Drew and Lucy take in the brisk air
COLD. 24-knot winds. I had tied the dinghy down with one line, despite Russ’ previous direction that there was no need. I’ll skip the fun ride threading through the red and green markers from Sitka, through Salisbury Sound. Through Sergius Narrows just after slack. We’re speeding through at 13 knots. A whale! I decide to sleep through the rest of the way in my aft cabin nest. I’m exhausted with an empty spot in my heart.
Into Peril Straits and I emerge to see Russ, Lucy, and Drew in the cockpit. Time to hoist the sails. Reef the main. Into the wind. Raise the staysail. Shut off the iron jenny. Silence. A weight is lifted. We’re one with the strong winds and gray waters zig zagging through Peril Straits to Appleton Cove, off Rodney Bay.
Zip. Slam. Splash.
“The dinghy has flown overboard!” Drew yells out.
“Oh sheeat!” Russ shouts.
For a moment we freeze just watching it in the water, expecting to see it carried off by the wind and current. Then Russ jumps into action. The dinghy hugs the port stern.
“It’s tied down!” Drew says.“I tied it this morning.” I say in a puffin, gleeful sort of way. Hero for the day. Russ and Drew pull it up. Good catch!!!
Lucy’s photo shot at dinghy retrieve
The diesel heater chimney is not covered. Soot is blowing back all over the port forward bunk cushion in the main cabin. All over the floor. Lucy and I take turns playing Cinderella as the back blow keeps happening. Spray the floors with Seventh Generation non-toxic no fumes hypo-allergenic free and clear of perfumes and dyes cleaner. I’m down on my hands and knees. Wipe, smear, wipe. It’s a lost cause. Nails and hands black as the Ace of Spades. Chapter three. Now it’s Lucy’s turn again. She even has a headscarf on for the cause. Two Cinderallas. At last it stops with a cover tied down with double line over the chimney on deck. We’re both a sorry sight with no site in view of glass slippers and a dance at the ball.
Sail on; sail on, toward the bay. Appleton Cove is within reach.
“Wait until we round the point before going up front to take the bumpers out of the chain locker!” Russ calls to me.
The white spray flies. We’re barely round the point and I go up front low to the deck with one hand on the boat. Ride the bow as it lifts and falls. Lifts and falls. The cockpit seems a long way back. Apple green shores. Four boats at anchor. Shelter from the winds! Lower the anchor. Take the chimney cover off. Turn on the heater. Frank’s barbequed salmon with chips and salad and white wine hit the spot. An early night is in order for the sailors.
Sunday morning. Sun! The shore is aglow. Bright mustard and apple green. Sunlight on the evergreens. The big powerboat is leaving. Time to get up and put our sea boots on! The gray clouds make haste and the wind awaits.
Out into Peril Strait and up with the sails once again. Tack. Coming about. Move the staysail blocks aft. Clump, clump. Duck. Winch in the line.
“Drew don’t stand on the deck with your back to the life lines to winch the line in. Get in the cockpit!” I yell.
“It’s gone! The winch handle is gone!” Drew says. It slipped out and he lost his balance going backwards into the lifelines, I imagine short of the icy drink. I curse. Bloody hell!! Thankful that he’s still on board.
“Drew, stand in the cockpit when you winch in the line.” I remind him. I’m only talking to a seasoned Air Force pilot. But I treasure him like a son and don’t feel like working through a man overboard exercise.
Tack, tack. Tack. At last out into Chatham Straits. Feel the swells mount and the winds increase. Whales!!! Two, three, four. Hump and tail and blow. It’s a show. The bold coast of Baranof Island unfolds in all its dark and powerful beauty Low clouds, mists, snow peaks, waterfalls, whitewater crashing against the tree-lined shores. Some sunlight on Admiral Island on the opposite side of the straits. Shafts of light. More whales. Black clouds.
“Hey Russ, let’s turn on the jolly engine. We can’t tack all night. However, much we love to sail rather than motor. Let’s get to Warm Springs!” I emphasize.
After a few repeat requests, Russ yields. Down with the sails. Put the ties on. On with the iron jenny. Put Zulu in gear. Set the course closer to shore.
See a fleet of fishing boats in Cosmos Cove, which offer all-weather protection; Waterfall Cove with its 300-to-400 ft waterfall plunging into the bay; Takatz Bay—land locked—a large granite bowl surrounded by snowy peaks, with evidence of avalanches.
It’s a bumpy ride in the huge gray expanse of windy Chatham Strait. What awaits us? Guess how many boats are in Warm Springs? Is there a place at the docks? We surmise. We see a space as we motor into the windblown bay. On go the bumpers and lines. We can hear the beautiful 100 ft waterfall plunging down. See the sweet cabins built into the steep banks.
“Oh no!” Russ says. There is no place at the docks.
We pull up closer and the men on the dock call out.
“How long is she?”“44 ft.” we respond as Russ circles away. We see them scoping the docks and quick as a flash they wave us toward them rearranging boats: a small aluminium skiff goes to the side of Vickie Rann and they pull back to the dock’s end, making room for us. Puk-Uk rests up front. Russ noses Zulu in and the men catch our lines and tie us off. Its 10 PM. Time for hot spaghetti, garlic bread, red wine to warm and lift the spirits—already high.
The boats made room for Zulu
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