Leaving Home and Arriving Home

We had spent a month cruising South Puget Sound, getting ready for the departure we've talked about, planned about, worried about, checking our boat and ourselves out for the 830 nm journey from Port Townsend to San Francisco. The month was time well spent discovering and fixing problems with things like solar panels (broken wire fixed at anchor), getting used to the navigation software and to the pace and rhythm of traveling again.

I was focused on the safety and seaworthiness of Brigadoon and the care and feeding of her crew. We'd agreed to take a friend along on the offshore  journey -- Patrick had called us and wanted an adventure. He'd never been offshore on a sailboat before.

Patrick, Donn, and Kerry at Siren's in Port Townsend

Our charting and weather software estimated our voyage to be approximately five days.

We left Port Townsend on Thursday morning, September 5th at 11am.  It took 11.5 days, with stops in Port Angeles, Neah Bay and Crescent City, California.

This was to prove our most challenging journey to date.

The trip to Port Angeles was calm and uneventful.  A nice quiet start.  Kerry waved goodbye to her parents as we passed the Point Wilson lighthouse.  The three of us walked into town and enjoyed a nice Italian dinner that evening and went to bed early to be ready to fuel up and leave for Neah Bay the next morning.

An hour out of Port Angeles, the wind was on our nose, we became enveloped in thick fog and the waters started to churn.  We then slowly inched our way to Neah Bay in increasingly foul conditions.  Kerry had to put on the patch and struggled with seasickness.  It took us 14 hours to get to Neah Bay that day.  We entered the unfamiliar harbor in quieter conditions, but at night.  Kerry used our powerful flashlight beam to find our slip as we slowly motored in.  We stayed for two nights so we could rest up.  I changed the oil, discovered our impeller belt needed to be replaced, and made sure everything was in order.

We departed Neah Bay in pea-soup thick fog and motored out the Strait and into the Pacific. Facing calm conditions, and a fog that slowly burned away under the sun, our course took us farther and farther west until we were 100nm offshore. This was to avoid the rougher waters common along the Washington and Oregon Coast and to give us some experience being really out there.

That was an odd part -- the world -- the land -- just going away.

Kerry and I shared the watch schedule - at night, 3 hours on, 3 hours off.  During the day, we played with 4 on and 2 off.  It seemed to work pretty well.  Patrick helped by keeping us company when he was up and doing the lion's share of the cooking and dishes.  Based on our experience on this trip, I know Kerry and I can do this alone when we do our next longer voyage.

First Sunset at sea - September 8, 2019

 And there was no wind, or not enough wind. All the forecasts we studied showed winds of 15-20kts. This would have been perfect for Brigadoon but the winds weren't 15-20kts.  They were more like 6-8kts.

Combine this with the 2-3 meter swells that made sailing well nigh impossible. There wasn't enough wind to keep the sails full and powered up as the swells caused Brigadoon to roll enough to slat the sails and make them useless.

Then there was me, rigging the Asym sail backwards...you'd think I'd learn...

There's always something to learn, some new challenge to figure out while underway. This trip was going to be about engine and fuel management.

Ironically - Kerry and I both used the patch on this trip and Patrick didn't suffer from any discomfort at sea at all.

We were 100nm north of Crescent City when our calculations made it clear that we wouldn't have enough fuel to make it to San Francisco with an adaquate reserve. So, we decided to divert to Crescent City for fuel.

We stayed in Crescent City for two nights also.  Again - rest was needed at this point.  I changed the oil again, we did laundry, took showers, rested.

The final leg to SF was similar -- strong rollers and little wind. Our 4000hr Yanmar engine pushed us along at 5 kts and a quiet(er) 2100 rpm than our usual 2600 rpm. All I had to do was check and top up the engine oil every 24 hours and ensure the fuel filters were flowing and we were good to go.

We spent the last day along the California coast planning our entrance to the Golden Gate and San Francisco Bay. Various guides warned about traffic and current challenges entering the bay. They all cautioned against rounding Point Bonita and crossing under the gate during an ebb tide -- something about heavy currents and rough water (seen this before many times in the Puget Sound).

So we slowed a little and, instead of sailing under the Golden Gate on a beautiful sunset, we had to wait and enter at about 9:30 PM. The ebb was down to about 1.5 kts and I knew we could handle that. It was a rough and bouncy ride anyway, around that point, but as soon as we turned in towards the bridge the point shielded us from the two meter swells that were banging against that current. After I stood at the wheel for over an hour, riding Brigadoon like she was an angry horse trying to toss me off, we finally approached the bridge.

And there we were, crossing under the Golden Gate.

The bay was calm and beautiful as we motored past the Golden Gate, past Fisherman's Wharf and the city, past Treasure Island and under the Bay Bridge and finally into our slip at 11:30 PM.

That was hard. We were beat.

We covered 822 nautical miles in 11 days, with four days at the dock, and 179 hours of motoring that engine.

Alameda is nice. We have a home for a while.

Brigadoon in her slip in Alameda - September 17, 2019

The "Outer Passage"

Written by: Kerry

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost (The Road Not Taken) 1920

Brigadoon at the dock in Shearwater, BC, with bald eagle.

We left Shearwater on Saturday, June 24th, having done lots of research about our next leg of the trip that would bring us up to Prince Rupert, the typical jumping off point for Alaskan waters.  We had expected to plan and take the more inside route, also known as the "Inside Passage", which follows more protected waters and is used by the BC ferries, many cruise ships, tugs, and most cruisers.  We looked it over closely and weren't majorly impressed with the choice of anchorages - both for distance between them and for depths.  I have no doubt the passages are beautiful and protected, but then we started to look at other options...

From Seaforth Channel into Milbanke Sound, we looked at how to get around Price Island and continue north without going up to Klemtu and the inside waters.  We decided to go to Louisa Cove for our first night out to see what Milbanke was like and make our final decisions on which direction to go, with the primary thought to continue on to Aristazabal Island the following day assuming we weren't too freaked out by the more open water.  Well if you look at the lowest black dot on the map above, that is Louisa Cove - and you'll notice we didn't stop there at all.  Here's what happened...

We were cruising out of Seaforth Channel and I casually brought up the idea of not stopping at Louisa at all, but going straight on to our first anchorage at Aristazabal, Wheeteeam Bay.  Donn pondered that and told me he'd think about it.  It seemed like a beautiful day and the conditions seemed mellow enough to try, so we continued to talk about it and as we broke out into Milbanke, we adjusted the route on the chart and steamed through to Wheeteeam.  The most remarkable moment of that day's journey was going through Catala Passage at the bottom of Price Island.  It's usually more protected waters and gives one a slight shortcut through to Laredo Sound.

  As you can see above, it also requires careful navigation around many islets and rocks.  We were both on point watching our way as we motored through.  It was stunning scenery, almost ghostly with mists and rock formations all around us.  Unfortunately no photos were taken, as we were so focused on staying safe...

Instead of a 4-5 hour day, we had about a 10 hour day when all was said and done, but we had left early and arrived with plenty of daylight remaining, finding a beautiful place to anchor.  We ended up staying there for 2 nights to give ourselves time to recover and also explore the beautiful bay with its endless coves and inlets.  It was truly stunning.

Low tidal flat in Wheeteeam Bay

When we left Wheeteeam Bay we continued our way north with the next target anchorage at the top of Aristazabal Island - Tate Cove in Borrowman Bay.  This stop ended up being one of our most rewarding and fun of the entire trip.  We arrived on a Monday afternoon and stayed until Thursday morning to wait out strong forecast winds.

Monday evening, as another boat pulled in and anchored near us, we realized we were looking at another Baba - little sister to our boat - a Baba 30.  The best part though?  Their boat's name was "Camelot".  Two Babas in the same cove is good enough, but two Babas with names like "Brigadoon" and "Camelot"?  How awesome is that???   Two boats named after mythical places, both told as musicals. I didn't stop giggling about it all week.

Camelot - Doug and John on their way to Haida Gwaii to meet up with their wives

On Tuesday, we went nosing about in the dinghy...  The cove next to us had a huge floating fishing lodge set up on a barge with multiple ties to shore and dock space for a small sport fishing fleet.  As we came close, they (nicely) warned us away from their dock, as they were expecting a helicopter landing any minute.  We dutifully left and did not return to bother them.  However, as we were leaving, another skiff with a driver and a black dog in the bow came up to us and invited us over to stretch out legs later if we wanted.  It was then we realized there was ANOTHER floating structure behind the lodge.  This turned out to be the home of Rick and Jeanne Beaver and their dog, Skipper.

Home of Rick and Jeanne Beaver

They are a retired couple who started creating this little floating homestead about 14 years ago.  They live here year round and use everything around them - most of their docks and structures were all built from found wood drifted up on the beach.  They create art and tend gardens in boxes and a little green house in back.  The little wood hut at the far left is a wood fired hot tub.  They welcomed us with open arms and a bit later Doug and John from "Camelot" showed up in their kayaks and we all hung out for awhile.  Jeanne and I had a great time sharing stories and getting to know each other while the guys all checked out Rick's various projects outside.  When it came time to head back to the boat, Jeanne piped up and said "Hey! Let's all get together tomorrow evening for a potluck!"  We all loved the idea, decided what we would each bring and bid adieu with promises of more fun the next day.

I spent the next day reading and relaxing on the boat.  Donn went for a hike on his own and then later got picked up by Rick in his skiff with the other two guys (and Skipper) and taken on a tour of the nearby islets and beaches (I stayed behind because I was enjoying my book too much).  We all convened around 6pm and had a lovely evening in the Beavers' home.  I convinced Donn to bring his guitar to entertain after dinner and it was a huge hit.  They loved his music and even suggested he check with a local hotel lounge in Prince Rupert about playing there when we arrived.  It was hard to say goodbye - but we decided we could easily stop there again on the way home - so we hope to see them again soon.

One of Jeanne's gardens, with Skipper in the background

Doug, John, Me, Donn, Jeanne, and Rick

We had plotted out our next stops between Aristazabal Island and Prince Rupert and each one went as planned.  We stayed a night in Weinberg Inlet on Campania Island, which was stunning.

Mount Pender on Campania Island

Then we stayed two nights in Patterson Inlet on Pitt Island due to heavy rain.  We woke up the first morning, knowing we had planned to leave around 10 or 11am.  We listened from our bunk as the rain poured down onto the deck and looked at each other and decided we could afford another day in this beautiful place and not brave the rain just yet.

We left Patterson and headed for Newcombe Harbour inside of Petrel channel, out last stop before a long day to Prince Rupert.  We enjoyed a little sailing that day, although the winds were light.  As we rounded into the channel for Newcombe Harbour, the winds picked up, with rain threatening to douse us.  Donn got two photos as we headed in...

Bald Eagle flying off a perch inside Newcombe Harbour

Newcombe Harbour was tricky, as our ideal anchorage depth was located in a trough in the middle of shallow mud flats.  Water covered it all, so except for our charting software, we had no idea of where those shallows started.  I inched our way in and watched the depth sounder.  As I got a little too close for comfort, I started to turn up into the wind to find a good spot and saw depths as low as 13 feet cross beneath us.  We safely anchored in about 34 feet a little ways out as a huge gust of wind blew us sideways hard, setting our anchor perfectly with the rain letting loose on us all at the same time.  As the rain died down that evening, Donn noted that he could hear multiple rivers and waterfalls around us as we sat there in the middle of the little bay.  This is another spot we hope to visit on our way back, hopefully with nicer weather.

Our final leg to Prince Rupert was about 10 hours - we left at 4:30am to catch Petrel Narrows at low water slack and everything was smooth as we glided through.  I sat in the bow to watch for logs in the early morning light and marveled at the beautiful scenery around us.  Simply gorgeous and so humbling.  We both remarked how happy we were to have taken the outer passage.  We barely saw any other boat traffic under way and never shared an anchorage with more than 1-2 boats.  The conditions were benign, we barely had enough wind to sail, and only did so about 1/4 of the way.  As we plan our return, we'll take this option again - no doubt in our minds.

Eight Weeks In

Written by: Donn

Eight weeks ago, we started this little adventure. On many evenings we have ended our day, be they hard days or easy days, with the beauty of sunsets like one cannot imagine. Each one has been different, each one has greeted the night for us, reminding us how fortunate we are to be executing the Freedom Project, finally.

Each day we greet brings us a new morning of adventure, a new place to explore, a new place to leave and plans for the new place we will find the next day. Each day we see some place, or leave some place, that we will never see again. It's a wonderful kind of discovery and also one of departure, of leaving. We are currently in Shearwater, B.C. We arrived here a few days ago for the first time and, if our plans go as we expect, we shall never see it again.

It's been the same for Hunter Bay, Jones Island, Sucia, Port Browning, Ganges, Herring Bay, Nanaimo, Owen Bay, Otter Bay, Port Neville, Port McNeill and a host of other anchorages and marinas. Each time we get to see a place with new eyes, only having read about it in a book, or seen it on a chart. Each time we leave, it's forever. I always say, "Goodbye," to the place, out loud, with gratitude, even if the trip there, the stay, or the departure was challenging.

Each place has given me a gift, a memory, a chance to see a place in the world I have never seen. The fact that I may never see it again, makes it all the more precious.

And I've left so many things behind that I really don't miss. We do check in with the internet, email and facebook when we get in port but, I don't miss it. It's hard to latch onto the daily distractions of such things when faced with the water and wild out here.

So far, Brigadoon has treated us well. She has been stout and dependable. Yes, we have had some minor and somewhat scary things pop up, like when our steering decided to have some issues in Port Browning, but I called Port Townsend Shipwrights and, after a false start at a fix, was able to finally resolve it a couple ports later. Our Dickenson heater gave us some issues but, I tore it down to its bones after a fight or two, and it seems to be doing much better now. The cheerful yellow flame keeps us cozy and warm, once I did the job right. So far, I can fix this boat. I can keep us going. Brigadoon keeps us safe and warm. We couldn't ask for a better home, a better vessel, in which to discover the world.

I've walked places, old and desolate, full of the remnants of people's lives. Shadows of what used to be where I stand, with stories told in old books, rusting machinery, and fallen down buildings. I'm reminded that I'm not the only person who has ever been here. Every time I walk around a corner I find a ghost of the past on ground trodden by someone else, long ago.

There are abandoned canneries, falling down and long dead, giving themselves back to the land. We visit these dying places, witnessing the things that were here before yet no longer are. Namu was a ghost town, passed quietly as we dove deeper into the cove, seeking shelter from a driving rainstorm. I set our anchor in rain that came in sheets, while Kerry calmly talked to me over the headsets. We took to the safety and warmth of Brigadoon to try and dry off and have dinner. It was a damp night, but the Dickenson heater did what it does and we awoke to a dry and warm home.

Yet, in the morning, when the rain had passed, we were left with nothing but the beauty of the tidelands, until they were covered by the waters again. The mirror smooth waters reflecting the quiet life all around us.

Sometimes, when I was so busy pointing the camera, I didn't see the deer for the trees. Hidden among the tidelands, and the drying seaweed, under the watchful gaze of the towering firs of Blunden Harbor, a red deer snuck into my photograph. It stood there, unknown and undiscovered until a week later, when I looked closely enough. So many creatures move though the world, hidden from our eyes.

And yet, some of them are brazen and bold, standing right there, not feet away. In Port McNeill, great bald eagles sang and chittered every night. They owned the top of every mast, every piling, even when harassed by crows and terns. 

Yet, they weren't the only raptors plying the bays. In Allison Harbor, we were entertained by a pair of Ospreys, whose cries were higher and faster than the great eagles. They wheeled with a light grace not found in their bigger cousins, flying around each other like acrobats. Light of color and light on the wing, they owned Allison Harbor.  

Through it all, we have slept well on our Ultra Anchor, safe and secure knowing it rides just below Wilson, our anchor buoy. We have almost perfected the use of this trip line and buoy and plan to continue its use as we set our Ultra at every anchorage. Being able to look out and know exactly where our anchor is set gives us peace of mind and a knowing that we didn't have before.

We have anchored in the shadow of great mountains, graced with snow still, even in June. These craggy ramparts greeted us as we worked out way towards Melanie Cove, former home of Mike the Logger, whose old homestead we walked among on our trip ashore. Do yourself a favor and read "The Curve of Time" -- you will not be disappointed in the places and times it takes you.

The best thing on this journey so far, has been the deepening relationship between the crew. I won't lie. The first couple weeks out was a little rough, sprinkled with misunderstandings and miscommunication as we figured things out. It was harder than I expected but, it was easier than it could have been, because of my lovely First Mate, Kerry. Through her patience, honesty, and trust in me, we have worked through the initial challenges and become a crew that is strong and trustful. 

We sit here, in Shearwater (52 deg 8.850 N, 128 deg 5.398 W) the farthest north and west we have traveled so far. Tomorrow we head westward into the edges of the open Pacific, then north, talking of Ketchikan more every day.

Alaska is in our sights and I couldn't ask for a better partner for this journey.

Living the Yotting LIfe

Written by: Donn

We are six weeks or so into this adventure of cruising on the yacht Brigadoon. It's been five years of planning, five years of sacrifices, hard work, missed schedules, changing plans, but we are here.

"It's been a long road,
getting from there to here.
It's been a long road,
But our time is finally near.

I can see my dream come alive at last..."

Getting this far has been a beautifully challenging mix and, it's nothing, I tell you, nothing like living on land. The interesting thing has been the assumptions we've been witness to and the target of, as we embark on and continue this adventure.

For example, in a conversation about my country (The USA) a friend raised a very political question about our immigration policies:

"There are no developed countries a US citizen can go to and, so long as we physically make it onto the soil, are welcomed with open arms, no questions asked, and immediately provided all the benefits of natives. No matter who we are or how sad our story, if we don’t follow their rules we’re turned around and sent right back where we came from. They require we follow their rules or they don’t let us in.

The same countries we’re jealous of for their “free” healthcare and extensive social programs also have very strict immigration rules. They clearly value the interests of their own citizens over those of others."

My basic response was, "We (edit: this country) are rich enough to take them all and provide for health care for all, if we choose to. There is nothing special about being born here."

I meant it. My country is rich beyond measure and, if it weren't for the greed corrupting our high ideals, I truly believe we could set an example to the world, if only we wanted to.

Setting that political question aside, because I have no interest in debating that here, I'd like to focus on his response and the assumptions contained therein.

"Since I know you to have a very good sense of humor I'll just ask: Are you being funny, or is a guy who's currently sailing around the world on a yacht telling the rest of us how easy it is to embrace the huddled masses?

My friend has since apologized for his assumptions, that we are some rich, well off yachties, sailing around the world, telling him and others what they should do with their guilt. Let's talk about those assumptions, because this isn't the first time we've run into them. They are in Facebook posts about young couples who threw it all way to take on the sailing life, tossing aside the normal cares of the work-a-day world, leaving all of those wage slaves behind. They visit tropical islands, far flung places, arriving on their yacht, only to depart for another paradise the next week.

Allow me to inject a little reality into this life we have chosen and share a little bit about us.

First off -- the money. We are not rich, or even well off anymore. True, we had fairly high paying jobs but, we used all those resources to pay off our debt, outfit our yacht to make her safe and seaworthy, and set aside a little for living expenses. There is some savings but, we are basically unemployed at this time and I, for one, have no plans on ever working for anyone else, ever. Not ever again. I'm working on a novel, which I hope people will like and buy but, aside from that, it's our savings and my modest retirement that will see us through this adventure. Money aside, let's talk about what it's been like to go cruising on a yacht.

Brigadoon is our home. She contains all our earthly possessions within the confines of her hull. This includes clothes, food, art, tools, spares and anything else we think we might need. That means that, when we are sitting in a beautiful cove, surrounded by towering firs and cedars, with eagles flying overhead and otters playing in the cove, we still have to fix that leaking water pump or get that diesel stove working so we can keep warm. There is no ordering of parts from Amazon Prime (and getting what we need in two days). There is no mechanic to call, who will arrive and fix the problem while we go out to dinner and a movie. There is no store to drive to (if we still had a car), to get what we need. We have to be resourceful and make do with our resourcefulness and parts on hand. No one is coming to save us.

Imagine if you had to work on sink at home. The water isn't coming out. You can't just have someone replace it. You can't just run to the big box hardware store in your car and get a new faucet. Water pressure is supplied by a pump, not the city. By the way, all your water (80 gallons of it), is stored under the floor of your living room. The pump is located in the corner of a closet, hidden behind fishing poles, dock lines, buckets, and a host of other things that must be stored there. You have to remove all those things to get to it and, they have to stay on the boat. There is no spare room to move them to, so you stack them in your small back porch, hopefully in a corner so you can still walk around.

You need tools and spares.

The spare water pump is located under your bed. Not under it like you just reach under a regular bed under it, like inside the the box springs, under the mattress. You have to lift the mattress with the block and tackle (it weighs 80 pounds) and dig though various spares.

Tools are located under and inside your couch in the living room, so you have to tear all the cushions off and put them on top of your bed. The rest of the tools and miscellaneous spares are located under the cushions of your love seat, so you have to take the cushions and pillows off that too and put them on your bed.

You now have absolutely no place to sit, but it's time to get to work while otters play along the shoreline and majestic bald eagles hunt from hundreds-year-old fir trees along the granite cliffs surrounding the beautiful cove in which you are anchored.

You work on the problem until it is solved, or you give up for a break -- remember there is now nowhere to sit? You get back to work until you solve the problem. Simple as that. You have nothing but what is on the boat and you can't go get anything else you need. When you do finally solve the problem, because you have to, you simply have to, you put all the stuff back.

All the tools and spares have to be put away in some semblance of order so you can find/use them again. Once that is done, you dig all the cushions our of your bed and put them back on your couch and love seat so you can sit down again.

If you are skilled, resourceful and lucky (never discount this), you fixed the problem and can now enjoy the paradise in which you are currently anchored.

Then the house heater malfunctions the next day. You start moving cushions again, lather, rinse repeat.

Until the next problem.

So you plan your road trip to a destination twenty miles away. You check the weather, because winds and road conditions can literally swallow your car and everything you own. If the road is too bumpy today, it might be too dangerous to go. You double check the route to make sure there are no obstacles in your path on maps you have never seen before, and you have to trust that they are correct. If they aren't, and you hit one of those obstacles, the road can literally swallow your car and everyone inside. You might want to call for help or a tow but, no one may respond and, if you really screw up, no one is likely to find you. You make sure you have enough fuel (there are no gas stations en-route). You make sure you have enough food in your fridge (there are no stores on your route). Do you carry spares or a means to replace or repair every single part of your vehicle (there are no stores or mechanics along your route). Do you even know how?

Then, if everything is ready, you leave the beautiful cove, with the playful otters, the shell beaches, the hunting eagles and the bears (don't forget the bear spray). You take the car our of park (manually lift a 46 lb anchor and 160 lbs of chain) and hit the road.

Along the way you may find that the weather report lied or the conditions simply changed. The roads are now outright dangerous. You have to find a safe parking lot and you hope your parking brake (anchor) can hold you in place until the weather passes. You find it and decide dinner is called for -- the stove doesn't light because one of the propane tanks is empty, so you have to go out to the back porch and switch to the backup.

Then you discover the knocking noise every time you turn the steering wheel...the last person (not you, then you who tried to fix it the first time) didn't solve it.

But the place you parked is beautiful and, when the storm blows over the next day, you find yourself in a Yottie's paradise, surrounded by towering fir trees, hunting eagles and kingfishers, otters and maybe an occasional porpoise or whale. You are in paradise for a day and, to be honest, it was worth it to get here, even if the bumpy road tossed everything in the car just simply everywhere.

But you earned every eagle, every otter, every skinny dip in a warm mountain lake, every stroll along pristine shell beaches.

Even if no one really understands what it took to get here.

And you'll do it again the next day, and the day after that, because you want to.

A time of change (post by Kerry)

So we’re moving.  I know we've mentioned this a couple of times now, but the stuff going on inside, the emotions around this particular step in our journey have been knocking around my brain for the last couple of weeks as it becomes more and more real.  I’ve lived in Seattle (and a few outlying neighborhoods) since 1978.  I spent a couple years in Minnesota after high school and one year in Idaho after college… but otherwise – this has been home.  In order: There was the small rental cottage on Mercer Island that my mom and I moved to from Massachusetts when I was nine; the house my mom bought in North Bend, where we lived for about three years during middle school; then the one bedroom condo in Rainier Beach we moved into, when Mom married Ray, right over the water on Lake Washington.  Next, during my Senior year in High School – we rented a beautiful brick tudor in the Seward Park area while the owners were on sabbatical in France.  I spent the summer after high school with my parents in an apartment overlooking Southcenter Mall.

 

This is when I left for a couple of years and while I was gone, my parents and grandparents built a wonderful Cape Cod style house out in Woodinville.  When I returned at the age of 19, I lived there in a three generation household for two years while working and starting at Cornish.  At the end of my first year of Cornish College, I began my apartment years – first on Capitol Hill in a small studio for $350 per month (crazy right?), then on Queen Anne with a couple of my classmates in a duplex with a view to die for. 

Cue another year away – falling in love and working in a theater in Sun Valley Idaho.  I moved back to Washington with Rob and lived with my family again out in Woodinville until we married in 1995.  Then there were our houses as a couple – the two rentals in Northgate, literally three houses away from each other, and then our first home ownership – a cute three bedroom rambler in Top Hat, nestled between Burien and White Center.

After the divorce, I sold my car and moved downtown into Tower 801 – a pie shaped apartment where I started to figure out who I wanted to be at the age of 36.  My sister, Zanne, decided to move to Seattle at this point and after two years on my own, we decided to shack up as roommates – first in a beautiful three story rental house on 25^th and Madison, then in a townhouse Zanne purchased over on Yesler.  It was at this point that Donn and I got engaged, married, and moved in together in the winter of 2008/2009.  We lived in his condo at 24^th and Madison for almost two years before we made our last move – onto the boat in a gorgeous slip on Lake Union in Fremont. 

It’s been almost five years.  And now, although I’ll still be working in South Lake Union, my life and focus are moving away from Seattle to Tacoma.  My actual home won’t be changing, which is kind of cool – no need to pack or clean or any of the typical “moving” activities.  Just untie the lines, and head for our last pass through the bridges and locks out into Puget Sound this coming Saturday.  Six hours or so later, we should be in our new slip in Foss Harbor Marina.

 

I’ve had a truly amazing life in this city – filled with theater, dance, friends, lovers, family, and so many adventures and escapades.  I am lucky - I have some incredible memories to carry with me and so many friends who will always be in my heart.  But I feel ready for this shift, this turning away from my history here.  This move marks the next step, the beginning of our effort to pull away – point our bow towards our future of sailing, travelling, seeing more of this world beyond the Northwest.  For now, we aim for Tacoma and exploring the South Sound as much as possible before we cut the dock lines for good and go on the Grand Adventure that awaits….

Standing in Two Worlds

I'm sitting at a desk in a corporate environment. Yet, my mind sometimes drifts to somewhere else, to being someone else entirely. There is this almost overwhelming desire to get up and just -- well, just leave.

Not just yet though. Not just yet. I am grounded here, both feet firmly planted on the ground, in this place, by my responsibilities, by my commitments and promises. I don't take those lightly. It's gotten me where I am today; financially successful by most standards. But, more importantly, it allows me to start placing one of my feet somewhere else.

Somewhere else that is different indeed. Forced socialization is left behind. I answer to no one with the exception of myself. I am responsible to no one but myself and my lovely First Mate. There are no schedules to keep. Deadlines do not dominate my life. Politics, dealing with it, navigating around it in this dysfunctional tribe called a corporation; they exist no more. My biggest problem is dying at sea.

I started working at 18. That was thirty-eight years ago. For thirty-eight years I have worked for someone else, running the rat race in some form or another, trying to be a good, responsible citizen. I've raised two children, held down good, gainful, employment. I've bought houses. I've been a good father, employee, and neighbor. I did all the things I was told I'm supposed to do. Get a job, start a family, keep up with bills, try to save money, try to retire...you know the drill. There was never a time in that 38 years where I was not in debt.

I'm sitting in a desk at a corporate environment. There is a reason I'm here but it's not the reason they think I'm here.

I'm here to be free. I'll take their money and spend parts of my life here because, in the end, it will serve me.

So, lightly, but not just yet, I'm stepping into a new world.

Years from now, I'm sure I'll be laughing while on watch, gazing out over the moonlit seas. I'll look back on my wonderful life, my beautiful children, their mother (whom I still do love by the way), my basically good health, and good opportunities. I will silently thank the sea for carrying me, Brigadoon for keeping us safe, my beautiful and loving First Mate who is off-watch and sleeping.

I will thank them for allowing me to leave parts of my life behind that no longer serve me.

Gazing down at the dolphins playing in our bow wave, watching the backbone of the sky light up the night sky, I will give thanks to all around me.

For the freedom to die at sea.

Where is Home?

Brigadoon is our home. It’s been our home for the last five years. Over those five years we have been fortunate enough to live on Lake Union, here in Seattle. We have a great spot on the end of the dock, our marina is old but run well, we get along well with the owner, and our neighbors have (mostly) been good neighbors. They’re definitely a mixed bag. There was the guy who rode his motorcycle down the dock to park it next to his boat. There was the crazy cat lady who had flower pots all over her side of the dock for her cats to shit in. Entertaining us was the drunk Aussie who was offensive at times but overall a really nice guy. But they were all nice people – truly.

Then, there’s the shipyard…

Where is home? It’s where the boat is moored.

That is about to change.

A couple weeks ago, we were out on the Sound, returning from a friend’s place up north. Another friend was headed south also. As we sailed away, we had a nice northerly at 8-10, which made our asymmetrical spinnaker pull us along at a good 6 knots. Everything was going superb as we worked our way from Port Susan down past Hat Island, just off Everett. Our good friend, Kim, was sailing ahead of us about 3 nautical miles. The forecast was for possible dry lightning in the afternoon. We did get some, with flashes happening over the Cascades to the east, along with some between clouds. 

It wasn’t that severe and it wasn’t close, so we sailed on.

We had planned well for this trip, deciding to set watches for ourselves. This was the suggestion of my lovely and very smart First Mate. Kerry thought it would make for good practice. I agreed. So, we set watches of one hour on and one hour off. This kept us from standing around, fidgeting together, not resting, and basically not getting any time off. Kerry was below, off watch, when I saw the black line on the water.

It was about 5 nautical miles away.

I walked to the foredeck to get a better look. It was closer now. I could see black water, with ever increasing white caps behind it, like white horses climbing out of the Sound. Then I looked up. I looked up at our brand new spinnaker, full with only eight knots of wind filling it from behind. I knew that spinnaker had to come down right now. “Kerry! I need you on deck now!” I shouted as I moved forward to douse the spinnaker. The dark line on the horizon was now less than a mile away. 

There was a wall of wind coming at us, a squall, if you will, and it was going to hit us right on the nose. I completed the fastest spinnaker douse in my entire sailing career. Thank god I had an ATN sock on that spinnaker. It was doused and then down on deck in less than 2 minutes. And that’s when the storm hit us. Looking back I could see Kerry in the cockpit at the wheel.  She yelled out “What course should I take?” I looked over at Kim’s boat. I saw what he was doing. Turning back to Kerry, I shouted “Do you see Kim? Do exactly what he is doing!”

And she did.

We were fine. The winds were 25-30 knots. The seas were very confused. But we were just fine. We didn’t make any big mistakes and no one was hurt. The thing that most comes to mind is that, while not completely incompetent, we weren’t exactly relaxed in the process. Because, we should have been. We were in solid boat with good gear and enough experience where we should have been comfortable.

That’s the lesson. We need more of this. We need to be out there in the Puget Sound sailing in salt water and running into storms. Right now, we have a minimum of three drawbridges and the Ballard Locks to transit just to go sailing in Puget Sound. It’s a two hour trip on a good day. Lake Union is a little small and busy sometimes for Brigadoon. All this adds up to; We don’t get out often enough.

As of August 1^st, we’ll be in our new slip on the Sound. We looked at many different marinas, some of them quite shabby but endearing nonetheless. Which begs the question – why would anyone, no matter how beautiful the marina might be, live in such a place with a dirty rundown bathroom and no laundry facilities anywhere in town? Three other marinas we researched were all in close proximity to each other.  Two of those were within walking distance of the Bainbridge Island Ferry.  We would have access to the Sound, a manageable commute, and a nice, modern, rich, town. Why didn’t we choose Bainbridge?

We found a better marina in Commencement Bay on the edges of the city of Tacoma. One cannot deny that Tacoma has revitalized the waterfront and, excepting its reputation, it’s actually quite a pleasant neighborhood. Oh, and the paper mill smell seems to have gone. The Foss Harbor Marina is clean, modern, well managed, amenity rich, and populated by some really nice people. There is a large liveaboard population, which is to our advantage.

This puts us within 200 yards from the entrance of Commencement Bay. At that point, we are in the South Puget Sound. We will have the time, the access, the desire, and the wherewithal to actually sail this boat as much as we need. The South Sound awaits us. We’re gonna do some sailing.

No One is Coming to Save You

I found this graffiti on Capitol Hill, here in Seattle. I was walking among the raucous and busy streets late at night when I spied this.

I stood there thinking, "This is, indeed, a truth."

There is a recent story of a father and son who arrived in Rhode Island late last year. They paid $10,000.00 for a 20 year old racing boat off eBay. They purchased this boat sight unseen. Their plans were to sail it back to Australia. When they told the seller their plans to leave and enter the North Atlantic in February, they were strongly cautioned not to leave in winter conditions.

"When he told me what he wanted to do, it didn't seem like a good idea to start with," the previous owner, said. "There's a reason there's no boats on the ocean in February. That's because it's not a safe place to be."

They didn't listen.

Now, after rescue, the sailors, both father and son, are spending a lot of time defending their choices and deflecting criticism. They have dismissed seasoned sailor's opinions that their rescue should have been unnecessary because their departure shouldn't have occurred in the first place.

They had planned to leave earlier, but repairs kept piling up, which pushed their schedule. They knew they were getting into times of bad weather but they let the schedule, along with their desire to get the boat home, influence their "go" decision.

So the USCG, in true competence and every-day heroics, rescued them off shore, in the middle of a snow storm.

Someone came to save them. We saved them.

Now, before we go any further, I'll state flat out that I am not discussing rescues, who pays for them and, if we all pay for them (mostly we do), who stops these people from 'wasting' resources with poor decisions. It's a waste of time to argue this. Nothing but circles and circles of rationalizations, victim blaming, Randian rationalizations about the convenience of 'personal responsibility' until the responsible person needs help, etc. Add the cries of glee by some that call this a Darwin award (like no stupid decisions were ever made by the speaker in their lifetime) and you have an almost perfect trifecta. One of narrow mindedness, armchair quarterbacking and an almost sociopathy in the disdain for the plights of others. Not going there, in this article at least.

I'm writing to talk about self-sufficiency and independence and the impacts on our decisions that inter-dependence engenders.

As the story above demonstrates, many are willing to 'take their chances' out there, on the understanding that, if something goes wrong, they can make a call, push a button, and someone will come and save them.

In many cases, boats that were abandoned have washed up on shore, or found floating intact and seaworthy. It's fear that drives people off boats in situations they don't understand and try to tackle in ignorance and unpreparedness. This is a common story, one that illustrates how unprepared many people are for the sea.

What if no one was coming to save you? What would you do then?

Perish at sea?

or...

Rescue yourself.

You rescue yourself every time you upgrade a critical system on your boat. You rescue yourself every time you learn more about weather, navigation and weather routing. You rescue yourself by carefully planning your routes without the driving date of a (sometimes arbitrary) schedule. In a hundred decisions before you leave, and hundreds after, you rescue yourself from ignorance, arrogance, hubris and laziness.

“The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people so full of doubts.”

—Bertrand Russell (British mathematician and philosopher, 1872-1970)

When you read the stories of rescues, one common theme seems to rise up above all the other noise. The sailors being rescued were very confident, very sure of themselves, cannot be dissuaded by more experienced sailors; they aren't interested in information that flies in the face of what they want to do. These people are the same type who enter the wilderness without training, equipment and experience, ending up with a rescue by SAR volunteers. The arrogance of ignorance is poison to taking on endevours such as sailing.

"Aviation in itself is not inherently dangerous. But to an even greater degree than the sea, it is terribly unforgiving of any carelessness, incapacity or neglect."

— Captain A. G. Lamplugh, British Aviation Insurance Group, London. c. early 1930's.

The problem with this, as documented as the Dunning-Kruger effect, is that the incompetent don't know they are incompetent. They are often the ones so sure, so without doubt, as they stumble along to their eventual failure and doom. The sad part of, because of that self-blindness, that lack of doubt, they can never really get any better.

A good sailor (or aviator for that matter -- of which I am both), doubts. I'm not talking about the paralytic doubt that freezes one into inaction. I mean the kind of doubts that fuel us to redouble our efforts to sail a safe and seaworthy boat. We doubt our knowledge is good enough, so we study. Our skill set may not be there yet, so we work on our engines, our systems, our rigging and ourselves.

We see the trap of expecting someone else to help us in our darkest hour, so we do every single thing we can do to plot a course where that darkest hour doesn't come to pass. We rescue ourselves in every decision we make because, deep down, in our bones, we know, we really know...

"No one is coming to save you."

We have to save ourselves.

Hold Fast -- a promise.

My lovely first mate and I have talked for quite a while about getting a tattoo together. Some say that doing so is poison to a relationship. As soon as you do something so permanent, then the relationship will be temporary. 

Well, life is temporary my friends. Whatever we have, whatever we become, this is a reminder of our commitment to teach other -- in the here and now.

We talked about this design for a couple years. It started out with a sketch or two:

This was a good start, but I wasn't happy with the fluke, It was turned the wrong direction. So, I told Kerry I'd work on it and get the design better. We were staying in Poulsbo shortly after I announced that I knew what we needed and the design was done. Stepping into the door of "Thor's Hammer and Needle" we talked to Zak. After showing him some pictures he agreed to send us a sketch. He also made some good suggestions on the orientation and placement. He did an excellent job.

We are very happy with the final result.

As Kerry put it just recently, "It means Hold Fast to each other, Hold Fast to our plans, Hold fast to our dreams."

And that is what it means to me too. She put it better than I had ever hoped. 

These words have been promise, prayer, and commitment to not give up for as long as sailors have been at sea.

It will also be true for us.

It's Been a Long Time, But my Time is Finally Here

Man, it's been an interesting last few weeks. Kerry has been away at rehearsals for a production of Fiddler on the Roof. I've spent many an evening alone, and have been passing the time working on various projects, but mostly relaxing in and watching some streaming TV. I've picked watching the Star Trek Enterprise TV series on Amazon. Anyway, the point is, as I listen to this song, I've learned to sing it. As I've looked out the pilot house windows in the evening, this song really seems to speak to me. Cheesy, simplistic lyrics can still be inspirational at times.

***********************************************************

It's been a long road

Get'n from there to here 
It's been a long time 
But my time is finally near

I will see my dreams come alive at last 
I will touch the sky

And they're not gonna hold me down no more 
No they're not gonna change my mind

'Cause I've got faith of the heart 
I'm going where my heart will take me 
I've got faith to believe
I can do anything 
I've got strength of the soul 
No one's going to bend nor break me 
I can reach any star

I've got faith
I've got faith
Faith of the heart

***********************************************************

I've so many dreams in my life where I let others hold me down, where I let others change my mind. Fortunately for me, I'm a dreamer so, if one gets quashed another magically appears. It's a Phoenix-way of reinventing myself when necessary. I once wanted to learn to sail, then own a boat, then really sail to far off places. I learned to sail, eventually owned my first boat but never really thought my dream would come alive at last. It got sidetracked for reasons many but, my time is finally near.

I've been immensely fortunate to have been partnered with someone who loves adventures and traveling. She is willing to take risks with me, to plan a grand adventure, and to work to execute that adventure. 

As I sit there, in the pilot house, looking out over the waters of Lake Union, I imagine them as being in a different place. Maybe it's an anchorage in the South Pacific, a dock in Australia, or some harbor in Scandinavia. It doesn't matter where it is so much as the journey of going, of arriving having seen and done things never before.

I can sense it. The journey approaches, slowly but surely. It will arrive and we will depart. Some day.

I can sense it.

When opportunity knocks….

A Post from Kerry (First Mate, SV Brigadoon)

Last February I was attending the Annual Women’s Boating Seminar being held on the North Seattle Community College campus.  It’s a wonderful day full of seminars and talks about boating – both sail and power.  For women, by women.  A great chance to chat up fellow female boaters and learn a few things.  It wasn’t my first time attending, and at this point I’ve been around enough boat shows and seminars in the last four years that I’m starting to get on a first name basis with some of the region’s most inspiring female boaters.  At lunch I found myself sitting around a table with many of the speakers from the day – Wendy Hinman, Judy Nasmith (who also organizes this fun event), Nancy Erley, and Linda Lewis.  All women I’d seen speak before – full of knowledge, experience, and a lot of passion for being on the water.  Later in the afternoon, Linda approached me between sessions and casually asked if I had any extra vacation time to use up this summer.  I smiled and told her that yes, actually, there was a chance I might have some extra time I could use….  “Why?”  She said she was planning to take her annual trip up to the Broughton Islands and was looking for crew – would I be interested?  My first instinct was to step back and tell her that I couldn’t possibly take the time off necessary to go with her, but then I thought better of it and just said that I’d love to chat more about it when she was ready to start planning out her trip. 

Four months went by and I completely forgot about this conversation.  Then I got her phone call.  Linda called me in June and told me she was starting to put together her roster and itinerary and did I still have time off I could use?  I said I’d have to talk to my managers and Donn, but that yes, it was possible.   We narrowed it down to a vague time frame and I told her I’d get back to her in a day or so.  As I checked at work and with Donn, I was met with complete support and excitement for me to go on an adventure.  When all was said and done, Linda and I agreed that I would fly up to Blind Channel, meet her as she was making her way back south at the end of August, and crew for her for seven days, ending up in Anacortes on Labor Day if all went well.  As we chatted on the phone about the logistics, I asked “who else will be on the boat?” – She replied that it would just be her and me. 

Captain Linda Lewis teaches boating.  She teaches navigation classes through the Coast Guard Auxiliary, which is how I met her in the first place.  I knew that this opportunity would afford me some amazing one on one time, with her, on her boat, learning about new waters and soaking in everything I could in seven days.  The weeks went by as I waited for the day I was to fly out on a float plane from Kenmore Air on Lake Washington.  The morning of August 25^th was beautiful.  Donn dropped me off at the docks and we parted ways.  I was nervous and excited – having never been on a float plane before.

We landed in Nanaimo as we made our way north, so we could check in to Canada, and the pilot could refuel.  Taking off again, the pilot informed me we’d be in Blind Channel in about 45 minutes.  I can’t express how beautiful the world below looked.  I followed on the rudimentary map they provide, as I picked out which islands were which as we glided over them.  Tiny specks of boats were below me, making their way north or south, through the Strait of Georgia.  I knew that’d be us soon enough.

I realized we were now flying over the island just south of Blind Channel – East Thurlow Island.  The hills full of trees were getting closer as the small plane followed the curves of the land down to the channel below, making another smooth landing.  We snugged up to the dock, I grabbed my bags and stepped off to find Linda waiting for me with a big smile on her face. 

She led me back to her 45 foot trawler – “Royal Sounder”.   A 1978 KhaShing power boat.  She’s got classic lines and a beautiful bow.  Linda and her husband have maintained her beautifully and she really is a comfortable and sturdy vessel.  Linda showed me around, showed me where I’d be sleeping and where I could stow my belongings.  She pointed out a few things that we’d get more in depth on later.  Then as we stepped out on the deck to head up to land for lunch, a couple on one of the neighboring boats told us to look out in the channel.  A small pod of orcas were swimming through.  I’m pretty sure I saw at least one adult and two babies – my first sighting of whales in the wild ever!  I figured it was a good sign to be welcomed so warmly by the orcas just after arriving.  J

After a nice lunch and some texts to Donn to let him know I’d arrived safely, we headed back to the boat.  We discussed our route for the next day.  We had a bit of a dilemma because of the currents the next morning.  As we talked over our options, I felt a strong pull to head east towards Dent Rapids.  It seemed like a more interesting choice.  She agreed with me, but also acknowledged that we couldn’t make it to Dent in time for slack from where we were, even if we left at first light.  So the decision was made to make it a short trip to Shoal Bay, leaving around 9:30 or 10, catching the current east and easily reaching Shoal Bay before Noon.  We would then proceed through Dent and the other passes the following day, easily accomplished from the closer location.  Then Linda started explaining in more detail what our respective roles would be around docking, anchoring, and while underway.  Her processes were detailed, clear, and very thorough.  I knew I was in good hands.

We awoke early – she whispered down to me to see if I was awake yet and asked if I wanted to see something amazing.  I hopped up quickly and went out on deck to see one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve ever witnessed (photo above!).  As the pace of the city started to fade away a bit, I began to truly breathe in the beauty and quiet around me.  It was gorgeous up there.

As she had shown me the night before, I got the lines ready for departure.  In Canada, most of the docks use “bull rails” and not cleats as we’re used to in the States.  I had used bull rails before, but not often and hadn’t yet mastered a good process.  That was about to change.  In seven days, I learned, struggled and somewhat conquered bull rails and how best to work the lines around them when docking and departing.   I think we had conversations almost every single day while we were under way about techniques and tricks on how best to work with them.  Cleats are like a walk in the park now!

Another cool tool she uses is headsets.  These are AWESOME!  Donn had reconfigured some motorcycle headsets for use on our boat, but we hadn’t had a chance to use them yet.  On this trip I learned just how much they can help keep things calm, and organized.  So we had on our headsets, she was at the helm, and I was on the boat ready to release the lines.  Everything went smoothly as we pulled away from the dock.  Then we switched places.  I manned the helm as she went outside to release the skiff away from the boat’s port side hip and back behind to the end of the towing line, where it stayed while underway.

Dock at Shoal Bay

Shoal Bay was beautiful and quiet.  A small community of volunteers run a small pub out of a living room and maintain a garden and a chicken coop.  For a donation you can garden a bit, harvest a few things, and possibly get a few eggs if you so desire.  We wandered, then headed back for the daily happy hour on board.  These were some of my favorite times – we’d sit back, we’d each have one beverage of choice, along with a few snacks and just talk.  This was our first chance to really get to know each other, as we’d never spent time together outside of a boating class.  As the days wore on we laughed a LOT and were delighted with how many things we seemed to have in common.

The next day we timed our departure to catch Dent Rapids at slack.  She made sure I was at the helm, so she could get the requisite photo of me yawning through the boring waterway, which only a few hours before had been running at 9 knots.  Gillard Pass and Yaculta Rapids were equally as exciting.  We made our way to Von Donop Inlet where we had decided to spend the night at anchor.  As we eased in to the Inlet, following two other boats, we worried it might be crowded.  We made it to a wonderful spot where other boats had settled in, but where there was still plenty of room.  I was at the helm, with Linda at the bow looking for just the right spot.  I read out depths to her as we circled around slowly like a cat picking its spot in the sun.  She directed me at the helm as she lowered the anchor.  Soon enough we were dug in and ready to relax for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  It was warm out and I was so tempted to get my bathing suit on and go for a swim, but she dissuaded me with a warning about the coldness of the water.  I grabbed a PFD and tether and climbed down to the swim step.  Rolling up my pants, I stuck my feet in the water.  It was cold, but felt so good.  I stayed down there a while, just lying on the swim step, looking up at clouds quietly drifting by.  Being at anchor, especially in a protected, quiet anchorage, is incredibly peaceful.  I slept well, knowing we’d be up with the sun again to get underway by 6:30am.

Westview Marina - looking back at the entrance

The next day brought us closer to civilization.  We made it to the Westview Marina, near Powell River on the BC mainland.  After docking and getting the boat squared away, I headed up in search of a shower and a chance to walk around a bit.  Later that night we found a great Italian restaurant “Snickers”.  We were craving pizza and each ordered our own personal pizzas.  I went on to amaze Linda with my ability to put away food.  This became a running joke for the rest of the trip….   

Another early departure started us off on our longest day of the week.  We had hit a perfect weather window to cross the Strait of Georgia and head to Nanaimo.  We maintained a shift schedule of one hour on, one hour off.  It was a long day, with waves coming at us from the north as we crossed SW, but they never got too strong and we maintained an excellent course.   I think we made it in about six and half hours.

Each day of the journey I learned more about the various instruments and tools at the helm and how I could best use them to help make decisions about other boats, our course, etc.  We were using the autopilot much of the time, which was nice.  I kept watch by looking outside, then glancing at the radar, and then at our course on the navigation software on her laptop.  I learned how best to use the radar to determine whether other boats around us posed a threat if they were heading our direction.  So simple, but so effective – and reassuring.

Radar shot while at anchor in Monague Harbor

We arrived in Nanaimo tired and the docking process ended up being a touch stressful, with a strong current pushing us away from the dock and a marina employee who was less than helpful.  But we managed to get tied up safely and settled in.  I realized that after such a long day I needed some alone time, so I bid Linda adieu and headed out in search of a shower and some comfort food.  I also allowed myself to call Donn for the first time since leaving.  Up until then we had texted at least once or twice a day when I had cell coverage.  By the time I got back to the boat in the early evening, I felt more rested and relaxed.  Linda showed up a little while later and we enjoyed another nice evening talking and sharing stories.

The next morning we left on the early side to make it to another pass at slack time.   Once again I was at the helm as we made our way slowly through Dodd Narrows.  Then it was a straight shot down to Montague Harbor where we anchored for our second time, surrounded by boats enjoying the end of the summer.  It was Saturday of Labor Day weekend.  Once we had anchored securely, we realized we had a nice quiet afternoon stretching in front of us.  We separated to our respective berths.  I napped, watched a movie I had downloaded onto my Kindle Fire for the trip, and read a bit.  It rained off and on and created an incredibly cozy day.  There was no doubt in my mind – I was in love with this life on the water and I couldn’t wait to come back up here with Donn on our own boat.

Sunday brought us back into the US, where we checked in at Roche Harbor and anchored close by in Garrison Bay.  Then we hopped into Linda’s 17 foot skiff, built by her husband, and motored back to Roche to get some ice cream and check out the sights.  I went on walkabout and explored the Sculpture Park and the Mausoleum.  It’s a beautiful place, and being Labor Day weekend, the marina itself was packed with boats.   We headed back to the boat before sunset, had a nice final dinner together and went to bed early, ready for another early morning to head out on our last leg to Anacortes.

Grinning like a cheshire cat as we glide through Pole Pass

Monday’s trip to Anacortes stared off with the sun shining directly at us from the sky and the water.  It was blinding and I wasn’t quite sure how to keep watch.  I used my sunglasses when looking out and then pushed them down my nose when I needed to see the instruments.  An hour or so in, we changed direction just enough to change the angles for the better.  One more pass – Pole Pass on the south end of Orcas Island and then we were home free.  We made it to the dock at Anacortes by 11:30am with Donn waiting for us at the dock, ready to catch our lines.  It was a pretty awesome way to arrive back to the mainland.

Happy Reunion!

Overall we had amazing weather and for the most part were able to use currents to our advantage.  We kept our speeds between six and eight knots for the most part.  I worked hard, relaxed deeply, and truly enjoyed getting to know Linda better in the seven days we were together.  I also came home with a list of ideas and processes I hope to adapt for us and our boat.  Some of these include docking practices, others include timing of keeping watch and manning the helm.  I think the most valuable thing I brought home with me was a sense of inspiration and accomplishment.  I feel empowered and capable in ways I haven’t before.

It’s been two weeks since my return.  This past weekend, I suggested we take our boat out into the lake early on Sunday morning so I could practice docking at Ivar’s dock just east of Gasworks.  No other boats around and hardly a whisper of wind – perfect conditions.  We used our headsets, I was at the helm the entire time.  Donn talked me through departure from our dock and then docking and undocking at Ivar’s.  Then we came home and I docked at our own dock, which has its own challenges.  I glanced our pulpit off of one of the posts that stick up from our dock, but otherwise, nothing damaged, and no one hurt.  All good.  After four years, I finally got up the courage to dock my own boat.  And that’s huge. 

Many thanks to Linda for the opportunity to join her, the encouragement, and the wonderful fellowship.