ecause 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 putti
ng 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!
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