We meet Nelson Sharp in Sitka. A year ago last June, Nelson, a good friend from Telluride, had helped us sail Avante from San Diego to Santa Barbara. We spend our one day
in town doing all those boat chores again. Bill’s tightening of loose connections for the wind reading instruments on top of the mast had not worked. He and Nelson tackle that job sending Bill up the 75’ mast several times. They find a fellow sailor who knows something about these instruments, and it’s decided that the unit probably needs to be replaced. Fortunately, we have one on board. It came with the boat when we bought it. It’s not too often these days that I’m stupified by the price of something, but this thing turns out to be the equivalent of NASA’s pricey toilet seats. $3,900 for a 3’ length of pipe with some electronics on the end. I know you’re
thinking that it’s the electronics that are driving the price. Nope – It’s the pipe. Carbon fibre it is, and that makes all the difference. The electronics, if we could get them replaced right now, are about $900. The rest is all pipe. That’s boat ownership. You throw all sound financial reasoning to the wind, if there is one. Though Bill asserts I have never had much in the way of sound financial reasoning, I know for sure I did lose whatever I did have when I agreed to the adventure of boat ownership. However, the instruments are fixed, and I find out that not only is the First Mate delighted, but so is the Captain. Guess he doesn’t think much of those Good Learning Experiences either! Now, we’re all just hoping for a good reason to be using our wind reading instruments.
This is Bill coming down the mast for the last time. In the background is one of those mast-sitting Bald Eagles. This one has its wings hanging down looking like a forlorn imitation of Dracula in his cape. I figure it’s his way of drip-drying after all this rain. Anyhow, I no longer think it bad luck to shoo the critters off. Perching on the instruments at the top of our mast could easily break them again. At $900 a crack to replace instruments plus the time and effort to do so, they can go squat and poop somewhere else! Not on my boat!
July 14th we leave Sitka in dismal weather. It’s not raining, but it is dreary. We head out down the west side of Baranof Island. We are on the ocean-side, but the expected winds are minimal and still from the south. The only good thing is that the seas have “laid down”. This is a term I kept hearing every time we mentioned to a local that we were going to be returning on the outside. “Let’s see,” they’d say. “Around mid-July you’ll be out there? Yup, seas should have laid down by then. Good time to go, but you don’t want to go any sooner.” The Intrepid Mariner on board was never quite sure how to take those words of wisdom, but we are apparently not too soon out here because with no wind, the seas are like glass. Even the Intrepid Mariner is disappointed!
All is not lost this first day out. Just off Necker Bay, there’s a resounding zing on the line. Assuming we are going thru another dress rehearsal with a seaweed fish, we pull in a really nice Spring Salmon. This guy didn’t fight much on the way in, but he sure was mad when we got him on the boat. No worries here about sick fish. He’ll be 2 night’s dinner for the 3 of us, and bait for the crabs.
We anchor in Yamani Bay and explore in The Dingbat. The area looks more like volcanic rock than scraped and grated glacial rock. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that this rocky coastline has been ravaged by the sea. The cove has a necklace of rocks protecting it from ocean waves. It’s supposed to offer a great sight when the sea is up, which it isn’t, but we can still imagine the effect. The rocks at low tide are covered with starfish. We’re amazed at the sight and dismayed, too. There are too many starfish. That can’t be good for crabs. The next morning we pull up the trap. It’s heavy. It’s hopeful. It’s full of those monsters. In fact, the biggest one we have seen has totally wrapped all its 16 legs around the outside of the trap, and those legs that wriggled thru the mesh of the trap are wrapped around the salmon head. It’s huge and ugly and doesn’t want to budge. They’re called Sun Stars, we’ve been told. That’s much too nice a name.
July 14th we leave Sitka in dismal weather. It’s not raining, but it is dreary. We head out down the west side of Baranof Island. We are on the ocean-side, but the expected winds are minimal and still from the south. The only good thing is that the seas have “laid down”. This is a term I kept hearing every time we mentioned to a local that we were going to be returning on the outside. “Let’s see,” they’d say. “Around mid-July you’ll be out there? Yup, seas should have laid down by then. Good time to go, but you don’t want to go any sooner.” The Intrepid Mariner on board was never quite sure how to take those words of wisdom, but we are apparently not too soon out here because with no wind, the seas are like glass. Even the Intrepid Mariner is disappointed!
All is not lost this first day out. Just off Necker Bay, there’s a resounding zing on the line. Assuming we are going thru another dress rehearsal with a seaweed fish, we pull in a really nice Spring Salmon. This guy didn’t fight much on the way in, but he sure was mad when we got him on the boat. No worries here about sick fish. He’ll be 2 night’s dinner for the 3 of us, and bait for the crabs.
We anchor in Yamani Bay and explore in The Dingbat. The area looks more like volcanic rock than scraped and grated glacial rock. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that this rocky coastline has been ravaged by the sea. The cove has a necklace of rocks protecting it from ocean waves. It’s supposed to offer a great sight when the sea is up, which it isn’t, but we can still imagine the effect. The rocks at low tide are covered with starfish. We’re amazed at the sight and dismayed, too. There are too many starfish. That can’t be good for crabs. The next morning we pull up the trap. It’s heavy. It’s hopeful. It’s full of those monsters. In fact, the biggest one we have seen has totally wrapped all its 16 legs around the outside of the trap, and those legs that wriggled thru the mesh of the trap are wrapped around the salmon head. It’s huge and ugly and doesn’t want to budge. They’re called Sun Stars, we’ve been told. That’s much too nice a name.
July 15th is a banner day as far as fishing goes. Two really nice salmon. The cook declares the freezer full – unless somebody wants to jig for a halibut.
We motor to Puffin Bay. No Puffins here. No bears either, but it is a delightful anchorage that feels more like we’re on a pond rather than in a bay on the ocean side of an island.
Looking down, all around the boat, circling the boat, are the largest
jellyfish any of us had ever seen. Everywhere you look there are jellyfish. It really is quite pretty watching these creatures silently circle the boat. So many moving so silently, slowly, quietly around the boat. Up one side. Down the other. If they were meat eaters, this would make a good scene in a SciFi movie as they circle in ever tightening circles to eventually squoosh up and onto the boat oozing toward us to overtake …. Just hum a few bars to JAWS, and you’ll be following my imaginings.
Looking down, all around the boat, circling the boat, are the largest
jellyfish any of us had ever seen. Everywhere you look there are jellyfish. It really is quite pretty watching these creatures silently circle the boat. So many moving so silently, slowly, quietly around the boat. Up one side. Down the other. If they were meat eaters, this would make a good scene in a SciFi movie as they circle in ever tightening circles to eventually squoosh up and onto the boat oozing toward us to overtake …. Just hum a few bars to JAWS, and you’ll be following my imaginings.
We are increasingly running into fog. Early morning fog, evening fog and just all day fog. We’ve been expecting it as the summer temperatures heat up over these cold waters. Fortunately, there is no freighter or cruise ship traffic out here and few to none of the fishing fleet boats. We’re alone in a grey, damp world.
July 16th is a true banner day. We raise sail! It’s the first time we’ve had the sail up since June, and we break our record for the year. 4 ½ straight hours under sail! How wonderful it is to not hear the sound of the motor! We drop anchor in drizzle and mist in Egg Harbor on Coronation Island. There are caves on shore which we motor over to explore and, on the way, are treated to the sight of several sea otters. There’s even a mother with a baby who quickly climbs aboard mom as we motor pass.
The next morning, we leave Egg Harbor enshrouded in fog. There’s no wind, but once we’re off the coast, the wind has swung around to the north and picks up to 10 knots.
We raise the main sail and the spinnaker. There’s a feeling of jubilation – until the wind dies down to 5 knots and starts shifting around. Next thing, we’re motor sailing with occasional sailing in an undecided wind.
In the early evening, with less than ¼ mile of visibility, we begin a very difficult approach into Bob’s Place. There are rocks and shallow areas we need to identify and navigate around. With relief, we drop anchor at 8:45. There is supposed to be an abandoned First Nations village here, but we see no sign of it along the shore. Of course, we’re not exactly sure what we should be looking for, and, with the overtaking rain forest growth, whatever was there to see is probably covered in vines.
On a boat, you get one problem fixed only to find another has taken its place. Wind instrument failure has been replaced by cabin-top winch motor failure. This is the winch used to raise the 150-pound mainsail. Not an easy task if it needs to be cranked up there by hand. However, the men aboard all know they can he-man handle it. I look back at the aft electric winches used for the jib and know I could handle it, too, if necessary. Since there is nothing we can do to fix the potentially burned out motor, we’ll decide how we’re going to raise the mainsail the next time we have occasion to do so.
The next morning, we creep out of Bob’s Place in misty fog. We head to Craig, the only town we’ll be stopping in on this outside passage. It’s a hard-working fishing village with minimal tourist orientation, and we all like the feel of the place. We walk into town, do a little shopping and treat ourselves to pizza and ice cream. Don’t get either of those on the boat!
As we motor into Port Refugio to anchor at the end of the day, we see whales in the bay ahead. After a trying round of attempted anchorings in what was charted as mud bottom but isn’t, we finally are anchored and shortly treated to the sight of a Minke whale feeding its way around the bay. Thursday, July 19th, we pull up our first crab. We now have the ritual of killing, cleaning and cooking crab down to a quick science. The crab is soon dispatched, cooked and in the refrigerator to be served as an appetizer with mustard mayonnaise later this evening.
We’ve been traveling south down the western coast of Alaska. There’s land on the left and ocean on the right – for miles and miles. Though the rocks on the shore are ravaged and worn by the sea, the land and mountains rising up from the coast are benign compared to what we saw along the Inside Passage. There are no rugged snow covered peaks or upthrusted rock mountains. We’re surprised. There are beach areas that Nelson and I agree would not look out of place with a few thatched huts and palm fronds. The only difference is the air temperature. We’re passing by these imagined idylls layered in fleece and bundled in storm gear, none of which is your typical island wear.
As I just mentioned, for miles and miles of motor-throbbing cruising, we are making our way down the coast. Miles and miles …land on the left,
ocean on the right … as far as the eye can see …and even further. Finally, the First Mate declares that she’s had enough. There’s got to be a place to duck into for lunch. Sure enough, 4 miles ahead is Waterfall Bay. We head on in and down several miles of fiord-like wilderness. There are 2 waterfalls and a ton of aquatic birds. We anchor below one waterfall and have lunch. What a great break in a dreary day of motoring! How I would love to launch The Di
ngbat and go exploring, but we have “miles to go before we sleep”. Miles and miles.
We raise the main sail and the spinnaker. There’s a feeling of jubilation – until the wind dies down to 5 knots and starts shifting around. Next thing, we’re motor sailing with occasional sailing in an undecided wind.
In the early evening, with less than ¼ mile of visibility, we begin a very difficult approach into Bob’s Place. There are rocks and shallow areas we need to identify and navigate around. With relief, we drop anchor at 8:45. There is supposed to be an abandoned First Nations village here, but we see no sign of it along the shore. Of course, we’re not exactly sure what we should be looking for, and, with the overtaking rain forest growth, whatever was there to see is probably covered in vines.
On a boat, you get one problem fixed only to find another has taken its place. Wind instrument failure has been replaced by cabin-top winch motor failure. This is the winch used to raise the 150-pound mainsail. Not an easy task if it needs to be cranked up there by hand. However, the men aboard all know they can he-man handle it. I look back at the aft electric winches used for the jib and know I could handle it, too, if necessary. Since there is nothing we can do to fix the potentially burned out motor, we’ll decide how we’re going to raise the mainsail the next time we have occasion to do so.
The next morning, we creep out of Bob’s Place in misty fog. We head to Craig, the only town we’ll be stopping in on this outside passage. It’s a hard-working fishing village with minimal tourist orientation, and we all like the feel of the place. We walk into town, do a little shopping and treat ourselves to pizza and ice cream. Don’t get either of those on the boat!
As we motor into Port Refugio to anchor at the end of the day, we see whales in the bay ahead. After a trying round of attempted anchorings in what was charted as mud bottom but isn’t, we finally are anchored and shortly treated to the sight of a Minke whale feeding its way around the bay. Thursday, July 19th, we pull up our first crab. We now have the ritual of killing, cleaning and cooking crab down to a quick science. The crab is soon dispatched, cooked and in the refrigerator to be served as an appetizer with mustard mayonnaise later this evening.
We’ve been traveling south down the western coast of Alaska. There’s land on the left and ocean on the right – for miles and miles. Though the rocks on the shore are ravaged and worn by the sea, the land and mountains rising up from the coast are benign compared to what we saw along the Inside Passage. There are no rugged snow covered peaks or upthrusted rock mountains. We’re surprised. There are beach areas that Nelson and I agree would not look out of place with a few thatched huts and palm fronds. The only difference is the air temperature. We’re passing by these imagined idylls layered in fleece and bundled in storm gear, none of which is your typical island wear.
As I just mentioned, for miles and miles of motor-throbbing cruising, we are making our way down the coast. Miles and miles …land on the left,
ocean on the right … as far as the eye can see …and even further. Finally, the First Mate declares that she’s had enough. There’s got to be a place to duck into for lunch. Sure enough, 4 miles ahead is Waterfall Bay. We head on in and down several miles of fiord-like wilderness. There are 2 waterfalls and a ton of aquatic birds. We anchor below one waterfall and have lunch. What a great break in a dreary day of motoring! How I would love to launch The Di
ngbat and go exploring, but we have “miles to go before we sleep”. Miles and miles.Bill and Nelson are totally enjoying this wild coastline. We haven’t seen another boat in 2 days. We’re covering great distances each day. The First Mate yearns for the opportunity to stay in one place for a while and to explore. I am exasperatedly told that the next passage is mine to plan. Okay, Captain, Sir, just you wait!
July 19th, we anchor in a huge bay called Port Bazan. It’s secure with heavy-duty sticky mud. The anchor and boat aren’t going to go anywhere. Bill declares this a martini night. The Captain only treats himself to one of those when he feels absolutely secure no matter what Mother Nature could call up. The next morning, Nelson pulls in 9 crabs. Nine crabs! Wow! Unfortunately, only 2 are male, but we’re still delighted with the haul. More crab appetizers tonight.
The next 3 days will be long stretches of water with Prince Rupert as our final port. There will be no hope of lunch stops, but we’re still hoping to sail. The one improvement we do have is that skies appear to be lightening up. We’re not in constant rainy drizzle. It’s getting warmer. When we anchor in Nichols Bay, we actually sit out on the deck in cotton shirts enjoying the late afternoon sun. Things are looking up. Maybe, just maybe, sun and sailing tomorrow. Hey, it doesn’t hurt to hope – even with the barometer falling!
We do get to raise sail again, and, without the electric winch, it’s a job worth thinking about. I was happily sitting below warm and cozy when I heard the commotion of sail preparation-to-raise noise going on above. Oh, no, here we go … “Do you need my help?” I ask with forced enthusiasm. “No, we can handle it,” comes the manly reply. Bill runs the main sheet back to the port electric winch. Guess he really doesn’t think cranking the sail up by hand would be that much fun. The aft winch should work in theory, but it’s not working in practice. The sheet goes down to it at too great an angle and keeps slipping upwards and tangling. A different rigging is needed to reduce that angle, but, for now, he’s going to crank it up. The First Mate springs into action and lends a back-breaking hand. Inch by half inch it creaks up. Finally, it’s declared to be up enough for “government work”. We motor sail along with Bill and Nelson working out a way to more efficiently (ie: with less effort) raise the mainsail the next time.
The next 3 days will be long stretches of water with Prince Rupert as our final port. There will be no hope of lunch stops, but we’re still hoping to sail. The one improvement we do have is that skies appear to be lightening up. We’re not in constant rainy drizzle. It’s getting warmer. When we anchor in Nichols Bay, we actually sit out on the deck in cotton shirts enjoying the late afternoon sun. Things are looking up. Maybe, just maybe, sun and sailing tomorrow. Hey, it doesn’t hurt to hope – even with the barometer falling!
We do get to raise sail again, and, without the electric winch, it’s a job worth thinking about. I was happily sitting below warm and cozy when I heard the commotion of sail preparation-to-raise noise going on above. Oh, no, here we go … “Do you need my help?” I ask with forced enthusiasm. “No, we can handle it,” comes the manly reply. Bill runs the main sheet back to the port electric winch. Guess he really doesn’t think cranking the sail up by hand would be that much fun. The aft winch should work in theory, but it’s not working in practice. The sheet goes down to it at too great an angle and keeps slipping upwards and tangling. A different rigging is needed to reduce that angle, but, for now, he’s going to crank it up. The First Mate springs into action and lends a back-breaking hand. Inch by half inch it creaks up. Finally, it’s declared to be up enough for “government work”. We motor sail along with Bill and Nelson working out a way to more efficiently (ie: with less effort) raise the mainsail the next time.
Our last night out is in Brundige Inlet. On the charts, we cross our track from our trip north six weeks earlier. What a convoluted feeling that is! The Alaskan part of our trip is over. Juneau and back. 59 degrees north latitude and back. We feel triumphant and sad at the same time. It’s been a grand voyage. It can’t be over yet, and it’s not. There’s more ahead. Places to see and go. The end of the trip is Canoe Cove, just north of Victoria, but like Scarlet, I wouldn’t think of that now. Tomorrow.
For right now, we are back in Canadian waters, and there is something nice about returning to an anchorage or a harbor that is known. Piloting is so much easier. We know just where to go and whether or not we can rely on the charts. The first time into Brundige Inlet had been at low tide, and we had threaded our way thru shallowing, narrow waters. We tell Nelson what a challenge the entrance is, but this time we’re at high tide and it’s a piece of cake. The first time we had had trouble setting the anchor. This time it bites in quickly. Everything is easier, better – except for the Black Flies. All thoughts of enjoying the warm evening on deck are quickly squashed as the nasty little biting pests drive us below.
For right now, we are back in Canadian waters, and there is something nice about returning to an anchorage or a harbor that is known. Piloting is so much easier. We know just where to go and whether or not we can rely on the charts. The first time into Brundige Inlet had been at low tide, and we had threaded our way thru shallowing, narrow waters. We tell Nelson what a challenge the entrance is, but this time we’re at high tide and it’s a piece of cake. The first time we had had trouble setting the anchor. This time it bites in quickly. Everything is easier, better – except for the Black Flies. All thoughts of enjoying the warm evening on deck are quickly squashed as the nasty little biting pests drive us below.
We know we are getting closer to Prince Rupert. Though we still do not see compatriot cruiser traffic, the fishing fleet is out in force. The many boats with their huge nets out make an interesting maze for us to motor in, around and thru.
On July 21st, we motor into Prince Rupert in rain. Rainy Rupert is its nickname and rainy it is. The boat’s beginning to mold. I’m beginning to mold. Will it ever stop? Fortunately, there is adequate shore power. We connect, get some heat in the boat and start to dry things out. What a joy that is! The one thing about living on a boat is how thankful one becomes for small things. Dry socks, warm hands, windows that don’t drip with condensation. Who cares what’s happening in the world at large? My feet are dry, my hands are warm and we’ve stopped the growth of mold. Now, tell me, could there be other things more important in one’s little floating world?
2 comments:
Welcome back to civilization! We leave for Telluride tomorrow August 5th. Hope to see you there and hear about trip first hand.
Tom and Marilyn Fleming
Reading your latest entry made me homesick for the boat and Ketchikan area. I loved Craig - cycled there from Klawok for the day. Did you have a gooey bun at Margie's Cafe? And did you find the cemetary with all the young people killed in car wrecks and lost at sea? (Was that an indelicate question??) Sign me on for the First Mate's Trip - the shore explorations make the motoring worthwhile. And the Alaskan towns I got to all had such character. And, Sue, your writing is fantastic! Do you keep a diary when you're not sailing?
Cheers, Jane
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