West Vancouver Island -- First Hurdle

What is so special about the west coast of Vancouver Island? Now that Avante is docked safely in Canoe Cove with the west coast but a memory and now that The First Mate has read the books, she can tell you. For one thing, it is a wild, sparsely populated coast that has been ravaged by wind and sea for eons, and it shows the abuse. Seldom does the land slope gently up from the sea. Instead, rocky bastions have been thrust up with a brutal, jagged roughness and now look battle-ready to fend off not only wind and sea, but the mariner who dares to venture near. There are long stretches offering no safe harbor for a boat the size of Avante. One cannot hug the coast at any point, for the menacing rocks can continue offshore for as much as a mile, rising up in sharp, isolated pinnacles to founder the unwary. There are capes and points with funneling, tunneling winds, ripping currents and confused seas. Weather can change in an instant and have nothing to do with anything in the forecast. Radar is all but mandatory, especially in summer when heavy fog rolls in quickly creating nothing resembling the coziness of a San Franciscan “Little Cat’s Feet” fog. Those who venture forth on the waters of the west coast of Vancouver Island are exposed, vulnerable and open to what ever Nature throws at you.

For the Pacific Northwest mariner, the west coast of Vancouver Island is the ultimate challenge. Many will cruise their whole lives up here and never take on this challenge. When you tell someone you are going to sail the west coast, the response is one of three. One: skeptical awe as in “Wow, that’s great. Glad you’re doing it and not me”. Two: enthusiastic support as in “Great trip. You’ll love it. Let me tell you about some great harbors.” Three: Dire warnings as in “Did that trip three years ago. The winds around Cape Scott nearly drove us to ground. We will never go out there again.” Then would follow at least a half hour of all the near-death experiences they had had out there at which point The First Mate either turns away or tunes out.

It takes the right boat and equipment, knowledge and experience as well as all the testosterone-inspired nerve that guys possess and that some female First Mates do not. The Captain has all the prerequisites, and, for those who know him, you know there is no way he could ever leave the Pacific Northwest without taking on its ultimate challenge. The First Mate does not have all the prerequisites (knowledge and experience being foremost) and was not even tickled by the challenge when it was first brought to her attention, but she married him for better or worse, in sickness and in health and in “daring and do”. So, daring to do, off she goes.

We dock in Port McNeill on June 27th. Liz of Hanko is still in harbor with Pat and Max aboard. The repair of their water pump had not gone as smoothly or quickly as expected, but they are now set to head south down Johnstone Strait to Seymour Narrows. We talk for a short while. Max tells us to stop by a Sabre 402 with hull the same midnight blue as ours. They are docked not too far from us and plan to head south around Vancouver. We then help them cast off wishing each other fair winds and good sailing. We hope to meet up in Sydney in July before we return to Telluride.

Bill finally runs into the captain of Lanakai, the Sabre 402. Their plans are to leave a day or two later than us. The First Mate is a bit disappointed thinking how nice it would be to know of another boat out there with us.

Washed, fueled and stocked, we leave the next afternoon going north up Goletas Channel to Bull Harbor on Hope Island. “Hope Island -- A most appropriate name”, thinks The First Mate. There is not another boat out there with us the whole way up the channel. The First Mate, feeling a bit lonely and forlorn, keeps hoping to see someone, anyone heading our way. The Captain does not care. He is in his element on this first leg of the journey.







He even puts out the fishing pole, a little early in the trip, but he knows that we will start catching fish once we are out on the ocean side of things.







In the late afternoon, we reach the entrance to Bull Harbor. It turns out to be an almost land-locked bay with a narrow, winding entrance and some interesting rock formations close to shore.








We drop the crab trap on the way in, continue on, round the corner and are confronted with an armada of cruising boats. Where did they all come from? We had not seen a boat coming or going all day. We count over 15 sailing and motor vessels of various sizes. Their presence amazes us. After anchoring, we find out that at least 6 have just come up the coast from the south, and most of the remainder will be heading down with us the next day. The First Mate does not know whether to be miffed that they have invaded her space or relieved to know others are going along for the ride with her.

Bull Harbor is the take-off point for the trip south around Vancouver. It is also the holding ground for weather and tides, as the first hurdle on this southern trek is really a combination of two obstacles: crossing Nahwitti Bar and then rounding Cape Scott at the most northern end of the island. Nahwitti Bar is a shallow sand area, approximately 3 miles wide. At its lowest point, it is only about 30’ deep. The ocean swells coming from thousands of miles across the Pacific Ocean hit this shallow sand bar. With all that force and no place to go, the waves build up high and steep. Add wind and tidal currents to that combination, and you have a real mess out there. Tidal currants at the bar can run over 5 knots. The only time to cross the Nahwitti Bar is at slack tide and low wind – or plan to sit tight in Bull Harbor and wait for the right combination. The Captain has been monitoring tide and wind for days. Tomorrow looks promising. Slack tide starts at 9:20. It’s not just any slack tide that we’re taking, it is high water slack tide which means that not only will we cross the bar at a time with little current, but the out flowing tidal rush could give us as much as a two knot current assist to Cape Scott. The Captain’s triumphant experience with Seymour Narrows and Johnstone Strait now has him looking for and timing such great deals.

As we are less than 30 minutes from the start of the bar, we plan to leave at 8:40 allowing time to pick up the crab trap. In the early morning hours, we hear boats departing. Those must be the boats that will be making the trek southeast to Port McNeill or Port Hardy, but when we look out, we find that we are almost alone in the harbor. Where did all the other boats go, especially those that were to be going west just like us? Now, I am disappointed, but Bill says that because the other sailboats are smaller than ours they may have chosen to leave early to take a narrow and shallow passage around that would avoid the bar. “Avoid the bar? Such a thing is possible? Why not us, too?” queries The First Mate. Dumb question. She receives one of those pitying looks again. Where’s the challenge without crossing the bar?

We are headed out to the ocean, into lumpy, rolling seas and who knows how many knots of winds. The First Mate pops her anti-seasickness cocktail of two Bonine and one Nodoz – just like the astronauts used to take according to Telluride sailing friend, Bob Trenary. I am now into uppers and downers – not my usual MO. 24 hours later, the program calls for one more Bonine and another Nodoz if one feels the combo is needed. After that, any threat of seasickness should have past or so it is hoped.

At 8:40, with The First Mate duly drugged and dressed in foulies, we are under way. We pick up the trap and find five good-sized, male Rock Crab. What a great omen for the start of this trip! “A blessing from the sea,” thinks The First Mate, waxing poetical. We head to the Nahwitti Bar, but not before a final check of the forecast. All appears to be calm in the morning with winds expected to pick up in the afternoon. We hit the bar at slack. The waters are “turbulently” calm but nothing that we have not seen before or that Avante cannot handle. We watch the depth meter. For the 30 minutes it takes to traverse the bar, depths seem to hover around 50 – 60’ with the lowest noted at 29’. It takes little imagination to conjure up the image of storm-driven seas coming up short on this shallow shelf. The power has to go somewhere. The waves would be thrust skyward and then further magnified by the ferocious winds. No, you do not want to be out here in a storm.

We are under bright blue skies, but looking ahead to the way we must go, there is a curtain of fog. Will it lift before we reach it?





I am fascinated by the appearance of what I call a “fog rainbow”.











It keeps growing until it looks like we are going to be able to glide right under it. “Another blessing,” thinks The First Mate.









As we near the fog, The First Mate looks back in disbelief and wonders where all her “blessings” are going. It’s bright and sunny in reverse!







The fog does not lift and soon it surrounds us. Interestingly, we can look up to see blue sky, but down and around us is wet, grey fog. It is soon dripping off us, off the boat, off everything. Wet and damp and cold.



The blue sky above soon disappears, and we are enveloped in thick, deep fog. The radar is turned on and circling. No one is out there at first, but gradually blips appear. A few of the radar targets are hardy fishing boats, but four turn out to be the other sailboats from Bull Harbor. The First Mate eavesdrops on their radio plans to rendezvous in a cove not that far away. Why do we have to make such a day of it? They plan to do Cape Scott tomorrow. She is told to go study the charts. There is not an anchorage for Avante’s deep draft until we are south of Cape Scott.

We monitor radar, charts and GPS. We think we have the buoy at the western end of the Nahwitti Bar on radar, but it is hard to differ it from other blips out there. The blip we are watching is in the position where the buoy is expected to be. It is not until we are 150 yards off that we finally see this big, hunking buoy bobbing in the water. We know we have now, uneventfully and calmly, crossed the bar, but with careful planning and no tricky weather patterns, that is as the crossing should be.

In the fog, The First Mate occupies herself by watching the antics of flocks of little black diving birds. These birds are everywhere on these waters. We saw them all the way to Alaska last year. I have asked locals for the name of these birds, but no one seems to know. They look like cormorants with short necks, but I guess that being so non-descript, non-intrusive and a bit ugly, no one seems to have bothered to learn their name. Little Black Diving Birds or LBDB’s – that’s good enough. As Avante motors toward a group of 12 or so, most do a quick, seamless dive and swim away to safety. A few of the more valiant decide they are going to fly out of the way. You can immediately tell which ones are going to attempt flight. The little body tenses, the neck stretches out, the eyes alertly dart and then the wings begin to flap. The body rises out of the water. The little black legs run mightily, pattering across the water for all they’re worth. The wings flap wildly, the legs keep churning, but nothing air-borne occurs. Suddenly, it’s aloft, but only for a yard or so until, shamefully, it belly-flops into the water. Undeterred, those wings start flapping again, the body rises and the legs start spinning. It usually takes two or three belly-flops to finally attain flight – though flight is no higher than 18” off the ground. As The Captain observes, “these Little Black Diving Birds are great at diving, and they can even fly.” The crazy thing is that each and every bird that attempts the flight option vs the dive option runs/flies in the direction of Avante’s bow. Not one turns away from Avante. They all exhibit this kamikaze desire to fly across the bow to the other side. The First Mate is having a great time with this display. “Come on, fella. You can make it.” “Give it up. You haven’t a prayer.” Those that “haven’t a prayer” end up making an abrupt turn away from Avante and after 2 or 3 ungainly belly-flops, make the quick dive to safety they should have done in the first place. It all is a rather pathetic show for the bird kingdom, but it is keeping The First Mate amused. The Captain thinks it a rather pathetic show for the human kingdom that The First Mate is thus so easily amused, but at least she’s not riveted on our next challenge: rounding Cape Scott.

Still in heavy fog, we motor on toward Cape Scott. According to the Captain’s log, at 1155 we are abeam Cape Scott at 2 miles, but it is hidden in fog. Seas have become lumpy with the conflicting currents running up and down both sides of the cape. The winds pick up to 13 knots as we round the cape. Emerging from Scott Channel, the seas calm a bit. We raise sail only to be hit with what has become known as the “Grun Wind Formula”: Raising Sail = Dropping Wind. With a drop to 5 knots, we motorsail. Scott Islands become visible to the west, but Cape Scott is still fog covered. Notorious Cape Scott doesn’t even show itself! Both Captain and First Mate are disappointed with the no-show, but not at all distressed with the calm passage of this northerly point of Vancouver Island.

We are now officially on the west coast of Vancouver Island and heading south. The wind proves too light to counter the effect of the rolling seas on the flopping sail and boom. We take down the sail and motor on. A few sea otters are spotted floating along with little feet raised up like sails.

Shortly after a 1:00 lunch, winds pick up to 12 knots. Sails go up again. This time the Grun Wind Formula does not work, and the winds keep on building to 20 – 22 knots from the northwest. Usually we put in the first reef at a consistent 20 knots, but The Captain says that since we are so near the entrance to our anchorage we will not go thru a reefing exercise. Monitoring the wind gage now becomes The First Mate’s vigil. She is not exactly comfortable, but Avante seems to be handling all this wind quite nicely. Sailing down wind in 20 – 22 knots is less combatant than sailing up wind. The Squawk Meter would really be in hyper-drive if that were the case.




At last the skies clear and the sun comes out. Gratefully, The First Mate can spot the white speck at the head of the channel that is the Quatsino Lighthouse.








We sail past the lighthouse into the shelter of the channel. As the wind dies in the lee of Cape Parkins, we drop sail, drop the shrimp trap and motor into North Harbor for the evening. Anchoring finished and the crab trap dispatched off the stern of the boat, The First Mate starts dinner while The Captain sets the table top-side. That’s right! Top-side! It is sunny and warm – Welcome to the West Coast of Vancouver Island! “Those blessings earlier received did not abandon us,” thinks The First Mate.




Rock Crab cooked and ready to eat.












Totally civilized dining for Captain and First Mate aboard s/v Avante.









Enough with the pictures – let’s eat!










The Captain relaxed and enjoying the evening light at the end of a good, well-planned and well-executed day.

Just Gunkholing Along

“Gunkhole”: a quiet anchorage, as in a cove used by small yachts, where the anchor usually sinks into soft mud, or gunk. Thus, “gunkholing” applies to those who engage in this low-key, relaxed style of cruising. (from “Gunkholing in the San Juans”)

We are gunkholing in the Broughton Archipelago. The schedule gives us five days to meander and explore the inner passages and islands of this fascinating area. The First Mate is delighted. Five days to just kick back and relax: this to her is what cruising on a sailboat is all about.

After our little episode in Mound Island, the next morning (June 21st) we head out to Knight Inlet, whose length of almost 71 miles makes it the longest inlet in British Columbia. The views of snow-topped mountains in the distance as well as the sheer granite cliffs, heavy with pine forests and beribboned with waterfalls are familiar to us, but it is impossible to grow tired of this scenery.





Along the way, we spot another “Sleeping Elephant” similar to the formation we had seen off the coast of Wrangell, Alaska last year.





Landslides, during winter rains or anytime there are heavy rains, are as common up here as avalanches are in our snow-packed mountains. Blanchet in “The Curve of Time” recounts an afternoon hike with her children. It was a clear day after several days of rain, and everybody was ready for an excursion. They were traversing a moss-covered area that sloped steeply down and over a precipice to the sea a good ways below them. Feeling an oozy, slipping under her feet, she fell to her hands and knees. Grabbing a bush, she shouted to her children to do the same. The mossy slope slowly slid from beneath them. They painfully crawled upward over the now muddy exposed granite, edging bush to bush, hand hold to hand hold, until finally, exhausted, they reach the solid ground above them.


From a distance, it is hard to tell whether the vertical gashes we see are exposed granite, a waterfall, lumbering work or a landslide. As we approach, all of the above are identifiable in the mountainside ahead of us.





We do not follow Knight Inlet all 71 miles to its end, but take a left up Tribune Channel.

Watson Cove is impressive with both a spectacular granite wall

and





a waterfall cascading over another equally spectacular granite wall. Note the two groupings of pine trees that have somehow managed to secure a toe-hold in that granite..







Our destination is Kwatsi Bay Marina, which is a rather grandiose name to give to a dock that can hold 8 – 10 medium-sized boats. It does have potable water, but no power. There is one shower on dock and a small gift shop. Other than the home and a few out buildings belonging to the owners, Max and Inga – that’s it. However, it’s the “that’s it” that brings cruisers to this remote outpost. At the end of the channel, you go around a small island to find yourself in a pond-like setting surrounded by steep cliffs, trees and the sound of a waterfall hidden by the heavy vegetation. It is beautiful, quiet and serene. Though we did not expect there would be room for Avante at the dock, Bill radios in and is told that there is 60’ left between another sailboat and a motor vessel. We motor round the island into this peaceful bay. From our perspective and distance from the dock, both Captain and First Mate have doubts as to that 60’, but we figure Max should know his docks. We motor in, and I slowly circle toward the dock. It still does not look like 60’, and even if it is 60’, so what? That gives me a mere 8’ of angle-in room for Avante’s 52’. The First Mate is thinking she will need a shoe horn or a miracle or both to make this docking happen. The Captain tells her to hush up and keep on trucking. There are three capable-looking men on the dock ready to receive our lines, and if the space does prove too small, we will just do a “fly-by” says the former pilot. With little wind and negligible current, I should be able to ease Avante close to the dock. If she could just shimmy sideways, all this docking angst would be for nothing. I let Avante bleed off speed because obviously there is not going to be a lot of room to back her down to get rid of excess speed. We slowly angle in gliding close to this gorgeous mahogany-hulled sailboat. Avante slides into the spot. Ropes are thrown by The Captain, three men pull her in and secure her to the dock, and The First Mate has impressed everyone as well as floored herself. Wow! (She needs a drink!) But, wait, don’t let it go to your head because we all know how quickly and easily disaster can strike out here.

Happy Hour starts shortly. We dash off to shower and get more presentable and then join everyone sitting in a covered porch area on the dock. The evening is warm, and the companionship of 8 other boaters plus Max and Inga is fun and pleasant. What a delightful spot! It feels totally closed off from the rest of the world. We learn that Max and Inga live here all year with their two children. The children were initially home-schooled by Inga and later attended a one-room schoolhouse in Echo Bay, a mere half-hour or so away by small motor boat, a distance to be navigated in all kinds of weather. Talk about lonely and remote! But this is their dream, and we hear them bemoaning the fact that they are going to have to move to Port McNeill, pop 2,641, for the winters as their oldest child is now entering high school.

Max told us a frightening story about their experience with landslides. Last winter in the middle of the night, they were awoken by the sound of a freight train crashing and rumbling thru and past their home so snuggly nestled on the sides of the shore underneath the beautiful cliffs. Panic and fear take over, but they don’t know where to turn, hide or run. The noise continues to grow louder and then ends quickly. When Max goes outside with a flashlight, he finds a wide wedge of landslide just off the side of his house. A few more feet, and it would have wiped out their house and them along with it.

As the evening cools, we all gradually return to our respective boats for dinner. Later, the couple in the beautiful mahogany sailboat I had so carefully glided past to dock invite us over for tea. They had listened to our itinerary and wanted to give us some good anchorages on the west coast of Vancouver.

Max and Pat Maxwell own Liz of Hanko, a former British racing sailboat. Liz is a classic beauty with elegant lines. Her newly refinished mahogany exterior makes her a delight to look at either at dock or cruising the waters.










The next day our two boats leave at the same time. We raise sail when we get out to Tribune Channel and tack up the channel together until Avante veers off to head to Echo Bay and Liz of Hanko continues on to Port McNeill to have a water pump replaced. (It’s not only Avante that needs work now and then.)

Years ago, logging men lived up here with their families. They worked claims, moving from site to site, as the worked demanded. To accomplish this moving of house and kin easily and readily in a topography where finding a level piece of land was just about impossible, they built floating houses that were towed to each site and tied up just off the shore. Some of these sites held enough people to support a one-room school and small store. Though the floating logging camps no longer exist, many people have bought and restored these homes or simply built new ones. Funky little summer tourist communities have grown up, and a few hearty souls, in an attempt to recapture a vanished way of life, have chosen to live in these isolated little bergs full time.

Echo Bay, our next destination, is one such area.



The Bead Lady of Echo Bay, as she calls herself, comes out of her store to lend a hand with docking ropes. As referred to several times previously, one must not rest on one’s laurels when it comes to boating accomplishment. This turns out not to be one of my crowning moments. Not heeding Bill’s warning, I fail to fully account for the wind blowing down our bow as we turn into the wind to come up to the dock. As The Captain warned, the wind ta

kes hold of the bow and blows it off and away from the dock. The poor Bead Lady and Bill have a heck of a time pulling Avante back to the dock. The First Mate earns one of those “I told you so” looks, and I humbly apologize to the Bead Lady. She shrugs it off saying she has seen worse, and we are each given a hug of welcome that we are told is the custom here. Not a bad custom in our often cold, unwelcoming world, and it does make me feel better.

We have a pleasant time talking with her and, of course, head over to look at her store. Our conversation with her confirms what we already suspected. These little tourist areas are suffering this season from both the unusually cold weather and the price of fuel – both of which have been keeping boaters home or closer to home. The season up here is a very marginal two months: July 1st to August 31st. There is some activity prior to and later than those dates, but the make-or-break time for them is those two short months. Things were not looking good.


Echo Bay was once the home of the largest First Nations village in the area. At the head of the bay is a large midden beach as proof to their early inhabitance. These people, like the residents of Mamalilaculla, also knew how to pick a spot. What a gorgeous setting!










That granite wall, looking too perfectly like a theatre backdrop, retains faded native paintings – if one looks hard enough and knows where to look and for what to look.




Remember the one-room schoolhouse that Max and Inga’s children from Kwatski Bay attended? Here it is. Children come from several of these remote communities or from isolated, remote homes to attend. We were there at the close of school and saw the kids walking down to the dock to get into small family motor boats to head on home. Fine on a sunny, warm June day, but I do not envy any of them on a cold, stormy January day.


We take a short hike over to Proctor Bay to visit Billy Proctor’s eclectic museum of local memorabilia that he has collected over the years. The museum is full to busting, but well labeled and organized. We enjoy looking at old logging and fishing paraphernalia and perusing vintage Sears Roebuck catalogs and Time Life magazines. Billy was born and raised here and is the stuff of legend in these parts. He enjoys meeting all visitors to his home site and museum, but, unfortunately, he was not in that day.

After listening to the Bead Lady’s description of the economic issues of these little tourist spots, I feel guilty that we do not have plans to spend the night so that we could help the season by paying overnight dock fees. I head back to her store to say good bye and to buy a pair of earrings to ease my quilt. However, I really do like these earrings and will remember a very pleasant afternoon each time I wear them.

We motor out of harbor and head to Waddington Bay, an area of many, many islands and rocky protuberances. After setting the anchor, we launch The Dingbat to drop the crab trap and to explore. We meander back into little coves with me sitting bow watch for rocks or heavy seaweed that could clog up the motor. Driftwood covers the shore, and I get out occasionally to look for that perfect piece to make a candle holder for the boat. This perfect piece continues to allude me, but I keep looking. The Captain puts up with this search with the resignation learned by all intelligent married men.





Way too big a piece, but look at those gnarly roots!









The Captain waiting patiently while The First Mate clambers ashore to hunt for that special piece of driftwood.









The next morning we find two nice male crabs in our trap, and we leave Waddington Bay carefully working our way thru the many islets into the main channel.

Once in the channel, we pick up the shrimp trap we had dropped on our way in and are surprised, elated and delighted to find 22 of the critters in there – along with one crab of unknown origins. We have choices tonight for dinner – all fresh from the sea!


Winds are up as we sail into Kingcome Channel. Obviously from the look and stance in this photo, The First Mate is not totally at ease. That is not a smile you see on her face, and she is holding on for all she’s worth. This is a big boat to hold on to when it’s anywhere past a 12 degree angle. Though she’s getting there and finds her mind and body more accepting of sailing forces she never imagined they’d be subjected to or even knew existed, she still has a ways to go. The Captain is bamboozled that she could be such a slow learner and still be related to him, but such things do happen. To his credit, he perseveres, and to her credit, she does, too. We’ll make a sailor out of her yet!

The next day we visit another one of those funky little floating towns. We had stopped in Sullivan Bay on our trip north last year. It was our first truly miserable, rainy day. We went into the little restaurant and treated ourselves to great tasting hamburgers and a mountain of French fries. We were looking forward to another such treat even though the weather was beautiful and, therefore, we did not deserve it. We motor toward the long dock. This time wind is not a factor, nor is room. The First Mate has plenty of room, but what she is not aware of is the very strong current that is very soon going to be pushing Avante off the dock. The first pass has to be aborted. On the second pass, two men from a nearby motorboat come forward. It takes these men plus Bill to haul Avante onto the dock. For a moment there, The First Mate thought the current was going to win, and she was going to be set loose to drift and manage alone, but the men were valiant, gallant and, fortunately, strong. I could have kissed them all except that The Captain was not pleased with our demonstration of boat management and wanted no further show from The First Mate - so I kept quiet after offering a sincere thank you. As I said, one cannot let anything go to one’s head on a boat, because anything and everything does seem to happen out there. Hey, at least we didn’t end up stern-tied to the dock and sticking straight out into the bay.

It is delightfully warm once we are in the shelter of the bay. Leaving Avante tied to the dock with those blessed black dock ropes stretched so tightly with the strain of holding her on the dock that one might not be surprised to see a line or two frazzle and fray, we head off to the little restaurant. Our cholesterol orgy is not to be. We are told that the cook had quit the day before miffed that a request for more money had been denied, and the waitress, after a drunken night where she almost fell off the dock and drowned, had left with him. They were expecting another cook in the next day by plane, but we were welcomed to join them for a potluck dinner on the dock that evening. Such is the way with these little places out here. I do believe they have it worse than Telluride!

We thank them and decline dinner for we already had plans to spend our last evening gunkholed in Clayton Bay. I offer Bill a meager lunch of soup and garlic bread before we head off. Out in the harbor, we raise sail even though the wind is light. It, of course, gets lighter. We flounder around for a bit and, then it picks up. We’re heading down a narrow channel to Clayton Bay under a slow sail. There are rocks to steer around and curving shores to navigate. All is quiet. It’s just us on Avante slowly moving along listening to the sound of the water passing the boat, birds in the trees and hidden waterfalls. It must have been like this for Vancouver and all other early explorers. Slowly, quietly passing, listening to the sounds around them, absorbing all they see and straining forward to see the unknown that lies ahead.

We anchor in Clayton Bay. Again, we lower The Dingbat to set both shrimp and crab traps. The shrimp trap now has a new canvas bucket whose sides collapse neatly to contain the rope. The Captain wanted his bright orange bucket back ready for other uses. He is resignedly putting up with this shrimping, and even on occasion helps with the dispensing of the rope.

The next morning, there are no crabs, but we do bring up some of the biggest shrimp we have had to date. Not a bad way to end our gunkholing holiday.

Gunkholing: setting one’s anchor in mud or gunk. Thankfully Avante has a salt water hose to wash off all that wonderful, sticky, gooey, anchor-holding gunk.




We cross the channel to Port McNeil to get ourselves and Avante ready to make the voyage out and around the west coast of Vancouver Island. There are nightmarish stories about the adventures people have had circumnavigating Vancouver Island. Even with careful planning and great consideration given to tides and weather, this west coast passage has proven a nightmare to many. The First Mate refuses to read about or listen to these horror tales. The Captain thinks this is being a bit short-sighted or more like an ostrich with her head in the sand. Let him think what he wants. In this case, she knows that the less she knows, the better off she will be. She tells The Captain that she will read up on everything after the voyage is over. For right now, she knows enough to respect what they are doing, and that’s enough. She’s not going to back out -- so let her do it her way. Dumb and happy has got to be better that sleepless and scared!

In Which The First Mate Is Hung In Effigy

We spend the first night in the Broughton’s in Farewell Harbor, so named because that was the last anchorage for Vancouver’s crew before they set off for home. It is a large anchorage with a wonderful sticky, mud bottom whose one dominating feature is a very well placed fishing lodge. Most fishing lodges we have seen have been pathetic-looking and uninspiring. Some offer little more than camping with a roof over one’s head. Now, if I were to plan a fishing trip, this is the kind of lodge in which I would like to spend my non-fishing time! Talk about location, location, location! A rocky prominence jutting out into a peaceful bay. Someone had vision here.



The Dingbat is lowered so we can set off to drop the shrimp and crab traps. In the morning, both come up empty. The yummy section of salmon backbone I had tied in the crab trap is picked clean, and I am disgusted with whatever amoebic lowlife had the nerve to do that.

We motor to explore the ruins of Mamalilaculla, a once prosperous First Nations village. In “The Curve of Time”, Blanchet and her children visited the village in the 30’s when it still was inhabited. I learn from her that in the summer only the old, sick or very young children lived in these waterfront villages. Most of the natives were off gathering and preparing food for the winter, which is what led Vancouver to think many of these villages were abandoned. She fantasizes that the rhythmic sound of the name came from possible Hawaiian/Polynesian influences, but I learn from other reading that it is truly a Native Nations’ name. Mamalilaculla was the place of the last large Potlatch held by the natives in 1921, and Mamlilaculla means just that: Place of the last Potlatch. A Potlatch was a gathering of clans at which the chief of the clan hosting the event gave away possessions (blankets, knives, cooking utensils, valuable ceremonial carved masks and implements) often to the point of impoverishing himself. However, everyone who attended and received gifts at a Potlatch was then obligated to hold one and give to the same extent. One’s standing and honor were at stake. In a culture possessing no written language, Potlatch’s also served as a way of passing on history in the form of stories and songs. Agreements and bondings were publicly legitimizing, while disputes were aired and settled. Potlatch’s were central to the First Nations’ culture, but the Canadian government, not understanding the true nature of these events and wanting to do everything to assimilate the natives, banned the Potlatch ceremony in 1884. They continued on in secret until this last large one in 1921, which was broken up, natives were arrested, and all their ceremonial carvings and goods were confiscated and placed in Canadian museums. These objects are finally and slowly being returned to surviving native villages. At the end of our Alaskan trip, we stopped in the small First Nation’s village of Alert Bay and toured a museum that they had built as a Long House to store and display many of the articles taken from Mamalilaculla’s last Potlatch. Mamalilaculla was still occupied in the early 1960’s, but by 1970 it had been abandoned. Tours used to be held, but even they too have stopped. Though many of the buildings are still standing, the indomitable temperate rain forest of coastal British Columbia is rapidly taking back its land.



Bill can barely be seen as we forge our way along the overgrown trail to the village. We spot the largest bear scat we have ever seen. We had heard that a Grizzly had swum over from another island and was making this island his/her home. As we walk thru the largest berry patch we also have ever seen, we have no problem understanding why a bear would be delighted to call this island “home”. The First Mate begins singing, which should be enough to scare away any living thing. Even The Captain resorts to an occasional “Hey, Bear. We’re here, Bear”. We finally come up to the village which is only slightly less overgrown than the path into it was.





The roof of this home will soon be covered and lost in vegetation.








I am standing in the front entrance of the ceremonial Long House. Note how vegetation has taken hold across the top log turning it into a giant’s window box.









Here is another example of Mother Nature, having bided her time, proficiently reclaiming what is and always will be rightfully hers.









These people knew how to pick a site! This is the view of the bay just below the entrance to the Long House.







We retrace our steps calling out to the bear periodically. We neither see nor hear bear, and Avante is a welcome sight anchored peacefully below the old jetty on the west side of the island.

We motor over to Mound Island, the anchorage from which we brought in our first crab on last year’s voyage. Since it is a very short distance to Mound Island, Bill decides to tow The Dingbat behind Avante. We drop the shrimp trap out where we see others and motor on into the bay. The bay is deep and long. The only real obstacles are several large rocks toward the front of the bay. We coast to a stop and start to drop anchor well to the left of these rocks. The Captain gives The First Mate the reverse signal so that the chain can slowly be dragged out away from the anchor. She pulls back on the control and slowly Avante begins to move backwards. As is her practice when Avante picks up backwards momentum, she puts the engine in neutral. But, it’s too late. You Boaters out there probably don’t need any further narrative and are now shaking your heads in dismay and disbelief. You guessed it. Just as the throttle is moved into neutral, a loud noise like the lazarette door crashing shut explodes into the air. In fact, The First Mate looks back in bewilderment at the lazarette door that just slammed shut. Why and when was that door opened she wonders. And then it hits her. Oh, shit (pardon me, but there is no other appropriate expletive), she has backed down on the rope to The Dingbat and entangled it in the prop. Oh, shit. “Bill,” she calls out sweetly. “The rope is tangled in the prop.” Bill’s response and expletive are far from elevating or as maturely controlled as The First Mate’s. The anchor has not yet been properly set; it is merely resting on the bottom. We have lost the use of our engine and there are rocks nearby. We were not exactly sitting pretty out there. Bill lets out a huge amount of chain and then heads toward the stern. At about the same time, I have managed to bring up the propeller-cut end of the harness to which Bill had tied The Dingbat’s painter. Seeing that in my hand and The Dingbat slowly drifting down Avante’s side, Bill fears an ever-worsening event. A dinghy adrift could easily get to places we can’t go with Avante, and we are unable to move anyway with the line wrapped around our prop. Bill screams at me to jump. “Jump, what? Where?” asks I. “Jump in the dingy. Don’t let it get away”, gyrates he. The Dingbat is no longer just a step off the side of Avante. It is no longer a “jump” away. It is a leap away. Giving it all I’m worth, I launch myself into space and land splat in The Dingbat. I look like and feel like Bambi on ice only I don’t exactly look cute like Bambi. Dumbo is more like it and not that cute either. At least the tubular inflated soft sides of the dingy did no bodily damage. I turn around, unbruised and kind of pleased with myself, to show Bill the painter still attached to the harness. One end of the harness is tied to a cleat on the deck. The other end is wrapped securely around our prop. The jump was for nothing, but maybe it would help to raise The First Mate’s new groveling status a bit. We still have a prop to free.

In my quilt, I offer to don the wetsuit and go into the 49-degree water to free the rope from the prop. The gallant Captain, who has been fighting a cold, states that that is a good idea since I’m the one who created this mess and it’s a darn good time for me to learn how to do a few of these things for myself. “Okay, I will”, defiantly exclaims The First Mate. I head off to the bathroom because (heaven forbid) what if I have to pee while I’m encased in the wetsuit? I learn later that an act of nature of that kind is not such a bad idea from a warming perspective when the water is freezing. As I sit there trying to do what I need to do but cannot do because I’m scared, the thought hits me that maybe I will not be able to free the rope from the prop. The one area of boat handling in which there is a very real being-of-the-weaker-sex disadvantage for me is my finger strength. I can usually manhandle things around with well-timed shifts of hips, shoulders and arms, but if finger strength or grip is called for, I just do not have it. Being aware of just how dangerous this can be, I have taken to wearing gloves when handling ropes or anything that I think will require me to grip tightly and hold on. Now I am worried that I just will not have the strength to free or cut the rope. If that were to happen, Bill would have to squeeze himself into a wet wetsuit that takes two people to wedge him into when dry. Sitting there ruminating on all this, I’m coming to the conclusion that it might not be possible to wedge his body into a wet wetsuit. Maybe with a gallon container of Crisco, but we don’t have that aboard. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I find the impatient Captain has all the gear out and is already half-way into the suit. He could not just sit there while the boat was at risk, and I was ruminating in the bathroom. I nod my head and quietly and firmly squeeze him into the arms and shoulders of the thing. He dons gloves and booties. I run warm water from the stern shower hose into his suit. Friend, Bob Trenary, from Telluride gave Bill that suggestion for diving in these cold waters. It will not keep you warm for long, but it does help lessen the shock.

One deep breath and down he goes. Seconds later, he is up with the rope that bound. They say that timing is everything. Apparently, the rope had just started to entangle as I put the throttle in idle. There was still power enough to wrap the rope around the prop and cut it, but not enough oomph to create a forcefully tangled mess. There were only 8 wraps around the prop, and Bill was able to easily free it.




The Captain encased in wetsuit holding the offending rope.




The Captain is relieved that the problem could be fixed with only one dive on the prop and scrambles to get out of the freezing water. He is soon stripped of wetsuit, given a thick terry cloth towel and sent off with a kiss to take a hot shower. While doing so, The First Mate brews The Captain a cup of tea liberally laced with brandy, and, thinking she needs one too, makes one for herself as well.

The wetsuit, gloves, booties and facemask have not been brought along on our travels through the Pacific Northwest for pleasure. They were brought for just such an emergency, and emergency equipment must be treated with care. They are rinsed in fresh water and fabric softener. The gloves, booties and facemask are laid out to dry in the sun.

The Captain, with ceremony befitting an 18th Century ship of the Queen’s Navy, hoists “The First Mate” to the shrouds where she is left to swing in the breeze and dry. He thinks this effigy most appropriate. The First Mate does not.


Epilogue: In meager defense, I do feel obliged to note that in the 3 years we have owned and sailed Avante we have never once pulled The Dingbat behind the boat. Primarily that is because The Captain doesn’t like the way it looks with a boat our size and secondarily because he knows how easily this can happen and at the most dreadful of times. Thus remembering to pull in The Dingbat prior to anchoring was not part of my programmed anchoring routine. Being of a certain age, this must be considered when giving The First Mate new or altered assignments on this very complicated boat.

The next morning, six crabs are in our trap. Once again, this Mound Island anchorage has awarded us. However, we were only being teased because five of them are female. Fortunately, the one male meets the size limits thus putting The Captain in a much better mood. He really does like crab and can spend the rest of the day thinking about an appetizer of cold steamed crab with homemade Aioli Sauce.

My poor shrimp trap is not so bountiful. This bug-eyed fellow unhappily enmeshed in the netting is a Rock Fish. He’s too small to keep so I don’t even bother to look up whether we are in an area where one can keep Rock Fish. I am also not so sure I could eat him. He’s so ugly; he’s cute. A halibut, I can eat. They’re just plain ugly.








With The Dingbat secure on the bow and out of harm’s way, we set off to explore more islands.














It’s a beautiful day, and all is right with our world!