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THE SEADOGS AND THE PRINCESS ©2002 Jeff Lindeman July 14 thru 20, 2002 Vessel: Juanderer - 26ft Ciera 2651 Express Cruiser Captain: Jeff Lindeman First Mate: Steve Noe Dedication: To Carmen and Jan - for keeping the home fires burning while their good-for-nothin' seadog husbands regress to childhood. Pic of the refurbished Juanderer. Pre-Voyage - Now sit right back and you'll hear the tale...  After some debate over where we would go this year it was decided that a journey to the legendary Princess Louisa Inlet in British Columbia could be a voyage to remember. Being quite a distance, I needed to make sure that we were well prepared to persevere through anything short of major mechanical failure.
We were making a major trek up into truly "wild" country - the closest road once you reach The Princess is 40 to 50 miles away. The jump-off point at Egmont, BC, where you top off your fuel tank and leave civilization behind, is about 40 miles short of the inlet. So included among the many pre-voyage details were the list of "spares". From extra inserts for my 4-blade prop (in case we whacked something gently enough to just "spin" it) to reconditioning one of my extra 3-blade props (in case we whacked something hard enough to take a chunk out of the 4-blade). The list included: fuses, belts, fuel-filter, jumper battery, oil and outdrive fluid and aformentioned props. I actually had 2 inserts, the reconditioned prop and an older, slightly damaged prop (another story *hehe*). So, in theory we could whack four things and only have to contend with pruny, waterlogged hands as the outcome. And as Gilligan was "quick" to point out (quick = standing on the dock AFTER the voyage), "Hey Skipper, what about extra prop nuts and washers in case you drop one in the drink?" Had 'em! ...the skipper brave and sure... Pre-Voyage - ...aboard this tiny ship... I want to take a moment here and talk about duct tape. First of all, I believe duct tape should be incorporated into the Coast Guard code. The CG requires, among others things, that a 26ft boat such as mine carry a bell, a bailing device, a garbage-disposal placard (mounted conspicuously), and an oil-discharge placard (mounted conspicuously in the bilge). Why not "at least one roll-unit of cloth-backed sealing material"? Maybe it's just that I was a working musician in a previous life, but the importance of duct tape cannot be denied. When the chips are down duct tape can save the day, and no where is this more true then with hoses. And on boats, hoses rule - I said HOSES, not HOSERS - because the truth be known, boating is all about keeping fluids in their proper place. In an emergency, duct tape can keep vital fluids flowing (water, fuel, etc.) and non-vital fluids out (seawater) and even in (blackwater - that's sh*t for you landlubbers). So remember that roll of duct tape, or two (I have two). Call me over-prepared. And it doesn't hurt to have some Superglue and a tube of 3M 5200 Marine Adhesive Sealant. I would of picked up a gasket set, starter solenoid and ignition kit (wires, plugs, rotor, cap), but somethings you just have to leave to the gods. Call me a fatalist. Day One - ...on a  Sunday, July 14th dawns a beautiful morning - though looking a little windy from my driveway. Chests full of food and ice, I finish packing the car and head for the marina around 7:30am. After loading, stowing, fueling, watering, washing and polishing the windows, I set-up the GPS with the preordained routes and pour a scotch - hey, I'm on vacation!
Since they had just opened crabbing in the area on Friday, we've decided to drop four crabpots in the mouth of Chuckanut Bay for retrieval next Saturday. Steve shows about 10:30am and we're away from the dock about 11:15. Bellingham Bay - locally known as Thunder Bay - is up to it's usual mischief. Current, tide and southwest wind have her all snarled and in a fighting mood, so after crossing her twice to make the drop and head for Francis Point and up Hale Passage, we were relieved to find Hale smooth and glassy.  Alas, the reverie is short-lived for when we round Point Migley at the north tip of Lummi Island the wind is howling up Rosario Strait. With pretty much beam seas on the port and just enough swell coming down the Strait of Georgia to confuse the issue, it makes for a distinctly uncomfortable ride. I manage to keep her on a slow plane (about 18mph) and dodge the ocassional six foot hole, but the axiom that "the boat can take more than you" could not be more apropo. Add in a few kickin' rips between Sucia Island and South Pender and you've got a real party goin'.
Our arrival at Bedwell Harbor on South Pender was never more welcomed. And "911" seems to have changed nothing at Canadian Customs- which is a beautiful thing seeing as we're a floating liquor warehouse - 1 scotch, 2 vodka, 1 rum, 1 gin, 1 tequila, half rack of Corona, 4-pack of Kilkenny Irish Creme Ale, and half a dozen microbrews - you'd think it was 1847 aboard a square rig with a not-to-be-trusted supply of water. Hell, we might be stranded somewhere and need those supplies for completely medicinal purposes... well come on, you never know. Customs check-in is uneventful and we slip away into Canadian waters with our bar intact (over-limit by a factor of approximately 7 for you mathematicians - that's 12 additional people we would need to dig up to be legal). After pausing in the harbor to fix a drink (I know, I know, we're incorrigible), we move on up Swanson Channel and thru Captain Passage into Trincomali Channel. Then rounding the corner of Houstoun Passage into Stuart Channel we arrive at Thetis Island around 3pm.  Today is a day we've decided to make a push for as far as conditions will let us go. However, we can't resist taking a stab at re-living last year's magic at the Thetis Island Marina Pub. And much to our delight it is as good as we remember - fresh ling cod and Kilkenny on tap. It's important for the seasoned traveler to remember that one can never expect any "present" to live up to a cherished memory; but in this case it happened. So body, spirit and boat all refueled with one stop, we march on about 4pm to see just what the Strait of Georgia might present us with this afternoon.
Traveling up Stuart Channel past Danger Reefs (I love that name) we approach our jump off point into "virgin" waters. Last year we had continued up the channel to Dodd Narrows and the charming Dinghy Pub off Naniamo. Now we headed into unknown waters by putting in a bit of easting and slipping between De Courcy and Ruxton Islands through Ruxton Passage and into Pylades Channel just inside Valdes Island. Some may be interested to know that in 1792 as George Vancouver was exploring the area he was surprised to find a small fleet of Spanish ships in the Gulf. The islands of Galiano and Valdes are named after two of these Spaniard captains. The "big water" of the Strait of Georgia is now less than ten miles distant. Coming out of Ruxton Passage we pass one of our possible shelters for the night should the Strait look uninviting - Pirates Cove. With a name like that, how could it not be one of our alternates? Three short miles to the north we slip into current-ridden Gabriola Passage and pop out into the broken eastern end of Gabriola Island - an island group known as Flat Top Islands. Very beautiful and I imagine quite treacherous when the Strait is up. But this afternoon the area is quite calm and the Strait presents itself as a calm, oversized lake. So at 5pm with 80 miles behind us and a good four hours of daylight still in the bank we take our leave of the Gulf. Day One continued - ...the courage of the fearless crew... Being my first foray going all the way across the Strait, even the ideal conditions could not stop the nervous tickle in my belly as we watched the Gulf Islands recede off our stern. A light and airy nervousness that bordered on the giddy, yet with that underlying seriousness that belies the truth - you're on your own now pal. It was the fantasy I'd been dreaming of for several days before our departure. Looking up the Strait from near my home on Birch Bay, each afternoon around 5 or 6pm I would notice how calm and flat it looked and imagine this moment of poking our nose out and saying, "It doesn't get any better than this. We're outta here." And now here we were...  The crossing being 23.5 statute miles, I couldn't resist pausing at the exact midpoint of 11.75 miles out. On a par with bluewater sailors stopping at the equator to have a romp. The boat gently rocking to the mild swells coming down the Strait, I fixed us a couple drinks below and we retired to the rear cockpit to lounge in the deck chairs and momentarily reflect on the distance we'd covered so far in a single day. After a few minutes we decided to try some silliness of our own and so was invented the low-tech miracle of The Latvian Auto-Pilot. Simple in concept yet inaccurate in execution, this devilishly unclever mechanism consists of two key elements: 1) the common boatpole, and 2) the lazy and unseamanlike helmsman. The procedure is as follows: a) put boat in gear and set engine rpm to approximately 1000 to achieve roughly 2 to 3 knots of way, b) open boatpole to full extension and 'lock' into steering wheel spoke, c) place overpoured alcoholic beverage in "lazy and unseamanlike helmsman's" hand (see above), d) retire to the rear deck, resting boatpole navigation device on shoulder, e) lounge carelessly and add laughter to taste.
Operator's note: Be sure and stand up ocassionally and have a look around to make sure a BC Ferry isn't bearing down on your ass! Afterall you ARE in a fricking shipping lane you dimwitted dolt! The Fine Print: Not recommended for the aged, the unimaginative, the timid, the all-too-serious, nursing mothers or village idiots. Use at own risk. Seadog Sagas® excepts no responsibilty or liability should you actually perform this hairbrained maneuver. Latvian Auto-Pilot © Copyright 2002. All Rights Reserved. Moments after putting the boat back up on plane we spotted a few porpoises off the starboard bow...then a few more...and more. I brought her down off plane and for several minutes we watched their march to the north. I'm guessing at least 50 or more. Unlike the black and white Dahl's Porpoise that came over and delighted us with their antics in 2000, these boys and girls (gray Harbor Porpoise I believe) were on a journey and paid us no mind as they slogged on to their destination - wherever that may be. Porpoises with purpose. We took their hint and proceeded to our own destination. Entering Welcome Pass between Thormanby and Merry Islands at 6pm we slipped past Buccanner Bay and into Malaspina Strait behind Texada Island. Ten flat and calm miles later we ducked into deep and cozy Pender Harbor on the Sechelt Peninsula about 50 miles north of Barrard Inlet into Vancouver, BC. My boating friends Ron and Joan Digerness had mentioned that if we got this far on the first day there is nice little marina deep in Pender named Garden Bay. A single long dock with 30 amp shorepower and a great Pub set into a well trimmed garden setting - no bathroom or shower facilities however. So at 7pm I shut good ole, trustworthy Juanderer down and we settled in for the night. Keeping life simple we took the exploritory dinghy ride around the harbor, noting the location of the fuel dock for morning. I fixed hot ham in Stubbs Barbeque Sauce on buns with accompanying green salad for dinner and within an hour of sunset we were down for the count. We'd covered approximately 120 nautical miles (times 1.15 equals 138 statute miles) in eights hours with mutiple pauses and a memorable lunch stop to boot. Day Two - In George Vancouver's Footsteps  Monday, July 15th opens with a misty burn-off revealing blue sky flecked with broken cloud. Calm and warm. After a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs we cast off at 8:30 and duck around the corner into Hospital Bay (one of the five bays of Pender Harbor - Garden, Gunboat, Gerrans and Bargain being the others). Gassing up at John Henry's Marina, the propriator, Wayne Archbold, is more than helpful and offers the advice, "Keep a steady watch for logs boys. We've had some recent high tides that have lifted all the driftwood off the shorelines." This is the third person that has brought up logs, so we are now quite aware of the situation. Maybe even a little jumpy.
As we make way out of Pender Harbor the mist is clearing off the water. Agamemnon Channel is the start of our sojourn into the wilds. About two miles up the channel it's apparent that this is going to be an incredible day. We have roughly 60 statute miles (52 nautical miles) to our destination and the feeling in the channel is that civilization has suddenly and inexplicably disappeared. Not only that, but as Pic #1 so perfectly illustrates, the water is as smooth as a baby's behind. Tearing ourselves away from the splendor of the moment we continue the 11 miles up Agamemnon and slip down Skookumchuck Narrows and into the second of two marinas at Egmont (Secret Cove). Tanks topped off (gas and water) and ice chests filled we take our leave of this "last stop". There is literally nothing but wild country between here and Princess Louisa Inlet. When we reach the inlet the closest road will be 50 miles away! As an aside, just two miles south of Egmont in a section of Skookumchuck Narrows is Sechelt Rapids. This is one passage that no boat should attempt without consulting the local tide tables. Tidal flow in the rapids can approach a world record 17 knots! It IS navigable but there are stories of large boats making wrong turns at the wrong time with deadly outcome. Have a peek at this 1.1MB mpg of some experienced kayakers "playing" at Sechelt Rapids. This area is so beautiful it's simply breathtaking. Leaving Egmont we start up what are known as "The Reaches". The first of three is Prince of Wales Reach. George Vancouver's heart must of beat wildly for days (well, wild for stoic old George anyway) as he made his way up, thinking he'd found the "Northwest Passage to the Inland Sea" he so longed to find. As we rounded the next corner the spectacle of Pic #2 presented itself. Comparing the chart with what we were seeing revealed that we would be actually navigating around the mountains we were viewing ahead (double-peaked Marlborough Heights - 5700 to 5800ft and on the right Mt Churchill - 6503ft). Stopping again in the corner of Royal Princess Reach and Queens Reach (George was really sucking up to the royals with these names wasn't he?) we were completely surrounded by mountains. Pic #3 doesn't do it justice, but if you can imagine carrying this small view 360° around, you'll get an idea. Note the little white speck along the shoreline just to the right of center - the only structure we could see in all The Reaches. Each mile now bringing magnificent new vistas, the palpable shedding of the layers of everyday life is unmistakable on Steve's face.  After we rounded Patrick Point and entered Queen's Reach we again stopped to survey our kingdom. Pic #4 shows Mt Pearkes - elevation 7,055 - peeking over the shoreline hills. Pic #5 is of little 'ole me sitting on the bow of Juanderer with an 80 foot boat standing off the entrance to Princess Louisa Inlet at Malibu Rapids in the distance. This boat, incidently, provided some mild amusement later that day when, after waiting for high-tide slack to come through the rapids, she showed up at Chatterbox Falls. Easing in close as a number of people onboard scrambled up to the bow, a uniformed deckhand stepped out of the wheelhouse to snap a few shots. She then turned and immediately departed. To come all that distance in a boat probably burning 40 or 50 gallons an hour, take a few pictures and leave, seems so excessive and ludicrous to me. It seems almost criminal in it's obnoxousness - I couldn't help myself from hoping their film would be lost in processing (or corrupted during download in the case of digital).
When we arrived at Malibu rapids the tide was on the way out and the current was probably close to 5 knots. The course through is a reversed "S" figure and the mean low is charted at 2 fathoms (12 feet) in it's shallowest spots, so depth was not an issue. It appeared that this was going to be a cakewalk, though I never take any squeezed and current laden passage for granted. As we slowly passed Malibu Island in the center of the approach I was able to see through to make sure we didn't have any oncoming traffic, because although it's deep and only of moderate current for a powerboat, there's definitely only room for one boat to manuaver through the rips and whirlpools inside. It also gave me a peek at the water - we wouldn't want any nasty little whirpools of any strength to ruin our day now would we? The shot looked clean so I poured on the steam and we blew through in about 20 seconds. Pic #6 shows the view looking back after our transit, the 80 footer still waiting patiently on the outside for it's afternoon photo-op. From the same spot, Pic #7 shows the view of paradise down Princess Louisa Inlet. We had arrived! And the broken clouds were opening up - as if just for us - and the temperature hovered right around 75°. Only 1:30pm and a glorious day ahead of us. The Inlet itself is 4.5 miles long and lined with so many waterfalls we lost count (Pic #8). When we reached the head of the inlet the view was unforgetable (Pic #9) and the sound of Chatterbox Falls (Pic #10) like a never ending symphony for the soul. There were about 6 boats, maybe 3 at the dock and 2 or 3 anchored and stern tied to the left of the falls. So since Steve's back had been acting up a bit after our rough ride yesterday morning, we decided to grab a place at the dock. After we fulfilled Steve's promise to pull in front of Chatterbox and toast our boating buddy Bob Ganung (Pic #11), we sidled in behind the sailboat Rhiannon and killed the engine - a half tank showing on the gauge meant we 'should' be good for the trip back to Egmont with maybe 10 gallons to spare by my calculations, I had figured about 22.5 gallons each way and 10 in reserve (55 gallon tank at 6 to 8 gallons an hour). This unfortunately meant that we could not with clear conscience make the short run up to the end of Queens Reach to experience just what Captain Vancouver might have felt when his dream of discovering the Northwest Passage came to an abrupt end. And though you can almost see the "end" behind me in Pic #5, "Next time," I vowed. "Two 5-gallon jury cans and you've got an hour-plus of play time." With no worries and plenty of time we took a fine dinghy ride and walked up to a trail that runs right up next to the falls where you really get the notion that there's a hell of a lot of water coming over that thing. And it's said that the flow of water is so great in the early spring that boulders are sometimes carried over the falls from the hills behind. Sorry no pictures, within seconds of stepping out from the forest you're drenched - something cameras don't take too kindly. For those who are unaware, the head of Princess Louisa Inlet was once owned by James F. MacDonald who in 1953 deeded the property to the Princess Louisa International Society to be preserved for "the boating public of the Pacific Northwest." From the time he purchased the property in 1927 to his last visit in 1972 he personally welcomed boaters to floats, gangways, outdoor fireplaces and trails maintained by himself. When his log home burned in 1940 he found it increasingly hard to keep up and proceedings were started to form the Society. There are several interesting books about "Mac" and the history of the area in-general; "Mac and the Princess", "The Curve of Time" and the salty cruising guide "Gunkholing in Princess Louisa and Desolation Sound" (out of print but available used). You can also learn more about the Society HERE.  That evening we settled in and got to know a few of our neighbors. There's a certain feeling that seems to generally preside over the travelers at the Princess. The grandeur of the place just seems to overwhelm not only your senses but your mental state as well. It may also have something to do with the massive amounts of ozone being generated by the atomizing of the water mist from all the falls. But it seems that everyone speaks in lowered tones of reverence and there's a willingness to pause and converse and offer assistance if need be, beyond the usual I'm-on-vacation-and-feelin'-good demeanor.
This night we ate Copper River salmon with a Thai noodle salad and a surprisingly appropriate side of Cajun Andouille Smoked Pork sausage. We continued the on-again-off-again tradition (forgot to mention it last night) of a sunset toast with a shot of Milagro Repesado Tequila. And we tried our damnedest to stay up for the stars but at 11pm the sky was still a deep azure (Pic #12) and the heroquin efforts of the day tipped the scales toward the closing of eyes and nodding of heads. That and the constant sound of Chatterbox Falls, which I affectionately named "The Fan", was enough to drive a man into oblivion. Day Three - The Yarn of Hamburger and Ponytail I awoke briefly at 3am and opened the front deck hatch to let in some air, sleepily gazing up at the explosion of stars so far from the city lights. At 5:30am I was out of my berth and fixing coffee on the back deck. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The Slug slept 'til 8:30 (I couldn't resist buddy) - OK, it was the ozone (see, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt). Bacon and Louisa Scramble (eggs, green, red and jalapeno peppers, green onions and cheddar cheese). After a leisurely breakfast we schmoozed with our neighbors on the surrounding sailboats and trawlers. We were the smallest boat in the inlet at this point, though there was a local 24ft until that morning. The boat at our stern (toward the falls), Salty Bear, departed midmorning. Around noon as we were considering an afternoon dinghy adventure The Gensetters barged in to darken our perfect day. Note: "Gensetter": derived from 'generator set'; my own label for those RV/boater types that can't seem to give up any of the conveniences of modern life even for a moment and thus are always sucking on the teat of 110V to power their lives and machinery - even if that means their surrounding neighbors have to suffer carbon monoxcide poisoning as a result. Now first let me say that I'm pretty much a live-and-let-live kinda guy. I mean, if you want to drive around what I consider one of the ugliest designs for boat out there, the aft-cabin motoryacht with upper deck dining room, than that's fine with me. How the hell you can fish and crab and shrimp without a rear cockpit is a mystery, but to each his own. In powerboats, give me a sportfisher with a long, low gunwaled "business end", and a big bow to ship some seas - not a tall tender, wobbly, Floating Dining Room carrying so much windage it would qualify as a tubby and inefficient sailboat. So around the "corner" and into our world come Hamburger and Ponytail. When I spotted 'em I immediately estimated the dockage at our stern vacated by the recently departed Salty Bear and figured there just wasn't enough space for them to fit so they would naturally have to anchor out. Boats had started arriving that morning and dock space was becoming scarce. But much to our chagrin, the first boat squeezed right in with literally two inches to spare at my stern and with his anchor pulpit hanging over the stern of the boat in front. Que sara. Not what I would wish for, but that's the way it goes. Then his companion boat, "Finally 1" rafts up next to him. I'm not happy, but what can I do? They have rights too. Our view of the falls, and half the inlet for that matter, is gone. We might as well be in a Vancouver marina. I couldn't resist making a quip to the captain of the first boat (I never got it's name, though it was inches from my face), "If you see me standing on my tip toes peering into your saloon, I'm not leering at your wife, I'm trying to catch a glimpse of the falls," I said deadpan. I know, I know, I said I was incorrigible. I can't help myself. But now the fun begins. The second boat, "Finally 1", after rafting up, does not shut his stinky F'ing diesel down for ten minutes! He's obviously filling my cabin and bridge with fumes as he checks his lines and putters about the decks. I'm starting to fume myself but making great effort to hold my tongue. People on other boats are starting pull chairs out onto their decks to watch the show. Finally he shuts his engine down and I'm talking to Steve about the possibility of moving to the hook. There's plenty of space out there and we could choose to stern tie or just drop it in front of the falls and let the current keep us in line. Then the second shoe drops with a thud. "Finally 1" cranks up his genset, and the captain, hereafter known as "Hamburger", plops down in his overstuffed, eating a hamburger as grease drips down his fat chin onto a plate he's holding while he... get this, watches TV! All the while his genset is cranking away filling my cabin with diesel fumes. This guy is oblivious. No wonder powerboaters have a bad name. What a jerk! So who and where is Ponytail? Well, Ponytail is actually just a passenger on "Finally 1". And truthfully he did nothing all that obnoxous. Yet just his existence moving about doing Hamburger's bidding and the way his hair was pulled back and coffed 'just so', with this kind of "corporate ponytail" about an inch long and looking oh-so-cosmopolitan, made him guilty by association. And besides, the combination names made for the perfect title of our story. So I'm dangling at the end of my tether and I notice that a tour boat down at the falls-end of the dock is readying for departure. And at the same time, two boats are now coming around the corner. The time for action has arrived. I toss Gilligan a couple of fenders and fire up Juanderer. "Meet me down at the end, we're moving," I say to Steve. With the approaching boats I have no time to warm up the engine so I'll have to take the chance that the engine will die in the middle of this maneuver, which could be embarrassing since the current from the falls is considerable and I would undoubtedly drift onto another boat. Fortunately providence is on our side and though she sputters just little when I pop her in reverse to bring the stern in to the dock I'm able to pull it off with style and aplomb. And as I pulled away from the dock one would think that it might dawn on someone from the rafted skyscrapers, "Gee, do you think we offended them?" But not Hamburger. He's immediately up out of his chair and with grease still clinging to his chubby, dimpled chin, he's calculating whether he could possibly fit into my vacated space. What do you expect from a guy wearing a T-shirt that reads, "If you're not living on the edge you're taking up too much space." Originally a quote from mountainclimber Jim Whittiker which within it's context is inspiring. On Hamburger however it's a self-enthralled statement of ignorance and excess. Later in the day people from the other boats would amble by and make lighthearted comments about our move and at one point the older woman from the sailboat Rhiannon patted my hand and praised me for "taking the high road" by choosing not to lower myself in a futile show of aggression and "look what a lovely spot you now have". And it was true. We could almost reach out and touch the falls and there was no room for another boat at our stern. Not only that but we now had the added bonus of our "own" picnic table on the dock beside us. Sweetness and light.  Day Three continued - Now... The Perfect Day
With The Gensetters in our wake I grabbed my waterproof Pelican case of camera gear and we packed up a couple beers and jumped in the dinghy to explore the inlet. We meandered down the inlet and Steve spotted a beautiful little cove with a nice deep approach up against a rock face that allowed us to beach the inflatable without ripping her to shreds. A fresh water stream fed by one of ubiquitous waterfalls rushed over the adjacent rocks. If you taste the water just about anywhere in the inlet it seems to have about a quarter of the salinity of normal seawater. I'm sure it's saltier at depth but the sheer number of falls cascading from it's walls keep the surface waters almost fresh enough to drink.  The cove was just the ticket on a fine summer afternoon and before exploring the stream bed behind us we paused to drink our beers and just enjoy the peace and serenity of the moment. In The Curve of Time, M. Wylie Blanchet's touching memoir of her travels with her five children in a 25ft boat in the 1920's, the author tells of an old logger she calls Old Mike. He had apparently lived quite the wild life and had ended up being almost killed in a knife fight with another logger - for which he had a disfiguring facial scar as testimony. The fight was an epiphany for Old Mike and he changed his ways, building a cabin in the coastal wilderness and turning to books in his search for meaning. She and her children would stop in his little bay each summer and exchange reading materials. On a wall of his finely built log cabin, dashed off in pencil on an old piece of cardboard, was Mike's own Credo as he called it. "Look well of to-day - for it is the Life of Life. In it's brief course lie all the variations and realities of your life - the bliss of growth, the glory of action, the splendor of beauty. For yesterday is but a dream, and To-morrow a vision. But To-day well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness, and every To-morrow a vision of hope. For Time is but a scene in the eternal drama. So, look well of to-day, and let that be your resolution as you awake each morning and \ the New Dawn. Each day is born by the recurring miracle of Dawn, and each night reveals the celestial harmony of the stars. Seek not death in error of your life, and pull not upon yourself destruction by the work of your hands." The Perfection of a Moment. The culmination of all that has come before It and all that lies after It.
 The mental shedding of worldly concerns, the physical sweetness of the air and quality of the light were as drugs for the soul. After our long quiet pause we headed back into the forest along the stream until we came to it's source - another falls. The surrounding terran was unassailable so we had quickly reached the end of our footbound exploration and after a few pictures worked our way back down to the inlet's edge. We'd spent a couple hours here and decided to go a little further down the inlet to Macdonald Island where there are a few mooring buoys tucked behind the island and a big rounded boulder the size of a small home set off of the southeastern shore.
After circumnavigating the rock (because it was there, why else?) we came back up the inlet a ways and killed the dinghy motor to float in the sunshine on the absolutely glassy water. Finding the most comfortable positions for two full-size men in one small 8ft dinghy is a daunting task. Particularly since the bottom of an inflatable is never completely dry. So after finding our spots Steve noted that my unbuttoned "Jimmy Buffet Style Hawaiian Shirt" was trailing behind me in a pool of water but was quick to point out that, "If you tie that thing in a knot at your midriff I'm swimmin' to shore!" And we laughed and laughed. Male humor, ain't it grand?  The phenomenon of natural lighting and the way it changes throughout the day, depending on weather conditions, has always fascinated me. While we were floating serenely in the middle of the waterway one of those magic moments occurred where the height of the sun and the positions of the clouds combine with the reflections of the hillsides and the water to bring about this perfectly soft and diffuse lighting that makes photography so rewarding. The picture at the right is one of those moments of perfection and to me sums up my feelings completely of the time we spent with The Princess. Note the boat traveling up the right hand side. to give you an idea of the scale, that boat is a 60ft sportfisher with a 35ft tuna tower!
When we returned to the now perfectly positioned Juanderer, with Chatterbox Falls right off our stern, we decided that tonight was the perfect night to bring a little New Orleans culture to the wilderness. I fixed a Shrimp and Andouille Sausgae Jambalaya at our 'private' picnic table on the dock. It attracted some oh's and ah's from passersby and we struck up a conversation with some very nice folks from Vancouver, Rob and Vickie Langford aboard the Pacific Refuge. As we were finishing up dinner, Rob shows up with low and behold, a bottle of scotch and a couple Cuban cigars. My kinda guy! At moments like this I can't help but think, "What have I done right to deserve a life this good?!" Vickie showed up a little later and we BS'd at our table as the sun disappeared behind the ridge. Eventually, Steve retrieved our other bit of French / New Orleans culture planned for this evening, a bottle of Ibiza Absinthe that I had ordered from a Spanish distillery over the Web. Flown from Spain illicitely into the US, smuggled through Canadian Customs and brought via water over 200 miles to Princess Louisa. A rare commodity to say the least. Since we were thinking of going to Vancouver to top off the end of our journey, I got out the charts and picked Rob's brain for details of False Creek. They were leaving in the morning and I commented that we might spend another day if the weather holds but that I thought I could smell it changing. It was just a feeling that I had. And as the night progressed you just make out the mist moving into the peaks above us so my weather-eye was on-track. Several hours later after Vickie and Rob had departed around midnight, and well into the second half of the Absinthe, the Green Fairy, as they say, was having her way with us. In a blinding flash of inspiration Steve decided it was time to "test the waters of The Princess for phosphorescence". The Green Fairy and Green Phosphorescence seemed such a natural combination I guess. "Better than my shoes," was all I could say. Day Four - The Curve of Time  Wednesday, July 17th. I awoke a 4am to the sound of rain. I closed the front hatch above me in the V-berth and went up on deck to put up the back-curtain and then went back to sleep. At 6am I got up and and fixed myself a cup of coffee and when nature called I headed up the trail to the couple of outhouses on the hill behind the dock. Not a human was stirring and as I walked up the trail I was startled by some rustling in the forest to my right. I froze in my tracks as my heart pounded in my ears and my immediate thought was, "Bear! I'm going to be eaten by a *ucking bear on the way to take a dump. Not a good way to go." A few moments later another rustle. I'm now looking around to see what my best defense might be - climb a tree, run for the falls, make a lot of noise and find some big rocks to throw. Don't panic, think it out. At the third rustle I discerned the pattern of water building up in the forest canopy above and then dropping with a plop into the underbrush below, building and dropping, building and dropping. Phew! Silly me. I'm certainly awake now.
Back at the boat I settled in to read awhile. Steve awoke about 7am and I brewed another pot of coffee. The clouds had moved in thickly and heavy wisps of mist were clinging to the great ridge behind the falls. It looked like we had had our time with the Princess and it was time to go. Pacific Refuge cranked up her diesel about 7:30 and since I had promised to snap a few shots of her for Rob and Vickie in front of Chatterbox I grabbed my camera and slipped into the dinghy to motor out for a good angle. Wet, wet, wet. We secured the outboard and the dinghy and closed up the hatches and ports before getting underway (a lesson learned in 2000). At one and a half hours past slack we slipped through Malibu Rapids into Queens Reach and said our farewells to the lovely Princess Louisa. The sky was lifting and the rain lessening as we made our way down. There was a slight breeze coming up the reach from the south and the rippled water and gray flatness of the light made it hard to see any crap in the water. I was on "low plane" with the trim tabs down, running at about 18 mph as we both kept a good watch for logs when ziiinnnng, we clipped something and I brought her down off plane. For you landlubbers, when you "spin" the hub on a prop, you're still able to make way at a few knots, but you can't bring her up on plane. The mechanism in the hub is there to save your $2,000+ outdrive from the shock of the strike. Of course, if you hit something of sufficient mass at sufficient speed (such as a vertically floating 'deadhead' - the powerboater's nightmare), you could take the outdrive right off - and you better be ready to swim at that point because you're goin' down baby. So the first test after a glancing strike like this one is to see if you've spun the prop by trying to pour the coal on. Well, in this case she came right back up at full power and there was no perceptable vibration (which would mean we had chewed the prop) so we decided to carry on. When I hauled her after the trip there was only slight damage in that all 4 blades had a nice even sixteenth of an inch removed all the way around. So $60 at The Prop Shop in Mukilteo and I'm good as new.  After our prop strike we cautously made our way down the Reaches bringing her down off plane several times when debris piled up (it seems to be more concentrated in each of the 'elbows' of the Reaches). While we were picking our way around Marlborough Heights into Prince of Wales we paused at Vancouver Bay and retired to the rear deck for a "two-gun salute" to George. By the way, direct body-to-water discharge is NOT regulated by the Marine Pollution Act, an international treaty whose rules are enforcible by the Coast Guard. Body-to-bucket, bucket-to-water is in violation however - careful though, because the "direct discharge" method could violate local indecent-exposure statutes. Just thought you might like to know. Safely making it to Skookumchuck Inlet we eased into the 'other' marina at Egmont just to keep things fresh. 47 gallons of petrol into the 55 gallon tank meant we had about an hour or so in reserve - just as predicted - another perfect moment. Steve treated us to breakfast at the marina cafe and we topped off our ice chests. Refreshed and ready for the rest of the day, we slipped out of Egmont and across Jervis Inlet to the northwest into Hotham Sound - or as we like to call it Hot Ham Bay. We'd been told by several people that the oysters around the Harmony Islands were plentiful and delicious - and Rob Langford had assured me it was open for harvest. So as we came across Jervis Inlet and Hotham opened up before us, what struck me the most, now that I was getting used to seeing vast and deep panoramas with mountain peaks dropping steeply to the shore, was the fact that we were all alone. Here's a body of water 7 miles deep and about a mile and a half wide that looks like a photo right out of National Geographic and there's nobody else here! The islands are about halfway in on the right (northwest) side. The chart states "BC Provincial Park - Undeveloped", just the way we like it. There was a sign on the end of one of the islands that basically said, "This park is yours, pack it in, pack it out."
 We slowly cruised around both islands and came up the backside with the mainland to port. You could see literally millions of oysters lining all the shorelines. I took the dinghy and rowed over to the mainland shore and without leaving the boat I began to pry oyster after oyster off the rocks. Steve meanwhile took Juanderer and disappeared, leaving me in peaceful solitude for about twenty minutes. I filled a 5-gallon bucket about 3/4's of the way up - 4 or 5 dozen - in about fifteen minutes and never moved from a ten foot section of the shoreline. The quiet was deafening. I could imagine groups of natives in dugouts, having desserted their winter camps for hunting and foraging around the inlets, harvesting oysters along this very shoreline. The weight of a geological-time-frame was heavy in the thick tree-oxygenated air. Inhale a hundred years, exhale five hundred. How much different was this moment in MY existance then it was for a 'local' in say 1492. Were these oyster beds here? There are trees on that hill that are three hundred years old. It staggers the mind. I gotta go farther north!
Day Four continued - ...the tiny ship was tossed... With wild oysters on ice we started the 12 mile run down Agamemnon Channel to Malaspina Strait. We had a couple of alternate plans - Howe Sound, all the way to False Creek in Vancouver or run for the Gulf Islands. All depended on a benevolent and kind spirited Strait of Georgia. Our own spirits were high. It had been an undeniably great adventure thus far and we figured we had about an hour to make the first decision at Buccaneer Bay - southwest to Howe / Vancouver or southeast to the Gulf. As we talked a slight headwind picked up in the channel and we started lightly pounding into it. By the time we reached the bottom of Agamemnon the seas were up to 4 or 5 feet and the ride was getting decidedly uncomfortable. When the channel opened into the island-dotted mouth the seas were up to 6 or 7 feet and the southeast element coming up Malaspina hopelessly confused any wave pattern. I had her down off plane and working the throttle to climb the southwest swells to port as the southeast breaking chop to starboard beat us into submission. First this way then that, we were taking whitewater and spray from all directions. The tide was also outbound so the farther out of the channel we went the more there was a third element of a following swell from Agamemnon. Needless to say it was a mess and probably what would be called a summer southeaster - usually fierce but shortlived. There was no choice but to duck into Pender Harbor and wait it out. The entrance to Pender was only a mile away but it was going to be a wild mile. Our luck was holding though when crossing our course from starboard came the 60 footer Irish Mist. Even with her considerable beam and weight she was sloppily pitching and yawing, but she was also taking the tops right off in her wake so we fell in behind her and she escorted us gallantly into harbor. I do love that juxtapostion of entering the tranquil waters of a protected inlet from a varitable maelstrom on the outside. The adrenaline letdown. Ahhh... Safety. Peace. Survival. The warriors return. Ok, it's just so much bravado but hey, "I'm a man... but I can change... if I have to... I guess." We idled slowly into Garden Bay and shut down. It was 3pm and it started to drizzle as I hooked up shorepower. They were heli-logging up on 1500ft Cecil Hill to the south as we sidled on up to the pub for some lunch - good fish and chips and Okanogan Springs. Back at the boat we figured we would clean up and vacuum which made us feel pretty good, until the 120ft Que Sara eased in at a neighboring dock. I dunno, I suppose if I were rich I might have a different attitude, but I doubt it. Megayachts like this are just a bit too gentile for my taste. Where's the great adventure when your uniformed little slaves lower the tender and wipe down all the seats for you and then parade you around the marina like snooty little porcelin dolls? So the rain continued as we took a soggy dinghy ride over to the adjacent Sportsman's Marina where the sign reads "Showers $1". One point here might be that they should change the sign to read "Shower $1" because that all there is, ONE shower. And technically it didn't say HOT showers now did it? So I guess we can't complain, though we pumped a couple bucks worth of quarters into the mechanism. Cold was all we got. Refreshing? Sure. Relaxing? Not a chance. Hmm, maybe the Que Sara folks have the right idea afterall... nah. After our sportsman-like showers, a set of clean clothes, and a trip back to the pub for burgers around 9pm the world started to take on a better look. We felt good! And one Gin Martini and a Gilligan later our outlook was damn fine. The "Gilligan" is Steve's tasty invention of ginger ale and dark rum, or as I said, "two parts Ginger and one part Mary Ann." It really quenches the ole Thurston Howell I tell ya. Sorry. So with red skies to the west, enough to delight any sailor, and visions of very unsportsman-like hot showers dancing in our heads (it had been 4 days since our last afterall) we slipped into unconsciousness to the soothing sound of rain pelting the canvas. Laying in our berths, Steve concluded the night with his usual, "G'night Johnboy," to which I replied wistfully, "I miss The Fan." Quote of the day: "We came here to boat and drink and we succeeded." Steve Noe Day Five - Chasing the Rainbow Thursday, July 18th. I was up and out on deck around 5:30am with not a cloud in the sky. Stevo was up at 6:30 - A NEW RECORD!!! *hehheh* After filling the coffee mugs and stowing the night configuration we cruised around to good ole John Henry's in hospital Bay to top off the tank around 7:30. Wayne the propriator remembered us and said he was glad we'd dodged the logs and made it back to tell the tale. An offshore flow brought in some clouds from the east as we left Pender Harbor into a much calmer Malaspina Strait. Since the offshore flow would mean that Vancouver would probably be cloudy and there was blue sky to the west over in the Gulf Islands there was no quibbling over where we should go. As we approached the backside of Thormanby Island and Welcome Pass it was as if the nautical gods were thinking, "So, you guys are good, and you've done well to make it thus far, but now we'll see if you're really good seaman or just careless splashes." So they threw a couple logs at us. And it was obvious that there were more in the area and the light and ripple of the surface made it hard it see again, so instead of just going on sharp lookout and remaining at speed, we did the more prudent thing and brought her down. Before you knew it a whole field of crap appeared and there were enough logs to build a good sized home. They came up so fast and there were so many that had we been running at speed we would of hit something for sure. Getting a look-see into the big water it looked like it may be bumpy (1 to 2 foot chop) but nothing we couldn't handle so just before 9am I grabbed a Lat/Long out of one of my waypoint books at Snake Island in Northumberland Channel by Nanaimo and off we went. A slow planing cruise of the customary 18 miles per hour put our destination at one hour's distance and we settled in for the bumpy ride. Soon our 2ft chop turned to a 3ft lump but it was even and regular and we powered on. By ten o'clock we were getting some protection from Gabriola Island as we slipped into Northumberland. The channel from here to Dodd Narrows is full of log booms and along with log booms come errant and misguided offspring, so we spent the next hour putting along sipping our drinks... well maybe Steve was being a good boy, but I was having a little vodka and orange juice, so there. When we reached the narrows we could see it was flowing outward and I could just make out a brave little sailboat hugging the Purvis Point, Mudge Island side and inching her way to freedom. Dodd wasn't up to it's full 10 knots but charging it up on plane as we did last year yielded 26 mph on the mechanical and 19 on the GPS, so the flow was right around 7 mph. The brave little sailboat would have a good tale to tell back at her homeport, wherever that may be. Past Dodd we moved south of the staging area where all northbound boats pause to assess the situation and killed the motor to drift in Stuart Channel and have some lunch. It was about 11:30am and we'd skipped breakfast, so a nice big ham and Havarti sandwich with 'the works' really hit the spot. Over lunch we decided that Maple Bay might be a good marina in which to decompress from our trek - not to mention they have the greatest HOT showers in the Gulf. The weather was being a little fickle and the sun would come and go but it looked pretty good toward Maple Bay - chasing blue sky again! Shades of 2001. Will we ever learn?  As we moved down Stuart past Thetis and Kuper Islands and it funnels inward toward Samsun Narrows, the blue sky seemed to slip further to the south. "Not again," I thought. Not another soggy night in Maple Bay. But our star still shone and Maple Bay was quite pleasant when we arrived, even dramatic with black clouds and sun breaks. After gassing up for the morning departure, we tied up at our slip and took our traditional Maple Bay dock-walk with beers in hand to look over the various watercraft and rows of houseboats along the south side of the marina. We went wife-gift shopping and both found just the right gifts to take home. (Mine was a native-design Orca bracelet described as "Orca - Spirit of the Traveler", which I thought quite fitting, along with something for each of my daughters.)
Day Five continued - Miles, Martinis and Mollusks  Power-napping in Maple Bay? Call it what you will, a good 20-minute nap can work wonders for the energy level. Once fully awake and refreshed, one may resume the mission of over-medication with renewed vigor. The dark clouds threatened only once and blanketed the area with a fine mist, producing a georgous rainbow, but then it started clearing and continued to do so throughout the evening.
Around 5pm I cranked up the Force 10 propane grill and we began what would go down in local legend as, "The Thursday Night Massacre." We'd been carefully icing the Harmony Islands oysters for two days and tonight on the eve of my 48th birthday we would see just how good they were. I prepared my usual butter/lemon/garlic mixture, or as Steve calls it, "buttered garlic, not garlic butter," and we began what would become a 3 hour oyster fest. Miles Davis' Blue in the CD player, Martini's in our mitts and Mollusks on the barbie. Cooking them on the grill until they pop open, you remove the "flat" side of the shell and then slather the above mixture on for another minute back on the grill. Six or eight at a time, we devoured every last dozen. Good? Let me give you a little comparison - on a scale of 1 to 10. For local oysters (ones I've had) I would rate the Lummi Island variety a 5. The Chucknut Oyster Creek variety (farmed) a 4. Westcott Bay, San Juan Island (farmed) a 10! Wild Harmony Island Oysters... drum roll... 25! On a scale of 1 to 10! I know you're thinking, "It was just the moment, combining where you got them with where you ate them on your Birthday Eve with your best bud."  OK make that 35 if you want to include the external factors. They had a flavor that was delicate, clean and sweet and their fat content made them slide right off the shell. We felt so guilty about devouring them all and not attempting to bring any home for our wives, that we made a journey to Wescott Bay the next day so we could take home a couple dozen "10's". And when I tasted my first Westcott at home with the flavor of the Harmonies still fresh in my mind, I was surprised by the difference. I still love the Westcotts, but they just don't compare. It must be that clear, clean glacial water cascading down the mountains into Hotham Sound. Or the age of those oyster beds. Something. The osprey that swooped over me as I rowed to the oyster beds and landed on a branch about 50 yards away to watch intently as I took "his" oysters knew. He knew. I don't even know if osprey eat oysters truthfully - because it doesn't matter. He knew. And he was loathe to see it - because he knew I'd be back. And I will. If only for the oysters. Maybe next year, with a short detour on the way to reaches further north. Are you listening Steve?
Quote of the day: "We came here to boat and drink and we succeeded." Steve Noe ...wait... that was yesterday Day Six - 48 Years and Counting - Lost in the Saanich Triangle Friday, July 19th. A sky so clear and blue has never been seen. All the "iffy-ness" of yesterday's weather had evaporated. With the clearing may come the wind, but the sparkle on the water looked like a million birthday candles just for me. Sipping hot coffee and discussing the possibilities for our final full-day was brief. We had important things to do. Our last hot showers had been at our respective homes last Sunday. When we'd picked up shower tokens the day before, Steve had taken two and I had pigged-out for a birthday-shower of three. Maple Bay's showers are "Best in Class" (with Roche Harbor's a close second). No marina shower I have ever used can top them. Clean, with their own dressing room, good water pressure, soft water and so much time per token that I just couldn't waste enough to warrant all three of my tokens; two was quite enough. Refreshed and with a new outlook on life, my buddy took me to breakfast at The Quarterdeck, the traditional outdoor breakfast grill at Maple Bay. When the waitress overheard that it was my birthday - OK I was telling everyone - she added a big chocolate muffin to the table, which we were too full to eat and so it was brought on board as additional provisions.  We pulled away from the dock at 10am and immediately went with Ginger and Mary Ann to meet the Professor in Sansum Narrows. To the south Sansum widens into Satellite Channel as it curves under the rump of Saltsprimg Island and opening to the east, reveals a virtual riot of small islands and reefs off the northeast corner of Saanich Peninsula. The Saanich Triangle to us. The easiest route is of course to skip "The Triangle" all together and shoot down Shute Passage between Piers and Portland Islands leaving the whole mess to starboard. But that wouldn't be any fun would it? I just happen to like tight, difficult, passages that require good charts and chutspah to make. This one was irresistable. So slipping between Piers Island and the Peninsula into Colburne Passage we found ourselves in The Triangle. It was such a beautiful day and we had all the canvas peeled back and the sun beat down on our bare shoulders. Reefs to the left of us, reefs to the right. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. We could still change our minds and go directly east and not chance it and if you think that's what we did, you don't know the Seadogs very well (maybe you should read the other sagas and find out just how deranged we really are).
The channel between the Peninsula and Coal Island is split in two by Goudge Island and it's little sibling to the south, Fernie Island. The easiest way through is John Passage to the east next to Coal with only one drying reef and a rock with John's name on it (I wonder who John was and why this rock has his name on it). No, we would take the choked west pass. Drifting in busy Coulburne Passage and considering the chart (OK, dumbfoundedly turning the chart every which way trying to place just where the hell we were), we spotted a boat merrily heading toward John's area. Steve pointed and said, "He seems to know where he's going." To which I replied, "Never follow the insane to their folly... lead them instead." Well, I guess you had to be there. It was funny at the time - and how much exactly did you pay to be reading this anyway? Sheesh, everybody's a critic. So we slowly inched our way down Iroquois Passage with it's many reefs and little Moscow Islet on the right. Now sitting "in the pocket" between Goudge and Fernie in 60ft of water, the easy way is to continue through Iroquois and into the clear, yet again, I didn't come here to take the easy way. So we slowly felt our way down through Page Passage following the darker ribbon of deeper water winding through drying reefs and shallows on all sides. Finally we popped out into the clear below Fernie. 12ft, 30ft, 60ft, 75ft, 100ft... read the depth sounder... ahhh. Directly west is The Little Group, a dozen or so sandy and rocky little islets and reefs drying in the sun, and to the south you can spot the rock seawall that is the breakwater entrance to Sidney Harbor. Skirting the Little Group to the southwest we paused off of Sidney Spit which lies off the northwest tip of Sidney Island. The plan is to go down Miners Channel along the northeast shore of Sidney Island and across Haro Strait into U.S. waters. But since we're in a fairly protected area and it looks like the wind is up in Miners and Haro, it's time to put our call into U.S. Customs and clear the border.  Getting out my cell phone I dialed the 800-number and hoped my buddy Phil was correct in that nothing had changed and we wouldn't be required to make port at Roche or Friday Harbors to check-in. Phil had made the crossing several weeks earlier and told me that the agent said they just didn't have the manpower to make every boater come to port. A very pleasant woman answered and I told her where I was and gave her my PIN number for the boat and after a moment she had called it up on her computer. She changed my PIN to my phone number (as Phil said she would), asked for my Canadian Clearance Number and issued me my U.S. Clearance. Budda-bing-budda-boom. Steve with the wise cracks again, "Have you boy's been fishin'?" "Why yes, yes we have. We've been tryin' to catch a buzz all day and we've had remarkable success!" Next stop Westcott Bay Oyster Farm.
Rounding Sidney Spit it was obvious that we were in for a rough ride. Perfectly formed and whitecapped rollers marched up Miners Channel directly toward us and the wind dipped over the winshield cooling us as we beat into it. To port, the islands of Mandarte and Halibut moved by looking like misplaced, flat-topped peaks transported from Arizona and dropped into the sea. Rounding Hamley Point at the end of Sidney Island the wind swung to our starboard quarter and picked up. 3 to 4 foot wind waves pummeled the foredeck sending spray up over the windshield but it was whisked away on the wind and we remained remarkably dry on the open bridge. As we moved into the deeper water of Haro Strait the waves stopped breaking but slowly moved onto our beam so I was forced to put a little more southing into our course then I liked to keep them on the fore quarter. By the time we were even with Henry Island on the other side of the strait, we were half a mile south of our entrance to Mosquito Pass, so I tacked to the north and though the following sea was much more comfortable the shelfing bottom was slowly coming up from it's maximum of 900ft to it's minimum of 30ft at the entrance to Mosquito. This of course caused the waves to rear up a little higher (crys of the Happag Lloyd) and start to break at our stern so I was forced to bring her down off plane and wallow on their backs as they carried us into the pass. The tide was high so the shallows that can be trickey at midpoint inside Westcott Bay were well beneath our hull (10ft instead of 3 or 4ft) (stay well off Bell Point at low tide) and we had an easy time slipping into the dock at the oyster farm in the rear of the bay. Steve treated with a couple dozen oysters each to take home (the guilt still itching at us for not bringing home to you-know-who the you-know-whats from you-know-where). It was about 2pm and we congratulated ourselves for making it back into home territory. Juanderer was back in her beloved San Juans. Quote of the day: "Never follow the insane to their folly... lead them instead." Jeff Lindeman Day Six continued - 48 Years and Still Counting Coming out of Westcott and rounding White Point into Mosquito Pass (don't cut that point now, stay to the outside - west - of the red marker at mid channel or you'll be sorry) there was no traffic and I love to zoom this "S" shaped pass so naturally I did. A sharp eye is required at Bazalgette Point when entering Roche Harbor from Mosquito Pass because several local 'bozos' like to use floating yellow poly line on their crab pots and we almost snagged one a couple years ago - the law says "leaded-line" if you're listening you turkey. With a nod toward Roche we idled past Pearl Island (watch the shallow kelp beds to your left) and around Davidson Head and into Spieden Channel. Apparently Spieden Island to the north was once going to be a hunting reserve for rich great-white-hunters and local legend has it that cougars can be heard yowling on quiet nights. I have my doubts on this one but one never knows... unless one knows of course. Now isn't that true? With the protection of massive San Juan Island at our back, San Juan Channel was pert'near pancake-flat - except for the ubiquitous wakes from those self-indulgent and ignorant 'drivers' of those 50 footers who'll blow by so close you can see their sporty little skipper caps, beer guts and trophy wives as they swamp you and give all powerboaters a bad name - hey, was that Hamburger in that floating dining room? But I digress. So cutting under Deer Harbor on southeast Orcas and through Harney Channel we dropped down the east side of Lopez Island to check out the 5 mooring buoys, indicated on the chart, on the north side of Spencer Spit. There's one buoy available but that nasty southwest wind is coming right over the low spit and all the boats there moving up and down, up and down, rocking and rolling. Nah, not where I want to be for the night and though the summerwind may die at dusk and it would be fine, we move on. It looks like we'll need a little fuel - the girl is always thirsty - so a northing to Pevine Pass and a final fuel stop at Blakely Marina is in order. I always try to take the inside of the dock at Blakely because the wakes from passing boats in the pass can slam you pretty hard against the dock on the outside. While I fuel her up, Steve walks up to the store to pay and returns with a couple ice cream sandwiches. Oh yeah, Happy Birthday to me! And it's been a fine one at that. The top is still down and it's getting on to 6pm so we decide to spend the night on the hook in our true home, Chuckanut Bay - where the crabs tremble in fear. Entering my favorite body of San Juan water, Rosario Strait, we eat our ice cream and putt. Putt-putt-putt. Mt Baker and the Three Sisters stand majestic and solid to the east and the surprisingly calm waters of the strait surround us. My oldest girl, Talia, likes to call the mountains "Daddy and his Three Girls" and she even knows which ones she has picked for herself, Alexa and mom, but I can't keep them straight - or maybe she changes them just to confuse me. No hurry. We know where we're going and charts are unnecessary. We've got a good 4-hours 'til dark so we don't bring her up on plane until we're all the way across to Toe Head on the north tip of Cypress. I give Carmen a call at her folks house in Tacoma to let her know we're still alive and hanging in local waters. "Yes, we've had a great time." "No, no damage, we're unscathed, so far - well except a few brain cells." "I'm kidding" "I'll call you from home tomorrow" "Love you, bye" Talia misses her daddy and was crying last night.  As we approach Chuckanut we give Whiskey Rock our standard, "Curses to the scourge of the sea, the damnable Happag Lloyd," taken with a scotch straight-up of course. Entering the southend of Chuck - that doesn't sound right does it? - we check the GPS marks for our crab pots and find everything in order. We can either anchor off the beach in Pleasant Bay on the southend or tuck up into the northend off a beautiful rock face. Since the south spot will probably be getting small rollers from passing traffic we decide the northend would be quieter. Anchored in 30ft with a soft mud bottom we're in for the night. Freshwater Jumbo Prawns and Sea Scallops in Lemon Butter with a side of Creamy Garlic Noodles and a salad. We eat pretty good don't we?
At dusk a lone sailboat slips in and drops anchor 100ft to the north and the skipper vanishes below - good night, lights out. Being a light sleeper when I'm on the hook, I awake several times in the night and poke my head out of the hatch to check our position against a mark on the cliff wall beside us. We haven't budged and I'm not surprised as the bay looks like a mirror under a moonless and starry sky. Quote of the day: "Never follow the insane to their folly... lead them instead." Jeff Lindeman Day Seven - Satisfied  At 5am I awoke and went up on deck wrapped in my blanket and watched the sunrise at 5:30, then slipped back into the V-berth and slept until 8 o'clock. As I started to brew the morning coffee our last can of butane for the stove gave up the ghost and left us with no coffee and no bacon and eggs for breakfast. Must be time to go home. A coke and the blessed chocolate muffin from yesterday morning in Maple Bay was quite satisfactory however and we spent an hour cleaning and packing up - always more pleasant on the water than waiting to clean up at the dock. When we finished we slipped the cable and headed to the south to retrieve our crabpots.
We had placed two pots closer to Chucknut Island and two closer to Govenors Point so if we got poached we might escape with half our load. Much to our dismay it was apparent that the first pot had been moved from it's position just the prior evening and sure enough it was empty. Not an auspicious beginning. The second however was stuffed with big boys. The third was the same and we began to get cocky, throwing out legal ones that weren't big enough for our inflated egos. The fourth must of been poached earlier in the week because the bait was gone and though there were a few, it seemed short. But 26 seven and a half to eight inchers was an official *hitload and we started our slow cruise down the seawall into Bellingham Bay and home. Epilogue More than satisfied. For the first time in our yearly journeys we were ready to head for home. We had accomplished what we had set out to do. We'd had an epic adventure and you could feel that it's course had been run and there was nothing to do but call it a day. None of the usual whining about crappy weather or if-we-could-only-have another-day. It was a wrap. It's taken me several weeks to shake The Princess. I think about her everyday still. What's she like in the winter when the winds howl and the avalanches slide down her shear walls into the inlet? And how do those oysters at the head of the inlet taste when you can take them before May 31st or after September 31st? And what about Skoockumchuck? Gotta go down THERE sometime! I've grown up here in the Northwest and I've never thought too much about those northern reaches; The Princess, Desolation Sound, Johnstone Strait, Queen Charlotte Strait and beyond above Vancover Island. Fifteen years ago I did a gig onboard the Sun Princess and did a couple cruises up to Glacier Bay through the Inland Waterway. It was fun, but I didn't really 'get it.' Sure it was great to stand off a glacier and watch sheets of ice break off and plunge into the bay. And I remember clearly the wonder I felt on a moonless and cloudy night standing up on the bow of the ship as we rushed at twenty knots down a channel into complete blackness. You could turn and see the radar receivers spinning madly over the bridge and the red glow of the subdued bridge lighting, but when you turned back there was nothing but blackness beyond the bow rail. "I sure hope they know what they're doing," I remember saying outloud to no one. But the beauty of the place seemed to have escaped me. Maybe I just needed to make my own way to appreciate it's startling beauty. And maybe I needed to get a little older to appreciate it's history - stand a little further out on that Curve of Time to get a better view of what came before me. So now I DO 'get it' - with a vengence. The north seems to gently whisper to me. Those mountains and vistas and the riot of life in the waters of our great Pacific Northwest. It's like that rock with John's name on it back in the Saanich Triangle. All the islands and rocks and cliffs and little sandbars in forgotten coves and seals and porpoises and otters and evil-eyed little ospreys that whisper my name. "Come to us," they say. Come to us and we will show you. Come to us and we will teach you... about yourself. With a special thanks to Steve for being my friend. I know he 'gets it' too. Until next year, fair winds and following seas and I'll meet you outside the inlet. Cheers, Jeff The waves I respect And the wind I revere If you want to know the truth It's the Jeff Lindeman 2002 
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