The log of S/V Lacuna, spring and summer 2005
Second chapter: San Juan Island to Port McNeill. May 1-9, 2005
5/1/05. I’m anchored in Garrison Bay on San Juan Island—right offshore from English Camp, which includes some white-painted buildings that are meant to represent the historic military encampment involved in the pig war. The bay is shoal but just fine for Lacuna—in fact, it’s good, because it keeps the bigger boats away.
I got up at 5:00 this morning and was underway before 6:00. The air was completely still. There were no wind ripples on the water, but as always, the water was in motion, up and down, in random wave patterns. Several small fish boats zoomed past. Others were aggregated around certain spots, no doubt fish hot spots. Visibility was good but the haze turned the island ridges various shades of blue-grey, with the more distant ridges lighter and less distinct. I motored around the south side of the San Juans, past Iceberg and Cattle Points, and north along the west shore of San Juan Island. Before I expected it, Mosquito Pass appeared, and by 1:00 I was anchored.
I spent a few hours relaxing in the cockpit, lying on my back in the sun. Even while relaxing, though, I was actively boating. There was a bit of a breeze, causing Lacuna to swing back and forth. Like most boats, she won’t willingly lie bow to the wind. She’ll pull against the anchor rode, turning until she’s 30 or 40 degrees off the wind, then sail forward until pulled up short by the rode. Then her bow tacks through the wind and she’s off to the other end of the swing. It’s a bit unnerving, especially when the harbor is crowded.
Boat partner Ed and I made a riding sail out of an old dinghy jib by cutting off and discarding all but the top three or four feet of the sail. We had tack and clew grommets installed on the tiny triangle that was left. When at anchor, we tie its tack at the aft end of the mainsail boom, raise the head with the mainsail halyard, and tie the clew forward with a “sheet” to the mast. It acts like the feathers on an arrow, helping keep the stern downwind. While Lacuna still turns one bow cheek after the other into the wind, she won’t sail on the anchor.
While I was lying on my back in the cockpit, absorbing the rays of the sun, I watched the wind vane at the top of the mast, seeing how far it would swing back and forth as Lacuna pivoted one way then the other. I got up, adjusted the lines, then went back to supine observation. No improvement in degree of swing. So I moved the sheet again. More observation, accompanied by a glass of wine. Although my outlook improved, the swing did not. Another move of the sheet, no improvement. Finally, after enough wine and enough fiddling, I had it set up so that it worked better than ever--or so it seemed at the time.
In my relaxation, I listened to the noises around me. There were some talkative Canada geese, noisy seagulls, a couple of ravens croaking, and kingfishers chattering—but behind all of it, and sometimes in the foreground, were human-made sounds. Small airplanes fly over. Boats pass by in Mosquito Pass. Someone shoots a big-caliber gun to the south—half a dozen shots in two or three seconds, then quiet for a while, then shots again. There’s a noisy diesel generator at one of the houses to the north. It’s been running all the time that I’ve been here. If I lived out in the middle of peace and quiet, I sure wouldn’t want a noisy generator!
Behind it all is a pervasive hum, a throb, of human activity. It’s truly remarkable how much we pollute our sonic environment. But aerial sound is only a small part of it. Sound travels much faster, much further, in water than in air. We as a species seem to have no regard for the many aquatic creatures that depend on sound for their lives.
Recently a scientific report showed that larval reef fish, which disperse with the currents, home in on reefs by the sounds. When they have matured to the point that they are ready to settle on a reef, they follow their ears to find a new home. Reefs are noisy places, with shrimp snapping their claws, fish grunting, and various other sounds.
If we pollute the waters with the sound of our motors and propellers, how are the little fish to find their way? But this thoughtlessness pales by comparison with the truly fiendish high-power sonar of the US Navy, which can destroy the ears of whales and porpoises. These animals are absolutely dependent on their hearing, because they hunt and navigate with sonar; when they are deafened, they die.
5/2/05. I’m on the hook in the southern end of Annette Inlet, on Prevost Island. I left Garrison Bay before 8:00 and by 8:45 I was in Canadian waters, and in two more hours I had landed at the customs dock at Sidney and, after a long time on hold on the customs phone at the dock, I was cleared through with no inspection or hassle—just a few questions about my plans and whether I was carrying guns, pepper spray, or apples.
I spent a couple of hours in Sidney—it’s worth much more time, with all the attractions, restaurants, and other amenities—but I was eager to press on. After a latte, a shower, and getting a few provisions, I took off again.
It rained most of the time I was on the water, not heavily, just persistently. I have long believed that there is no bad weather—just inappropriate clothing. I was prepared. Even though it was shirtsleeve weather on shore, on the water it was quite a bit cooler. I wore fleece pants and shirt, heavy socks, waterproof bibs and coat, and rubber boots. Only my nose and hands got wet as I stood watch.
The day’s journey was uneventful, but the anchorage is delightful. There are no other boats in this basin. Near the mouth of the inlet, there are a couple of funky houseboats, but few other signs of human life. I can see a patch of blue roof through the trees, but otherwise I have the place to myself. All around the basin in the evening light the madrones are in full bloom, with their creamy blossoms shining in the last rays of the sun. Through the mouth of the inlet I can see three or four ridges fading in the distance, the closest blue-black and the most distant a pale gray.
Madrones ("arbutus" in Canada) in full bloom.
Canada geese are making a racket, honking back and forth. There seem to be only a few of them, but they’re very noisy. Above it all, in both height and pitch, two bald eagles whistle back and forth. The tallest tree on the ridge, one with a broken top, seems to hold a nest; they take turns at a favored perch in a topmost branch, one flying up and ousting the other, who appears to drop down to the nest, although it’s hard to see at this distance. Their voices are so high-pitched for such a large bird!
I bought four ounces of ling cod at a fish market in Sidney. Tonight I fried potatoes, carrots, garlic, and ginger in olive oil until they were well browned then deglazed the pan with a splash of Chablis and sautéed the fish after pushing the veggies to the side of the pan. It was delicious, and took only a single pan. Dishwashing is something to be avoided as much as possible.
5/3/05. I motored out of Annette Inlet and in a cool, cloudy day headed toward Nanoose Harbor, the day’s destination. Last night, as I planned the day’s journey, I had to include one of three passes that I could take out of the Gulf Islands—Active Pass, the closest, less than an hour from the anchorage; Porlier Pass, about a third of the way into a day’s journey; or Dodd Narrows, some twenty-five miles away. I looked at the tide table and current atlas and decided that I could catch Active Pass on the morning slack or Dodd Narrows on the afternoon slack. In either channel, currents can run in excess of my boat’s maximum speed, so timing the transit for slack is important.
Active Pass would put me into the Strait of Georgia, a big body of water. The weather forecast was for calm conditions, but the Strait can be nasty when it kicks up, and there are few convenient refuges for quite a ways north. I decided to stay within the Gulf Islands for as long as I could, which meant passing through Dodd Narrows, just south of Nanaimo.
I calculated that if I left at 8:00 and maintained a 5-knot boat speed, I could be at Dodd Narrows a bit before slack, riding a favorable flood tide all the way to the entry of the Narrows. It worked like a charm. I got enough of a current boost that I was able to throttle the boat speed back by a knot the last hour or so; just as I had planned, I got to the entry 20 minutes before slack.
The guidebooks had said to expect traffic through the Narrows, which is a fairly short passage, at the turn of the tide. Most slow boats such as mine catch the last of the favorable current before the turn, the books said, while the oncoming boats wait outside the entry for the first of the favorable current after the tide turns. It looked as if I was going to be alone through the passage—a sailboat preceded me under power by fifteen minutes, but I saw no oncoming traffic until I passed around the last bend—and there was what I least wanted to see coming my way—two tugs pulling and pushing a barge that looked to be at least as wide as the passage. It was an odd-looking barge, wider than it was long, with high walls on the sides and no walls on the ends. It might have been a section of a drydock once, but it looked as if it had been taken over as a work barge—there was lots of equipment piled on the deck, a metal shed, some other unrecognizable stuff.
The lead tug had the barge on a very short cable. The aft tug held station behind the barge. As I emerged from the Narrows, they were less than a hundred meters away, holding position, waiting until the exact moment of slack to make their move. I’m glad I didn’t have to share the narrowest part with them—I don’t see how the barge would have fit through with my little boat next to it in the channel.
I had planned to avoid stopping at Nanaimo, but needed to buy another log book for Lacuna—I just filled up the last one, which included five years of sailing. I wanted a decent quality book, which meant stopping at Nanaimo. It was also an opportunity to take on gas and get some supplies.
Nanaimo (click here for larger image)
Nanaimo has a very nice waterfront, busy and upscale, as well as a working waterfront. With some trouble, I got a slip near the wharfinger’s office. The basin was so crowded with the fishing fleet that there was little space for tourists. The only slips that were available were alongside a dock next to a narrow channel—I had to back in to tie up. I found the supplies that I needed, filled up with gas (it took less than I expected, 57 liters--the Honda outboard delivers about 12 nautical miles per gallon), and headed out again.
After a while, the breeze rose so I started sailing on a broad reach. After an hour or so of sailing, the wind eased, the course changed to directly downwind, and I started motorsailing. I dropped the jib, tied the boom out with a preventer, let the motor run at low throttle, and ran downwind at 4+ knots.
I pulled into Nanoose Harbor and was unimpressed. It was as different from Annette Inlet as could be in terms of protection and quiet. The harbor is open to the east and quite deep. The guidebook suggests anchoring just inside the sandy hook that marks the eastern edge of the harbor. What it doesn’t say is that this hook is underwater most of the time, providing little protection but lots of anxiety. I cruised around the harbor looking at the depth sounder and the chartplotter trying to find a good anchorage—none looked any better than the marginal one recommended by the guidebook. There were some rickety docks nearby with a few funky looking boats tied up, but no mention of it in the cruising guides as a place to tie up.
Just after I had dropped my anchor, and as I was standing on the bow letting the anchor rode out hand-over-hand, a s sailboat a bit smaller than Lacuna came out from the docks, motor cranked up full, and motored right across my bow. The bozo couldn’t have understood what I was doing. I had to throw out a bunch of line so that it would sink before he hit it with his keel or prop. As he motored by, he yelled something about staying at the docks (“It’s free!”) but I wanted to avoid unknown landlords. As it turns out, I had anchored across the shortcut that the locals took to the docks—two other boats crossed my bow (but neither so close) while I was on the hook.
On top of that, there was more vehicle traffic noise than I remember at any sailing venue since Dexter Lake. The main highway up and down Vancouver Island runs right next to the harbor, and a steep hill means that motorists floor it. I thought there was a Harley convention on the island for a while, there were so many piggishly loud vehicles on the road. While I usually like to listen to ambient sounds when I’m anchored, I played the stereo loud to overcome the racket.
5/4/05. Fortunately, the easterly breeze that made me bend on another length of anchor rode last night dropped to a whisper. This morning the sea was calm and flat. I left Nanoose Harbor without regret and headed out before 7:30. There was a possibility of building NW wind this afternoon. I wanted to avoid that as much as possible. After leaving the harbor and making my way around islets and rocks north of the harbor’s mouth, I had some long course legs to navigate—one that required the same heading for more than 12 nautical miles, well away from shore. Once the autopilot was on course, there wasn’t much for me to do. I took the knotmeter apart, determined that I could see no obvious faults, tested for continuity, signal delivery, power supply, and so forth, and found nothing that I could correct—the fault is within some component within the instrument.
I miss the knotmeter even though I the chartplotter and GPS give me precise measurements of speed over ground. Because the water is in motion, unlike lake sailing, the knotmeter often gives a reading different from the GPS. I use the difference to maximize the benefit of favorable current or minimize the retardation caused by adverse current.
Late in the morning, motoring along on the calm waters, far from shore, I took a bath. I heated water up on the stove, mixed it in the boat bucket with a little cold water, and stood naked in the cabin while leaning out of the hatchway into the cockpit to wash my hair. Then I took a sponge bath, staying out of the chilly breeze caused by the boat’s apparent wind, dripping onto the cabin sole. Finally, I stepped out into the cockpit and dumped the last of the bucket of water over myself and hustled back into the cabin again to dry off. It started to rain as I was finishing, providing even more motivation to stay in the cabin. After I mopped up the cabin sole, both it and I were clean.
I felt like a gopher, popping my head up out of the hatch every minute or two to scan the surroundings, look for other boats, and watch for floating debris in my path. There were virtually no other boats and very little debris—and the water is too deep for crab traps, so I didn’t have to worry about getting a trap line caught in my prop.
Among the tasks on my list of boat chores was checking the voltage throughout the system. I’d been getting some odd readings in the past couple of days and wanted to understand what was going on. To my horror, I found that both batteries were almost discharged—neither held 12 volts when a load was applied. Both dropped below 10V. I was surprised that the instruments and autopilot were still running. Although I had all three solar panels out, they weren’t keeping up with the load on this cloudy day. Further investigation revealed that the motor wasn’t charging. It was a bad case of déjà vu all over again!
Ed and I spent almost $2000 on this motor a year ago, replacing a 1982 Honda 7.5 horse motor that had given us wonderful service. It had been so dependable that we wanted one just like it, only new, and except for one other thing—the old motor had never generated enough electricity to charge the batteries. In fact, its alternator was so worthless that we didn’t bother hooking it up. When we bought the new motor, we thought long and hard about getting the electric-start model, with a 10-amp charger, for its capacity to produce electricity. But it weighed 20 pounds more than the manual-start model, and the latter was advertised as having a 6-amp alternator, so we chose the manual start motor.
We didn’t bother hooking it up last year for the summer’s sailing at Fern Ridge—the solar panel kept the batteries fully charged when we weren’t using the boat every day. It wasn’t until the preparation for this voyage that I ran the wire to the motor. During this voyage, I stopped often enough at marinas with electrical hookups that the batteries frequently were recharged. I had never had reason to suspect that the motor wasn’t charging until I anchored out for a few days in a row and the weather was cloudy enough that the solar panels couldn’t keep up with the load.
The last few miles into Comox, I shut off all the unnecessary electronics—the depth sounder, the VHF radio, the autopilot (what a hardship, steering by hand!), everything but the chartplotter. I didn’t want the voltage to drop so low that the chartplotter wouldn’t work!
When I pulled into the Comox small boat basin, it was like Nanaimo—very crowded with fish boats. There was one narrow alley next to the breakwater that was too small for the commercial boats—that’s where the few pleasure boats were. I turned around, motored out of the basin, and tried to call the wharfinger on the VHF and the cell phone. No answer on either. So I headed back into the basin and idled down the narrow alley. There were a couple of places where I could land, but I wanted to turn around before tying up. When I got to the end of the alley, there was no turning basin—just a cul-de-sac that got narrower. I had to turn Lacuna around in a channel that wasn’t much wider than she is long. I was grateful that I had an outboard, not an inboard, for this job. I was able to cock the motor to one side, throttle up in reverse to pull the stern around, and then cock the motor the other way while in forward gear to complete the turn. It was a little hairy because I had to keep track of the rudder, the motor angle, the throttle, and the gearshift, and have them all work together. For once, it worked, and despite a couple of miscues, I got Lacuna turned around without hitting anything.
After I had tied up, I took the motor cowl off and set to work with my electrical tester and wiring diagram. At first I misdiagnosed the problem; when I tested voltage, it looked as if the alternator wasn’t producing. I tried calling Honda headquarters but got the phone runaround, finally ending with a woman who was clueless. Frustrating
5/5/05. I spent the day in Comox, working on the boat. As soon as I could, I phoned Honda headquarters on the east coast. After more phone runaround, I finally talked with a woman who was able to direct me to Honda outboard repair facilities. I called C&N Motors, ordered the part, and requested overnight delivery. Then I started working with the multi-tester again, this time looking at amperage draw. I found that the motor was producing juice, but not very much at the low RPM we normally cruise at —less than 2 amps. The chartplotter alone, even without the radar on, draws 2.4A; the tillerpilot, under 2A. I tested the draw of everything wired to the boat and realized that the motor and the solar panels couldn’t possibly keep up. I called C&N and cancelled the order for the regulator.
I was faced with three alternatives, as I saw them. One was to trade the motor for an electric start model with a higher amp alternator. Too expensive and heavy. Another was to use electricity very frugally. I could navigate by the GPS (which takes virtually no juice) and leave the chartplotter turned off most of the time, for example, and hand-steer instead of using the autopilot (no good; I’m spoiled now), avoid using lights and the laptop. An unattractive option. The third option was to buy a generator so I could charge the batteries no matter how much they were used.
While I considered the possibilities and their consequences, I did boat work, reorganizing storage compartments, moving gear around, cleaning up the inner recesses of cabinets. I organized all the loose screws, bolts, and nuts that had collected over the years and put them with their siblings in the appropriate storage containers. Finally, about 4:30, I decided that it was time to take a walk. I remembered the directions that John at C&N had given me, and on a whim I decided to walk the mile and a half to his store to look at a Honda generator.
When I got to the store, it was closed, but people were still inside. As I was peering through the window, John, the owner with whom I’d done business on the phone, opened the door and asked if he could help. I inquired about the small Honda 1000EU generator. He had two in stock. I bought one. His brother, Mark, gave me a ride to the harbor. To my delight, the generator fit in the space where we used to keep a five-gallon water jug. I took the boom tent down, organized the deck, and prepped the boat for the next day’s voyage. Then I worked on the next day’s navigation.
Navigation is quite a chore, even with modern instruments and charts. I can’t imagine how the earliest European explorers made their way through these waters in their clumsy square-riggers. It’s tough enough having a sailboat with power—sometimes 6 knots isn’t much, but it’s a lot better than being swept by the currents, helpless because there’s no wind and the water is a hundred fathoms deep, much too deep to anchor. I sail in awe of their abilities and courage.
After listening to the weather radio and figuring out possible routes, I begin a typical day’s navigation with the tide and current tables, then read through the cruising guides and sailing directions, figure out which charts to use and dig them out of storage, and write down pertinent information in a notebook. I record the high and low tides and the currents along the intended passage, the chart numbers in sequence (sometimes I use four or five charts in a single day), and any comments or instructions that may be important. Then I figure out waypoints, enter them in the chartplotter, and lay out the day's voyage.
I may pass through Seymour Narrows tomorrow. Predicted currents are 12.7 knots ebb (north flowing) and 13.3 knots flood (south). The only way to make the passage in a small boat like mine is within 15 minutes of slack. Because it’s only a few days until the new moon, the tides and currents are some of the greatest in the lunar cycle—when the sun, moon, and earth are aligned, “spring tides” result.
The afternoon slack, after the flood, is at 5:13. Seymour Narrows is 9 miles beyond Campbell River and 11 miles from Cape Mudge, the southern entry to Discovery Passage. Campbell River is about 30 miles from Comox, my anchorage. The tidal current charts indicate that currents between here and Cape Mudge will be light. Beyond Cape Mudge, it will be an uphill trudge to Campbell River—and if I get there too late, I might not be able to make any headway against the current—I might have to wait out in the Strait of Georgia for the current to turn late in the afternoon even to make Campbell River.
I’ll need to be on the way by 6:00 and average 5 knots to make it to Campbell River by noon—and then I’ll have to wait for a few hours for the current to wane before tackling Seymour Narrows.
Seymour Narrows is the site of the world’s largest human-made non-nuclear explosion. In 1958, Ripple Rock, which blocked the middle of the narrowest part of the passage and was the end of many boats, was decapitated by tons of explosives packed into a tunnel drilled underwater from the nearby shore. Even though it’s now so deep that it can’t snag a keel, it’s reputed to cause some fearsome whirlpools and eddies. I’m excited and nervous about making the passage through this feared channel.
5/6/05. Just before 6:00 a.m., I left the dock at Comox on a high tide—the narrow alley that I had to negotiate to get in here on a low tide was quite a bit wider, thanks to the slope of the stone breakwater next to it. Last night, I prepared the chartplotter for the voyage by entering waypoints, some taken from the charts and some from cruising guides, so I had the route outlined to Cape Mudge. The passage over the Comox Bar went smoothly—it has a nasty reputation, but with the tide high, the air calm, and the visibility good, it was easy today. The chartplotter has a three-meter accuracy, which is reassuring when the channel is very narrow. I used the range markers on the shore to be sure that I was on line.
Range markers are large panels, perhaps three or more meters high and half as wide, white painted with a bold dark vertical line in the middle of the panel. One is mounted behind and higher than the other. When navigating, the sailor lines up the two lines and keeps them lined up to stay within a narrow channel.
Out in the Strait of Georgia, it was lumpy and bumpy. Sure enough, the wind was on the nose, but it was only 5 knots, not enough to be worth raising the sails. The bow plunged up and down over the waves but for the most part the speed held at 4.5 to 5 knots. Sometimes a train of three or four waves would have just the right height and period to slap poor Lacuna around. The first two would get her hobbyhorsing; the third would launch her bow into the air. It would crash down into the trough, the fourth wave spraying water over the coachroof (and the skipper). The boat speed would drop by a couple of knots in seconds, then slowly build back up to cruising speed.
About 8:00, I got tired of all the motion and raised the sails, bore off from my dead-upwind course, and motorsailed close-hauled to stabilize the boat. It helped quite a bit, but made progress toward Cape Mudge slower. I kept the sails up for a couple of hours until the wind and waves abated some.
I’m surrounded by tall mountains. On Vancouver Island, there are many snowfields. One ridge is virtually all snow-covered. To the northeast, the mainland mountains stretch as far north as I can see. A number of quirky glacier-carved peaks stick up above the high ridges. I’m used to the Oregon Cascades, which feature individual peaks. Here, it’s all big.
As I got to Cape Mudge, I realized that I should have been here even earlier. As I approached, my speed over ground was reduced to 2 knots and I wasn’t even in the throat of the channel yet. I cranked up the little Honda to full throttle (which can usually drive the boat at 6.5 to 6.9 knots), but I could see that it might not be enough.
By running rivers, I've learned to recognize topography that can produce back eddies. It looked on the chart as if there would be an eddy just south of Cape Mudge, but the point on the cape would have fast adverse currents. After rounding the point, I could stick close to the Quadra Island shore and catch another favorable current. The sailing directions had indicated that favorable currents could be found there during the ebb. And I saw a little, slow troller hugging the shore—I figured that was local knowledge in action. So I turned sharply to get out of the center of the channel and into the shallows.
Sure enough, my speed over ground (indicated by the chartplotter) increased by a couple of knots—there was still some adverse current but not nearly as much. As I rounded the little point, the current caught me again as Lacuna crept forward at a knot or two, just creeping along while motoring full speed. Eventually I got around the point, into less powerful currents, and then into a current boost—my GPS later indicated a maximum speed over ground of 9.1 knots in that section, when in the center of the channel the current was 6 knots in the opposite direction!
I watched the depthsounder and chartplotter closely, following the 20-foot depth contour until I was across the channel from Campbell River. I wanted to make more progress upcurrent before venturing out into the channel, but the eddy ended and I had to jump out into the worst of it. I kept Lacuna pointed upstream, engine cranked to the max, and crab-walked my way across to the marina, slowly losing ground to the current until I was in the shallows near the marina entrance.
I decided not to tackle Seymour Narrows today. I’m staying at the Discovery Harbor Marina. Big marina, not crowded at all. There’s a huge shopping center right next to it—talk about culture shock. I did laundry, took a shower, and did some walking.
Riding the eddy upstream in Discovery Passage (click here for larger image)
5/7/05. I’m anchored in Billy Goat Bay on Helmcken Island, in the middle of one of the worst reaches of Johnstone Strait, according to the guidebooks. From Ripple Shoals, a mile or so east of here, to a couple of miles west is an area of tide rips and weird currents. I gave Ripple Shoals a wide berth when I came in. Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving the anchorage in the middle of a big ebb tide, so I expect some rocking and rolling.
I had a lot of rocking and rolling today in what was the most current-swirl dominated day that I think I’ve ever sailed. I left the dock at Campbell River about 9:30, full of nervous energy because I would soon be in the middle of the notorious Seymour Narrows. Last night, I had worked out the navigation and double-checked myself several times. I wanted to ride a favorable current, the ebb current, into the Narrows, hit the choke point just before slack, and beat feet out of there because the current would soon be adverse as the flood began. There wasn’t a lot of margin for error—twenty minutes too soon or too late might mean that I would not be able to get through—and many boats have met their end in Seymour Narrows!
I had figured on keeping up 6 knots—I knew that would be easy, because the current would be in my favor and a SE wind was predicted, giving me even more boost. That would put me in the Narrows 15 or 20 minutes before slack. When I got out into Discovery Passage, there was a tailwind and a strong favorable current. I had to throttle back to keep from going too fast. I raised the jib for a while but it was too much bother and I dropped it again.
At 10:32, just seven minutes before slack was predicted, I motored over what was left of Ripple Rock. I watched the depth meter as it climbed from 100+ feet to 70 feet and then went back down again. Even though it was so close to slack, I was getting a 6-knot boost and lots of swirls. About 15 minutes later, the Honda powered up, I reached Browns Bay, which marks the northern end of the Narrows. I expected traffic, but I was alone though the Narrows. Only later did a couple of tugs and tows catch up with me.
Seymour Narrows (click here for larger image)
Within half an hour, adverse currents rose so that I was barely making 2 knots. That wouldn’t do! So I ferried over near the shore and rode eddies, sometimes getting a two or three knot boost, sometimes getting a three or four knot header. Several times during the day I had to play the eddies to avoid contrary currents.
When I got into Johnstone Strait, I was still facing a contrary current, sometimes two or three knots, even though the cruising guides claimed that the current in Johnstone Strait is almost always west no matter what the state of the tide is—and that the predicted currents were a knot or less today. The water was choppy even though the breeze was light.
A seal shares a floating log with seagulls.
A fresh drifter, with roots and needles.
There was so much floating wood that I couldn’t space out—lots of well-peeled logs 15 or 20 feet long, a few that looked pretty fresh. Several times I had to grab the tiller away from the autopilot and make radical last-minute changes of heading to avoid floaters. Once, as I was staring at the chart, I heard a big thump come from the hull. I looked up just in time to see a three- or four-foot chunk of a wood spin away from the boat, counting coup with my blue bottom paint freshly decorating its wave-rounded end.
5/8/05. At 0917, I weighed anchor and motored out into Current Channel, immediately getting a 3-knot boost. After passing Kelsey Bay, I motored along the Vancouver Island shore in benign conditions—calm air, favorable current, good visibility. And mountains, mountains, mountains—on the Van Isle side, craggy peaks almost to the water’s edge, snowfields covering some of the ridges. On the mainland, jagged peaks.
I turned into Havannah Channel, and after an hour, I passed Whitebeach Point—probably a shell midden. There are several abandoned First Nations villages in this area--many are conspicous because of the tons and tons of clamshells left in midden piles over the millennia. Kayakers look for shell middens--they mark steep sandy beaches that are good places to pull canoes out.
I should have throttled back earlier. I got to Chatham Channel too soon for the slack, as I expected I would. Because different channels have different flow patterns during a tidal cycle, one might see two adjacent, parallel channels, such as Baronet Passage and Knight Inlet, having flow directions that are opposite. Knight Inlet ebbs west, while Baronet Passage ebbs east. I had planned my day’s voyage to ride the favorable currents up to the south end of Chatham Channel, but my prediction was that the currents would be at their absolute worst just when I planned to arrive: maximum spring tide ebb current flowing south.
I had planned to anchor for a few hours in Hadley Bay at the mouth of the channel to wait for the tide to turn, but the guidebooks described the channel as having laminar, not turbulent, flow when the tidal currents are running. The southern end of the channel, which I was approaching, is very narrow, less than 100 yards wide. The guidebooks said that the current rarely reaches anything close to the channel’s stated maximum, 5 knots. So I thought, what the heck, I’ll give it a try. I’ll soon know whether the current is too much, and I can drop back and anchor for a while.
I cranked the motor up to full RPM and made my way into the flow. It was an odd sensation, powering a sailboat upstream in what appeared to be a river narrower than the Willamette River near my home. Fortunately, the guidebooks were right in one way, that the flow was not very turbulent. Although we rocked from side to side, Lacuna kept a fairly steady (but slow) course.
I usually cruise with the motor at one-quarter or one-third throttle, which in flat water is enough to push Lacuna almost at hull speed (5.5 knots) with little fuss or noise. At full throttle, the 8-horse Honda can push her at 6.5 knots. At full throttle, I watched the speed over ground, reported by the chartplotter, decline to 1.5 knots. It's evidence that the flow actually reaches 5 knots!
I asked myself how long I could put up with this racket and commotion, when I seemed to be making so little way against the current. The shore kept creeping by, however, and after less than half an hour, Lacuna was past the narrowest section and into less adverse current. Thankfully, I throttled the motor back—thankful that it had the power to get through, thankful that I could once again make it quieter.
Part of my motivation for tackling the channel was to have a reason to run the motor at high RPM to test its battery charging capacity. I’ve been keeping detailed records of battery condition, trying to manage the system so I don’t end up with dead batteries. I found that at our usual cruising speed, there’s not a lot of amps generated by the motor—but the output increases as the RPMs rise. Unfortunately, my test was in vain, as I was to find out later.
I was headed up Chatham Channel to spend the night at the Minstrel Island Resort. It was described as “rough and ready” in the 2004 Waggoner cruising guide, which included an ad from the resort saying that it had high-speed internet access. In an area where there aren’t power lines, let alone fiber optics or even phone lines, it seemed like a miracle. It was not to be.
Minstrel Island (click here for larger image)
When I got to the Minstrel Island government dock, I could see that “rough” was a good description, but "ready" was not . There was a large house, a smaller house, both painted green, and three prefab buildings that resembled cheap trailer houses on a barge. It was probably a floating logging camp in some other life.
No sign of life. I walked up the dock to the prefab with a big sign, “Restaurant and Pub.” When I got there it was obvious that the business was long gone. The doors were ajar; the cash register, cheap furniture, ashtrays full of cigarette butts, and other detritus were still there. The other prefabs were partitioned into individual sleeping rooms. Mattresses were piled up, washing machines turned on their sides, stuff that had no value left lying about.
I walked to the smaller house. Same story—doors open, furniture left behind, signs of occasional use. But, unlike any abandoned business on the mainland, there was no sign of vandalism. The big house must have been the manager’s residence. There was lots of (cheap) furniture left, including beds that still had sheets, blankets, and pillows. None of it seemed worth hauling away. The main room had piles of old microwaves, pinball games, and half a dozen derelict computers. Outside, high on the wall of the house, was the uplink dish, stripped of its electronics.
The decks were scary soft. The decking was undersized, untreated planking, not more than an inch thick, that had rotted through in many places. In high traffic areas, sheets of plywood were laid over the decking, but that was soft with age and rot as well. I carefully walked only where I could see nailheads, figuring that meant that there was a joist or beam underneath.
While Lacuna’s generator was running at the dock, charging up her battery, I took a break from the noise and sat on a covered deck at the main house and wrote in the logbook. After an hour, I went back to the boat and analyzed the generator’s effect on the battery. Much to my disappointment, there was no improvement in the battery condition. I had plugged the outboard’s power cord into the 12V outlet on the generator. I soon realized that one of the wires had come off the plug—the generator had been running the last hour with no juice flowing to the battery. And that ruined my experiment running the motor at high RPM. The wire came undone some time after I left Comox, where I tested the electrical system thoroughly—the outboard was producing amperage and delivering it to the boat’s system at that time.
I fixed the cord, but soon realized that it wasn’t a very efficient way to use the generator because the wattage through the 12V outlet was only a fraction of what was available as 120V. So I dragged out Lacuna’s shorepower cord, set the generator as far away from the boat as the cord would reach, and ran the power through the onboard battery charger. Much better, but still noisy in this deserted cove.
I took a walk and admired the clarity of the water--just off the dock, I could see the bottom in 20 or 30 feet of water.
When I returned to Lacuna, to cover the noise, I cranked up the stereo, played classic rock and roll, and cooked dinner. Soon, the noise of my generator faded to insignificance as four fishing boats, one by one, tied up at the dock and left their big diesels running. I had to put in earplugs to sleep that night.
At the government dock (as usual with Canadian government docks, marked by bright red handrails), two big Suzuki outboard motors were sitting still in their cardboard boxes. The condition of the boxes indicated they might have been there for days. I wondered what the story was: why were they there, and why had no one stolen them?
5/9/05. I pulled away from the dock at 6:15 and motored out into Knight Inlet on glassy-calm waters. I wanted to ride the ebb tide all the way to Port McNeill. I passed a cluster of islands called “Lady Islands,” which must have been named by a jokester, because one of the smallest of the group was called “Lord Island.” The clouds were low, the visibility wasn’t better than a mile, all the small islands looked the same (but always changing as the boat traveled along), and I was very happy I had good charts and a good GPS. It would be very easy to get confused, take the wrong channel, and end up on the rocks.
As I was passing Cormorant Island, where the town of Alert Bay is located, I saw a dozen big birds soaring on a thermal. My first thought was “turkey vultures,” a familiar site in Oregon. But two things weren’t right—I haven’t seen turkey vultures this far north, and while turkey vultures carry their wings in a V-shape, these birds were holding their wings out flat. They were bald eagles, soaring almost as well as that most buddhist of birds, a turkey vulture!
I’m at the public dock at Port McNeill. It’s a nice little town, well set up for visiting boaters—virtually the whole commercial district of the town is within a few blocks of the marina. I did some shopping, took a shower, and had a couple of meals at a nice (and inexpensive) café next to the marina. This is my last town for the next few weeks, so I want to be sure that I take care of any details before I leave.
--Dennis Todd
