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.