Red Skies In Morning:
An Unforgettable Stormy Passage
from Juneau to Seattle
by Elsan Zimmerly
Copyright 2010 Elsan Zimmerly
Smashwords Edition
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As we approach Marmion Island after departing Juneau, I look ahead and spot whitecaps, black water, a dark and looming sky. It's too early in the spring for a boat trip, weather's still ugly, I protest, as if Hank would heed my warning and turn back. There is a marked difference between winter and summer storms here in the far north. We're still experiencing the winter variety. Our short daylight hours are even shorter with limited light in this heavy, overcast weather.
Tide’s ebbing as we cross Taku Inlet. Water abruptly becomes vertical. Our sailboat, Fazbo hurls upward as if lurching towards the threatening sky then plunges downward as if diving to the ocean's bottom. Foamy white water oozes away from the stern. Up, over and down. Thud! Swoosh! The boat plunges along. It takes me a while to adjust to being on the water. I fight it like an oncoming cold. This is just the beginning of a long journey and already I'm cold and tired, my toes are numb, my fingers stiff. Winds over 30 knots, seas steeply stacked. There's little light left in the day and we're not making much headway so we head for Taku Harbor and anchor for the night. Dark and sleep come quickly.
A farewell trip with his first sailboat, Hank is saying goodbye to a friend. My mind wanders back to that precious moment several years ago when we first sailed her up the channel to Juneau, under the bridge and home.
A passage ending. Another beginning. I flew to Ketchikan to join Hank for the final segment of Fazbo’s journey from Seattle to Juneau. My part short in comparison. I couldn’t possibly share his profound feeling of accomplishment after a long journey's end. Circling Juneau's downtown harbor, we waited for the tide to go out giving enough clearance to sail Fazbo under the bridge. When the water level dropped 20 feet, Hank steered the boat towards the bridge and I quickly peered up the mast and watched to ensure we really would make it under. Easy.
As we approached the entrance of the harbor, Fazbo's new home, my eyes glanced over to his. Eyes tell it all and my heart softened. Quiet, joy-filled tears trickled down Hank's cheeks. I was surprised by such joy for it was only then that I deeply understood the importance of this moment. A vision dreamed a lifetime. Our greatest joys and deepest satisfactions are the ones that touch those raw, vulnerable places. - ez Journal Entry
Now, with mixed feelings, we're sailing south to sell Fazbo and buy another kind of sailboat. When he bought Fazbo, Hank’s primary interest was sailboat racing. We met the spring after he purchased the boat and just before sailing her to Juneau. Boating, any kind of boating, was foreign to me. Hank was the first sailor I'd known, Fazbo the first sailboat I'd ever stepped aboard. I'd been a hiker, backpacker, lover of mountains all my adult years before coming to Southeast Alaska.
Hank raced Fazbo for a few years till the fascination of racing wore off and the world of cruising enticed both of us. During the racing years my sailing experience remained limited as I never raced with him. Wasn’t ready to test our new marriage to the highly competitive aspects of racing. So I never considered taking this trip. Too long, too early and too little experience.
A reliable friend, thrilled at the chance, offered to accompany Hank but two days before the departure date a family emergency called him away. Couldn’t find another person to go on such short notice but Hank wasn’t about to cancel the trip either. Reluctantly I offered. The alternative—Hank going it alone—concerned me even more than making the trip with him. It was April and still winter this far north, as the weather hadn't shifted yet. He was taking the boat to Seattle and it would be the longest voyage I’d ever taken on any boat let alone a small sailboat. With only two days to arrange my life and prepare for the trip there was little time left to harbor anxiety or expectations.
It’s early morning in Taku Harbor and we begin an endless ritual of listening intently to the marine weather forecast: wind velocity at strategic locations, barometric pressure, extended forecast. Another storm on the way, better leave quickly and get a little further south before it hits.
Tide still coming in as we leave Taku Harbor. The water moves in a steady, rhythmic surge. High overcast this morning with a scattering of low, wispy clouds clinging to the mountainsides. Icy cold air. Keeping abreast of tidal movements, checking wind conditions and observing subtle changes are now essential bits of information.
Tidal surge eases away. Slack tide. Steven's Passage is like a huge bathtub filled to the brim, sloshing back and forth. Icebergs ahead! Watching the water intensifies. Another tidal shift. Water pours out of Port Snettishan churning and mixing the various currents. Confusing waters. Iceberg at ten o'clock. Sumdum Glacier comes into view as we cross the entrance to Holkham Bay. Two long spindly arms radiate from the bay to terminate in tidewater glaciers, the genesis of these icy monsters with big bellies that lurk beneath the water's surface.
Morning's drizzle turns to light rain. Ahead the mist and rain obscure the coastline. Suddenly a flash in the water as several Dall porpoise swim alongside Fazbo and play in the wake. Looking into the water over the rail, I eagerly watch their dark, swift bodies surge through the water, break the surface with a quick splash, then slip easily again into the water. After ten or fifteen minutes, perhaps tiring of our slow pace, they disappear as quickly as they appeared. A friendly break from hours of intensely watching the water.
Brother's Islands ahead to starboard and our next anchorage to port, Fanshaw Bay, an abandoned fishing and fox farm settlement. Willawaws spin us around all night long and we barely sleep. Can't pick up a radio signal in the morning so we venture out to check conditions and listen to the forecast. Once in Frederick Sound things look bleak. Gusts are over 30 knots, misty clouds settle in, squalls race toward us pouring rain in sheets. But Hank won't turn back. Must keep moving. Another storm coming and this one not far away. He promises we won't go far, we'll take refuge in Farragut Bay, a short distance ahead. Won’t try for Petersburg. We barely creep along, making little headway. He’s never entered Farragut so I read aloud the instructions from the chart book for safely entering. No problem, just head east once inside.
Finally, we're close to Farragut Bay. Winds pick up to 40 knots. Currents coming from myriad directions, tossing us this way, then that way. My heart races as we pound up and down then roll from side to side. The outer turmoil affects my inner rhythm. It becomes harder to quiet my fear. Squalls, one right after the other dump buckets on us then race off behind us. Looks worse ahead. Can barely see across the channel through the mist as we're tossed up and over and between swells. Almost at the entrance to Farragut, but the water's more turbulent, going every which way. We bounce around like a plastic toy. As Galileo and others puzzled for centuries, I wonder where this storm began and what natural laws govern its existence, its path. And what becomes of the storm when it's gone? Where does the rage and fury go?
Hank's been at the wheel all morning, the wind and rain beating on him. His stamina amazes me at times. Then again, maybe he's frozen to the wheel. Maybe he's hypothermic and oblivious to everything. I'm freezing sitting under the canopy. Afraid to move for fear of falling overboard.
Hank shouts over to me that it's blowing fiercely out of Farragut and he doesn't want to attempt going in. Winds are coming from the interior mountains. We can barely hear each other over the thunderous sounds of wind and water. He points across the channel and shouts, I'm heading over, should be calmer. We'll go all the way into Petersburg. I'm disappointed, but looking into the bay, I agree. Merlin's cave, a stewing, boiling caldron of black doom. All my thoughts are focused on a safe shelter from the battering, the cold, the rain. Going to Petersburg prolongs this wild ride but offers real refuge.
When he first saw the sea, Thoreau wrote, It is a wild, rank place and there is no flattery in it…naked nature, inhumanly insincere, wasting no thought on man. Along the Maine coast Thoreau witnessed a raw, untamed, wild nature. That is how I feel now and I'm not willing to be so intimate. Yet in truth I am with every breath I take.
Sea conditions improve enough for me to feel comfortable at the wheel. Going below, I make a pot of tea, take a quick gulp or two then take the wheel and give Hank a break.. He needs a rest and time to warm up. The latest weather report says winds are gusting over 40 knots in the vicinity of Petersburg. Soon Fazbo tosses about less and less and all is bearable again. Hugging the coastline, we inch our way towards Cape Strait. Once around the point the wind subsides to 25 knots. We continue and soon I spot the buoys marking the entrance to Wrangell Narrows and Petersburg beyond. A long, tense day. We’re both tired and cold. Our concentration so intense looking ahead that neither of us have glanced behind for some time, so we're startled when the Taku state ferry blows its horn and overtakes us. As it streams by we rock and roll in its wake.
Inside Wrangell Narrows, heading to port. Safety. Warmth. Food. A shower. Sleep. Simple pleasures. Standing beneath a hot streaming shower at the marina, my seemingly boneless legs continue their wavering movements even though I'm on solid ground. Earth's stability is lost to me. Seems like I'm walking on an enormous bog shifting and rolling beneath my feet. Exhausted, we both sleep soundly.
Heavy rains and high winds continue through the next day so we remain in port and later in the day treat ourselves to a walk in the blowing rain and the rare chance to stretch our legs. Earth again feels stable and secure. Tomorrow's forecast sounds favorable for an early departure.
With the dawn, milder weather and calm water. Winding our way south in Wrangell Narrows I read the chart and navigate through this narrow and shallow tidal waterway that separates two large islands, Mitkof and Kupreanof. The channel is well marked by an extensive navigational system including beacons, ranges, lights and buoys. Supposedly the highest concentration in any passage in the world. It’s fun finding the course through the narrows.
It’s John Muir's birthday and as every spring on this day in some small way I pay tribute to this man who so greatly influenced my life. I admire his amazing ability to unite the physical and spiritual worlds with a vision encompassing imagination, emotion and intuition. Not only do his words continually inspire me, his pure excitement and enthusiasm convinced me to accept a job in Alaska. In the quiet of early morning as we meander along, I read aloud from Muir's Travels in Alaska.
Standing here, with facts so fresh and telling and held up so vividly before us, every seeing observer must readily apprehend the earth-sculpturing, landscape-making action of flowing ice. And here, too, one learns that the world, though made, is yet being made; that this is still the morning of creation; that mountains long conceived are now being born, channels traced for coming rivers, basins hollowed for lakes; that moraine soil is being ground and outspread for coming plants, course boulders and gravel for forests, finer soil for grasses and flowers, while the finest part of the grist, seen hastening out to sea in the draining streams, is being stored away in darkness and built particle on particle, cementing and crystallizing, to make the mountains and valleys and plains of other predestined landscapes, to be followed by still others in endless rhythm and beauty.
At Point Alexander, the south end of the narrows, a bald eagle sits as sentinel perched atop a red and white diamond-shaped day mark positioned on a reef off the point. Its black wings spread open like a fan. Drying off after yesterday’s deluge.
Around Five-mile Island, with a distant view of Wrangell I look over to the controls and spot a blinking red light. The oil light. Hank quickly turns off the engine then climbs below for a look. Wind is calm but there is a strong current. No danger, we can drift for awhile.
There’s no oil in the engine. Can't find any leaks, there's just no oil left. Hank pours in 3 new quarts, starts up the engine and we're off again towards an unplanned stop at Wrangell to check out the engine. Turns out the oil was blown into the air breather cap and sucked back into the engine. On our way again leaving Wrangell and solid ground behind. Checking the oil becomes an hourly habit.
South through a fascinating passage called Zimovia Strait. We sailed through here years ago when we brought Fazbo north and I've yearned to return. Misty today with a scattering of light rain now and again. Clouds hang low caressing the water. My favorite times on the water are when we sail through intimate, narrow passages. Trees and rocks and shells are almost close enough to touch. Close enough to hear the voices of the land. Out on broader channels I feel separated from the land, a distant observer. A stranger.
Southeast Alaska intrigues and mystifies me. Excitement and keen awareness are constant companions. In truth it is a land of extremes. Weather shifts from calm to chaos with rapidity. Land shifts abruptly from easy beach access to steep, treacherous cliffs. Moods shift from quiet melancholy to ecstatic pleasure to fear.
It is spirit of place that draws me to this land. It is spirit of place that I long to know deeply. Only in times like this when I take the time to listen to the land that I get a glimpse of that other world. Yet I know it takes many lifetimes, many generations to intimately know the land and acquire knowledge and understanding of its systems. We cannot duplicate this knowledge with all the scientific data we collect and certainly not with our rushed, transient way of living. We simply no longer live on the land long enough, said Luther Standing Bear. A people had to be born, reborn, and reborn again and again on a piece of land before beginning to come to grips with its rhythms.
How easily we limit spirit of place by elevating it to a place of worship, to poetry, romantic settings, adventures, special scenic spots. Wrapped in protective covering like a gift. I don't mean to imply that protection isn't needed. It is. Yet it has become the only way we demonstrate value of natural systems and we forget what the land means to our well-being, our sanity. All land and all life that abounds within it are special, deserving our respect.
Near the illusive entrance to Myer's Chuck, we quickly discuss whether to stay here tonight or press on to Ketchikan. Late in the afternoon with little daylight left but the wind is light and variable, the water calm. Unusual for Clarence Strait. Need to take advantage of the conditions and make up for lost time with this space between storms. Another on the way and we’d rather be in Ketchikan to wait it out. Seems to be the theme of this trip.
As we sail by the entrance to Myer’s Chuck Hank reminds me with a chuckle of my first visit to Myer's Chuck. He’d sailed into this tiny community many times and was anxious to bring me here. So on our way north with Fazbo we stopped here for a lunch break. Headed for the dock where a commercial fishing boat was tied up. Approaching the dock, a dark-haired, rough-looking man with a pipe in his mouth meandered over from his boat and waited for us. As I went forward with the bowline, he motioned for me to throw it over to him, which I attempted to do. To my dismay, the line whacked the pipe out of his mouth sending it flying into the air then falling into the water. He never fumbled or broke from his task. I felt foolish, but there was nothing I could do. I apologized as I moved quickly to throw the stern line although I doubt he could hear me. With a snicker this rough-looking character calmly tied the line, then leaned over and fished around for his pipe. He looked up at me with a smile and said, not to worry, it floats. And it did. He pulled the pipe from the saltwater, shook it off a few times, then put it in his back pocket. A grand entrance and a great greeting! He seemed no worse for the inconvenience and even invited us over for a pot of freshly brewed coffee.
It's 11:30 at night and we’re crossing Behm Canal heading for Ketchikan, our refuge for the night. Fazbo is chilled to the core as the heater quit hours ago. We're both cold and tired. Engine temp spiked a few times. After a too-close encounter with the rocky shores of Guard Island, we experience an encounter of the celestial kind as the aurora borealis lights up the northern sky behind us. Mauve and green flowing curtains shimmer about in the dark. Enchanting. The chill of late night dissipates as I watch in awe.
After docking in Ketchikan, I heat water for a hot water bottle to put between the cold, damp sheets before we tackle a repair job on the heater. Several hours later and exhausted we crawl into a not-so-chilly bed.
Hank’s up early as usual listening to the morning forecast. Not good. Doesn't matter, I'm tired and turn over to go back to sleep. After several days in Ketchikan trudging around in the rain and wind stocking up on food, water, fuel and some more engine work we finally depart. Soon the sun breaks through and we remove one of twenty or so layers of clothing. The ride is pleasant past Georgia and Carroll Inlets. Then rounding the corner into Revillagigedo Channel where Behm Canal goes north into Misty Fjords Wilderness, the temperature drops and it starts to rain again. Winds variable. A strong current with an outgoing tide slows us down and the journey again becomes slow and tedious.
Wind picks up near Foggy Bay, our anchorage for the night. Currents flowing from several directions. Fazbo tosses about again in confusing seas as I navigate and Hank steers us through the entrance. Several times our depth suddenly shallows as we dodge logs and debris. The seas pound against protruding rocks and reefs. Inside the cove, the wind continues to blow, swells sweep across the water harshly striking the distant rocky shore. Where do we find shelter in this place, I ask. Hank smiles and assures me we'll be fine and I'll love it here. Another place he’s been without me.
Foggy Bay proves an unexpected wonder. There are endless meandering threads of waterways that weave their way inland. Hank turns Fazbo into a very narrow passage that takes us back to Hidden Cove, an aptly named safe anchorage. Sure enough, he's right. This place is magic. We anchor the boat in a perfect position to easily peer out over a sand bar and view the turbulent entrance to Foggy Bay. From a distance.
Tide continues flowing in, swells find their way into the cove and Fazbo gently rocks back and forth circling the anchor. Wind continues through the night and the next day as the storm continues. Two days later I wonder if we will ever leave Foggy Bay. On the third morning, the weather clears and we depart, promising to return and explore these many fascinating inlets.
Tree Point Light ahead. A definite ocean swell builds and soon we are crossing the dreaded Dixon Entrance. My mind lingers on the fact that we are now exposed to open ocean. The thought is scarier than the actual experience as the water is fairly calm today. Some residual swells from the storm. Coming within the shadow of Dundas Island and then passing Holiday Island, we celebrate an easy crossing. A little too soon though, for just as we finish a Cadbury dark chocolate bar we're in the midst of deep, rolling seas coming directly out of Portland Canal making their way to the sea. Another ebbing tide meets ocean swells. A battle of currents. Fazbo rolls abeam to the swells. Near Green Island Light the engine temperature spikes again and my heart spikes with it. Not now. Another call to Zeus to see us safely to port at Prince Rupert. Strong currents here mix in a narrow channel and the seas stack up. Here we go again.
Though the surrounding landscape remains the same we've crossed an international boundary. We'll be in Canadian waters until the San Juan Islands in Washington. After clearing Canadian customs we tie up to transient moorage at the dock and take a late walk through town.
From Prince Rupert we weave our way through numerous passages, some so narrow we can almost touch the low, drooping limbs of hemlock trees while others are broad expanses greatly affected by tidal currents or open to sea conditions. Storms are constant. They seem to be backed up as if in a long line waiting to blast through a tunnel. Between them are small spaces for us to continue moving. Along with these storms come log and debris in the water. Constant vigil is essential. The journey is slow. In summer with long daylight hours and decent weather conditions the journey between Juneau and Seattle might take a week and half to two weeks. Depends on how long you can stay at the wheel.
We’ve traveled about two-thirds of Grenville Channel, a 45-mile-long narrow but deep fjord. Oil still being sucked through the oil air breather cup. A quick repair with duct tape till we can be in a better position to change the thermostat. In the dark afternoon Hank steers Fazbo into Lowe Inlet where we set anchor directly in front of Verney Falls. Or, so I’m told. Not enough light to see the falls but I can the roar of cascading water. Indeed in the morning we breakfast with a spectacular view of the falls before us. We’re the only boat in the cove.
Through these waters we spot numerous Orca pods. Some swim closer to take a look at us as if to say hello. They are a delight to watch in the water. Only a couple of small settlements are visible along the northern BC coastline otherwise the landscape is wild, remote and alluring. It amazes me how even the smallest human made structure on the water stands out miles in the distance. Strikingly incongruent.
In Tolme Channel, a well-protected, narrow waterway, not a breath of air dances across the water. So complete is the reflected image of overhanging limbs it is difficult to know what is real and what is replicated. I'm grateful for the respite. Would like to stay here for a while but we continue moving south.
Days later our alarm clock sounds at 4 am in Safety Cove and I barely feel the tugs of consciousness. I want to keep dreaming. Life now has another set of rules and I'm tiring of them. I long to feel and smell the earth, to stretch my legs and walk for miles, to flush a toilet rather than pumping, to wash with more than a cup of water.
The alarm sounds again. Today we cross Queen Charlotte Sound. Hank never mentioned this crossing. While in Ketchikan I heard stories and warnings about wind and weather conditions in the sound and that it is a major shipping channel for barges and ships. Also, we’re open to the wild Pacific for a long stretch. Little did I know what was in store when I agreed to this trip. Probably a good thing for I'd never have left Juneau on Fazbo.
It is dark and still in the cove. Not a hint of dawn. Hank is eager for an early start. Yet another storm sits offshore held at bay by an ever-weakening high. Low-pressure systems are building exerting more and more pressure. He's concerned the high will deteriorate soon as it so often does and wants to make it across this ominous body of water before that happens. If we stay we could sit here for a week or longer waiting weather. He based all his calculations on a 5 o'clock departure so we need to be on our way. We have no radar, no GPS. Only a compass, charts and Hank's skill of dead reckoning. Dead reckoning. Curious name.
The calm in the morning before the wind awakens and begins to stir is the place I fill my spirit with peace to carry me through the day. Though in some of these situations the peace fades far too quickly.
Fazbo eases out of Safety Cove. I want to stay here. Safety Cove. I know it’s telling me something. Out in the channel a slow, even swell. We have a second cup of coffee as we watch the subtle rays of first light slip over the distant peaks to the east. A warm, pink glow grows and stretches across the sky. What is that familiar verse about red skies in the morning, sailor's warning? Hmm. I repeat the verse out loud. Since I'm from the east Hank insists it's an East Coast thing. Different on the West Coast, he says. Of course. He attempts to build my confidence for today’s crossing.
Morning weather report says the high should hold. Our beacon, Egg Island Lighthouse, is visible in the distance. As we cross River's Inlet, Fazbo begins rolling about. Ocean swells mix with a strong ebbing tide. Part way across things really become chaotic and I wish we'd turn back. As if the ocean swells against the ebbing tide aren't enough, a fog tunnel drifts over the water. Suddenly we lose sight of everything including Egg Island. I worry. Hank is confident he can navigate with his course settings. The fog grows denser and denser. Again, I want to turn back. What's another day or two. We have the rest of our lives. Turning back is not an act of defeat. Sometimes it makes sense. Though I protest, he assures me that once we cross River's Inlet we'll be fine. At least he's consistent. It will always be fine up ahead. He just never qualifies that statement with how far up ahead. When backpacking or hiking I used to tell my kids that, too. Full circle.
Quiet, blinding fog encases us like an ethereal cocoon. So quiet, it's eerie. Now what? Hank is calm. Good thing or I'd really be scared. Am I not really scared? Again he assures me the fog will lift. Of course it will, this afternoon, tomorrow, two days from now. I know it's going to lift. I agree, going back at this point would be difficult, as the coastline behind us is lost, too. Yet what lies ahead is unknown. Once across the inlet, swells are rhythmic, long, and deep. Like the ocean. Not a comfortable feeling but better than the chaos of River's Inlet.
In this blindness we trudge on relying on our compass and course settings that indicate we are close to Egg Island. Hank steers and I blow the foghorn every three minutes. Once abeam the island we need to change our course to southwest, clear Cape Caution and head towards Pine Island. Though we are open to the ocean this whole area around the point and offshore islands is filled with outlying rocks, shoals and reefs. My breathing is shallow, fight or flee chemicals are dashing about my body. Must breath deeply. Keep breathing deeply. Relax. Nothing out here but water and mist. And logs, rocks, reefs, islands, a lighthouse, possibly a ferry, and of course, fishing boats. Who knows maybe even a freighter. This is, after all, a shipping lane. I quiet my mind and focus on watching for rocks.
Hank is certain he can locate Egg Island in the fog. Then what, I wonder. This is just the start of the 50-mile crossing. Visibility worsens. Looking forward I can't see the bow of our boat. Looking up, the mast is lost in the heavens.
We peer searchingly into the fog for a flash of light from the lighthouse and listen intently for a signal. Silence. Emptiness. Only the sounds of our boat as we roll up and down, back and forth along deep, strong ocean swells. Then Hank hears the horn. I time the signals; one blast every 60 seconds. That's it. Egg Island Lighthouse. Then I hear it, too. As we creep along the blast gets louder. It is a reassuring sound that I embrace as an infant clings to a favorite blanket. Must I leave it behind?
Hank looks at me and says, can't wait much longer. We have to turn. My eyes cry out to him, are you absolutely, positively certain? Look, if we continue on this course, we're headed for reefs that lie south of the island as well as the perils of Cape Caution. Or else we could head out to sea with the next stop being Japan. Okay, I get the message. Turning the wheel. Transformation and change. Layer upon layer of misty fog. Thick, misty fog.
Unbelievably, a small patch of fog lifts and I can see the surf breaking on some rocks. These rocks are attached to land. Then like a motion picture that suddenly appears on a blank white screen, land is visible. Surf crashes on the rocks of a coastline. An island. Egg Island. The lighthouse. Reading details on the chart, I have an idea. There's a slightly protected area on the backside of the island. We could circle there and call the Coast Guard for an update on conditions and consider other options like anchoring in Smith Inlet for the night. Please? We banter back and forth then Hank reluctantly agrees.
We proceed carefully, slowly towards the small cove on the backside of the island and I recall a phrase from Tai Chi. It takes great strength and complete balance to move slowly, like the clouds. The fog around the island moves in and out as if breathing and is the only place where it is lifting. We round a small point where the water suddenly shallows and Hank turns out for more depth. Tricky being in close proximity to land without being able to see where we’re going. Around the point is a small protected area. Barely enough space to circle but the water momentarily somewhat calmer.
Hank insists I take the wheel. Quickly. He needs to go below and use the bathroom. He's been at the wheel all morning. While he's below I circle this patch of temporary calm and wonder again what I'm doing here. My instincts cry out for the little piece of land that my eyes can see now and then when the fog lifts. I plot my escape. I'll take the dinghy and row to shore. Take some food, a sleeping bag and wait for the Coast Guard to pick me up. I don't care how long it takes. I've always wanted to camp out at a lighthouse. When Hank returns, I have it all planned. He can continue the trip on his own. I'm abandoning ship. I will not sail into the fog across this ominous body of water.
He laughs thinking I'm not serious. Once he realizes I'll do it given the chance he explains the perils of trying to take the dinghy ashore along a rocky coastline with these swells. We're so close to land, I beg. It wouldn't take me very long. You just don't want me to leave you alone. My dear, he pleads, it is far more dangerous to be out in a dinghy in these conditions than in a sailboat going across the sound in the fog. Look at the breakers hitting those rocks. Rocks which you would have to climb over. Slimy, slippery rocks. Waves washing over you. And what will you do with the dinghy? Finally, I give up my idea and we consider our options. We could wait for the fog to lift enough so we could head for Smith Inlet where we could anchor. Of course, if the fog lifts, Hank insists, we could be on our way across the sound. What if the fog doesn't lift? We can't stay here very long. If the wind changes direction we'll be pushed against the rocks.
While I continue circling, Hank goes below and calls the Coast Guard at Pine Island for an update. They should be able to tell us what the weather is like south of Egg Island. I glance around. Fog lifts here and there and then closes in again. Vignettes of rocks, trees and plants encircled in a gray and white mist. It is a mysteriously pretty place. Wonder what it looks like without the fog. My thoughts are interrupted as Hank comes up through the companionway with his report. The Coast Guard says the conditions near Pine Island are improving, visibility almost a mile. But that's hours away, I say. They expect the fog to lift, thought it would have by now, but they can't say for sure. Fog is common in this area in the morning. It usually burns off. He continues, I know I can get us across even if the fog doesn't lift.
My mind wanders away thinking of our dilemma. On a sailboat in dense fog with no radar or other electronic navigational equipment. At the edge of a land-sea archipelago, on a course that is open to the Pacific Ocean, on a shipping channel and pending storm conditions. Can't pull over, park and walk away. Boats come with a different set of rules. I know Hank thinks I don't have confidence in his skills. I do or I wouldn't be here. Yet, we are human and we make mistakes. People die at sea. I don't want to be one of them.
All of sudden out of nowhere a voice calls, vessel at Egg Island, come in. Vessel at Egg Island, come in. That's us, I shout. Hank jumps below and answers the radio call, while I continue circling Fazbo. The swells are still rocking us up and down, back and forth. They're more frequent now and deeper and as Hank feared the wind direction is starting to shift. I know we can’t stay here.
Minutes later, Hank bounds up into the cockpit, his easy, beautiful smile spread across his face. A fishing boat heard him talking to the Coast Guard. They're just a couple miles south of Egg Island and have us on their radar screen. They've offered to watch us on radar and alert us of any danger. Frankly, I find no comfort in their offer. By the time they call to alert us we could be sinking. Look, he calmly explains, my biggest concern about going across this sound in the fog is a big vessel we can't see and especially if we get between a tug and barge. Depending on our visibility we won't have a lot of time to react. The fisherman can watch his radar and tell us that kind of information. It's the best chance we have right now but we must go soon or they'll be too far away. I opt again for the lighthouse but Hank pretends not to hear me. I know he's trying to convince me things are not as bad as I perceive and perhaps they aren't. Somewhere between his optimism and my trepidation lies the truth. I mutter a questionable acceptance and he sets a course and veers off into the fog. Like willingly walking the plank in a sea full of sharks. Knowing we have engine problems doesn't make it any easier. Breathe deeply, remain calm, stay alert. Find that reserve of peace within.
Away from the island the swells are moderate and spaced further apart. We seem to bob up and down in a rhythmic dance. For the first hour time stands still. I'm aware of every breath I take, every muscle alert and poised. Fog is thick, lifting occasionally giving us a view of this rock-strewn area before disappearing again. Vignettes of impending danger.
Back at the lighthouse as we were leaving, I said my farewells to the land, the people I love. Words written quickly to my children on scraps of paper and put in a plastic container. No bottles with corks aboard. Should we perish my last words will survive. Somewhere, sometime, someone will find them. We are but travelers between the gates of life and death.
An hour or so later visibility increases to almost a mile then slowly two miles or more. Swells have the feel of the sea. Powerful. Unrelenting. Huge to me, 6-7 feet and every so often an even larger swell, 8-9 feet, but they're spaced so that we aren't battered about. Could lull me to sleep except that my mind knows where we are and won't allow it. With apprehension I watch each rising wave as if something wicked lurks behind it. They are, of course, all I can see. Nothing else to focus my attention.
We clear Cape Caution with its shallow water and outlying rocks. Penetrating silence. Rocking movements up, over and up again. My eyes grow weary of watching for logs, searching for a landmark. Finally, once again, in the distance a shadow looms in the mist. Land appears. The Storm Island group. Not places of refuge. Quite the opposite. But land is land and reassures me that we are heading in the right direction towards protected waters and land. The veil of fog has withered away and visibility increases. Only remnants like ribbons of fog remain along the waterway. Pine Island comes into view and we change our course again. At last. We crossed Queen Charlotte Sound. I'm too tense to feel relief. It will take a good night's sleep or two and a long walk on land to melt the tightness within. Southeast in Gordon Channel to Christie Passage where there is an anchorage called God's Pocket. It's late and we consider staying here for the night but Hank is still uncertain about the threatening storm conditions. He has an uncanny feeling and would feel safer if we went all the way to Port Hardy on Vancouver Island. We've gained some daylight since departing Juneau so there's just enough light to see as we motor across the broad expanse of Hardy Bay towards the harbor and transient moorage. It's dark as we tie up to the dock for the night. We're exhausted and hungry. Yet sleep does not come easily, dreams do not comfort. Swells are all I can see, all I can feel.
We were lucky to make it across the sound and into port when we did. In the early hours of the morning the storm hit. It was a Saturday with many recreational boats on the water as the first light slipped over the horizon. Conditions changed abruptly. The high suddenly weakened and the winds blew ferociously. It was a serious storm due to the velocity of the wind. In Port Hardy we heard talk of 70-80 knot winds, 20-30 foot seas in the sound. A tug had set out before dawn but turned around and returned. Distress calls poured in that day. Boats capsized. Some were blown onto rocky shores. Further south on Vancouver Island, sailboats anchored near a marina were blown across the bay onto the beach. People panicked. Chaos reigned. I felt an odd kind of relief. Thankful we made it safely to port but too close for my comfort. We sat in Port Hardy for a couple of days before continuing our journey south.
Time now a greater factor than it should ever be when traveling on the water. It’s been a month since leaving Juneau. A month of consistent storms, waiting weather, quick passages in the calm before another storm struck. Weeks washed away with the tides. Vacation all used up.
The pressure of time pushes us on. In 30-knot winds and residual swells from the storm we leave Port Hardy behind. Approaching Johnstone Strait the swells ease somewhat. Hank raises the main sail. The forecast for lighter winds in the afternoon never materializes. What starts out as exhilarating becomes a wild ride with gusts over 40 knots. Tide’s going out as we approach another major channel just before Kelsey Bay. Chaos. Strong currents from different directions against strong opposing winds. Standing waves.
In the coming years we learn about Johnstone’s nasty reputation. Some think it to be the worst segment of the Inside Passage with strong currents, standing waves and ferocious wind. Paying attention to tides and wind and avoiding spring tides are important factors to consider when planning a ride down Johnstone Strait.
Hank manages to get the main sail down as we ride the roller coaster. Ahead we watch a tug coming north as it climbs up with a swell, seems to hang suspended in the air then plummets down with a crash. I opt for refuge at Kelsey Bay, a small but adequate harbor to wait out the tidal change. A sailboat behind the tug creeps along towards the harbor, too. Their sails are in shreds as they were not able to take them down. A major repair.
Kelsey Bay is tiny harbor offering meager protection. The swells from Johnstone Strait find their way to the dock and we bounce around all afternoon. My nerves are frazzled. It’s late once things settle down on the water leaving little choice but to stay overnight. Hank wants to get an earlier than usual start reminding me how long this trip is taking. I understand the need to continue but I also know I need a break from the constant battering.
I take a walk on the dock and talk to some locals who are watching the chaos in the strait. Seems to be a favorite pastime. In the conversation I learn a little bit about Johnstone and it’s reputation encouraging me to find out more. I also learn of a daily bus that runs down the island and I make a decision to leave the boat and meet up again in Campbell River. At that point the water and weather should improve. Hank resists and I insist. Early in the morning I help untie Fazbo from the dock and watch the boat head out in the strait then I walk up to the road for ride to café and bus stop. Turned out to be the right decision for both of us. I had a quiet day mostly by myself riding the bus then walking around Campbell River and a visit to a book store, a favorite pastime. Hank had another exhilarating sail and a tense ride through the rapids at Seymour Narrows, an extremely narrow 2-mile section of Discovery Passage with tidal streams reaching 16 knots. Navigating the narrows at slack tide is a must for vessels under 60 ft. Boats have capsized and lives were lost attempting to run the rapids at full strength. Something you’d never consider if you’ve ever read Edgar Allen Poe’s The Maelstrom. Though not as horrific as Poe’s the whirlpools at Seymour can be massive.
Days later beyond Campbell River the weather changes significantly bringing calm waters, sunshine, warmth. Spring. Sitting in the cockpit in short sleeves with the sun warming my bones I reflect on the past month. Storms, rainsqualls, tides, swells, standing waves, cold, wind. Wide channels, narrow passages, protected anchorages. Most especially I think about the huge storm that hit and our small boat crossing Queen Charlotte Sound. Possibilities of what might have happened on that crossing creep into my thinking and I quickly cast them aside. I won't go there. And yet, I want to gain something from all our experiences on this journey. So much to be aware of, watch and interpret, so much to learn. No matter how much our confidence grew with every day on the water as we tackled new and difficult situations, there were far more humbling experiences.
For the most part, Hank's experience came from long-distance sailboat racing. They persevered no matter what conditions came their way. He's calm and focused in the most turbulent times. Racing taught him a lot about a boat's capabilities and how to handle severe weather but also how to push to the edge. I'm glad for the skills, knowledge and experience he’s gained as there are too many times on the water when weather changes rapidly and there is no choice but to persevere. Yet, racing involves a different way of thinking, another framework from cruising. We don’t need to keep pushing to reach a set destination at day's end. Unnecessary to be at the whim of weather and water conditions. We can wait out a storm or even a tide change. Wherever we were going, we'd be there when we arrived. Once aware, transition follows. Enlightenment unfolds, as it will.
Our world on a small boat narrow on one level and expansive on another, as M. Wylie Blanchet wrote in The Curve of Time. Weather and water conditions are close companions that can make the journey enjoyable and safe or frightening and risky. Unpredictable companions that are affected by large weather systems and patterns as well as local, microclimates demanding from us a clear understanding of both.
Our journey took us along vast stretches of remote, wild land. I felt immeasurably alone yet surrounded entirely by the natural world gave me strength. Through most of the journey we never saw another boat on the water though we heard some talk over the marine radio and of course our brief conversation with the fisherman off Egg Island. Each and every anchorage provided a quiet, unoccupied haven. This absence of human noise nourished a quiet, inner place. I don't know what brings me more peace, the quiet of such solitude, the vastness of the wild land, the exquisite natural beauty. Times like this soothe over the complexities and distractions of daily life. Any sense of time was lost. Had moments passed or an hour. Had it been weeks, months or years. I didn't know nor care. Though at times fearful and overwhelming the journey was engaging, exhilarating. The landscape inspiring. I can't say I've found my place on the water but my comfort level shifted and I know I'll take this voyage again. For certain, though, we'll at least have radar on our next boat.
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About the author:
My husband, Hank and I lived, worked and played in Southeast Alaska for about 24 years. It is impossible to know and be a part of this fascinating and richly scenic archipelago without spending time on the water. As a photographer and writer living in Alaska is like enjoying a never ending feast.
Hank introduced me to sailing and opened up an entire new world to me. One I’d otherwise never have experienced. With every excursion I grew more and more comfortable and eventually made the choice to abandon life on land and become permanent live-aboards.
Our travels on the water are many, our experiences always exciting. And, yes, I made the passage between Southeast Alaska, British Columbia and the Puget Sound area of Washington many, many times. Adventures galore. Abundant thrilling times and some still frightening. I learned a great deal about the water and the wind and how they interact in various conditions and most especially I made a point of learning all I could about the conditions that pose potential danger in certain areas. That first voyage, though, will always remain in my bank of memories as one vast experience opening a wider appreciation of life and nature.
Our boats became my muse and I found inspiration living and traveling on the water. Over the years I’ve written numerous stories about our boating life and some were published in boating magazines. Currently I’m writing a book about Alaska.
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Connect with Me Online:
elsanphotos.webs.com