Avante Races to San Francisco

Positioning Avante in a latitude where we sail in the summer has made our summers in Telluride necessarily short, but this year we made the most of our time home filling the all too short 5 weeks with plenty of golf, bodybuilding ranch work and lots of socializing with local and visiting friends and family. The First Mate tried out a new venue with soon-to-be mini mate-in-training 5-year old granddaughter, Berlin. If the child takes to sailing as eagerly as she did riding, she’ll be at the helm in no time!

Sunday, August 31st, we are back on Avante with 3 days to prepare for our next adventure: sailing south to San Diego, a distance of 1500 miles. We are filled with bittersweet emotions for we have thoroughly enjoyed our two years cruising the pristine waters and beautiful coast and islands of the Pacific Northwest. Fellow world cruisers we have met have told us that one of the hardest things to do is leave one much-loved locale to sail on to the next. If one does want to sail the world, as we hope to do, one must keep on moving – so move we will, south to San Diego and then further south this winter to Mexico.

We have two crew scheduled to join us on the sail from Victoria to San Francisco, a leg of the trip where we hope to head off coast by 100 miles or more to catch the winds south. The trip should entail about 5 to 6 days at sea with watch standers on round the clock. Since The First Mate prefers to serve as Chief Cook and not Watch Stander, we like at least two additional hands on Avante for long passages. The day before we leave Telluride one of our crew calls to tell us he has been subpoenaed and cannot join us. Of course we have a Plan B for just such a contingency and now with only one extra crew we will sail closer to the coast, heading into harbor twice on the trip south to allow everyone a full night’s sleep. We are a bit disappointed, but that’s how things go.

Monday evening we are invited to dinner at the home of Pat and Ean Maxwell, our friends from “Liz of Hanko”, who we met in Kwatsi Bay last June. The Maxwell’s home is on land formerly owned by M. Wylie Blanchet, the author of “The Curve of Time”, the book The First Mate read during this summer’s cruising and referred to many times in previous blog entries. For The First Mate, it was a memorable experience to end her Pacific Northwest stay with the opportunity to walk the land where the Blanchet family had lived. The Maxwell’s home is on a point looking out on the bay toward Sydney. I stood there admiring the view thinking of that woman and her bundle of children heading off in their small boat to explore these waters. That was over 70 years ago! What an adventurer and independent spirit she was!

Not only did we have a wonderful dinner and evening with Pat and Ean, but it was there that our crew shortage problem was solved. Two other sailing couples were also invited so we could meet them and talk the talk (ie: sailing & sailboats). One of the couples was Harmony and John Wills. Their sailboat is a 42’ Sweden, “Ocean Harmony”, which they live on and sail in the Caribbean six months each year. They had commissioned her in Sweden and sailed her in Europe where they lived at the time. Upon returning to Canada, John sailed his boat across the Atlantic to the Caribbean, so he had excellent sailing experience. It turned out he also had the time as Harmony was about to leave for a 3-week visit to England, and he was interested in joining us for the trip south to San Francisco. The next day he and Harmony visited us on Avante to make sure we and the boat were as ship-shape as we and the Maxwells claimed. The two men questioned each other and confirmed as much as possible that they were each knowledgeable and responsible. John signed on. We had our third crew. We were ocean-bound!

Our second crew, Al Adams, arrived that afternoon. Al and wife Linda are friends from our days in Naples, Italy when the two men were in the same Navy flight squadron together. We’ve stayed in touch over the years, but have seen each other infrequently. Al grew up sailing off the coast of California and was eager to join us on this venture. We couldn’t wait to see him. What a great way to spend some time together! If only Linda were with him, too.

That evening we three head to a local pub with Irene and Barry McPhee off “Lanikai”. Remember? We met them while sailing around Vancouver Island, hiked with them, enjoyed cocktails on their boat and dinner on ours. As much as we have enjoyed sailing up here, we have enjoyed meeting other sailors. The camaraderie among fellow sailors is fun and delightful.

In between all this socializing, we work at getting everything ready for us and Avante to head to sea. Our last evening in Canada, we drive down to Victoria to do a little sightseeing with Al and to enjoy a final dinner at “Pescatore’s Fish House”, a favorite harbor restaurant.





Al is as amazed at the varied traffic in the channel leading into the harbor as we were the first time we gingerly inched Avante into the customs dock two years ago.

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The next morning Harmony and John arrive. The Captain gives his crew an information and safety briefing prior to departure.











Harmony officially sends us off and captures the moment as the four of us stand aboard Avante ready to leave.







Our first planned stop is Friday Harbor to clear US Customs, fuel and get those provisions, like meat, that US Customs does not want us to import. The harbor is alight with color and sunshine, and we’re glad that Al is getting his first look at it this way. The First Mate heads off to do the last of the provisioning for the trip. With everything logged in on her Excel spreadsheet and all stowed, we head off to dinner at “The Place”, another favorite harbor restaurant.

Friday, September 5th, is a bit overcast and cooler as we head out and down the Strait of Juan de Fuga to the Makah Indian Reservation village of Neah Bay, our last stop before we head out to sea. Our spirits are high, though both wind velocity and cloud layer are low. We do sail a bit and motor-sail a bit, but mostly just plain motor our way into the harbor to drop anchor for the night. Tomorrow our trip south will really begin.

Day One: Saturday, September 6th, we wake to heavy fog. Not in any particular hurry under these conditions, The First Mate prepares a he-man breakfast of eggs and bacon. At 0940, according to The Captain’s log, we weigh anchor and, with the radar and chart plotter to guide us, slowly motor out of the harbor. We are heading to Cape Flattery and then further out to sea. Winds are light, visibility remains between 200 to 800 yards. This is a dismal start to our great trip!


This photo, taken on our trip north two years previous, is of the lighthouse on Cape Flattery. The fog is just too thick now to see anything. Not even an outline is visible of lighthouse or of the very rocky shore. We are disappointed not to be able to catch a final glimpse of this point on our leave-taking of the Strait of Juan de Fuga.

All day long, we head south and west, angling out to sea, hoping to leave the coastal effect of the fog and encounter those northerly winds out there. The sound of the motor is depressing when we are so eager to raise sail and shut the thing off. Though the winds remain calm, the ocean begins to swell and roll, mostly hitting the boat sideways. Moving about is a challenge, and one the crew is going to have to adapt to as we continue. In the evening, The Captain alters course to head us more into the waves allowing a slightly easier ride for The First Mate to prepare dinner. However, in the confused seas, it is still a challenge to keep body and pots and pans upright.









She thankfully accepts help with the cleaning up after dinner.







Shortly before 8:00 in the evening, winds pick up from the north. The jib is put out allowing us to motor-sail, but we are still in fog and using radar. Dismayed at our bad luck with the start of this trip, we wonder if we’ll ever get out of this fog and feeble wind.

Feeling rested and with conditions benign, The First Mate has offered to stand the 9:00 to 12:00 watch. The Captain and John are in bed when she relieves Al of his watch. She has her foul weather gear on, her water-activated, inflatable lifejacket and her harness which secures her to the boat like an umbilical cord. The fog is thick. There is nothing to see, and nothing is out there to be seen as she monitors the sweep of the radar. Gradually, the horizon becomes more defined and further away. Casting her gaze around, she looks straight up rather than straining straight ahead. There are stars up there. Stars! The fog is lifting. Time noted: 10:00 or 2200 hours.

The Captain has given The First Mate orders to wake him if anything disturbs her. Everything remains as it should until a hazy orangey thing shaped like a sail appears on the far horizon. Quickly, she ducks below to check the radar, but nothing is out there. It must be further out than the radar scan is set. What is it? Is it getting bigger, closer? She can’t stand it. She awakens The Captain who is up like we are under attack or something. He runs on deck to see this thing that’s bearing down on us. What is it? ---- “It’s the moon,” says The Captain. The moon? “Oh, yeah, the moon,” dully whispers the thoroughly embarrassed First Mate. (Well, things do look different at night, especially a foggy night.) The Captain grumbles and ambles off to resume his sleep while The First Mate resumes her watch of the radar, the lifting fog, the brightening stars and the now fully visible, recognizable and setting moon. By midnight when she is relieved by The Captain, the fog is fully lifted, it’s a beautiful night and winds have freshened up to about 15 knots. We are about 60 nm miles off the coast of Washington and heading southwest ever out to sea.

Day Two: Sunday, September 9th, The Captain waits eagerly for the crew to awaken for the day. Winds have remained a steady 15 – 20 knots. The mainsail is raised with one reef. The engine is turned off at 8:20. Silence at last – only it must be noted that there is really nothing silent about sailing in a 15 – 20 knot wind in heavy, swelling seas, but at least the engine noise and rumble are gone. By 12:00, The Captain notes that we are about 100 nm off the Oregon coast opposite Tillamook. It has turned into a beautiful, sunny day, and everybody is in high spirits with Avante grandly under sail. This is exactly as it should be out here on the Pacific Ocean going south.

With the wind building as evening approaches, the second reef is put in around 5:30 in preparation for the night. Though the winds are not high enough to warrant the second reef, it is put in as a precaution and in readiness. No one wants to be scrambling around in the dark on a bouncing, rolling deck doing what could have been done in the daylight. By 9:00 or 2100 hours, winds have built up to 25 knots, and we are flying along at 9+ knots. The First Mate again has offered to stand the 9:00 to 12:00 watch, but she has some doubts about her ability to respond to a sailing crisis. The Captain assures her that she will do just fine. Everyone is within calling distance. Okay, she can do this, and she does. The winds, though high, are steady and sure, and the seas, though rolling, are rolling in a fairly dependable fashion. To her amazement, she enjoys being out there in the dark, all by herself. The stars are bright overhead, and, as she studies them, she notes that there are no planes up there at all. When was the last time you looked up into the night sky and did not at some point see a plane? We are out on the ocean and not in anyone’s flight path. She looks around her at sea level. There is not another light. There is not another boat. Other than the three souls sleeping soundly below decks, she is all alone except for the forceful wind and the bashing ocean. It is beautiful and powerful, and she finds she is really enjoying her time alone out there with the elements. The boat feels like it is on a constant downhill roller coaster ride. There’s no doubt in her mind that we are going south. South is down, right?

At 11:00, The First Mate decides she wants a cup of milk to while away the last hour. She unclips herself and heads below. Pulls out a cup, half fills it with milk, and as she is about to take a sip, a wave hits and the boat rolls. Thinking she has the dining room table behind her, she leans into the table to steady herself. The table is not there. Instead she freefalls to land on her rump on the floor. Fearful that the sound of the fall was enough to wake the dead, she waits for the crew to run out to her aid. No one does. They sleep on unaware. So much for everyone being within "calling distance". Stunned, she stupidly sits there anticipating pain. There is none. Body seems to be intact. Carefully, she unwedges herself from the slot between the dining room table and the wall where she has fallen. Now, does anyone know how many droplets a scant half cup of milk can explode into? Irritated she wipes up what she can see in the dim light, but in the morning is aghast to view just how far and wide that milk flew. There is no easy way to wipe up dried on milk. Anyone who has ever let a toddler with a baby bottle of milk wander around the house knows this. Weeks later, she is still finding milky white droplets and scrubbing them away.

By the time John relieves her at 12:00 or 0000 hours, winds have built up to 25 – 30 knots. Waves have also built up, and the ride on deck is uncomfortable even though Avante is moving thru the water easily and as smoothly and surely as a boat can do in such conditions. The First Mate, however, is relieved to be relieved and gratefully heads to her bunk.

Third Day: Monday, September 8th. At 0600, The Captain’s log notes, “A rough night. Lots of rolling. Wind 28 – 32 knots from NW. Now 160 nm off Cape Blanco, OR.” The day dawns overcast and cold. What happened to the beautiful day we had yesterday? By 8:30, we bring in the jib and run on with just a double-reefed mainsail. We are rolling and rocking. That feeling of a downhill roller coaster ride continues, except occasionally when we do hit the bottom of a wave and the boat rolls uncomfortably moving forward and upward thru the descending water. With no place to go, this huge wave of miserably cold water washes over the bow inundating anyone on deck and in its way. To our amazement (and amusement), it is Al who gets smacked every time with this dousing of crystal cold water. He’s a regular water magnet! The only time The Captain gets hit is when he goes up on deck to talk to Al during Al’s watch. Ka-bang, Ka-whoosh, not a minute after he joins Al on deck. We all wisely stay clear of Al on deck.

At 9:00, The Captain announces to everyone that we have just completed a 216 nm day! The First Mate does not at first realize how momentous a feat this is in a sailboat, but now she knows. John tells us that this trip is completing two of his sailing goals: one is to sail down the coast from Canada to San Francisco and the other is to sail a 200 nm day.

At 12:00, The Captain’s log notes that we gybed to port tack. We are now 175 nm off the coast, and with that gybe have begun the journey back to the coast toward San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. Winds have decreased a bit to 22 – 26 knots, but we are still rocking and rolling. An estimate by the crew put the waves at 14 to 15’ high. (There is no way to get a picture of those waves, but honestly they were significant and not something I could endure watching for long.) The Captain notes in his log that the crew is a “little groggy” but “getting used to watches and the impact of a rolling ride on sleep.” That was The Captain’s impression. The First Mate notes in her blog that everyone is “very” groggy. There seems to be a general feeling of being “under the weather.” No one has much of an appetite. John at one point mentions that this is a good time for nothing more than Granola Bars, which The First Mate remembers that she has on board. Out come the Granola Bars and then some cut-up fruit. That is it for the day. Everyone is on their own and seems content. It is too cold and miserable to be on deck unless one is on watch. If not on duty, everyone stays mostly in his bunk. The prone position is the only safe position unless one is wedged into the Nav Station. If not cleated on deck or prone in bed, the alternative is bumping off corners, walls and doors. None of that is fun. Bundled up in several layers of slippery fleece, The First Mate hunkers down on her bunk trying to stay put without sliding off the bed or being tossed to the floor – which happens twice, first to her amusement and second to her rising irritation. Then The Captain sets up the lee cloth which The First Mate had forgotten about since there had never be a need for it until then. Somewhat secure, she dozes fitfully thinking that if it were raining; maybe one could say we were in a storm, rather than just heavy winds and rolling seas. Was this trip ever going to end?

I don’t remember what I prepared for dinner that night. I do know I fed the crew, but it was nothing that I had planned. Cooking, as I knew it, became impossible. The oven could not be used. Pans would just slide around banging off the insides with contents being spewed and burned all over the oven. The stovetop has these widgets that screw on the grid and hold pans in place. Since they do not work on the sloping sides of the frying pans that I have, I was reduced to one-pot cooking in a straight-sided stew pot. We had plenty of food on board, but I needed to get creative with it in my one usable stew pot. Needless to say, I excused myself from standing the 9:00 to 12:00 watch that third night out. The conditions were just a little too much for me. I was not scared. In fact, I was never scared other than the occasional pitty feeling when the boat hit the bottom of a wave trough and rolled before it rose gallantly into the next wave. Scared really is not the right word to describe my response, though I probably looked scared. It was more the panicked scramble to hang on now or be tossed about to painfully land either on the corner of something or on the floor. I have black and blues to attest to the fact that my feeble scrambles did not always work, and I am sure the rest of the crew, if they would admit it, could show a few, too.

We continue into the night with just the double-reefed mainsail. During the night, wind gusts rise up to 35 knots! Is not that gale force? The First Mate does not even try or want to think of The Captain’s formula of the force on a sail being the squared root of the wind velocity. 35 squared is not a pretty number. According to The Captain’s log we spend “another uncomfortable night with high wind and constant rolling.”

Fourth Day: Tuesday, September 9th. At 0900, The Captain records another 200 nm day! 210 nm to be exact! With two 200+ nm days in a row, we are all jubilant. Could we make it three? We are racing along and talking of arriving in San Francisco a day earlier than expected. However, to temper all that, the weather continues overcast and ever colder, but happily, all aboard seem to be feeling much better and have adjusted well to both the routine and the motion of the boat. The First Mate sets up her computer in the salon wedging herself amongst cushions and works on her blog. She comes up with something for dinner in her one pot and is determined to work on one-pot menus this winter back in Telluride. Casseroles are the answer. Yuck, she realizes that she has not made a casserole since the kids were little! Rice and beans and stuff with Campbell’s Mushroom soup – yuck. There’s got to be more creative mixes than that out there.

At 6:00, we are passing abeam of Cape Mendocino about 100 nm offshore. On the trip north in 2006, we spent a whole day slowly crawling north along this very same coast. Winds were on our nose and current was against us. We made a pittling 4-5 knots of speed over the ground. Cape Mendocino was never going to let go of us. Today we race by and, even though we are not near enough to see the Cape, we are not concerned about it except that we are expecting the winds to drop slightly as we get well south of the Cape. They do drop a bit, and we are able to raise the jib. Around 4:00, winds are down enough to shake out Reef 2, but by 6:30 the reef is put back in as we expect the winds to increase as night falls. Increase they do to 30 – 35 knots! On watch that night, John records a boat speed of 12.2 knots. We are flying to San Francisco. All we need to do is hang on!

At some point that night when Al was on watch, the boat really hits bottom and rolls. Out of the black night, a huge wave slams into the boat and rolls across the deck. In the pitch dark, Al gets hit unawares, smack in the face. Bill and I in our bunk hear him sputtering and grumbling, and we cannot help laughing at his consistent affinity for the cold ocean. Then I hear water running and dripping down the companionway onto the floor. That’s not good. Fearful that someone could slip, I get up and fetch a towel to wipe up the water. There is poor Al sitting on the top steps valiantly standing his watch dripping water from every seam. I give him the towel and fetch another for the floor.

Fifth Day: Wednesday, September 10th. By the early hours of the morning, winds have decreased to 23 – 28 knots. By daylight, they are down enough to shake out both reefs, and by 8:00 they are below 10 knots. We had hoped for another 200+ mile day under sail, but that is not to be. The engine is cranked on, and we motor-sail. By 10:00, winds are so diminished that we take the sail down and continue on under just motor. Though the day is once again overcast and grey, we are not going to let it affect our moods. We are going to arrive in San Francisco today! We will go under the Golden Gate Bridge! We are one full day ahead of schedule.

At 10:55, The Captain’s log notes, “Land sighted behind Point Reyes”. We still have a long way to go, but sighting land means the end is within reach.

Out of the mist, we see a strange whitish stanchion looking like an over-sized mast. It does not seem to be connected to anything. Could that be part of the Golden Gate Bridge? Gradually, it takes shape and the rest of the bridge slowly appears. There it is! We seem to creep toward it.







We shoot pictures of it and of ourselves from every angle.











Slowly, the bay opens up beyond the bridge, and then before we know it, we are under that bridge and into the immense bay of San Francisco. According to The Captain’s log we motored under The Golden Gate Bridge at 4:00. From the water, the bay looks huge, much bigger than it looks from the land.







The wind picks up just before we get to the bridge. Wind surfers are out enjoying the 20+ knot winds in the Bay, and we are impressed with how strong one needs to be to ride those boards and hold on.








We continue on toward the city, enjoying the view as famous landmarks reveal themselves before our eyes. We go under the Bay Bridge and tie up at South Beach Harbor.





South Beach Harbor proves to be a great location and a clean marina. The first thing we all do is head to the showers. Ah, what a luxury after 5 days at sea!








Evening aboard Avante with the Bay Bridge lit up in the background.






We now have several days in the city before the crew departs and The Captain and First Mate continue south to San Diego. Part of the first day is spent repairing a water hose that burst and cleaning the boat. Those chores done, we explore the city meeting for cocktails and dinner each evening. With the marina located right off the Embarcadero, everything we need from shopping, to restaurants, to transportation out and beyond is within easy walking distance. It is a delightful time, as, without the pressures and demands of being at sea, we can sit back, talk and fully enjoy each other’s company.
Our last evening all together is spent being classic tourists in San Francisco. We take the trolley then the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf for dinner. It is sad to know that tomorrow John will be leaving and the next day Al will head home, too. Both Al and John want to join us again on another passage, and there is no doubt in our minds that we certainly are going to do what we can to make that happen!

The trip log records a total of 1069 nm from Canoe Cove to San Francisco. From Neah Bay when The First Mate started numbering the days, it was 859 nm to San Francisco. Most noteworthy is that 615 of those miles were done completely under sail in 69 hours at an average speed of 8.9 knots. Wow, what a ride we had!

I Needed To Know This?

On July 9, we motor out of Tofino to continue our sail down the west coast of Vancouver Island. Once safely out of shallow Templer Channel, we raise sail and point south along the coast in 12 – 15 knots of wind. In two hours, the winds build up to 15 – 20 knots. After experiencing gusts in the 23-knot range, we turn into the wind and put in the first reef. The First Mate is feeling a bit uneasy. This feels stormy, not just windy. Waves and seas are up and seem to be building rapidly. Isn’t it getting to be time to take down our sails and head for shelter?

We sail on. With the wind building around us, The Captain pedantically proclaims to all and sundry (ie: me) that “the force of the wind is a function of the velocity squared.” “And that means?” I inquire, fearing that this sounds like physics again. After several attempted explanations and perambulations of the formula, I do believe I now have the gist of it. So here it goes: 10 knots of wind exerts a certain force on the sail. A 20-knot wind increases that force to 4 times as much as the 10-knot wind. (10 squared is 100 and 20 squared is 400). Another 5-knot increase in wind velocity to 25 knots increases the force by an additional 50% to 625. Thus, a seemingly incidental increase of 5 knots from 20 to 25 knots is a huge increase of force on the sails and definitely nothing to be taken lightly. Prior to this input of knowledge and formula, I simply knew that at 20 knots the first reef went in, at 25 knots the second reef went in and at 35 knots all sails came down, one closed the companion way, went below and prayed. Now, alarmingly, I now know exactly why 20 knots is a big deal and why 25 knots is an even bigger deal. Did I really need to know all this?

We are sailing downwind. The wind, not content with a mere 20 – 23 knots of blowing itself around, now increases to 25 knots and with gusts higher still. After having absorbed The Captain’s physics lesson in wind force on boat sails, The First Mate’s angst is itself many times squared at this increase in wind velocity. It is definitely time to put in that second reef. The Captain tells The First Mate to turn this boat around closer to the wind. Turning into the wind feels like one is increasing force as the sails fill more and the boat heels more when the turn is first initiated. For the unwary and in high winds and steep seas, this maneuver can be unnerving and usually puts the Squawk Meter on alert. Of course, the alternative is to keep on sailing until the wind increases enough to overpower both sail and boat. Not a good thing – so gamely I plant my feet behind this hunking big wheel and turn her into the wind. Two years ago, no way could I have done this. What a change! A sudden revelation flirts with my awareness: I feel confident up here handling the boat. I can do it. Avante can do it. Way to go, gal! Way to go, boat! To my further amazement, I actually find myself aware of the feeling that holding onto this bucking bronco (May I even say “taming” as in “controlling” this bucking bronco?) is exciting and fun. That realization is a real eye-opener for this landlubber. Wow – There really is hope of making me a sailor yet. Somehow, The Captain has had faith when and where The First Mate did not. What a great team we make! Our little joke for years has been that I am the one that makes him more human. True. However, he is the force that has gotten me to adventure forth and do more in life than I ever would have done on my own. A good team is worth its weight in gold! We’re Gold!

Together we get that second reef in and then take down the jib to further decrease sail exposure in the high wind and heavy seas. We are heading into Barkley Sound and its sheltering group of islands. According to the guidebooks, Effingham Bay, which is not far from the entrance into the sound, is sheltered and protected. We head in and drop sails in the lee of Effingham Island. Lee it may have been, but winds are still blowing 18 – 20. We motor down the length of the island to circle up into the bay. There are 2 boats already in this not very large bay. We wonder that anyone could call this a sheltered location. Though there are several small islands to hunker down behind, there is nothing significant to stop the NW wind bearing down on us. However, winds are supposed to drop in the evening and a quick study of the charts shows us no other nearby anchorage with enough depth for us. So, we anchor, uncomfortable with the fact that with the other boats already in place, we don’t have as much room to put out all the chain we would like. As evening
approaches, winds do not abate. Instead they increase to over 25 knots. This is not going to be a comfortable night. Both of us are alert and watching. The shore behind us is close. The other boats are close. Shortly before sunset, the couple on the boat nearest us is up on deck and moving around. To our surprise, they pick up anchor and motor out of the bay. Where they are headed at this late hour is beyond us, but we are not dismayed to see them go. The Captain decides to pick up our anchor and move over to where that boat was. This move will put us more in the shelter of a low-lying island and will allow us to put out more chain for better security in this building wind. Holding the boat steady and in place against a 20 to 25 knot wind as the anchor comes up is not easy. Holding the boat in position as the anchor is redeployed is not easy either. With relief, we are re-anchored, more chain is out, and we do feel more secure – somewhat. We head to bed both still dressed in our fleece and ready to hit the deck if necessary. With one eye on the wind meter in our cabin and an ear alert for the bing of the anchor alarm, we fitfully doze. It is not until about 3:00 in the morning that the winds finally decrease to the low teens. What a night!

Behind these low-lying islands is the sheltered and protected anchorage the guidebooks described. Effingham Bay – boy, can we make a play on that name!

Our plans are to spend the day exploring the islands in Barkley Sound, but our first objective is to find a good, sheltered anchorage. Effingham Bay is not it! Winds are supposed to keep on blowing and increasing thru the day just like yesterday. The first anchorage we try, after 1 1/2 hours of motoring into the island group, already has three boats in it, and there is not enough room for Avante. We then head to an area recommended for the fishing fleet in stormy conditions. It proves to be a large open bay area that feels anything but sheltered and is not very pretty. We decide to anchor, have lunch and study the charts. There are anchorages deeper into the island group, but they all take a few hours to motor to and we do not really want to do that. The Captain decides to head back out into the main channel to check out conditions in Effingham Bay. The First Mate is not excited about this idea, but as we head south to Effingham Island, it becomes quite obvious that with the increasing winds and turbulent seas, Effingham Bay is going to be every bit as dicey as it was the night before. So, we about face and head deeper into the island group. Shortly before 4:00, we motor into an area called Pinkerton Islands. It’s a pretty area and so sheltered from the winds that the warmth of the sun shines thru and down on us. The First Mate is delighted.

After the adventure of the previous day, The Captain allows The First Mate a full morning to relax, explore and to fish. We launch The Dingbat and head off. The Captain has his book, and The First Mate the fishing pole. She lowers that hook and jerks it up and down trying to imitate some kind of edible morsel for the fish below. Nothing happens. Not a bite that she is aware of. The Captain, unable to watch this exhibition of ineptitude, takes over and within a minute of lowering and jerking the hook, he lands a fish. A nice rock cod, ugly but edible. How did he do that? He patiently re-explains the finesse of this whole fishing exercise and hands the pole back to The First Mate. Down goes the hook. With straining effort, she concentrates on trying to feel something nibbling on that hook so many feet below her. She feels something. She pulls up sharply. There’s tension. Something is there. She reels it in. It’s another rock cod. Wow! With The Captain’s admonition not to swing the fish and hook wildly into the boat or anywhere toward his exposed body parts, she gets the fish into the dinghy. The Captain takes the fish off the hook and strings it with the other one. Two fish – not yet enough for dinner. Three fish later, and we have dinner and lunch. Fantastic! The First Mate is now a fisherperson. She’s got the hang of this. Whatever took so long?




We are now almost down the full length of the western coast of Vancouver Island. At 2:30 on the afternoon of Friday, July 11th, we head out of the Pinkerton Islands to cross the Seachart Channel to the little town of Bamfield. This is the traditional holding or staging point for one’s return trip up the Strait of Juan de Fuga. With winds funneling in from the sea, the Strait often experiences gale force winds. Boats sit in Bamfield waiting for good winds or no winds to head down the Strait. Our weather for the following day is supposed to be relatively calm in the morning with good wind in the afternoon.

Bamfield is a pretty town located on both sides of a narrow harbor entrance. We motor up and down it enjoying the scenery, but we decide to anchor in nearby Port Desire. We enjoy a quiet evening on Avante and head to bed early, for tomorrow we have a 5:00 am departure. This is not The First Mate’s ideal time to be up and about, but we have a 90-mile day ahead of us to reach Victoria Harbor. We need to arrive in the harbor prior to 5:00 pm in order to obtain a berth before the harbor office closes for the evening.

The rising sun and the early morning light just about make the getting out of bed at that hour worth the eye-opening effort.

As we head out toward the open sea, the water is like glass. After several days of high winds and turbulent seas, the contrast is striking.

Expecting good winds and a great sail, our trip down the Strait of Juan de Fuga, this last leg of our circumnavigation of Vancouver Island, is a bit of a disappointment. We spend the whole day motoring up the Strait. It is not until we reach Race Rock, about an hour from Victoria, that winds pick up enough to sail, but by then we are boat weary and just want to get into the harbor. Ironically, Barry and Irene off Lanikai later tell us that they had had a triumphant sail up the Strait to Victoria in 20-knot winds several days after our venture. Timing is everything – as that saying goes.

We arrive in Victoria Harbor at 4:00 and are tied up by 4:45 right below the Empress Hotel. The harbor is bright, shiny and alive with activity. There’s a bagpiper playing. The carillon is chiming. It is a wonderful show. What a welcome! We truly love Victoria Harbor.

Looking around, The First Mate sees everyone in shorts and T-shirts. Looking down, she sees herself in layers of fleece and storm boots. Something is definitely amiss here. Quickly she descends to reemerge on deck in warm-weather attire. Then the brand-new (“Designer” as The Captain disparagingly calls them) boat cushions are brought up followed by the teak deck table. Two gin and tonics appear, and we toast ourselves for a grand trip around the west coast of Vancouver Island. For The Captain, it was an undertaking in which he can take pride. For The First Mate, it was a learning opportunity that increased her sailing knowledge and experience and boosted her confidence in herself as a sailor.

We spend two delightful days in Victoria before returning to Canoe Cove. With Avante secure and clean, we head back to Telluride for the rest of the summer. Friends and family, golf and hiking await us in the mountains.
In September, we will head back to Avante and turn her south to San Diego, returning to where we started out two summers ago. At that time, we sailed north and found ourselves pounding into the wind and the waves for most of the way. It should be a much better sail heading south – or so we hope. From San Diego, we will head further south to Mexico in January, 2009.

We have thoroughly enjoyed our sojourn in the Pacific Northwest. The San Juan and Gulf Islands have been our playground. Our 3,000-mile voyage to and from Juneau, Alaska and our circumnavigation of Vancouver Island have been our challenges providing both of us with necessary learning opportunities. Though one can never be too confident on a boat, we feel more than ready and are eager to head south and take on new adventures. Need it be said that both The Captain and The First Mate are eager to shed the fleece and sail into the warm weather of Mexico?

Crab Trap Mishap

Having safely rounded Brooks Peninsula, we are anchored in Columbia Cove. There is supposed to be a trail leading from the cove out to the ocean where there is a broad expanse of soft beach. We head off to find the trail. Find it we do, but it has been many years since anyone has maintained it.



We climb over fallen trees, clomp thru mud, fight our way thru vegetation and reach the beach.














It was worth the effort. The fog has lifted. It is beautiful, peaceful and all ours.





We hike along enjoying the expanse of beach and the rushing sound of the surf.



The First Mate finds a driftwood tree with rocks securely held by roots that had grown around them.















The Captain finds a float to attach to the shrimp trap in hopes of increasing its visibility at sea. Pleased with this find, he hauls it home.










We even do a photo shoot. Look! We were there – on a beach on the West Coast of Vancouver Island!








In the early hours of the morning, I again wake Bill. This time it is not the sound of a freight train barreling down on us. This time I hear birds. Lots of birds, twittering away above our heads, on the deck, all around us. I am told that it is only the wind in the wires, but there is no wind I note to him. Then I am told I am imagining things – which I am NOT. Then I am told to go up on the deck and check it out – which I will not do by myself. Then I am told to GO TO SLEEP – which he promptly does and I do not. I lay there listening to my “imagined” bird twitterings and beepings. The next morning Bill is up ahead of me making cappuccinos. We are socked in by fog so thick we cannot see the shore. Knowing we will not be going anywhere soon, I luxuriate in the warmth of the covers and wait for my cappuccino. Next thing I hear is Bill muttering and clomping around on deck. The deck is covered in bird poop! Yes, Bird Poop – as in my imagined twitterings and beepings. Avante became the overnight stopping place for a flock of LBDB’s (Little Black Diving Birds). Three are still stuck in the wheel well. Bill disentangles them and sets them loose on the water where they lay there feebly flapping those useless wings. I am called up to watch this exhibition. They look like fledgling LBDB’s who have not yet learned how to fly, but how they ever got across the water and up on Avante’s deck is beyond us. Crazy little birds!







The fog finally lifts enough, and at 12:10 we set off. We pick up the crab trap and are rewarded with one of the largest uglies we have seen to date. Wherever these guys lurk, there are no crabs.









Our destination is the Bunsby Islands, but, as we leave our anchorage, we hear another boat, “Constellation Orion” on the radio talking about the remains of a whale on a beach not too far from us. Off we go to find a dead whale. We find the cove and also find Lanikai, the Sabre 402 whose owner Bill had talked to way back in Port McNeil. They had been to the beach to see the remains already and were having lunch before departing for the Bunsby Islands. We head off to the beach, see the bones, absorb the stink, and neither of us have any thoughts of lunch after that! It was interesting - bones being bones and all. We were able to see a good deal of the spinal column under the water. The size was certainly impressive.













Part of the spinal column sized next to the 10’ tender.






We head over to Bunsby Islands, lower The Dingbat to explore and then head over to Lanikai where Irene and Barry McPhee invite us aboard for cocktails. They have two fishing poles on their boat. These are real fisherpeople or at least as much into fishing as owners of sailboats usually are. We lament our mutual failure at catching any fish in these waters. They are determined to fish tomorrow. We agree to try also, and I offer homemade fish chowder from my frozen stash in the freezer if none of us catches a fish.

Wednesday, July 3rd, is another foggy, wet, overcast day. On our way to Dixie Cove, we fish along the edges of a group of fishing boats. No luck. Both of us are of a fishing mentality which maintains that if you don’t catch something within the first half hour, it’s not going to happen – at least not there. So we move on, but by now we are bored and cold and just want to drop anchor and turn on the heat. We head into Dixie Cove dropping the doubly-marked shrimp trap on the way.














Warmed up, I start making fish chowder for two. Lanikai motors in and anchors near us. Upon hearing their lack of fishing success, I happily pull out a few more ingredients. The fish chowder is filling and warm. Irene adds a great salad. To our delight, the evening clears
and warms up enough so that we can enjoy a dessert of Swiss Chocolate and Cappuccinos on deck while watching the sunset.
















Lanikai in the evening light. Can you pick out the rainbow just over the mountain top?










Sunset in Dixie Cove.





















The next morning we haul up nine (9) shrimp! Enough at least for an appetizer. “Nothing better,” says The First Mate. Lanikai and Avante weigh anchor to head over to Rugged Beach where there’s another good hike. This one is actually maintained and in an area used regularly by kayakers. From there we head to Queen Cove. We actually get in 4 good hours of sailing with winds from the SE at 12 – 16 knots. Grey skies and low visibility do dampen some of the joy of sailing.

We anchor in Queen Cove after dropping that shrimp pot. To our amazement, the weather has turned warm and sunny, but it is now after 5:00. Overcast skies during the day breaking into warm sun in the late afternoon and early evening has been the pattern of late. This is definitely not Camelot!


Friday, July 4th – Rain and more rain. We have 30 rather uninteresting miles to travel to position ourselves to go around Estevan Point. Since the weather forecast for the next day does not look good for going around this point, The Captain deemed it useless to motor out those 30 miles in the rain. “Good idea”, thinks The First Mate. We stay put and work on – what do you think? – boat chores!

We delay our start on Saturday until almost 1:00 due to fog and rain, but finally we just decide to go. After a dreary 5 hours of motoring we anchor in Friendly Cove. Anchored below a Canadian lighthouse in this cozy bay, it certainly feels friendly and welcoming after an uncomfortable and cold passage. We spend a cool evening hunkered down on Avante, but when the next morning dawns sunny, we head ashore to explore the area.

Friendly Cove received this name in commemoration of many agreements and treaty signings that took place there over the centuries. The most remembered appears to have been the one in 1792 when Captain Vancouver from England and Captain Quadra from Spain met to sign and carry out the terms of the Nootka Convention in which Spain relinquished all its claims to the Northwest lands. Spain had held these claims since the 1400’s, but due to internal problems and general lack of interest, they apparently were unwilling to engage in a war with England to keep their claims. The old Catholic church in the cove has 2 elegant stained glass windows depicting this event. The church also holds many well preserved First Nations’ carvings. This area has been designated a National Historical Site by the Canadian Government, and plans are in the works to one day build a museum and educational center. Needing a huge capital investment, it is going to be quite a while, if ever, for these plans to reach completion.












































Hiking along a water front path and down to the beach, we find an old cemetery with crosses and tomb stones eerily peaking up thru heavy shrubbery and vines.







Friendly Cove proved to be a delightful stop made all the more welcoming by the sunny weather that morning.











We pulled anchor at 1:00 to head to Hot Springs Cove eagerly anticipating the soaking that those hot waters meant. We raise sails right out of the harbor and neatly round Estevan Point in rolling seas and 15 – 18 knot winds. We drop sail at the entrance to Hot Springs Cove. It is a long motor down the channel to the cove, which proves to be uninteresting and not at all pretty, but we are looking forward to those soaking, aromatic waters. Who cares what the immediate scenery looks like?

It is 7:00. Without further adieu, we lower The Dingbat to head ashore for our baths. Our timing is perfect, for all the tourist traffic flying or boating in from nearby Tofino have left for the day. There is a mile-long wooden walkway leading thru dense vegetation to the hot springs. Over the years, boaters have carved the names of their boats in the wooden planks adding a certain charm to the area. When we finally arrive at the springs, we find the area deserted of all forms of humankind. We are quite pleased with ourselves and our timing.











A series of rocky pools lead from a waterfall of hot water down to the ocean. Each pool is increasingly cooler as the water moves farther from its heated source. In the cold, damp evening air, we find ourselves in the hottest pool nearest the waterfall. What a luxury to soak in those warm waters looking out on the ocean and to have the whole place to ourselves!



Today, Monday, July 7th, we are heading to Tofino, a popular adventure holiday and tourist town along this western coast. Again, we have a great sail in 15 – 18 knot winds down to the Templar Channel leading into Tofino. Sails are dropped, and we slowly navigate our way thru this well marked, but shallow channel. We don’t dare wonder off course, for we could run aground quite quickly. We are relieved to get thru the channel and into Tofino harbor, but here too depth is an issue for us. After fueling, we slowly motor pass several small marinas that look somewhat decrepit and uninviting. According to the charts, these marinas are also too shallow for us. We decide to head back to the harbor entrance to anchor there when an attendant from one of the marinas motors out to talk to us. Upon determining that Avante’s 9’ keel is indeed too deep for his marina, he advises us to anchor just off Arret Island right across the harbor. This we do, and it proves a great anchorage sheltered from the wind, though not from the current which is the strongest we have ever seen in any harbor.



This is to be a restocking and laundry stop, for which The Captain has allocated The First Mate one full day. We drop The Dingbat to head ashore to reconnoiter and find dinner. As we motor in, we drop the crab trap. There are lots of crab traps all over the bay, and many appear to be from commercial fisherman. We figure this must be the place for these succulents.

We walk the town from one end to the other. It does not take long, and I am disappointed with the lack of interesting stores. Even the grocery is a huge disappointment. Tofino had been described to us as a smaller version of Carmel, California. Way smaller, for sure – and a ton more primitive. We see no similarity at all, no way!

The First Mate spends the next day doing several loads of laundry in a rather sad Laundromat. Upon returning to the dock where she is retrieved by The Captain, her gallant dinghy chauffeur, she is informed that her crab trap has disappeared. “What do you mean my crab trap has disappeared,” she inquires in alarmed disbelief. The Captain informs her that he has been circling around the spot where we dropped the crab trap and he has motored both up and down possible paths the current could have dragged the thing, and he cannot find it. Laundry is deposited on the boat, grocery list is picked up, and The First Mate retraces her path across the harbor, all the while looking for her vanished crab trap. She runs into that same marine attendant who tells her that the current is so strong in the harbor that not only do traps get dragged, but floats get pulled under to suddenly pop to surface at slack tide. “Look for your trap at slack tide,” he optimistically advises. Look we do. Like lost souls, we wander the harbor in The Dingbat at slack tide. We see many floats bobbing on the surface as the current ebbs, and anxiously head over to check each of them out. But we cannot find the one bearing my name. I am disconsolate. This is beyond belief. This cannot be happening, but it is. The trap cannot be found. My crab trap! After all I put Bill thru with the thing, will he ever allow me to buy another? As we motor out the harbor the next day, my eyes are scanning all around looking one last time for the crab trap. What a dismal departure! The First Mate is in tears, and The Captain is wondering why in heaven’s name it could not have been the stupid shrimp trap! He would have gladly given the sea the shrimp trap. It could have had the two floats, too. Hearing those thoughts, The First Mate is somewhat consoled by the thought that the procurement of a new Crab Trap may be a possibility at a future date – like when we get to Mexico. Ever the optimist, she just knows there are crabs down there -- for sure! All waiting for the taking!