The Intrepid Mariner

There’s no question about it. I was not born to sailing. Though I have become what might be classified as an enthusiastic, though not very adept, sailor, every step has been fought for and hard earned. Where others exalt over a 25-knot wind screaming thru the shrouds and think what a fine day for sailing, I quake. I can get seasick just watching the America’s Cup Race. Those boats careen thru the water at angles that defy gravity and all common sense. Bill maintains that my problem is just that: reduced common sense due to the fact that I never took Physics. That’s right. I went thru high school and university earning a Bachelor of Science Degree without ever taking a Physics course, and that feat was manipulatively intentional. Physics has Laws, and, though they make perfectly good sense on paper, in my physical world, they often do not. Therefore, I knew I’d better stay away from Physics. That’s why I majored in Psychology. Did you ever hear of a Law of Psychology? --- I rest my case with my common sense perfectly operational.

After much self-analysis, I have decided it is simply my exceptionally sensitive inner ear that is the cause of my problem. My overdeveloped sense of equilibrium needs to see the world as balanced and upright, and, like a phobia, things go awry when the ear gets pushed too far. However, I have been able to train and de-sensitize the ear, and, I can now watch the America’s Cup and enthuse with the sailors on the boats – glad that they’re there and I’m secure on my couch in front of the TV. Fortunately, Bill has no wish to race and has learned we can sail quite happily and nicely together within my limits which have nothing to do with wind speed but everything to do with angle of boat tilt. My ear seems to register every rock, every nuance of roll. I may not be able to do tell where the wind is coming from by feel, but I sure can tell which way we’re pitching and rolling. Most of the time I’m okay with it. I feel one with it (kind of), but occasionally it gets the better of me.


We have this instrument on the boat which measures the angle of boat heel. It’s called a Lev-O-Gage. I don’t need a Lev-O-Gage to tell me what angle the boat is at or how I feel about it. Bill, being mistakenly clever, calls it the “squawk meter”. He can call it whatever he wants, but, if he wants a responsive first mate and not a mutiny, he’s learned to listen to the “squawk”.




Leaving Port Hardy, we have about a 60-mile crossing of Queen Charlotte Strait ahead of us. Like the Rapids, the books have nothing good to say about this crossing. It can be treacherous and uncomfortable. They talk of escape anchorages along the way. For days preceding our anticipated crossing, nothing but gale force winds have been blowing across the Strait. I’m not a happy camper about this. The “squawk meter” is about to go into overdrive. Bill assures me we will not start out in gale force winds. We may end up in such winds, but we wouldn’t start out in them. Is that supposed to be reassuring? After another restless night for the first mate, we leave to an anticipated 15 – 18 knots, not gale force. It is overcast and foreboding. I drive us out of the harbor and motor down the channel of islands leading to Queen Charlotte Strait. Winds hit 21 – 27, but that’s because we’re in the funnel created by the islands I am told. Bill doesn’t want to raise sail then because the direction of the wind is not helpful, right on the bow, and we’d have to put in reefs immediately. He has enough going on at the moment navigating us around islands, rocks and shoals in the light rain and low visibility. When we finally enter the Strait, I go below to add more layers of clothes. Bad mistake. The wind has lessened a bit in the Strait, but the boat is rolling with the wave swells. Not a good combination for me. In fact, I have now learned a killer combination for me. Seasickness hits like never before. The ear has gone berserk Bill keeps telling me to get up on deck. I know that. Get on deck, look at the horizon, get the wind blowing across you. I know all that, but how can I do that when I can’t even lift my head up and my eyeballs are rolling around in their sockets? The dizziness defeats every effort to stand. I’m in close personal contact with the head. Thank God, I’m paranoid about cleanliness on a boat! Oh, what a miserable day it was! If I could have helped Bill to raise the sail and put in the reefs, having the sail up would have decreased the rolling around in the swells, but I couldn’t help. It was so bad I couldn’t even groan. If the boat had suddenly hit a rock and sunk, I would have gone down without complaint. I was unwell totally and completely. So much for the intrepid sailor.

We make it across the Strait into the calmer waters of the channels again. Slowly, a desire to live is returning. There’s hope rising anew. Bill has chosen the first available anchorage for us. Though it isn’t a very pretty one, he figures his crew has had enough. I’m actually up on deck and telling him that it’s okay to press on another hour to a prettier anchorage. We end up in Green Island Cove. It’s one of the prettiest and coziest coves we’ve been in so far. There’s a hump of land covered with spreading bushy shrubs sprinkled with tiny white flower buds. We’ve not seen anything like this anywhere else up here. We wonder how it came about as everything else is densely covered with forest. It seems like such an anomaly, but it’s all perfectly beautiful and just the soft touch this battered body needs after one hell of a day! I’ve learned my lesson, and, from now on, will fortify ahead on such possible days with the proven anti-seasickness cocktail our friend, Bob Trenary, uses: 2 Bonine and 1 NoDoz an hour or so before sailing. It worked on the trip north from San Diego. It will work again.

The next day surprises us with its boring and monotonous passage. The islands are all low lying and the distant snow covered fortresses have all but disappeared. At least, the waters are peaceful and the winds quiet, but we spend the day listening to weather reports of a big low-pressure system moving in. The next morning, the reports are worse. After studying all the charts, Bill finds that the best anchorage for us to sit out this storm is only 10 miles up the road. Anchorages further on don’t provide us the safety we need from the winds. We know we’ll be losing a day, but we’ve got weather delays programmed into our schedule. We head to Rescue Bay, a very secure harbor as the name implies. Expecting to spend the night there while this storm blows thru, we end up there for 2 days. After the pace we’ve been at, it’s nice to have the down time, but we know we’ll be eager to sail as soon as we can. Prince Rupert awaits.

Sunday, June 10, we leave and head north into an area called Fiordland. It’s still raining, but the winds have died down. Visibility is good so at least we don’t have to engage the radar. We motor down a short fiord for a good view of a waterfall. How we wish we could fully see the landscape around us. It’s got to be magnificent.
















Fiordland: for us, a land of shadows, misted mountains and waterfalls too numerous to count.

Monday, June 11, I wake up dreaming of ducks. That’s right – ducks! Could it be that the constant sound of the rain on the cabin roof (not 18” above my head) has brought up images of ducks? Both of us are tired of the rain and the damp chill that comes with it, but we tell ourselves that this is probably more the norm from now on as we get nearer to Alaska. After all, Misty Fiords, the next leg of our trip, didn’t get its name from bright sunshine pouring over the area.

We have 120 miles to cover in the next 2 days to get to Prince Rupert as scheduled. That doesn’t prevent us from a slight detour to Bishop Bay Hot Springs. Oh, heavenly, now this is water I can get into! There’s a motor boat at the dock ahead of us, but, as we approach, they fire up and leave. We have the place to ourselves. The natural hot water from the springs has been channeled into a bathing/soaping area and two hot tubs - indoor and outdoor. There’s a peaceful view across the bay. We leave cleaned, refreshed and invigorated --- and the SUN is shining. There’s blue sky. This is more like it!

And “more like it” lasts for about an hour and a half before the rain hits again, but it was enough to lift the spirits.









June 12th - The Captain's birthday!



Is this not a picture of a happy man?







We woke up again to rain and motor to Prince Rupert whose local nickname is “Rainy Rupert”. However, it’s not raining when we approach, but the harbor area is jammed with boats. We have to triple raft to two other boats. Getting laundry and groceries over 2 big motor cruisers to our comparatively smaller sailboat was a feat of balance and dexterity.


We meet up with a high school friend of mine, Jane Minor. She has flown in from her home in Australia to join us on the next leg of the trip: Misty Fiords. Rested, cleaned up and reprovisioned, we leave Prince Rupert under scattered clouds. We round the point. The sun has broken thru. Looking back at Prince Rupert, we see that “Rainy Rupert” is indeed sheltered by its own lonely, grey rain cloud. We sail on happily under the sun.