowing down as the wind builds. Less sail area means less force pulling you forward. More wind means bigger waves slowing you down. At some point, the headwind gets strong enough that the sails alone won't pull you forward. You will still move through the water, but in the long run, the wind will push you sideways so much that it cancels out the forward pull of the sail. You end up traveling perpendicular to the wind, even though the boat is pointed into the wind. At this point, your only hope of making further upwind progress is motor-sailing, which is using the power of the sails and the motor at the same time. The sails alone, or the motor alone, will not get the job done. If the wind increases any more, you forget about making any more upwind progress. I'm basically a power boater. Friends that know me well would be a little shocked to hear me say that, but its true. I use the engine much more than the sails, simply because I seldom have the right amount of wind coming from the right direction. Sailors like to complain about how much they hate to use their engines, but you would not hear a more blood curling cry than the cry of a sailor who has just lost his engine. Sailors use their engine when there is not enough wind, and when there is too much wind. They (i.e. ME) use their engine to get in and out of the marina. They use it to motor through narrow channels when tacking would be either too dangerous or too much trouble. Sailboat engines are used to make progress when the tide is against you. They are used to get into port when you are in a hurry, perhaps because you want to get there when bad weather (or continued bad weather) is on the way, or perhaps you are just in a hurry to get in soon enough to get a good night's sleep. There are even a few places (Seattle and Victoria are 2 that I personally know about) where it is not legal to sail your boat, due to lots of boat traffic in a narrow waterway. You can probably "get there" by using only your sails. People have sailed around the world with only sail power, in the older commercial sailing ships, and more recently in pleasure craft, both cruising and racing. But, if you do it without an engine, it can take days to cover the same distance that your engine could cover in a few hours. You will do less sleeping, and more night sailing. You will also be exposed to some dangerous situations, when the wind abandons you as your boat is drifting towards the rocks. (Sailors like me conveniently forget about the dangerous situations that would happen if our engines quit working while we motor past those same rocks.) Don't even think about getting there "on schedule" without an engine. Think about just getting there. Engines are expensive, noisy, and take up valuable space on a boat. But, for me at least, and I suspect for most other sailors as well, the advantages of having an engine on a sailboat are an order of magnitude greater than the disadvantages. I luvvv my trusty Volvo... The fog started to break up in the early afternoon, but never completely disappeared. We were able to do some sailing for a while, but when the fog closed in and it started getting dark, we turned on the engine and made a run for Port San Juan. Problem was, we could not see Port San Juan, which was basically a bay that cut into a relatively straight shore line that was unremarkable in most respects except for the hardness of the rocks that lined the shore. We would occasionally get a brief glimpse of white water breaking on the shoreline rocks before the scene was gobbled up by the fog again. We made the boating equivalent of an IFR approach. In an IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) approach, the pilot of an airplane makes his landing approach by referencing his navigational instruments instead of by reference to landmarks on the ground. I got out the chart, plotted a series of dots on the chart that would lead us safely into the bay, and programmed the latitude and longitude of each point into the GPS. Everything was checked and double checked, since a mistake now could put us on the rocks as we made our approach. But, everything worked like a charm, and the GPS guided us safely into the bay, even though we could not see either shoreline as we came in. Near the spot where we planned to anchor, the fog finally yielded to a zillion stars, which was a very nice ending to such a tense day. September 15th We were up at 3am, since we had a lot of miles to cover. The stars had chased the fog out of our area, and we were able to let the engine sleep late as the wind carried us downwind out of Port San Juan. Eventually, the sky began to lighten up, as did the wind, and we motored for mile after mile toward the seaward entrance of the Strait. We eventually left the Strait as a right turn took us northwest up the Vancouver Island shoreline, with nothing but Japan off to port. After a 44 mile day, we made it into Bamfield, and enjoyed an evening meal ashore, and a no stress night tied to a dock. September 16th I took a little time to stretch my legs and wander around Bamfield in the first half of the morning. There was a nearby airport, so I naturally had to check that out. It turned out to be a airplane-less airport, with a few tie downs, but nothing to tie down. The airport seemed to be a combination airport and gravel pit. The gravel runway did not look to me like a place where you would want to land an airplane with a brand new paint job. A little wooden building seemed to be a multi purpose terminal building and control tower. If there was a busy season at the Bamfield airport, today was definitely not it. Later in the morning, we got the boat under way again, and headed out into Barkley Sound. This is a really great area for kayakers, with (literally) tons of little rocks and islands dotting the landscape. We motored under sunny skies enroute to Effingham Bay, only a short distance away. Though beautiful, the bay proved to be either too deep or too narrow or both from an anchoring perspective. So, we ran up the sails and continued on a little further to Joe's Bay, which proved to be not only beautiful and quiet, but an excellent anchorage. After the anchor was down, we were able to enjoy our anchorage for several hours before it got dark, which a break from our usual routine of rush rush. The fog returned, but that just made it all the more peaceful. An occasional kayak or canoe would float by in the distance, but that was about it as far as afternoon action went, except for the call of a bird from somewhere along the blurry shoreline. September 17th We should have remained in Barkley Sound a second day, but we decided to push on in order to make up for our lost day. It was another day of light winds and fog, so we motored for several hours, guided by the GPS. Miles of coast line slipped away to starboard, unseen. Every now and then a fishing boat would appear through the gray curtain, then be swallowed up again as it fell behind us. Finally in the afternoon, the GPS said that we could turn towards land. The waves breaking on the rocks were the first things to appear. Then, a few islands, then the coast line, and finally some of the hills beyond the coastline. We arrived in Tofino a few hours later, which was a nice little town that seemed to be part fishing town, part tourist town, and generally on the sleepy side. After some poking around the waterfront, we eventually ended up at the "Weigh West" marina, land of hot showers and dinner menus. September 18th Leo and I were up early, and walked into town for breakfast and a little grocery shopping. Back on the boat, we motored over to the gas dock to grab some ice for the cooler. There was a fair amount of tidal current running along the shoreline, and I intended to use the current to slow down the boat as we approached the gas dock. But for what ever reason, the current at the gas dock was reversed, and my landing was one of the less-than-graceful varieties. Thank god for fenders. Having botched the first nautical challenge of the day, we grabbed our ice and made good our escape. For most of the morning, we motored through inland passages under cloudy skies. About lunchtime, we popped back into daylight and passed between the barrier rocks back into the Pacific. We switched over to sails as the wind picked up. But, we were soon reefing the sails as the wind continued to build. We made progress into the wind until we had to take in the yankee, which is the largest and furthest forward of my 2 head sails. Once the yankee was gone, our windward progress stopped. We were still sailing through the water at a reasonable pace, but we were not getting any further up wind. The sails alone could not overcome the wind and waves, which were now conspiring against us. The engine was also not capable of overcoming the forces of nature thrown against us. However, we discovered that with both the engine and the reefed sails, we could make some progress. This was a bastardization of the sailing purist and the power boat enthusiast, but its tough to argue with success. We continued to motor sail until we reached Hot Springs Cove, our day's destination. Though we arrived a little on the late side, Leo and Mona both took a stroll ashore after we had tied up to the dock. Then, Mona whipped up another in her series of award winning meals, and we all went to bed quite content. September 19th On this day, our route took us along a coast line for which I had no charts, only a large tourist map of Vancouver Island. Fortunately, we had good visibility, and sailed up the coast line at a respectable distance from shore. As luck would have it, there was a spot where the cost line ran absurdly far out into the water. For someone sailing at night along this coast without charts, it could easily be a lethal combination. With either the sails or the engine or some combination there of, we were able to remain well clear of the dangers as we used the binoculars to gawk at the ocean swells crashing into the offshore rocks. Bligh Bay came into view by mid afternoon. It was very beautiful, but again I found it too deep for my anchoring tastes, and we went off in search of a better anchorage. While heading out of the bay using the boat's engine, an increasing head wind began to slow us more and more until we were hardly making and progress at all. I decided to roll out the yankee to see if that would help, and it made an amazing difference. It was like getting another 500 rpm from the engine. I don't like sailing with the engine on, but I was beginning to appreciate what a powerful combination it was. We decided to take a crack at getting into Critter Cove. There was a narrow and extremely shallow entrance guarding the cove, but from the description in the guide book, there should be just enough depth to let us sneak through. Leo stood out on the bowsprit with his polarized sunglasses, and was able to call out the directions necessary to safely navigate the watery hallway which soon opened up into a completely land locked little anchorage. We had it all to ourselves all night. September 20th We snuck out of Critter Cove as soon as there was enough light to safely do so, with Leo once more out on the bowsprit checking for underwater "critters". Once outside, we did not return to the ocean as we normally did, but instead motored through a series of narrow but deep passages that cut through the coast line. Clouds eventually gave way to sunshine, and absence of the big rolling swells was a nice change of pace. About mid afternoon, we arrived at Queen Cove. Although very beautiful, it was pretty deep, except for one corner of the anchorage that seemed to have an ample supply of rocks either near or above the surface of the water. Again, Leo headed for the bowsprit, and after a half hour of exploring the anchorage with the engine going at a snail's pace, we eventually dropped the anchor at what we felt was an equal distance from all the hazards around us. This was no hurricane hole, but it turned out to be another beautiful and peaceful place to spend the night and enjoy the remainder of one of my better birthdays. Our evening routine was typically a yummy dinner fixed by Mona, followed by dish cleaning duty by Leo, and finished off with a movie. Movies may sound strange in a little sailboat, but Leo made it all possible. He had a compact little electronic gadget that doubled as a miniature television and an 8mm movie player. Back at home, he had rented movies, and transferred them from the VHS rental tapes to the compact 8mm tapes used by many camcorders. On the boat, we just plugged his player into the boat's electrical power, and watched the movies on the tiny screen. Of course, they were all re-runs for Leo, but if he minded watching the movies a second time, he never complained about it. Come to think about it, I would be hard pressed to recall much of anything that Leo or Mona complained about. Most of the movies were ones that I had never seen, and I really enjoyed our evening movie time. September 21st On this day, it was back to the Pacific. The boat rolled back and forth drunkenly amongst the ocean swells. The offshore rocks and islands were punished by the breaking waves as we either motored or motor sailed up the coastline in light winds and sunny skies. We eventually slipped into Kyuquot Channel and exchanged the big swells for little wavelets generated from a pleasant, following breeze. Dixie Cove, our day's destination, was another completely landlocked little hideaway. Though the entrance was narrow, it was plenty deep, and we slipped inside with no problems. Here, we spent another great afternoon at anchor, surrounded by trees, and in general doing as little as possible. September 22nd Because of the hills surrounding Dixie Cove, we were not able to get a weather report. We motored out toward the ocean under clear early morning skies, and were eventually able to get a weather report off the VHF radio. They were calling for gale force winds in our area, and of course the wind would be blowing from roughly the same direction that we wanted to go. But, we decided to give it a go, and as it turned out, the gale force winds never developed. It was just another several hours of slogging through the swells far enough off shore to avoid being pulverized by the waves breaking on the offshore rocks. The rolling boat sort of got to me, and I definitely did NOT feel in the mood for food. Fortunately, my stomach did nothing truly noteworthy. Around lunchtime, we tied up to a mooring buoy in Columbia Cove, absolutely delighted to have been spared the wrath of the gale. We spent all afternoon enjoying an excess of warmth, sunshine, and inactivity, and the absence of gale force winds and big rolling swells. We got off easy this time. September 23rd We were now within striking distance of Winter Harbor, about 25 miles away as the crow flies, but closer to 40 miles for us, since we had to go around the Brooks Peninsula. We got up at 2am, thus beating any records set so far for the ungodlyest hour of the morning. The winds were forecast to be moderate, though it was dead calm in the anchorage. We used all our electronic toys to sneak out of Columbia Cove under the cloak of darkness. The night scope allowed us to see how close we were to shore, the depth sounder showed us how close we were to the bottom, and the GPS gave us the bigger picture of where we were headed. I had plotted GPS waypoints all the way to Winter Harbor last night. With a little luck, we should make it my mid afternoon. As it turned out, though, luck was in limited supply. As we eventually started to round the south corner of the Brooks Peninsula, we started getting some of those sloppy, Pacific swells. I assumed that the swells were left over from some recent gale. There was a little wind blowing from the northwest, so we ran up the yankee to add a little power to the engine's efforts. Leo and I were sitting in the cockpit admiring the stars and talking about how to deal with a side current using the GPS, when conditions began to rapidly deteriorate. The sloppy swells were not left over by anything. They were were being generated "as we speak" from a very enthusiastic wind. While under the lee of the Brooks Peninsula for the last 12 hours or so, we had no clue that such a strong wind was blowing out here. There was a bit of a scramble to get into safety harnesses while the boat pitched wildly in the swells and wind. The yankee was NOT the sail to have up in these conditions. With all that sail area up forward, the gusts tended to blow the bow further downwind, which caused the boat to heel over even more. We needed a reefed mainsail now, but we had been caught off guard. As soon as the safety harnesses were strapped on and the seacocks under the sinks were turned off, we furled the yankee. There was so much strain on the sail by the wind that we had to put the furling line on the winch. One person just did not have the required strength. It was quite an experience. The sail was flapping like crazy as we tried to get it in, the boat was rocking like crazy from the swells, and it was as dark as all get-out. When we finally got the yankee furled, it was wrapped so tightly around the forestay that we used up all the furling line before the sail was completely wound up. But, it was close enough. We then managed to set the mainsail, despite the Pacific's playful attempts to toss me into the ocean. We also got the staysail set, and with the engine still running, we made an all-out retreat back towards the protection of the lee of the peninsula. During one of my turns at the helm, I managed to get lined up with the wrong navigational light. We had to close the main hatch to keep mischievous waves out of the cabin, and with the hatch closed, the GPS lost its lock on the satellites it was talking to. Without that lock, it gave some amusing readings, but no useful information. I concluded that the most convincing reason for an outside GPS antenna was not so much that it got better reception, but rather, you could still get GPS information without having to risk drowning the poor GPS in wet conditions that were only tolerated by sailors with a low IQ. Anyway, I caught my navigational mistake before we had wandered too far off course, and we gradually left the chaos behind as the sky began to lighten up. It was so deceivingly calm in the lee of the peninsula, just another beautiful morning in light winds and gentle little swells. There was no comparison between the lee of the peninsula, and the madness a few miles to the west. But, we felt that we were probably just a little too early. They DID say "moderate" winds, didn't they? We shut down the engine and the sails for a few hours to wait for something that more closely approached the meaning of "moderate". Leo and Mona had a light breakfast, and I just slept. Around 9am we headed west for "round 2", and got the same reception as before. Maybe the wind was a few miles per hour less, but not much, and the gusts were still as enthusiastic as ever, as were the swells. Not my idea of anything approaching the meaning of "moderate". We turned downwind to retreat, and Spirit took a huge momentary jump in speed. I have never seen the boat go so fast, probably from a combination of too much sail and an extra push from a passing swell. Our wake was an explosion of bubbles as the heavy boat surged through the water. Wow, time to put on the brakes. Instead of a full retreat back to the land of sanity, we hove-to under double reefed mainsail in order to have a front row seat whenever this "moderation" stuff arrived. It was still as windy and rolly as before, but the boat rode in a surprisingly sedate manner. I clipped my lifeline to a stanchion by the cockpit and laid down for another nap in the morning sunshine. Of course, there was not much hope for sleep, but at least the motion of the boat was not too bad, and things seemed to be marginally under control for a while. We hung out until a little past noon when it was unanimously decided to "screw it" for the day and motor back to the quiet refuge of Columbia Cove. We had a little comic relief upon reaching Columbia Cove. On our arrival yesterday, I had briefly hopped on the big mooring buoy to pass our mooring line through the eye of the buoy. But, I found it extremely unstable, and quickly got the hell off of there. This time, I was back in the cockpit with Mona, and left it to Leo to tie us up. I noticed he was getting lower and lower up there on the bow, and I was a little alarmed when he dropped completely out of sight. I went forward and found him UNDER the bowsprit, partially hanging on from above, and partially supported by the bobstay below. Leo had also found the buoy to be a little unstable. Fortunately, he was able to remain above sea level as he gradually relocated himself on the more conventional side of the bowsprit. And I had observed the entire performance without once thinking about grabbing my camcorder. Damn... I was encouraged that, despite having been beat up again, the boat was in reasonably good shape. We were getting much better at being beat up. I had been monitoring the level of both fuel and water every few days so as not to get caught off guard by low tanks. So, after returning to our buoy, one of the things I did was to check the tanks. I was totally caught off guard when I discovered a grand total of 1 gallon of diesel fuel remaining in the tank. I checked a second time and a third time and a fourth time with the stick I used to measure the tank depth, but I kept coming up with the same alarming answer. I had no idea how the tank got so low so fast. The only possible answer I could come up with is that I had not marked my sounding stick correctly. The fuel situation, or more precisely the lack there-of, put everything in a new perspective. We probably had enough fuel to motor out of this harbor, and motor into the next harbor, but definitely not enough to run the engine at all in between harbors. With only sail power, we could only make windward progress with less wind and less swell; neither of which seemed to typify the Brooks Pennesula. In addition, we needed fuel to recharge the battery. I was guessing that we would require 2 days and one night of sailing to eventually fight our way upwind to Winter Harbor, even after the winds eased. The navigational tricolor light would probably eat up a goodly portion of the voltage that currently remained in the battery, leaving us nothing much to spare. There was not much to do except turn off the electronics and get out the flashlights. There was one possible way to add to our fuel supply. I had a little extra kerosene stowed away that I intended to use for my cabin heater. I thought I could probably pour the kerosene in the diesel fuel tank to add to our limited supply. But, I wasn't sure. On the one hand, I was of the understanding that kerosene was just a cleaner relative of the diesel fuel family. Hell, the engine might run better with kerosene. On the other hand, I did not know for sure that this was the case. Adding the kerosene to my diesel tank might kill my diesel engine, and the only thing worse than an engine which was low on fuel was an engine that had self destructed. Could I get into harbor with a dead engine? How many thousand dollars would it take to replace the engine? I had a little less than a gallon of diesel. I had a little less than a gallon of kerosene. I thought about it for a long time, then poured the kerosene into the diesel tank. The bright side of the situation was that, if we had not been forced to retreat from our planned day's passage, we would have suddenly and completely unexpectedly run out of fuel somewhere between here and Winter Harbor. We listened with great interest to the weather forecast that night. There was a gale warning for our area. Everyone agreed that we should stay put tomorrow. We ate dinner before it got dark, then went to bed after a very beautiful sunset. In the darkness, I thought of all the what-if's looming in my future. What if I had just signed my engine's death warrant by adding kerosene to my fuel tank? What if the engine ran out of fuel at some critical moment when we were close to the rocks without enough wind to sail? What if I was unable to get Leo and Mona to a bus in time to get them headed south towards a California wedding they were suppose to attend? What if ... what if ... hey, what if a giant asteroid came down and wiped out Vancouver Island, and put the whole planet in nuclear winter for the next thousand years? It was silly to loose sleep over all the what-if's. We would handle the future as it evolved as best we could. Better to enjoy the present than to get all upset about future events that might not ever happen. I decided that the only "what-if" I would allow myself to think about is what-if Winter Harbor had no supply of Coca Cola? Now THAT was a scary thought... September 24th We spent the day tied to the mooring buoy as wind gusts poured into the harbor and gray clouds scurried overhead. We got a little rain, but not much. I am a great believer in the balance of great cosmic forces in the universe. So, to compensate for what I felt was likely to be an intensely challenging day tomorrow, I tried to do as little as possible today. Everyone got a lot of reading done. When we listened to the evening forecast, the word "gale" once again figured prominently in the summary for our area. We again decided to spend another day in the protection of Columbia Cove. Another lost day. September 25th It was another blustery day. Sometimes the gusts would slam into the bay with enough force to heel the boat over a little. A generally cloudy morning was followed by steadily clearing skies in the afternoon. I decided to try to call my Dad in Iowa on the VHF radio. To do this, you call a marine operator on your radio, and the marine operator connects your radio transmission to the telephone system. I had a "cheat sheet" card on the boat with radio frequencies, so I tried all the frequencies it gave for marine operators. No response on any of the channels. Leo suggested I try on channel 22, and I immediately got through to someone I will call "Operator #1". This operator placed the call for me, but was only able to connect to my Dad's answering machine. This doesn't work very well when you are placing a "collect" call. You don't want to tell the marine operator to put the call on your telephone credit card, because everyone in the world can listen to you on their radio as you tell the marine operator your credit card number (not a good thing). Later, I tried this again, and spoke to "Operator #2", who said it would be much cheaper if I used another frequency. I got no reply on the other frequency. We were in an anchorage with mountains all over the place, so radio reception was pretty limited. I later called on channel 22 again, and this time spoke with "Operator #3", who told me I was not allowed to use this frequency for a marine operator, and gave me another frequency to try. The other frequency didn't work. The effort had not accomplished much, but did provide some limited entertainment in an otherwise uneventful day. We had settled into a comfortable daytime routine during our stay in the little harbor. Leo would read up in the v-berth. Mona would either read or bake bread in the main part of the cabin. And, I would put on warm clothes and read out in the cockpit. When we listened to the weather report that evening, it sounded like we would finally be able to make a dash for Winter Harbor the next day. Showtime at last! September 26th The day started out with more of a "thud" than a "bang". We motored out of the harbor, then shut down the diesel for the rest of the sail to Winter Harbor. However, without wind, the sailing portion of the plan was not very successful. The best we could do for several hours was to keep the boat pointed in approximately the right direction. Progress was put "on hold" until Mona got busy in the galley. The wind always seemed to pipe up whenever Mona tried to do anything in the galley, and today was no exception. The other magical power that Mona had was that, no matter how long a seal had played around the boat, it always disappeared the instant Mona got out her camera. Ya win some, and ya loose some, I guess. But, we were off at last. Despite all hopes to the contrary, the west side of the Brooks Pennesula remained in its classic lets-beat-up-a-sailboat mood. I would guess that the swells were 5 to 10 feet, and the wind gusts were at least 30 knots; maybe more. I had seen much worse conditions years ago during a sailing trip in the Atlantic, but this was pretty big stuff for little Spirit. We could not make headway against that much wind and wave action. Mona suggested a retreat to Tofino. This was an exceptionally difficult plan to swallow, but the logic of it was inescapable. Leo had made it clear from the very beginning that he wanted to get off the boat in time to attend a wedding in California. I had accepted this condition from the very beginning, and we were now running out of time. It could take days to get around the Brooks Pennesula. On the other hand, Tofino was a downwind run of about 100 miles. If this wind held, we could make it in a day or so under sail. We considered a shorter run into Walter's Cove, but I decided against it. I had the necessary charts, but it was too rocky an approach for a boat with a questionable engine. I felt an attempt on Walter's Cove would put the boat at risk, and I was not prepared to do that. But, backtracking 100 miles would kill my circumnavigation. I didn't have enough time to make up the lost miles. Every cell of my body had been focused for months at doing a 6 week clockwise circumnavigation of Vancouver Island, and when I get focused on something, its very hard for me to give it up. Turning around now also had major repercussions for my long term planning over the next several years. I kept looking for another option. There just wasn't another option. In the end, I decided to turn around. Leo and Mona had been good friends to me and a great help on my sailing trip. Their travel plans were no last minute surprise; I had known about them from the beginning. I didn't see any other alternative. I spent a little time experimenting with some different sail combinations to see how the boat would react; knowledge that I though might come in handy on some future trip. Then, we turned downwind, and I watched the Brooks Pennesula drop astern in the afternoon light. I worked out the necessary GPS waypoints before it got dark. The downwind sail through the night was, well, miserable. I was in major need of a major attitude adjustment. Add to that a lack of sleep on a boat that rolled drunkenly on the swells, and you had all the ingredients for what-am-i-doing-here stew. Leo and I shared the hours at the helm; one man in the cockpit trying to steer, and the other in the cabin pretending to sleep amidst the racket created by dishes, food, and gear as they were tilted one way, then the other. The moon was somewhat of a diversion while it lasted, as was the phosphorescence on the water behind the boat. There were also the occasional lights of fishing boats, sharing the blackness of the windy night (I made a mental note to never even consider becoming a fisherman, in this life nor any that might follow). My Walkman was also a major help to me. Give me a couple tapes and some fresh batteries, and I'm good for another hour at the helm. But even with the Walkman and Leo's help, it was a long, LONG night. Brooks Pennesula to TofinoSeptember 27thWe pushed the boat as hard as we could all night, running under the yankee when possible, and changing down to the smaller staysail when the wind piped up. But, when the wind pooped out in the morning, there was not much that could be done. The engine was "off limits" until we got within a few miles of Tofino. They were still issuing a forecast for up north with that "gale" word in it. That seemed to justify our decision to retreat south, but I still wondered if we could have made it. Probably not within our time frame. We continued to struggle south in light airs. The boat was still rolling a lot in the swells, and this tended to spill what little wind was trying to push the sails. But, the wind remained from the north, and picked up a little in the early afternoon. At least we were now crawling south. Mona suggested we think about calling for a tow if we got within a few miles of Tofino and found ourselves bobbing around the rocks and fishing boats at the beginning of the inlet with no wind or motor to maneuver. The idea of being towed into Tofino was a horrible and humiliating concept for me to swallow, but Mona was right; it might be the only way to keep the boat off the rocks and make the bus connection. We also talked about the possibility of having a boat come out and pick up Leo and Mona, or maybe just deliver enough diesel fuel to us so that we could make it in under our own power. The what-if's were back, in force. By nightfall, we were within striking distance of Tofino. The north wind had never regained its strength of last night, but it had been enough to chew up some more southbound miles. I did my GPS waypoint homework well in advance. There were several different ways to get into Tofino, and I finally decided to repeat the route we used to get into Tofino last time. The plan was to use the north wind to slip between the lighthouse on the left and the rocks on the right. This would be the most dangerous part of the approach. But, the north wind should be beam-on at that point, so we could use all our sails to push past the dangers and get into the inlet. Once inside the inlet, the north wind would probably eventually die out, and we would hope the engine would get us the rest of the way to Tofino. Leo and I got everything set up for our approach in the darkness. We managed to avoid hitting a fishing boat, who seemed to take great pleasure in blinding us with his spotlight as he passed by. The north wind was holding, all sails were set, we got lined up on our GPS waypoints, and approached the sweeping beam of the lighthouse, and the rocks around it. That's about as much of the approach that went according to my grand plan. The first alarming development was a loud horn coming from the inlet. Oh great, we now get to dance around in the channel with some ship that has chosen this moment to come out. Luckily, the horn turned out to just be the fog horn on the lighthouse. The next alarming development was that the wind died just as we got close to the lighthouse and its associated rocks. No fair! We had little choice but to play our final ace. We turned on the engine, well ahead of schedule. The next alarming development was the fog that was trying to form. We could do most of the approach with just the GPS, but we really didn't need any more challenges tonight, thank you very much. Luckily, the fog did not spread. The next alarming development was the smell of smoke. I figured my diesel was well into its self-destruct mode, after I had poisoned it with the kerosene. Luckily, the smoke (and I suspect most of the fog) was a result of the wood burning appliances used by the local residents. As the engine pushed the boat toward Tofino, I watched the charts and the GPS and called out heading changes to Leo. Leo did the steering, and picked out the navigational beacons in the darkness ahead. Throughout our approach to Tofino, I was constantly developing strategies for what to do if the engine died. I listened to the engine's steady throbbing, and tried to brace myself for the horrible silence as it died from either fuel starvation or kerosene poisoning. It wasn't until we were tied up at the Weigh West resort in Tofino that I could relax. It was around 1am. The engine had run the entire distance without so much as a whimper. I was emotionally exhausted. I think its fair to say that we were all very glad to be back in Tofino. September 28th I got up at 5am to put a call through to my Dad that we were all safe and sound. It had been over a week since we had been in touch, and I'm sure he was wondering where we had disappeared. I left a message on his answering machine, then headed back to the boat for a little more rest before breakfast. Leo and Mona not only paid for my breakfast, but also for 2 nights at the marina; a very nice farewell gift. Then, we carried all their gear into town where they caught their bus. After chatting with my brother for a bit on the phone, I purchased half the merchandise in the local coop grocery store, then abused my body by hauling it all back to the boat in my backpack. I kept busy with chores for the rest of the day. I put all my dirty laundry through the washing machine at the resort. The boat needed a good cleaning. I motored over to the fuel dock and not only fueled the boat, but I also kept careful track of what the diesel pump said (in liters) and what my dip stick said (in gallons). After recording all the data, I put it aside for later analysis. Then, it was back to the dock at Weigh West to fill up the water tanks. One of the interesting events of the day happened during a late lunch. I was munching a sandwich out in the cockpit, when I heard a number of birds screaming about something. I turned around and saw 2 seagulls in a seagull fight. Now, a seagull fight is just not a very big deal; at least this one wasn't. It consisted of one gull trying to use his beak to clamp down on the other guy's beak, along with a certain amount of hopping around and wing flapping. There were a large number of blackbirds watching the match, and the blackbirds were going absolutely berserk. Some were excitedly jumping around down by ringside, and others circled closely overhead. All of them were hopping and hollering like this was the seagull battle of the century. Eventually, the older seagull chased off the younger one, and the crowd quickly dispersed. I didn't see any money exchange hands after the fight was over, but after all that racket and excitement, I wouldn't put it past the blackbirds. I had a pretty good fish dinner at the Schooner restaurant that evening, and looked through my guide book for a place to go anchor on the next night. Then I left a phone message for Mike, who would be joining me in the near future, and headed back to the boat for a good night's sleep. September 29th I talked to Mike on the phone before breakfast, and made arrangements to meet him here in Tofino in about a week. After that, it was one more breakfast ashore before buying the remaining half of the goods in the grocery store, and returning to the boat. The day's destination was an easy day's motoring, but it was a little foggy, so I took some time to punch a few numbers into the GPS before heading out. There wasn't much happening out on the waterways that morning. I was passed by one sailboat, and the float plane from Tofino Air passed by. The fog broke up around noon, and it turned out to be a gorgeous day. I got to do a little sailing, but not much. As I neared my anchorage, I saw a man in one of the Weigh West boats catch a really good sized fish, then return it to the water. Once the anchor was down inside Cannery Bay, I went up the mast with my voltmeter and a fresh bulb to see why my tricolor navigation light was not working. After fiddling with it for a while, I finally discovered that the tiny little filament had come undone. If you tapped it a few times, the loose end would make contact, and it would light up. A few more taps to the bulb, and the loose end would break away and the light would go out. Maybe this was another casualty of our earlier encounter with the bridge. In any event, life at the top of a sailboat's mast was not an easy one, especially in rough seas. I replaced the bulb and declared victory. September 30th The last day of September was solid IFR, with about a tenth of a mile visibility. It was foggy enough that I had to look twice to figure out where the entrance to the bay had gotten to. I punched the required numbers into the GPS, then pulled up the anchor and headed out into the gray murk. The plan was to cruise around various inland passage ways for a week, then return to Tofino in time to pick up Mike for the return trip to Seattle. For a while I played hide and seek with the shoreline, using compass and depth sounder to feel my way along. Sometimes the depth sounder would see the bottom before I saw the approaching shoreline, and sometimes it was the other way around. In either case, I would change course to roughly parallel the shoreline. Then, when the land had been gobbled up by the fog, I would adjust my course to head in toward the rocks once again. I suppose I could have followed the GPS down the middle of the waterway, but I was concerned about meeting some high speed power boat out in deeper water. At one point I got quite a scare as the depth suddenly changed to just 25 feet, and then into the teens. Reverse engines! But, it turned out to be a false alarm. Maybe that big fish from yesterday was swimming by. At any rate, the shallow depths vanished as quickly as they had appeared. I resumed my course and speed, still unable to see anything more that two or three hundred feet away. I eventually used the compass and GPS to get over to the other side of Tofino Inlet, and resumed my cat and mouse game with that shoreline. At one point, I was mildly alarmed when a very hard looking shoreline appeared ahead when I was not expecting it. I moved out a little deeper, then stopped the boat long enough to consult the chart and figure out what was going on. We resumed our journey, only to be confused a little while later about what I was seeing and what I expected. I stopped the boat again, studied the charts until I was comfortable about where I was, then proceeded on again. The fog lasted longer than I expected, and I crept through the narrow Dawley Passage before the fog began to break up. The afternoon's motoring took me through some really magnificent scenery under warm, sunny skies. I wished that Leo and Mona could have been there to see it. Mona had a medical condition that gave her a lot of pain if she allowed herself to get cold, so she had to spend most of the trip inside the cabin up in the v-berth. I think that Leo had also found Vancouver Island to be a much tougher cruise than he had expected. It was ironic that some of the most pleasant, warm sailing of the trip would happen only a day or two after they left. It wasn't fair. I was missing both of them already. Leo had made the boat much easier to handle, and the quality of my meals had definitely dropped a notch or two after Mona left. I especially missed Mona's yummy bread, which she made right on the boat. By mid afternoon, I put the anchor down in Quaite Bay, and called it a day. October 1st There was no sign of activity in the other sailboat anchored in Quaite Bay as I motored out the narrow entrance. It was not foggy that morning, but pleasantly warm and very cloudy. The clouds turned into rain, and the rain stayed with me the rest of the day. Maybe Leo and Mona had picked a good time to depart after all. But, I was glad to have the rain. My outside varnish had started to turn into one giant salt crystal. I tried to do a little sailing, but the winds just could not generate the required enthusiasm. I would feel a breeze and run up some sails, only to have the breeze fade away a short time later. Eventually, I got enough of a breeze from astern to keep the yankee filled, but that was about all. I passed several fishing boats, and a float plane zoomed by at tree top level, trying to sneak under the "weather" to get where ever he was going. I arrived in little West Whitepine Cove by mid afternoon, and after snooping around the anchorage for a bit with the depth sounder, I finally anchored. I changed into dry clothing, then tried to generate a little heat to dry out my wet clothing. I baked a round of cookies first (not that I REALLY wanted the cookies, I was just trying to generate some heat...) and then fired up my kerosene heater for the first time in a couple years, I think. In the midst of all that, the tide dropped a little, and revealed some rocks as they rose above the surface a little ways off my stern. It was a wonder I didn't smack them when I checking out the anchorage with the depth sounder. I double checked the cruising guide, and sure enough, the rocks were right where they were suppose to be. The boat never got near enough to the rocks to be in any danger, but I re-anchored before dark just to put a little more distance between me and them. One of the afternoon projects was to look over the data I recorded when I filled the diesel tanks a few days ago. I had added some fuel, then recorded the quantity (in liters) displayed on the diesel pump, then recorded the level on my sounding tube (in gallons), then added a little more fuel. I discovered that the reason we had run so low on fuel so unexpectedly was that the markings on the sounding stick for my diesel tank were just plain wrong. The notches I had put in the wooden dowel on September 5th bore no relation to the actual quantities of fuel in the tank. Eventually, I would have to drain the tank, and carefully make a new and very accurate sounding stick. But for the time being, I made a new sounding stick based on the data I had recorded. It would have to do for the rest of this trip. October 2nd After French Toast for breakfast, I motored out into a partly cloudy morning. It felt a little cooler than the day before, but not bad. I would not have looked forward to another day of motoring in the rain, no matter HOW bad the varnish looked. The wind didn't even try to make an appearance, so I motored along the shoreline, watching the cloud fragments drift past the mountainous landscape. There were the usual crop of fishing boats and a fish farm or two along the way. A solitary float plane passed overhead. It was no adrenaline rush, but I enjoyed watching it all go by as the engine pushed us steadily forward. I entered Bacchante Bay in the early afternoon, chased in by a few rain drops. The bay was a treat for the eyes, with steep wooded hills all around. But, it was not an ideal location from an anchoring perspective. It was fairly deep out in the middle, then got real shallow real fast as you approached the end of the bay. I dropped the plow anchor in 42 feet of water, then backed up and let out 200 feet of chain. The water depth was 8 feet at the end of my anchor line. Not good. I was reluctant to put out less than 5 to 1 scope in an unfamiliar anchorage. But this was a well protected place, and it was not yet low tide, so I pulled in 50 feet of chain, and that put the boat in about 20 feet of water. Much mo bettah. As the tide went out and the boat swung on its anchor line, the depth got as little as 12 feet, but that would have to do for tonight. Aside from the anchoring, the heater also had problems. I could light it, but it would not stay lit for very long. I could hardly blame it. After 2 years of non use, I was a little surprised it worked at all. There had certainly been plenty of time to accumulate some moisture in the fuel through condensation. It wasn't cold enough so that the heater was really required, but it was nice to heat up the cabin a little from time to time. I eventually gave up on the heater, and just dressed warmly, puttering with small projects as the rain sprinkled down on the cabin roof through the quiet afternoon. October 3rd It rained through the night, at times coming down with genuine enthusiasm. There was a stream or waterfall (or both) hidden in the trees nearby the anchorage which sounded like it was pumping a lot of water through its system, much more than what I could hear on the previous afternoon. The master plan had been to revisit Hot Springs Cove today. But, the wet weather had dampened my enthusiasm, and I suggested a rest day. The vote was unanimous. My non functioning heater had been in the background of my thoughts ever since yesterday afternoon, so I decided to tear into it this morning. I got out the owner's manual and checked this and cleaned that and generally made a mess with the soot and kerosene. But, when I was done, I had a functioning heater, so I quickly declared victory and cleaned up the mess. I also spent a little time that morning giving some thought to what kind of schedule I wanted to shoot for, as far as getting from Tofino back to Seattle in a timely manner. I roughed out a timetable for the days ahead, and tried to build in some flexibility for non user friendly weather conditions. The first half of the afternoon was spent updating my journal. After that, I did some reading and listened to classical CDs. The sun was in a tug of war with the clouds for dominance of the skies, but the clouds were generally winning. A few light showers passed by, and fragments of clouds drifted past the cliffs above. October 4th By morning it was partly to mostly cloudy. The lack of rain overnight had apparently been the cue for someone to turn down the volume of the waterfall by the anchorage. After French toast for breakfast, I hauled up the anchor, tried to keep away from the shallow areas as I got everything secure on the foredeck, then motored out of the bay, retracing my steps from two days ago. I motored out of Shelter Inlet, back through Hayden Passage, and then something unusual happened. The wind started blowing. After hours and hours of motoring, I finally got to run some sails up and give my trusty Volvo a rest. The wind came from ahead, and there was enough of it to warrant a reef in the main, but overall it was very nice sailing. The skies were still gray, but the rain held off, and I was dressed warmly for the cool temperatures. We did a lot of tacking up Millar Channel, with me handling the sheets. But, instead of Leo on the helm, my self steering vane "Geeves" was doing most of the steering. I was even able to put the reef in the mainsail while Geeves steered with the two headsails pulling. The added weight of the water bottle, which I had strapped onto Geeve's counterweight back in Dungeness Bay a few weeks back, seemed to balance out the self steering mechanism very well. Over all, I would say that Geeves did a pretty fair job of driving the boat, although Leo was much more fun to talk to. The wind finally took a break about lunch time, and I motored the remaining distance into West Whitepine Cove. This time, I took a little more care to put the anchor down at a respectable distance from the rock that I knew would pop above the surface as the tide continued to fall. The wind returned in the afternoon, followed by a little light rain. But, I was warm and dry inside the boat. For the remainder of the afternoon, I tackled the cleaning job from hell that was patiently awaiting me in the bilge. October 5th Overnight entertainment had not been hard to find. There had been an on-going battle all night between the wind and the rain to see who could hit the boat the loudest. And, if I tired of that, I could listen to the bobstay and anchor chain, which seemed to be in a contest to see who could first saw the other in half. The weather radio was reporting that I wasn't the only one getting wind and rain. There were gale warnings for my area, and even higher storm warnings up north. However, for the last several days, the wind direction usually had a southerly component, as opposed to the northerly winds that Leo and Mona and I had struggled against so often. This switch from north winds to south was just what the pilot charts had predicted as the Pacific Northwest moved from summertime weather patterns to fall and winter patterns. And, from the gloomy sky and light rain over the anchorage that morning, it was definitely looking more and more like classic Seattle winter weather. The entrance to West Whitepine Cove is a shallow one, so I stalled for a while before pulling up the anchor. By the time the anchor was up, the "now you see em, now you don't" rocks in the anchorage were below the tidal level, and I knew I had plenty of depth in which to safely leave the cove. I motored through light winds until rounding Clifford Point, where I found some wind. It was a headwind, as usual, but Spirit grabbed hold of it with staysail, reefed yankee, and a reef in the main. It was a wet sail with the showers passing by at regular intervals, but it wasn't very cold. The Volvo took a rest as Geeves steered the boat and I handled the sheets. A plastic hook that was part of Geeves' steering mechanism gave way under the strain, and at that point Geeves gave up in disgust. Fortunately, Spirit sails herself fairly well upwind, and we continued to make progress toward Tofino, where hopefully my new crew member Mike would be waiting. The wind pooped out past Morfee Island, and I furled all the sails and started to motor. But, about the same time that the sails were all put away, the wind returned. So, up went the sails again, and the Volvo got to go back to sleep. We almost sailed to the Tofino waterfront, but a weakening wind combined with a strengthening tide made it necessary to put the sails away one last time and start up the trusty Volvo. The tidal current was really cruising past the waterfront. By the time I got to the Weigh West resort, it was like maneuvering in a strong river current. The Volvo was just about maxed-out, and I was just barely making headway. I maneuvered Spirit into an empty slip, using more of my whitewater kayaking skills than sailboat know-how, and tied up for the night. After I checked in with the resort, the next priority was to locate Mike. I called my answering machine in Seattle, and found a message from Mike. His Aunt was dying from cancer, and he would not be able to sail with me. This news caught me off guard. I had always said that I was willing to do the trip by myself, but it had looked like this would not be necessary, and I had not given it any thought recently. But, having been beat up by wind and waves on more than one occasion, I was a little alarmed to hear that it would be just little-old-me out there. After I had some time to think about it, I gradually warmed up to the idea. It was not like I had to sail a zillion miles over open ocean. I could hop back to Seattle the same way I hopped to Tofino. Basically, it was a matter of waiting for the south winds to die down for awhile, then running like hell before they were forecast to pick up again. Spirit and I could do this. I just had to keep thinking ahead, and try to avoid unnecessary risks, using my remaining vacation time wisely. I made a few other calls, checking in with my family. When I got back to the boat I picked up the latest forecast, and decided to hold position in Tofino for an additional day in hopes of getting less of a southerly wind to battle against. Then, after a so-so meal ashore, and yet another failed attempt at getting my heater going, there was little more to do than work on my journal and listen to the south wind as it moaned in the rigging. The what-ifs were back. October 6th It was cloudy for most of the day, but dry and mostly light winds. This was a trend I hoped would continue. After breakfast ashore, I tore into the heater again. This time I drained all the kerosene, in addition to generally cleaning it out. I could clearly see a small quantity of water in the old kerosene. I didn't know if that was the root of my problems, but it couldn't have helped matters any. I put everything back together, put the old fuel back in the tank (minus the water) and added some fresh fuel as well. Other chores included laundry, cleaning up the boat, grocery shopping, raiding one of the local bakeries, mailing post cards, motoring to the fuel dock to pick up more ice, and doing my GPS homework for the next day. In the late afternoon, the water was rushing by again just like the day before. I spoke briefly to a gal who was getting ready to row out to some houseboats on the far side of the rushing water. She seemed none too keen on the idea, and asked me to keep an eye on her during her crossing. She was obviously not accustomed to ferrying a boat cross-current, and she got turned around more than once. But, she had a good rowing boat, and she eventually made it across to the other side. The weather report that evening sounded like what I was waiting for, so I went to bed early, but slept poorly. I dreamed that a doctor told me that I had a disease that was going to kill me in a few months. I don't ever remember having a dream quite like it. I initially thought the dream might have been some sort of subconscious editorial on my single-handed sailing skills. On further reflection, though, I think it came from the dreadful news about Mike's aunt. I woke up from my dream, but Mike's aunt was living out a nightmare with no escape. I felt badly about the unfolding tragedy, and thought of her from time to time in the days ahead. I was glad that Mike had decided to go see her one last time. Tofino to Neah BayOctober 7thThe alarm went off at 0430. I quickly checked around the boat for doctors, and found none. Ah, life is good. The moon was out, shining through a thin overcast, and there was no wind. Show time! I got dressed, fired up the trusty Volvo, and made good my escape. The ebbing tide really gave me a ride out of town. I'm not sure if it was trying to help out, or just glad to be rid of me. Whatever... I picked my way out visually past the lighted buoys, and used the GPS and the night vision scope to fill in any remaining blanks. We were soon rocking and rolling in the Pacific swell again. The thin overcast continued, along with some light haze. Winds were mostly calm. The swells were genuinely annoying as we slid past the lighthouse on one side and the rocks on the other side of the channel. Fortunately, the swell smoothed out some as we ran out into deeper water, but it was still bumpy. I passed the time listening to country music stations on my Walkman radio, and re-tied some knots in a piece of line that I used to hold the tiller in some fixed position so I didn't have to steer 100% of the time. Of course, there were some goodies from the galley that I munched on. Anything to pass the time as the boat rocked back and forth on its way south. The radio reported that the rain was heading our way, though it was a little behind schedule. Hey, no problem. I had assumed I would be wet for most of the day, and not a drop had fallen yet. The overcast increased, however, and eventually the fog swallowed up everything. I was back into IFR motoring, trusting everything to the numbers I had programmed into my GPS on the previous afternoon. The fog remained for hours, just as it had when Leo and Mona and I had traveled north along this section of coast. I was beginning to have serious doubts that there even WAS a coast along here. If there was, I certainly saw no evidence of it. Late in the morning, still in the fog, I had to make a decision. I had made plans for 3 possible destinations, and it was now decision time. From here, I could go into Ucluelet, the nearest option. But, it was too early in the day to stop now. I could also head for Bamfield. This would put me in a good position to press on the following day if I wanted. I could also head to our previous anchorage at Joe's Bay in Desolation Sound, which would be a pleasant location to wait for better weather. I had the GPS pre-programmed for all 3 options. I waited until the last minute, then listened to the most recent forecast. The next day sounded wet and none too kind from a wind perspective. The following day, however, sounded a little better, though still a bit damp. I decided to head for a day's rest at Joe's bay. As I changed course toward the north, the visibility was somewhere between nothing and damn near nothing. The only boat I had seen all morning was a fishing boat headed towards Ucluelet. However, as I approached Joe's Bay, the fog started breaking up. The increasing visibility revealed rocks on either side of the channel I was in. The GPS was doing its job. I think that Desolation Sound is best suited for kayaks. For sailboats, its basically a mine field of rocks waiting for you to make a mistake. And, in the fog, mistakes are easily made. I think the Tofino area is the sailor's cruising ground of choice. I spoke briefly to a Parks Department official as he passed by in his boat, then continued into Joe's Bay. By 2pm the anchor was down, and I was safe again for a while. The sun was even trying to peek through, and it seemed very warm and pleasant. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing my GPS homework for the next 3 days of sailing to Victoria, and updating my journal. I tried the heater that evening, but again it would only run for a short time and then die. At that point, I gave up on the heater for the remainder of the trip. When I got back to Seattle, I could take it apart and give it a good cleaning, and install some sort of water trap in the fuel line, all at my leisure. For now, I would just have to dress warmly and hope that the engine generated enough heat to dry out the boat a little. The wind and rain finally arrived just before dark. October 8th There was wind and rain off and on through the night and early morning. As the weather began to improve after lunch, I started getting restless. I tuned in the latest weather report on the VHF radio, and heard the magic word. "west" Port Angeles in the Strait Of Juan De Fuca had a 20 know wind from the "west". After the many days of foul weather from the south easterly storms, I was hungry for a west wind. I shamelessly lusted after a west wind. Even a forecast of winds that did not include the "e" word (east) was a major improvement. I considered leaving for Port San Juan immediately, a run of over 40 miles. But, even with fair winds, I would have to sail most of the night to get there. I have never been very good at staying awake all night. If I'm lucky (or "motivated") I can hang in there until maybe 2am, but after that I need a couple hours rest. Sailing all night alone was not a good thing. Besides, the "e" word was liberally sprinkled through the weather report for just about everywhere else in my neighborhood. In the end, I decided on a compromise. I would hop over to Bamfield, spend the night there, and push on towards Port San Juan early the next morning. This plan had a couple of good points. For one thing, it allowed me to negotiate the Barkley Sound mine field of rocks during the daylight, whereas leaving for Port San Juan early tomorrow morning would mean I would have to traverse the mine field in the early morning twilight, and possibly in the fog. Leaving Bamfield in the darkness of early morning was no problem. Another good thing about leaving from Bamfield was that it cut a few miles off the trip to Port San Juan; not a lot, but any decrease in a 40 mile trip was a good thing. If I could get into Port San Juan by 10pm, I could get a few hours sleep and then sprint to Sooke before the next meteorological "event" came out of the southeast. I got the anchor up and motored out of Joe's Bay. I didn't really need the GPS because of the good visibility, but I followed it anyway out of curiosity to see how it handled the mine field. It did a pretty good job. Once clear of the highest concentration of mines, I put the sails up. It was a good thing I did not set my sights on Port San Juan that day. The local winds were southeast, and a series of brief showers were passing through. After one of the little squalls, the wind went light, and I replaced the sails with the trusty Volvo. As I approached Bamfield, I was tying a fender to one of my shrouds, and admiring a solid wall of rain that was conveniently passing just behind me. Then suddenly, out of the wall came a brilliant flash of lightning, followed by a loud blast of thunder. I quickly decided that anything having to do with the metal shrouds would have to wait for a while. The mast of my boat probably made a dandy lightning rod. I even removed my safety harness for a while, since it has a couple large metal rings. But, the lightning did not return. The light was starting to fade as I approached Bamfield, and I noticed that the charger warning light was on. This meant that the alternator on the engine was not charging the batteries. Leo had mentioned that this light occasionally would go on for a while, then magically shut itself off. He suggested maybe the belt was loose, which seemed like a reasonable suggestion. Whenever I had seen the light come on, it was only when the engine was running very slowly. All I had to do was to increase the RPMs above idle speed, and the light would go off. But that evening, the light was staying on, no matter what I did to the engine speed. Without the alternator working, my batteries would eventually go dead as I used them for things like starting the engine and operating the navigational lights at night. Not good. I tied up at the same place that Leo and Mona and I had stayed when we first visited Bamfield. There was a very friendly man there who helped me tie up, and collected the fee for using the dock overnight. He said that I could check with Breaker Marine in the morning about getting the alternator fixed, and that if I had to stay in Bamfield while the alternator was being worked on, there would be no charge for remaining at the dock. I later checked the belt tension and checked the volts and amps coming out of the alternator. It was either dead, or pretty close to it. Tomorrow would be Friday. Then, a weekend. Monday was Thanksgiving Day in Canada. That means nothing much would happen until Tuesday. It was beginning to look like I might be taking a vacation from my vacation. A few more rain showers moved through the area overnight, and I was glad I was not out in the cold darkness looking for Port San Juan. October 9th I was waiting on the doorstep of Breaker Marine when they opened on Friday morning, the alternator inside my backpack and ready for inspection. The man said that I needed to go over to the motel and ask the office if they knew where Nick Germani could be located. Nick was the man who apparently did all the diesel engine work in town. I found the motel office to be empty, but noticed a phone by the door, and looked up Nick's number. There was no answer when I called the number. For all I knew, he could be away fishing somewhere for the long holiday weekend. I picked up the phone book again and started looking through the yellow pages for marine service companies. Port Alberni seemed to have quite a few places that looked encouraging. As I waited outside the motel office, I happened to spot a notice on the door that said bus service to Bamfield was being suspended. This was another item on the rapidly building "not-good" list. When the office opened up, I told the man about my problem. The good news was that he did know where Nick was. The bad news was that Nick was in Vancouver for a few days visiting his son who was in the hospital. I mentioned the notice outside about the bus service. The man said that about the only way to get to Port Alberni was on the ferry boat, which made one-and-one-only stop in Bamfield on Tuesday Thursday and Saturday, or try to hitch a ride with someone that was heading that way. The "not-good" list was getting longer. I wandered back to Breaker Marine, but there was really nothing they could do. As I walked back to the boat, I thought over my options. Nothing was going to happen in Bamfield until after Thanksgiving. And even then, it could easily take days or weeks to get the alternator serviced and returned to Bamfield. There was the combination gravel pit and airport in Bamfield. Maybe I could fly to Seattle, get my spare alternator out of my storage locker, and fly back to Bamfield. Not cheap. I could try to sail to Victoria, hoping that the batteries would last long enough to get me there. I would get there after Thanksgiving, and it might be more easy to get the alternator looked at in Victoria. ... correction ... It ABSOLUTELY HAD to be easier to get the alternator serviced in Victoria. Then, it hit me. The Neah Bay option. Neah Bay was a little town in Washington State, across the Strait from Port San Juan. My last visit to Neah Bay revealed a sleepy little fishing and tourist town that sort of closed up for the winter. But, I might be able to catch a bus from Neah Bay to Port Angeles, and get the alternator serviced there. Port Angeles is a pretty fair sized town. I looked at my watch. 0930. I could be outta here by 10am. It was not the crack of dawn start that I had intended, but I felt it was going to destroy me mentally if I had to hang out in Bamfield for 2 weeks. If I was going to have challenges, I preferred a game plan that was more proactive. The risk, obviously, was that I could end up with a dead battery and no engine in some southeasterly gale. But, at the moment at least, I had a fair forecast (not great, but fair) and 2 functional batteries. I put the alternator back on the engine, and took off for Neah Bay. The winds were mostly calm as Spirit climbed up and down over the gentle rolling water which were the leftovers of the Pacific swells. It was partly cloudy when I rounded Cape Beagle and turned southeast toward the Strait of Juan De Fuca. There was some wind from the southeast, and the waves and swells were either south or southeast. I got as far as Seabird Rocks, and then progress slowed to a crawl. I was fighting light headwinds, small waves and bigger swell, and an outgoing tide. Spirit made regular progress through the water, but we were making no progress past Seabird Rocks. I tried everything I could think of. I tried motoring only. I tried motorsailing and pinching a little into the wind. I tried motorsailing and sailing with all of the telltales on the sails streaming back in their most efficient sailing configuration. Nothing was working. I was loosing ground to tide and leeway at exactly the same rate I was gaining ground through the water. It was an extremely frustrating experience for me, and there was no end in sight. This was as far as I might get today. I might have to return to Bamfield. Even if conditions improved and I got within a few miles of Neah Bay, I could still be pushed back to Bamfield by rising wind and waves. I was royally pissed off at everything; the weather and my boat and my sailing skills were all horrible. It was probably just as well that I was alone on the boat. I would not have been a very nice person to be around that afternoon. I eventually gave up on making any eastward progress between now and next summer, and sailed out toward deeper water on the port tack. I figured that, even though I wouldn't get anywhere, I could at least enjoy sailing. I mean, wasn't there something about just "sailing" that had appealed to me at some point in my distant past? Actually, I was not even sailing; I was motorsailing. I had more fuel than battery power, so once the engine was started, it continued to run until the anchor was down. Starting the engine meant using battery power. Besides, with the engine running, I could bask in the illusion that I was sailing really fast in the light winds and making mile after mile of progress. In a way, the engine was a hallucinogenic narcotic for a sailor, and I was a completely addicted junkie. I daydreamed of bigger sailboats, bigger sails, and bigger engines. Eventually, I started making progress. I don't know exactly why, but I suspect that the tidal current slacked off, and I think that by tacking out into deeper water away from shore, I found more favorable winds (or in my particular case, less unfavorable winds). However, I wasn't getting my hopes up. I was still mentally resigned to the possibility of being turned back by rising headwinds and waves. It wouldn't take much to stop my little boat. But, for the next few minutes, we were making a few miles toward the east. I even had Geeves steering for a while, but he found it hard to concentrate in the light winds, and I had to take over, steering by hand again. Even if I had an electronic autopilot on the boat, I could not have used it, since electricity was being strictly rationed. I had dinner before sunset. It was a contest to see if I could quickly accomplish one small task down below and then sprint back to the helm before Spirit had changed course for either the rocks on the left or Hawaii on the right. I was trying to mentally prepare myself for being at the helm all night. It was cool but not cold, and thank god there was not any rain. Still, it would be a long night at best, and a miserable ordeal at worst. As I watched a very nice sunset, I wondered about the night watches that were not miserable; where you sailed through the night on a warm beam reach, entertained by the stars and phosphorescence in the water. As it turned out, I did get to watch the stars in at least a portion of the sky. I even saw a few falling stars race by and disappear, the beautiful finale to their timeless journey through the solar system. The lighted buoys in the distance blinked on and off through the night sky. I watched the commercial ships come and go as they rounded Cape Flattery on the northwest tip of Washington State, bound for who-knows-where over the horizon. I could see the dim outline of Washington in the distance, a slightly blacker outline in an otherwise black background. Sometimes the swell would be mean and throw the boat around, and sometimes it would smooth out to a reasonably comfortable ride. The light headwind would come and go as it saw fit, but before midnight it accidentally shifted far enough to the south that I could motorsail closehauled, and hold a course roughly parallel to the Canadian side of the Strait. I practically held my breath, least I should do something to disturb the delicate balance of forces that had temporarily shifted slightly in my favor. It could all change so quickly, so easily, and any change was likely to be for the worse. I eventually decided to head for Port San Juan, on the Canadian side of the Strait. I knew I could easily navigate my way in there, and anchor for the night. I had no detailed charts for Neah Bay, and it had been too many years since I had last been in there with Mike as my crew. Port San Juan was just across the Strait from Neah Bay. It would be no problem to hop over there tomorrow morning ... "IF" I was able to get into Port San Juan tonight. I listened to the radio on my Walkman, I listened to my tapes, and I occasionally listened to the marine forecast on the VHF. I never turned on the compass light. I didn't need the compass. I knew where my course was; it was upwind. Always upwind. Occasionally, I would turn on the GPS, and make a mark on the chart with my position and the current time. I was making progress, slow progress. Port San Juan was getting closer. Midnight came and went. The moon eventually got high enough to peek through the clouds for a while. Far to the east, an occasional flash of lightning; probably a little thunderstorm near the Cascade Mountains. I huddled in the cockpit to stay warm, peering out over the cabin top every now and then to look for traffic. The wind was getting no stronger, but definitely cooler. For the most part, Spirit steered herself, motorsailing through the darkness. We eventually turned the corner into Port San Juan. Fragments of fog drifted through the damp air, and it was really getting cold. But, we had made it. The anchor went down about 0130, and soon after that I was in bed trying to get warm again. October 10th I stayed in bed a little longer than normal that morning. There was no pressing need to get up; it would be an easy trip across the Strait to Neah Bay. I really wished my heater was working. Eventually I got dressed, made some pancakes, and listened to the weather summary on the VHF. The weather should be okay today, but start to deteriorate later in the day as the next meteorological "event" approached the area. It was during breakfast that it occurred to me that I didn't have to fix the alternator. All I really had to do was make it as far as the next marina, hook up to shore power at the dock, recharge my batteries, and then take off for the next marina. The alternator, like the heater, could wait until after I was back in Seattle. This revelation was a very good thing, and meant that I actually had some chance of making it back to Seattle on time. I got the anchor up after the galley was cleaned up, and motored uneventfully across the Strait to Neah Bay. Getting the anchor up had been a lot easier with Leo on board. Back then, I just had to either pull up the anchor chain by hand, or more commonly, bring it up with the hand operated anchor windless. Leo would be down below, distributing the anchor chain evenly in the chain locker. On my boat, the anchor chain, when it is pulled aboard, naturally piles up in one steep little hill of anchor chain. This can be a bad thing, because the motion of the boat can tip the little hill over during the course of the day's sailing (or, if you are in the Pacific Ocean, over the course of the day's "swelling"). By the time you reach the next anchorage, the portion of the chain that needs to come out first might be buried under other chain that comes out later. If its bad enough, this anchor chain chaos can get clogged up and jam. On a list of good things and bad things, this definitely falls on the bad-thing-list. So, with just me on board, this is the drill I would go through to get the anchor up. First, remove any chafe protection that I had set up to protect the varnish on my bowsprit. Then, remove the short length of rope that I normally attach to the anchor chain for varying reasons. Next, pull in 25 feet of chain. If there is any mud on the chain, use a bucket of seawater and a brush to clean it up before it gets into the boat (mud in the bilge is also on the bad-thing-list). Then, stop everything, go below, and rearrange the last 25 feet of chain so it is evenly distributed in the chain locker. Then, go back on deck and do the whole thing over again for the next 25 feet of chain. I generally anchor in about 30 feet of water, and with 5:1 scope, it means that I generally have 150 feet of anchor chain to stow before I can get under way. Another lucky break awaited me at Neah Bay. Since my last visit here with Mike, they had built a new marina. And next to each new slip in the new marina, was a new shore power box. Cool! I tied up to the first dock I came to, and went ashore. The marina manager was not around, so I decided to check in with US Customs. In Victoria, checking in with Canadian customs was no big deal. You pulled up to the Customs dock, called the 1-800 number for Canadian Customs, and that was about it. Well, for one thing, there was no Customs dock at Neah Bay. But, US Customs could not be damned for a failure to have a dock in every possible town along the US coastline, so I found a public phone, and looked for the 1-800 number in the Yellow Pages. Not only did I not find a 1-800 number, I could find absolutely no number at all for US Customs. I called the 1-800 directory assistance number, and asked for the toll free number for US Customs. I was told there was no such thing. I then called the normal directory assistance number, and got a phone number for US Customs in Seattle. No answer. It must have been their administrative office, which was of course closed on weekends. It was becoming obvious that the phone number for checking in with US Customs was a secret. This made perfect sense if you were a US government Customs bureaucrat, since your office could operate on a much lower annual budget if you didn't have to answer a bunch of silly phone calls, ESPECIALLY on weekends. It was now turning into sort of a game for me. How could I find the secret phone number for US Customs? Lets see, there was a ferry boat that regularly went from Victoria to Port Angeles. That meant that US Customs probably had an office in Port Angeles. I went back to directory assistance and asked for the US Customs phone number in Port Angeles. The good news is that I got the phone number. The bad news is that it turned out to be a number for a fax machine or computer modem. Obviously, the US Customs bureaucrats were skilled players in this secret phone number game. I thought about the sailor from Japan I had met in Victoria, and I wondered how he would have made out if he had first come to Neah Bay and attempted to check in with US Customs. Undaunted, I called back directory assistance, confessed that I was not fluent in the language of fax machines, and asked if there were any other phone numbers in Port Angeles for US Customs. There was, I got through to a real live Customs person, and was officially let back into the country. I made another failed attempt to find someone at the marina office, then called my Dad to see what was going on in Iowa. By then it was raining, and I retreated back to the boat to do my GPS homework for the next leg from Neah Bay to Port Angeles. Wow, 50 miles; that was going to be a long day. Plus, I would be fighting an outgoing tide for a portion of each day. Port Angeles was going to be a very long day. I would need a half-way decent forecast and a very early start to make it there before dark. The GPS homework was a little time consuming, but definitely not tough. First, I would look over the charts, identify where the buoys were and where the hazards were, and then pencil-in a series of dots that I would pass by along the way, and my heading would generally change a little each time I passed by one of the dots. Next, connect the dots with a straight line. This may seem like a silly step, but I had learned the hard way that it was an important step. A few weeks ago, when sailing from Cannery Bay to Quait Bay in the fog, I had been surprised when land appeared where I was not expecting it. The problem was that, on the previous night when I did my GPS homework, I had drawn the dots on the chart, but had "eyeballed" the route between the dots instead of drawing the line on the chart. Using this casual "eyeball" technique, I had not noticed how closely I would come to land at one point ... until it popped out of the fog the next morning! After that, I always connected the dots with a line on the chart. Each of these dots become waypoints, and each waypoint is assigned a name. I use names like alpha/bravo/charlie/etc for my waypoints, which accidentally makes it really easy to define your route later on, but you can call each waypoint anything you want. I record the name of each waypoint on a sheet of paper, then use the chart to pick off the latitude and longitude of each waypoint. This data is then entered into the GPS. Next, you tell the GPS to create a route for you, and you identify the route by telling it the names of all the waypoints along your route (this is where it happens to be a little easier if the waypoint names are selected in alphabetical order). With this data, the GPS calculates the direction and distance between each of the waypoints. There is one last step that I think is extremely important. You go from one leg of your proposed trip to the next, and make a rough check between the course and distance on the chart, and the course and distance calculated by the GPS. I have found mistakes this way, resulting from entering a wrong number into the GPS for latitude or longitude. This is an easy "reality check", and is much better done when you are doing your homework in the comfort of your boat in the safely of your anchorage, rather than wondering if you made a mistake as your boat is cutting through the fog at your normal cruising speed. The first time Leo and Mona and I entered Port San Juan, I did all the GPS homework as we were sitting outside the Bay in the Strait in the fog as darkness was falling. Even then, I still did the last step of the GPS homework before we started our approach into Port San Juan. Poor Leo, who had been at the helm while I did my GPS homework that evening, had to sweat out the approach, trusting that I had some vague idea of what I was doing. But after doing that last step, and seeing the GPS results matching what I saw on the charts, I was relatively comfortable that the stuff ahead of us in the fog was wet and not hard. Another trip to the marina office was no more successful than the rest. But, a policeman flagged me down, and called the marina operator on his cell phone as we all huddled beneath a shelter in the late afternoon rain. The policeman left a message on the marina operator's answering machine, which was about as much as anyone was going to be able to do that day. I headed back to the boat, and was wet by the time I got there. The electrical outlet next to my boat was a 50 amp circuit, and I only had plugs for a 30 amp or 20 amp outlet. So, I would not be able to use the electrical heater on my boat, nor the kerosene heater. I went below, bundled up, and baked some cookies (for the heat, of course) and then baked some potatoes, and then baked some salmon. It tasted great, the oven warmed up the boat a little (not a lot, but a little) and I retreated to a warm, dry bed as soon as the dishes were done, catching the latest marine forecast before lights-out. The rain and wind continued through the night. I was glad I was not out in the Strait, but I could not stay in Neah Bay forever. Neah Bay to Port LudlowOctober 11thI hopped out of bed long enough to turn on the VHF radio, then listened to the latest forecast after running back to my bed. It sounded like I was definitely not going anywhere today, and probably not tomorrow. I got up again, grabbed breakfast (a banana), and ate it in bed. I finally put on my long johns and other clothes, and headed outside in search of a slip with a 30 amp circuit. I ran into the marina operator on the dock, and made arrangements to move my boat to another slip. It was dry but fairly windy, and without his help, I would have had to make more than one attempt to get Spirit into her new temporary home. I was up at the office paying my bill, when the marina operator asked about the weather. I told him I had heard that it would be wet on and off for the next several days, with either east or southeast winds, probably stronger today than tomorrow. He said that southeast winds should not give me a problem, since the Strait runs roughly east-west and I would be partially protected my land from a southeast wind. I was a little skeptical of that analysis. I had a feeling that a southeast wind would probably bend around a little to flow down a natural corridor like the Strait of Juan De Fuca. But, it was an interesting thought. Maybe if I snuck along the Washington shoreline, I could get a little protection from the wind. Even so, I would still have to deal with the tides, and 50 miles was a lot of miles for a 28 foot sailboat. I figured I still needed a half-decent forecast before I set out. The marina operator also said something else of interest. He said that the last of the sailing-to-California crowd had passed through a few weeks ago. We both agreed that the meteorological "door" had probably now closed on that activity until next summer. He told me about the sailors who had come to Neah Bay last year, when the door closed a little earlier than usual (El Nino?). He said they would leave here, take a left turn south at Cape Flattery, get beat up, and then limp back to Neah Bay. Most of them finally gave up and postponed their trip until next season. I wonder if any of them sold their boats and bought an airplane ticket? I thought about Spirit, and her battle to get around the north end of Vancouver Island. Even if we had eventually gotten around the Brooks Peninsula, there was still Cape Scott to deal with. This was at the northwest corner of the island, and what I had assumed would be the toughest part of the trip. Even then, it would not have been a downhill run to Seattle. About the time that we would have reached the southbound portion of the trip, the winds would have made their seasonal shift to the south. More headwinds. And, if I learned nothing more from this trip, I had learned that the winds in the north end of the island were even more rowdy than the winds than in the south part. My intended trip southward down the east coast of the island would also take us through some fierce tidal currents (some of the passages had names like "Yueulta Rapids") which meant that I would only be able to sail south for part of the day before it was time to seek shelter from the contrary tidal currents. Spirit had proved herself to be a strong boat, but not a windward boat. My intended itinerary would put us in an excellent position to get beat-up on a regular basis. Both the Queen Charlotte Strait and the Strait Of Georgia could have been nothing short of "hell". I wondered how many weeks of being beat-up I could have tolerated. How many weeks of waiting for the southerly gales and headwinds and tidal currents? How many weeks without a heater? How many weeks without an alternator? What else would have failed on the boat? It was possible that the heartbreak of retreating south at the Brooks Peninsula may have been the luckiest thing that happened on the trip. I returned to the boat, adjusted the dock lines, plugged in my shore power cord, and presto, unlimited electricity. Batteries started recharging. I turned on my electric space heater, and left it on. The warmth was wonderful. It improved the quality of life inside the boat by an order of magnitude. Clothing dried out. The interior of the boat dried out. And best of all, I warmed up. I know people who go into the mountains and spend days in the snow and fog and darkness, living in a tent with little more than a thin ground pad between them and the snow. I loved to hear about their adventures, but I was definitely not in their league. Amazing people, those mountaineers. I spent most of the remaining day writing in my journal, and enjoying the simple pleasures of a warm boat. The rain held off for a good part of the afternoon, and I actually ventured forth out of my warm little den in the late afternoon. My bow had some new black markings, probably complements of the mooring buoy at Columbia Cove which had tires protecting its sides. I got out the Fantastic cleaner and the scrub pads, which Leo had purchased in Victoria to clean up Spirit's cockpit so successfully. I then sat down on the dock and started scrubbing away on the bow. The operation was very successful, though I was chased below by a new rain squall long before the whole job was done. At dinnertime, I turned on the radio as I prepared the yummy leftovers from last night's meal. The only station I could get with any clarity was a country music station from Victoria on an AM frequency. I enjoyed country music, but there was background interference that would slowly climb up and down, giving the country music a sort of 1950s science fiction movie effect. I think the music generally sounded better without the special effects. I did some reading before lights-out, and just before going to bed, I checked the marine weather on the VHF. I was definitely not going anywhere tomorrow. But, at the tail end of the outlook for the Strait of Juan De Fuca, they said the magic words: "west wind". October 12th It had been stormy for most of the night; lots of wind and rain. The morning dawned gray and damp. It was less windy, but the winds were still out of the southeast. The marine forecast was now calling for west winds in the Strait by tomorrow afternoon. Problem was, I needed to leave very early in the morning to have any hope of reaching Port Angeles before it got dark. On the other hand, it would be a drag to get up early and get beat up for several hours within spitting distance of Neah Bay until the wind decided to turn. On the other hand (hey, this is starting to sound like "Fiddler On The Roof"!) the early morning southeast winds that were being forecast might not be too strong, and they might be generating little waves instead of a big swell, and they might have enough of a south component to let me sneak east by staying close in to the northern coast of Washington. On the other hand (I think we are on our 4th hand, now...) there was obviously an abundant collection of rocks and shoals close in to the northern coast of Washington. It would be pointless to get up earlier than 4am, due to the contrary tidal current I would encounter. So, if the forecast didn't change much between now and then, I might just give it a go early tomorrow morning and see what happened. I worked on my journal a little in the morning. The rain seemed to have stopped for a while, so I finished off the morning with a little more hull scrubbing, using Leo's bottle of Fantastic. The hull didn't look new when I finished my work, but it did look a little better. After lunch, I motored over to the fuel dock. The winds would occasionally gust from the east, and I was a little apprehensive about docking the boat by myself, but everything went smoothly. On the way back to the marina, I motored far enough out to be able to see out into the Strait. Whitecaps from the east wind were on the march out there. I didn't see much evidence of calmer waters closer to the Washington shore, but I didn't really have a great view, either. Hopefully, the winds would die down tomorrow, though it would probably still be a wet day. I took a walk in the afternoon to kill a little time. I met one of the local residents, and chatted with him for a while. He did some kind of trucking for a living, though I'm not sure if it was tow trucks or dump trucks or all of the above. He seemed to have a colorful array of various truck-like vehicles in his front yard, most of which were in some advanced state of decay. I had seen a couple TV news trucks earlier in my walk, and he told me that they were covering the whale killing story. It seemed that the local Indians decided they were going to kill a whale this year. This caused various protest boats to show up and anchor in the bay. Everyone was poised for their confrontation; Indians, protesters, and the media. However, the whales were apparently not cooperating, and the whole thing was on hold. The man said that he frankly doubted the ability of the current Indian generation to kill a whale. One of his relatives on his wife's side of the family had been a harpooner in the old days, and according to the stories, the killing of a whale was no trivial undertaking. I guess one whale was not going to make a lot of difference in the over all scheme of things, but still, I was rooting for the whales. I asked the man if any of the fishing boats in the harbor were making any money. Not a one, according to the man. They were all in some state of economic collapse. He then told me some boat stories, and most of them had a common theme. The stories usually started out with someone paying money for a boat, and the stories usually ended with the boat either sinking or free for the taking (but no takers). In Neah Bay, most of the boats were living up to their reputation of being holes in the water filled with money. I asked about a floating crane across the bay. The local indian tribe had apparently bought it surplus from the US government for practically nothing, and then paid a tow boat to pull it from California to Neah Bay. The plan was to use the crane to move Indian logs from the water to logging trucks. But, everything in the crane was operated with DC power, and the tribe was having a heck of a time finding the required electrical components to get it running again. I guess you get what you pay for. It started raining again, so I made my way back to the marina. As I was walking along the dock, I met my neighbor. The entire dock was mostly empty of boats except for two boats out on the end; my boat and a cruising ketch rig. The owner was just returning from one of his dream-come-trues; a sailboat trip to Hawaii and back. He said he got beat up pretty good last Monday by a Pacific storm. At that time, I was just finishing up my 1 week inland cruise, returning to Tofino to pick up Mike. All I got was some wind and rain. My neighbor, however, had apparently gotten the full treatment. He said that he was finishing up repairs. Apparently, his transmission had "eaten" the metal key that helps hold the propeller shaft in place. He could run the engine in forward, but was afraid to put it in reverse for fear the propeller would pull the propeller shaft right out of the boat. He was just about ready to try and make it back to Everett, his home port. Another cruising boat limping home. I could relate to that. But, he had accomplished what he set out out to do. We chatted for another minute or two, then hurried on our separate ways as the rain continued to fall. I had a good dinner and went to bed early as the rain tapped on my cabin top. October 13th The alarm went off at 4am, and I stuck my head outside. Rain and gusty southeast winds. Damn! I went back to bed, furious with the weather that absolutely refused to let me out of Neah Bay. I really didn't have much cause to be angry. The marine forecast didn't call for the west wind to kick in until around noon. And, if things had worked out a little differently, I could have been in Port San Juan with a nearly dead battery and no heat; or worse yet, back in Bamfield. But, my cup was not looking "half full" that morning. I wondered if I was ever going to get out of Neah Bay. At the first hint of dawn, I was up again. It was still raining and windy, but something was different. The wind had shifted to more of a southerly direction. Sometimes, it was even a hair west of south. That did it. I was outta-here. It was a wet passage to Port Angeles, though the rain did let up from time to time. The winds started out stronger, then gradually went lighter, as did the waves. The wind direction was typically a bit ahead of the beam, but varied from southeast to west as it flowed off the contours of the land. The clouds hung low, covering all but the lowest parts of the hills off to starboard. It was a sort of a lousy sailing day when it came right down to it. But, it was quite satisfactory to me, because I was finally making miles in the right direction. Man, did that feel good; even with the rain. The trusty Volvo pushed Spirit along the whole day, with a little help from the wind when it occasionally picked up enough speed, which was typically just before the rain returned. Port Angeles looked as unappealing as ever, with the gray skies adding to the gloom of the ever present oil refinery smoke stacks, which sent a film of smoke eastward over the town. I though about pushing on to Dungeness Bay for the night, but decided against it. The tide was working against me now, my batteries could use some shore power juice, and the weather was pretty unsettled to be anchoring so far out in the open. The harbor had two big ships anchored inside. There was also a fair amount of commercial traffic, including the ferry from Victoria, and a tug pulling an oil barge. I put out fenders and mooring lines, and tied up to the dock below the marina office. There was nobody home. The office closed at 5pm, and it was now 5:15. I moved Spirit over to a dock that was marked for transient boats, and tied her up for the night, paying the fee at the self service drop box at the head of the dock. There was no 30 amp power available, so I could not recharge my batteries. But, there was a household-type outlet, so I ran an extension cord to the boat and plugged in my electric heater. The run tomorrow to Port Townsend was only 30 miles; piece of cake... October 14th I was up at 6:30, and on my way shortly after. The moon was just disappearing as the sky transitioned from dawn to morning. I hadn't seen much of the moon since that cold sail into Port San Juan on Friday night. There was a fair amount of wind from behind, but I left the Volvo pushing us along as I messed with the sails. At first I tried just the yankee. But, it did a lot of flapping around when the wind was dead aft, as it was that morning. The sail needed a whisker pole, which I did not have. I got frustrated with it and furled the sail away, replacing it with the mainsail. I was getting pretty easy to frustrate. The reality of the situation is that it was a beautiful sunny day with a nice sailing wind blowing me in exactly the direction I needed to go. What could be better? But, all I could see was "x" number of miles to my next destination. I was ready for this trip to be over. I guess as far as a pleasant sailing vacation, it was over. I justified leaving the engine on by the fact that I had to get around Point Wilson before the tide changed, which was true, but not the prime motivation. I was ready for this trip to be over. The Volvo did beat the tide around Point Wilson, with some help from the sails. I even set the yankee when the wind direction allowed for it. There were several sailboats in the Port Townsend area out enjoying the breeze; more sailboats than I had seen in one area for quite a while. I put out the fenders again and set up my mooring lines. Usually, I would first have a look at the dock, then set up the mooring lines on the proper side of the boat. Today, I decided this was pretty silly, and just pre-set the lines on the port side. In the worse case scenario, I would would just have to turn the boat around before docking. As it turned out, I not only had to turn the boat around, I had to back in for part of the way! But, it was challenging and a little different from the standard routine, so what the heck. I got a slip assignment from the marina office, and started motoring over to "C" dock. It suddenly dawned on me that my mooring lines had to be switched to the starboard side for the slip I was assigned to. So, there was a mad scramble to switch the docking lines to the other side of the boat ... in the marina channel ... in a crosswind. And of course, not one, not two, but THREE boats wanted out as I was in the process of switching my lines. Crazy. But, I eventually got everything ready, and moved Spirit into her slip around 1pm. After that, my first priority was a shower; my first in over a week. Next priority was checking my email at the Internet Cafe (400-some messages were in my "inbox"). I also sent my Dad a rather gloomy email greeting. When I had transferred my email to floppy disks, I was told I could not pay my bill with a credit card; the Internet Cafe did not have the required technology. Go figure... Anyway, I went back to the boat, read my email, did some grocery shopping, and walked into town for a great Mexican dinner. I guess I overdosed on the enchiladas because the dreams that night came fast and furious. The first 2 dreams were reoccurring dreams. In my "runaway sailboat" dream, I become convinced that the boat is sailing or drifting, and there is no one topside to see where she is going. What typically happens in real life is that I jump out of bed, and stick my head out the hatch to see how close we are to the rocks. Of course, what I actually see is either a marina or the anchorage where we are spending the night. I realize its "that" dream again, and go back to sleep. Fortunately, I get at most one of the "runaway sailboat" dreams a night when I am on a sailboat trip. The second dream is my famous "tornado dream", which I have had for years. This dream happens when I get too cold when I'm sleeping. Its always some variation on the theme "here come the tornado to get me". I must have been traumatized by midwest thunderstorms at an early age. On this particular night, I realized I was probably dreaming while I was still in the dream, so I "let go" and got to fly around inside the tornado for a few moments before waking up. Too cool... The final dream was a scary, new one. There were several of us "good guys" chasing 2 "bad guys", but in the end, everyone turned out to be a "bad guy" except this gal and myself. Worse yet, the bad guys were going to shoot the gal and I. Fortunately, I woke up before anything too radical happened, but I never did get back to sleep after that one. What a night at the movies! October 15th After a less-than-restful night, I turned on the electric heater, and got up when the inside of the cabin was nice and warm. After last night's enchilada-thon, all I wanted for breakfast was a banana. I spent some time in the boat yards of Port Townsend that morning looking at the shapes of the keels of the sailboats, trying to guess which ones would be good "upwind" keels. Then I wondered the downtown area waiting for a bookstore to open. I had been out of reading material for quite a while, and I absolutely refused to go any farther without another book. Port Townsend stores have some interesting hours. I'm use to store hours like "9 till 6" or something like that. In Port Townsend, they post their hours like "10-ish to 5" or "1pm to 5". Some shops have no hours posted, which means they open up whenever their owners see fit to come to work that day. Amazing... But, patience won out in the end, and I got my book. By "11-ish" Spirit was out of the marina and headed for Port Ludlow, an easy 12 miles south. I took the shortcut through the Port Townsend Canal. The sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds, the temperature was cool but pleasant, and there was a gentle breeze coming from behind. It was so nice that I did something I had not done since Barkley Sound; I put up the sails and gave the Volvo the afternoon off. I could suddenly hear sounds like ducks and seagulls again. A couple porpoises (porpoisie?) played around the boat as I relaxed in the sun. I'll be damned; life was good again. Nothing had really changed since yesterday, but I was feeling a whole lot better. Was it the dreams? Was it the fact that I had finally made it out of the Strait? From here to Seattle was an easy 2 day trip. The only real challenge I could see was getting through the Ballard locks by myself, something I had never attempted before. But, what ever the reason, I felt at peace as Spirit wandered downwind at 2 or three knots. One thing that was cause for concern was that a little too much oil and water was finding its way into the bilge. Maybe it was time to replace a gasket or two on the trusty Volvo, another item for the post trip to-do list. But, even that didn't bother me. I would deal with the problem at the proper time. Right now, it was sailing time. The anchor finally went down in Port Ludlow about 3pm. It was too nice of a day to mess with marinas. It was so nice that the clouds almost disappeared completely. This made for a glorious late afternoon, but it also made for a damn chilly evening. I think they were predicting lows around 40 degrees. Man, I sure wished the heater was working. After the dinner dishes were done, I went straight to bed. Port Ludlow to SeattleOctober 16thThere was no pressing need to get up early. It wasn't that far to Seattle, and the tides were going to be with me except for early morning and late afternoon. But, I still got up about dawn, put on warm clothing, and spent the next half hour or so bringing in 180 feet of anchor chain. I motored for a while, but an increasing southerly wind inspired me to set sails and shut down the engine. We were making pitifully slow progress, with our tacks averaging about 1 knot of speed upwind. But, I really missed just simply sailing my boat, so I decided to burn a little time and let the boat romp under sail for a while without the engine. People approach sailing with widely different philosophies. For some people, sailing is a necessary evil in their overall travel agenda. They put up with the sailing part so they can start enjoying themselves at the destination, which might offer activities such as exploring the anchorage, wandering through little shops in town, eating at a nice restaurant ashore, or what ever. I tend to be at the opposite end of the spectrum. For me, a sailing trip is an excuse to go sailing. The stops in between are a great place to rest before doing more sailing. As an example of my rather warped sailing mentality, the dinghy was only put in the water once during my 6 week trip, and even then it was at Tim's request. There were several times on this trip when Leo would be down below and hear me grinding winches or furling sails or what ever. He would immediately pop his head out of the main hatch and ask me if I needed help, an offer that I probably refused as many times as I accepted. From Leo's perspective, he probably thought "Poor Doug, up there trying to run the boat all by himself; I should go up there and help!" From my perspective, it was entirely possible that I was thinking "Wow, this is a fun and challenging sailing environment, and I've got it all to myself!" I like sailing, assuming the conditions are not too outrageous. I like sheeting in sails, and hauling on hailards, and doing navigation, and maybe even taking the tiller for a while. One of the things I missed the most on this sailing trip was, oddly enough, sailing. It seemed to be that we hardly ever sailed. We motored a hell of a lot, we did some motorsailing, and we waited in port for headwinds to die down. But, we did precious little sailing. My biggest reservation about taking Spirit on a second attempt to circumnavigate Vancouver Island would be the fact that Spirit would not be sailing around the island, but rather motoring around the island. Maybe the winds would inflict this fate on any sailboat making the trip, but I wasn't convinced this was the case. You could argue that allowing more time for the trip would allow you to wait for more favorable winds, but I tend to think that there might be more to it than this alone. Maybe I needed a higher performance sailboat. Maybe a different type of design would allow me to point higher with less leeway. Maybe a bigger boat would have more sail area to generate the necessary horsepower to steal a little more lift from light winds, and plow to windward through increasing headwinds and waves and swells. Maybe I needed less of a comfortable cruiser, and more of a kick-ass sailing machine. Gee, a new hole in the water to fill up with new money, just so I could go a couple knots faster under sail for a couple hours each year. It made no sense what-so-ever. Oh well ... welcome to boating. On the other hand, it was entirely possible I was missing the whole point. Maybe I was already racing through paradise, and a faster boat would only make it worse. Anyone that only launches the dinghy once in 6 weeks has got to be missing a significant portion of the overall program. A sea kayaker would not fail to "stop and smell the roses", but I would be lucky to last 3 days in a sea kayak. I was too spoiled on my creature comforts. But a new boat? Wow, that would be a major step for me. I obviously had a lot of research to do, and maybe a little soul searching as well. I sailed until a self-imposed deadline of 11am, then started taking in the sails and starting up the engine. So far, my batteries were holding up well. However, there was a fairly brisk south wind coming from the general direction of Seattle, the day's destination. The engine alone could not push the boat to windward any more than the sails alone. It quickly became obvious that any hope of reaching Seattle today was going to have to be a combined effort of sails and engine. With all sails set, and the trusty Volvo chugging away, we began to make progress. Thank God there was no swell, only Puget Sound waves. I hugged the west shore as much as possible, where the wind and waves were sometimes diminished by the land. Also, a fair current gradually helped me along. There was a significant amount of commercial traffic out in the channel; ocean going ships, tugs pulling barges, and fishing boats. The miles of shoreline gradually fell astern. Seagulls floated by, and a porpoise would occasionally drop by for a brief visit. By 3pm, I had finally made it to Shillshole marina. I didn't stop at the marina. I figured my batteries were probably good for one more night at anchor, so I continued on to the Ballard locks. These locks were cause for mild anxiety when I had a boatload of crew on board. I had never attempted them alone until today. I put out my fenders and rigged mooring lines at every place on the boat where I might possibly need them. Once I got into the locks, there would be no time to get another rope or to move existing ropes from one side of the boat to the other. But, with a combination of preparation and luck (I shared the lock with only one other boat, everyone else was locking-through in the other direction) I made it through the locks in good form. The last big challenge of the trip was now over. The Seattle drawbridges do not open for boats during rush hour, so I pulled into Fisherman's Terminal for a few hours while the afternoon commute was in full swing. After a call to my Dad and a leisurely dinner on the boat, it was time to go. The bridges went by one by one as afternoon transitioned to evening and then darkness. I gave the University Bridge a good looking over with the binoculars as I approached it, but the #@&?! scaffolding was not hungrily waiting for my masthead this time. I motored out of Seattle and crossed to the east side of Lake Washington. As I approached Cozy Cove, my last anchorage, I scanned the waters for other boats with my night vision scope. There were lots of lights from all the houses around the cove, but I saw no other boats at anchor. I didn't really expect to see any on a Friday night in mid October. It was getting a little chilly for overnight anchoring. I started shuttling back and forth between bow and stern, getting the anchor ready for a minute, then back to the tiller as the boat gradually turned itself toward the shoreline. In the midst of all this, I happened to look up, and was alarmed to see that we were headed toward a power boat, which was anchored (and well lit) in the middle of the cove. I rushed back to the tiller and changed course. It was yet another reminder that, even with all the high tech toys available, such as night vision scopes and GPS, there was still no substitute for a pair of human eyeballs looking in front of the boat. Despite the low batteries, I decided to leave the anchor light on that night. October 17th There had been a lot of wind last night. When I got up, north Seattle had disappeared behind a rain shower. I would be sailing south on Lake Washington today, which was the direction the wind was coming from. But, the marine forecast was talking about west winds after lunch, so I was in no big hurry to get under way. After a pancake breakfast, I ran down my batteries as much as I dared, using the cabin lights and recharging my computer batteries so I could work on my journal a bit more. When the battery voltage got low enough, I shut everything off and decided to "get out of Dodge". The anchor was really dug into the mud at Cozy Cove, but I managed to extract it with the help of the windless. I finished securing all the anchor gear as we drifted north out of the cove, again managing to miss the power boat that was still anchored there. Out in the lake, I set all sail while still in the lee of the land. However, it was more windy out on the lake than I had expected, and things started getting real crazy real fast. Too much sail. Things were happening too fast. I needed to stop everything for a few minutes and regroup, so that's just what I did. I trimmed the flapping headsails so the boat headed into the wind, then put a reef in the main, then furled up the headsails and hove-to. Ah, much better. This hove-to thing was really a good thing. I then went below, closed the seacocks under the sinks, and latched all the cabinet doors closed. Now, we were ready to start again. I unfurled the staysail and started beating to weather. In the Pacific or in the Strait or even in Puget Sound, a reefed main and staysail would not be enough to get the boat to weather. But, here in Lake Washington where the waves were small, Spirit could do it. It was fun sailing, and I almost sailed under the 520 bridge. But, there were fishermen in a boat right next to the bridge, and in order to sail under the bridge, I would have to pass close enough to the fishermen to shake hands with them. So, I motored under the bridge, and resumed sailing on the other side, crawling slowly to windward. By the time I had passed by Bill Gate's little lake cottage, the wind began to lighten a bit. I gradually added a reefed yankee, then the whole yankee, then unreefed the main. Finally, in the lee of Mercer Island, the wind pooped out all together, which seemed like an excellent excuse to stop for lunch. After lunch I continued south, courtesy of the trusty Volvo. The wind came up enough to tease me south of the I-90 bridge, and I quickly swapped the motor for the sails. But, it was a classic teaser wind, and soon disappeared all together. I furled the sails one last time, and after a couple more hours of motoring through the rain, Spirit finally made it home to her very own slip in her very own marina. Despite the shortfalls (both hers and mine) she had brought me home safely. reflectionsHey, does it still count as a "shakedown cruise" if you get "shook up" in the process? My goal had been an upwind shakedown cruise, clockwise around Vancouver Island, to see how the boat performed and how the boat's systems held up. I think I got the answers to most of the questions I had, but I didn't like all the answers I got.Clearly, I failed to achieve the circumnavigation, making it only as far as the Brooks Peninsula. It would be easy to blame the schedule of Leo and Mona as the cause of my failure, but that just was not the case. The reason I failed to make my goal is that Spirit proved herself to just not be an upwind boat. I expected headwinds to stop her at some point, but I was disappointed to find out how quickly she could be stopped. Spirit can sail upwind in Lake Washington, some headwinds and some waves are okay. But, faced with winds and Pacific swell, both on the nose, she absolutely refused to go upwind. Its tempting to say that I just need a bigger boat with bigger sails and a bigger engine. "More is better." But, I don't think that's the solution. Sailboats are a design compromise. You can have more of "this" if you are willing to do with less of "that". Spirit, a Westsail 28, is not only very strong, but extremely roomy for a 28 foot boat. But, these things work against her when it comes to windward performance on the ocean. Since the Westsail 28 was designed as a small cruising sailboat, it makes sense that it should be strong and roomy. Cruising sailors generally avoid windward passages anyway, when they can. A bigger boat, with the same design, would probably also be reluctant to go upwind. "More" of the "same" is not likely to solve the windward problem. I think that a different design, with a different set of compromises, would be more likely to solve the windward problem. Even if Leo and Mona had another month of sailing time, it would not have made Spirit any more capable of beating around the Brooks Peninsula. Given enough days of cold and exhaustion, we probably would have eventually made it to Winter Harbor. The fact that we were low on food, low on water, and almost out of fuel would have made it even a more miserable passage. After that would have come Cape Scott, which I guessed would be the toughest part of the trip. That probably would have meant more wasted days waiting for the northwesterly winds to ease off. Maybe we would have eventually made it to the north end of the island. But then, everything would have changed. About then, the southerly gales would have kicked in, and we would have to now wait for THOSE to die down for a day or two before we could attempt to run south to the next harbor. But, the swell would not have died down so fast, and may have caused additional delays. As I made my retreat back to Seattle, I listened to some of the weather reports for north Vancouver Island. The wind up there was always stronger than the south half of the island where I was. North Vancouver Island is a rowdy place in the summertime, and it only gets worse after that. I think that Spirit would have been hopelessly outgunned up there. The only reason, in my opinion, to make a clockwise circumnavigation of Vancouver Island would be for the reason I did it; as a challenging test of a windward passage. I think Spirit could make the clockwise circumnavigation, but she would need much more time than the 6 weeks I gave her, and the trip would HAVE to be completed before the end of September. I would guess that with all the time waiting on favorable conditions, it would take Spirit at least 2.5 months to make the same trip ... maybe 3. Even if you plan on testing your vessel on this challenging trip, you should make your plans to be back in Victoria by the end of September. This way, whether your vessel passes or fails its test, you would still get some reasonable sailing winds and pleasant temperatures on the second half of your passage. I have no personal experience with a counterclockwise circumnavigation of the island, but I do know it is the generally preferred tactic. I would guess that getting around the north end of the island would still be challenging, but the island itself might shield you a little bit, at least in certain areas. Of course, once you are around Cape Scott at the northwest tip of the island, you could look forward to some great downwind cruising. However, I think the remark about being in Victoria by the end of September still applies. And, of course, no two years will have exactly the same weather, so watch out! I think it is likely that I will do the counterclockwise route the next time I attempt the circumnavigation, and I do believe there will be a next time. However, at this time, I don't honestly know when that will be, and I honestly don't think my beautiful little boat "Spirit" will be coming with me. Crew ... The crewing aspect of the trip certainly did not turn out as I had expected. I can honestly say that I was delighted with the crew I got, and the crew I almost got. Tim and Janet have been friends for a number of years, and I'll look forward to many more sailing trips with them (and baby Teal). Janet sorta had her hands full taking care of Teal, but Tim was a great help in running the boat. I was also very fortunate to get Leo and Mona to come along for so long. Leo was always willing to help out with the operation of the boat, no matter how outrageous the weather (and in my opinion, it did get just a tad outrageous on more than one occasion). Mona could always be depended on to help out in the cockpit when we needed it, and always managed to crank out one fantastic meal after another, no matter how badly the boat tossed her around in the galley. I was sorely disappointed I did not get to sail with Mike. He is extremely easy to get along with, and comes with the added advantage that he never seems to get cold, an attribute I have failed to develop, despite layer after layer of polypro and polar fleece. What did not work out crew-wise is that they were not always available. They, like me, have their own lives and their own schedules and their own priorities. I must admit I don't enjoy singlehanded sailing as much as I use to. I find that I'm still strong enough physically, but definitely not bulletproof emotionally. There were times that I at least needed a cheering section, if not an extra hand for the tiller. I'm not sure what the answer is to the crew problem, but I suspect that its not only a problem for other skippers, but for other crew as well. We (especially me) are so conditioned to our time-speed-distance mentality. To get somewhere, anywhere, you just have to maintain a certain speed for a certain number of hours or days or weeks. Simple. But with sailing, all that changes. The time required to sail from here to there depends on speed, distance, tides, wind speed, wind direction, waves, swells, storm warnings, gear failures, and god only knows what else. The skipper just might not make it there on time, despite his best efforts. My trip proved that conclusively. And what does the crew do when they show up at the appointed time and place, and the boat is not there? Do they get a hotel room (an unplanned expense)? How long do they wait? And what does the crew do when they need to get off the boat by a certain date, and they don't get there on time? We ran into that problem on my trip, too. I really don't know what the solution is to all of this. As cellphone coverage gets greater, I suppose it will be easier to coordinate delays in preplanned schedules, but that doesn't really solve all the problems. Flexibility in schedules is good, but Leo and Mona and I all had a certain amount of flexibility built into our schedules, and we only "just" made it, with only hours to spare. Picking up crew enroute is hard; harder than I thought; for both the skipper and the crew. And what should I do about my growing reluctance to do a lot of singlehanded sailing? I guess one answer is to "get over it" and go right on sailing single handed. Maybe I should make more of an effort to sign on crew for the entire trip, rather than smaller segments of the trip. Maybe I should try the "personals" section of the newspaper: SWM 46 seeks SWF. Must enjoy varnishing, navigation, standing night watches, etc... The Boat... Ah yes, there is that issue about the windward performance (or the lack there-of) in my boat. Spirit has been a good boat for me. I wanted a boat building project, and she filled that need, for as many years and as many thousand dollar bills as I wished. I wanted a beautiful, traditional looking boat, and she filled that need. I wanted a strong, roomy liveaboard boat, and she filled that need. But, I feel a need to try to do less motoring and more sailing, and I think the answer to that may be a higher performance sailboat. What worked... If there was a hero on this trip, it would have to be the trusty Volvo Penta MD11C diesel engine. After several years of faithful service, it still pushed the boat for 6 weeks and did much more work than the sails. The alternator did give up, but it too gave many years of service, and I don't have a problem with something eventually failing after working so well for so long. I wonder where the oil film in my bilge water is coming from? Better yet, where is the water coming from? Sounds like it might be time to put more money in my hole in the water. My Magellan 3000XL GPS was another star performer. This model is pretty much a no frills, bare bones GPS, and it STILL revolutionized the navigation of the boat in times of low visibility (not to mention the times of "no" visibility). I may add an external antenna so the GPS can remain dry and still be used when the weather is lousy. The Force 10 2-burner-with-oven propane stove, and the Xintex propane control panel, both worked flawlessly. What ever else went wrong, we always had hot food when we wanted it. The Freedom 10 battery charger and inverter, along with the Link 2000 control panel, also worked very well. I don't think my unit charges batteries as well as it should, as evidenced by my pre-departure electrical woes. But, once the trip got started, it worked great. The inverter was really cool, making all sorts of AC powered toys (like Leo's movies) possible. The control panel could instantly tell me about the charge in either of my batteries, and even gave me solid evidence that the alternator was not working. And, whenever I had access to 30 amp shore power, it charged my batteries, whether or not the alternator was working. The Sony weatherproof Walkman, with AM/FM radio and cassette tape player. This, along with extra batteries and a pile of your favorite tapes, is a must for anyone who has to stand long, boring, or miserable watches at the helm. Like the man says, "Don't leave home without it!" The ITT "generation 3" night vision scope. This is not a "must have" item, but it is definitely one of the coolest toys on my boat. With it, you can not only see the anchorage/channel/whatever in the dark, you can see it with amazing clarity. The down side of it is that it will zap your eye's natural night vision for a period of time. The Sony CCD-TRV85 8mm camcorder. I had a VHS-type camcorder for a few weeks, which was a pretty nice machine, but I like my 8mm Sony much better. A cartridge of film lasts forever, a set of lithium batteries lasts forever, and there are enough camera controls to do about everything I would want to do with a camcorder. I think I managed to get the last water-resistant camcorder housing in Sony's warehouse. Its strange that they would stop making such a useful gizmo. The water-proof housings are just wayyy too expensive. There are a series of cruising guides for Vancouver Island, written by Don Douglass. I found the books to be exceptionally helpful, detailed, accurate, and well written. On a scale of 1 to 10, Don's books rated at least a 12. Finally, "charts". I purchased a ton of charts before I started the trip, and it cost a ton of money. But boy, were they ever nice to have along! You have enough to worry about out there without also having to worry about where the rocks and shallows are. I decided not to go with the cheaper, black and white chart reproductions, but I imagine those would do the job. Charts are available on computer, but I would not want the safety of my vessel to depend on the health of my computer. Charts are cheap insurance. If you have to choose between increasing your insurance coverage, or buying detailed charts, I would go for the charts. I guess I HAVE to make another attempt at sailing around Vancouver Island; I only got to use half of my charts! What didn't work I have not been all that impressed with my two Profurl R-25 units, one of which is on my yankee, and the other I have on my staysail. The things did not fit over my existing rigging, which had to be removed and replaced. The drum on the one for the yankee is not big enough, and the drum on the staysail unit is just big enough. Most importantly, the units do not furl and unfurl as easily as I think they should in calm or light winds. In strong winds, it requires at least 2 people to haul in on the furling line, and there were times that ONLY the sheet winch would get it in. Profurl has received a lot of good press about their product from a lot of different sources, but in my own limited experience, it doesn't live up to the advertising hype. I put a new Monitor wind vane on my boat this summer. Despite 2 attempts by the factory, they never got the mounting tubes bent to the angles specified in the drawing I made for them. I finally got the thing installed on my boat, but it appears that the counterweight on the vane is not heavy enough, despite experimenting with both the large and small vane attachments (I guess the smaller one is for heavy weather, and the light weight one is for lighter winds). I have tied a water bottle to the existing counterweight, and this modification seemed to help a lot. When the vane is working, its pretty amazing. I confess I have not devoted a lot of time to experimenting with the vane, and it is possible that I'm not doing something right, which would make the added weight of the water bottle unnecessary. The Monitor is another product with a lot of endorsements. But, for me, so far, it has been a bit of a headache. As far as windvane vs electronic autopilot, the autopilot makes a little more sense for coastal cruising, and the windvane makes a little more sense for long distance ocean passages. But, either can be used in either environment, and they both have their weak points and their strong points. My kerosene heater from Fab All only gave limited service before I gave up on it. However, I am inclined to believe that my "heating wounds" were self inflicted. The heater gave good service in past years, and 2 years of inaction was probably an open invitation to problems. At this point, I am guessing that a through cleaning, the addition of a water trap in the fuel line, and a couple gallons of new fuel will bring my heater back to life. Conclusions Spirit traveled roughly 840 miles over a 6 week period in our attempt at a clockwise circumnavigation of Vancouver Island, starting and ending in Seattle's Lake Washington. We failed to make it, but we gave it our best shot, and we got both ourselves and the boat back home in one piece. Many thanks to those who helped out. And, three cheers for Spirit, who made it all possible. |