San Francisco, CA

What a beautiful sight and a real milestone!  

We picked up a buoy at Sausalito Yacht Club where we will spend a couple of days before migrating our way around to several anchorages and marinas in the Bay.  We're glad to be here.

The America's Cup boats were racing as we entered the Bay.  Spectacular!

Pshtt

Ken is wedged in the companionway.  He is on night watch.  I have just poked my head out of the companionway hatch and am standing behind him.  Surveying the scene illuminated by the stern light, I see the breaking white caps of the raging sea.  I hear the wind howling through the rigging.  I hear the slam of the trysail self-tacking to maintain stability as the boat rocks, rolls, skids, slides and climbs.  I sense that all wheels of the cog are in motion and if there is just one malfunction of the smallest part, all mayhem will break loose. 

A wave approaches.  We ride up.  There is silence then a crack as it hits the stern and sprays water at us.  I duck and hear a lout pshtt and an expletive from Ken.  It sounds like something tearing, as if the bimini has just lost its battle with the wind.  I look up and see it intact.  Then I think that the sail must have ripped.  I look at Ken.  He sits motionless, all puffed up like the dough boy. 

Now imagine that you’re wearing the patch, you’re a little groggy out there in the dark by yourself and suddenly there’s a loud blast in surround sound  and the next thing you know your head is rendered immobile and you feel like a kid wearing too many layers in the snow.  You might be startled and confused.  Feeling cold water on your face, you might think that you had just gone overboard, but no, you feel the cockpit sole under your feet.  It might take a minute for you to gain your senses, to realize that your life jacket reacted to a load of cold water and inflated, smack dab in the cockpit.  And since you’re still on board, you might want to spend an extra few minutes below in the safety of the cabin and fix some hot chocolate when you fetch a different life jacket.  You just might feel reassured knowing first hand that your life jacket does function…just not always as expected. 

Cape Mendocino, CA

Tuesday began innocently enough.  The fog in Eureka finally lifted, the Coast Guard reported the bar calm with 1-3 ft. chop in the center and a 10 knot north wind.  We cast off at 1000 and motored under sunny skies turning south for Bodega Bay, a 30-hour sail.  The rolling hills, towering cliffs and headlands were beautiful, the first landscape that we had seen since we began this fog-shrouded cruise.  The brilliant blue water sparkled and we soaked up the sun in the cockpit.  This is the California we were expecting. 

Cape Mendocino has a wicked reputation of being the major navigational challenge of the Pacific Coast south of Alaska.  There is a reef to be avoided and strong NW winds to contend with.  There is turbulent and rough water. 

Much to our delight, we were experiencing a different Cape. We high-fived our luck as we motored in a light breeze at 7 knots with 2-4 ft. following seas and the jib raised.  Off of Punta Gorda at 1600, we were being pushed briskly south in a fresh north breeze of 16-18 knots with 4-6 ft. seas.  With winds increasing off of Spanish Hill at 1730, we began to feel overpowered.  We decided to reduce sail by first raising the trysail and then furling the jib.  With both of us working feverishly pulling, grinding and tailing, the boat lunging and heeling, the roller furl jammed.  Ken went forward to check the line.  We tried again to no avail.  We decided to unfurl the jib.  With it slapping and cracking loudly, we rolled it in on our third attempt and then reefed the trysail.  By now, we were in a near gale with 30 knot winds.  The flag flapped furiously while 10 ft. seas, whipped into frothy foam, spit at us as we climbed and slid down the crested waves.  Tethered to the jacklines in the cockpit, we regained our composure and agreed that the ride was exhilarating…but a bit much.

By 2100, the wind had returned to a gentle breeze of 9 knots.  At 0200, we turned on the engine and motored in light air.  At noon on Wednesday, we were still motoring in the same light conditions, still hoping to reach Bodega Bay before sunset. 

Wind is inconsistent.  High winds can occur in little pockets and when you sail into one there is no escaping.  You have to go through it.  It’s like driving your car through the car wash. When you enter, stuff is squirted at you, slapped at you and blown at you and when you emerge out the other end you think, 'there now, that’s better'.  

Night Watch

It’s 0230.  Startled by a loud noise, I yank out my ear buds and throw off the warm blanket.  I uncurl with lightning speed.  Tethered to the jackline, I bolt from the safety of the companionway. In my mind, I heard a ship’s horn, loud and close. A big ship’s horn. I check the radar. It picks up only sea-clutter.  As Gitane rocks gently in the ocean swells, I grip the dodger rail and pull myself up onto the starboard settee.  I jump to port and back again. I strain to see just a few yards through the foggy darkness.  The flat, black seas are disturbed only by the bright, white foam from our wake.  Sizzling and bubbling, it sounds like a gentle sauté.  The wind is calm.  The engine hums softly.  The glow of the stern light illuminates the limp flag and the engine exhaust as it billows and slides away. The darkness of the night envelopes us.  We are completely, utterly alone.       

Charleston, Oregon - A Refuge

At 0645 we motored out of Hunter's Bay on Lopez Island in dense fog and slogged out the Strait of Juan de Fuca with the west wind on our nose for 18 hours.  Rounding Cape Flattery at midnight Friday we set a southwest course 40 miles offshore, following the Bluewater Route in Don Douglass and Reanne Hemingway-Douglass’ Pacific Coast Route Planning Map.  With the jib raised, Gitane sailed effortlessly down the Washington coast.  We kept an informal watch schedule, each of us taking a break when we needed one.  The kitties adjusted to life at sea, Ginger by snuggling up under the dodger where she could sleep safely in the sun experiencing minimal motion from the ocean, and Cheng preferring to squeeze in next to one of us in the cockpit where he hoped to control his sliding onto the cockpit sole.  Cheng’s second choice of refuge was to squish in behind the head effectively minimizing his rolling but eliminating his view.

By Monday night, with northerly winds increasing and seas building we furled the jib, set the trysail and altered our course to southeast, Gitane gracefully gliding up to the wave crests and rolling down through the troughs.  Responding to a warning of gale winds further south and deteriorating conditions, we again altered our course and steered easterly, seeking the nearest harbor for refuge.  We approached Newport at midnight and decided not to attempt to cross the unfamiliar bar.  We continued south on a route just three miles offshore and heard the Coast Guard close the next bar, Siuslaw.  By Tuesday morning, in deteriorating conditions of increasing winds, high waves and dense fog, we decided to bypass Winchester Bay, a reportedly difficult bar to cross, and continued south to Coos Bay.  We ducked into Charleston Boat Harbor around 1300.   The Coast Guard restricted entrance to the bar just as we passed into the safety of the channel. 

We arrived drenched from the dense fog and taking waves on the port aft quarter, cold, hungry (chicken noodle soup only goes so far) and very tired.  To us, Charleston was the Center of the Universe.  We tied up in the marina, took hot showers, enjoyed a local brew and early dinner at a pub and slept for 12 hours.  Waking refreshed, we have spent our days in paradise repairing the navigation lights that failed on the foggiest night and re-stowing gear now that we know the conditions that await us. 

Charleston is a busy fishing port and has been a wonderful refuge from the storm. The Port staff and fishermen on the docks are very friendly, there are marine chandleries and repair facilities, small grocery stores and numerous eateries with fresh fish and good local beer.  We have regrouped and will head south on Friday morning to Crescent City with forecasted light southwest winds.

Mexico Here We Come

We have provisioned, picked up parts, spent time with Mom, stowed the dingy on deck, and replaced the cockpit table with a liferaft.  We're ready to go!  There’s a high pressure system sitting off the coast so we will be casting off in Saturday’s pre-dawn darkness and heading west out the Strait of Juan de Fuca, turning south at Cape Flattery and cruising with northerly winds to our first stop at Noyo Harbor, Fort Bragg to visit family.

Our e-mail address while we are offshore is: WDF4241@sailmail.com.  This is for TEXT only!  Please keep in mind a few things:  1.  do not simply hit the respond button as this uses precious time and energy to transmit what has already be said, and 2. please do not send any attachments, no pictures, no jokes, no forwarded e-mails.  They will be too large and we will not be able to download them.  Our transit time is approximately six days, so if a message can wait, please send it to our Hotmail addresses and we'll pick it up when we return to wifi land: n_hunting@hotmail.com or Gitane2008@live.com.  Thank you!



     

Anacortes, Fidalgo Island

It’s good to be home following our successful shakedown cruise to Desolation Sound during which we re-gained our sea legs.  Moored at the very friendly Cap Sante Boat Haven, everything a cruiser needs is within walking distance:  a laundromat, post office, banks, chandleries, gift shops, grocery stores, and restaurants.  In the summer, the Port offers free community concerts on Friday nights, on-going sidewalk chess games and rental bikes.

On Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings, there's an energetic farmer’s market where a colorful and tasty array of vegetables, fruits, berries, breads and crafts are presented by friendly local vendors. We savored a grilled salmon dinner and local brew while listening to live music, enjoying the sights, sounds and scents of summer.       

Bowen Island, Howe Sound

When we sailed into Howe Sound on a sunny afternoon, we were suddenly gliding along on an incredibly beautiful, translucent ribbon of jade, as if we were skating on a bracelet.   Susi, from Meadowlark 1, told us that this water is usually more of a steely blue due to the glacier runoff.  We were thrilled to have witnessed the anomaly.

This stocky ferry dwarfed the boats moored in Union Steamship Company Marina.  We walked the docks intrigued by the motley mix of vessels and houseboats.  The village is an eccentric mix of up-town trendy meets organic cozy cottage.  Great place to re-enter civilization from the islands.     

Hague Lake, Cortes Island

Our guide book states that Hague Lake is just a 30 minute walk from the public wharf at Cortes Bay and that it offers idyllic, warm water swimming.  Period.  No other information.  No road names, no take a right here or a left there, no suggestions on what to pack.  No nothing.  So off we went with our daypacks containing a chamois towel, water, and a small lunch, winding our way up, down and around on a road carved through a heavily scented forest of red cedar and Douglas fir. After the 30-minute estimated travel time had passed, we occasionally asked directions, as the road stretched on and on, and were assured that we were headed to the lake beach, the first that we heard our destination described as a beach.  A few minutes later, we came upon a lively community hall with a Friday market in progress and stopped in at this local bonanza offering fresh baked goods; smoked, troll-caught salmon; and locally made jams, jellies, jewelry and crafts.  Thinking that we were just taking a walk and going swimming, we hadn’t packed any money, but we enjoyed checking out the local bounty.    

We got back out on the road and continued on to the stop sign as instructed, turned right, and right again at the dirt parking lot and entered the forest path that led to the most surprising and extraordinary white sandy beach.  The beautiful sand extended 100 feet from the shoreline and created the most inviting shallow water swimming hole.  Swimmers, kayakers and frizbees abounded. 

It took us no more than one minute to deposit our daypacks in the shade on the driftwood-lined shore before we were splashing and swimming in the clear, warm water. 

Sometimes, having just a vague idea of what you’re looking for turns into a most unexpected pleasure.   

The Trapper's Cabin, Princess Louisa Inlet

It’s a 1,750 foot nearly vertical climb to The Trapper’s Cabin, or what’s left of it. 

For the most part, the trail consists of ascending a mountainside following orange ribbons tied to stumps and branches. It was with relief that every so often we would come across something of a plateau giving our muscles a much needed break from the tortuous climb.  With our hearts pounding and our breathing labored we would find ourselves in a quasi-meadow scene of dappled sunlight in the midst of this dense forest of vibrant colors issuing from the reds of the rotting cedars and the brilliant green of new, young foliage, and we would rest a few minutes in the deafening silence of our breathing.  There was no wind in the trees. No birds.  Not a creature.  Not a sound.

 We crossed streams in which we tantalized our fingers and splashed our faces and necks with the clear, cool water.  Just when we thought we were at the tree line, just when we thought that we could go no further, we heard the roar of the falls, felt the cool, moist air and saw the remains of the cabin.  We ate our lunch sitting on the hand-hewn log walls, wondering how the mattress frames and the piece of fabric that remained had been delivered, how the trapper had shaved the logs to make the floor and reflected on his life in such an isolated place. 

We walked down a path of meadow greens and onto a plateau of slippery boulders, wetted by  curtains of mist as the falls tumbled and roared down the mountain.  It was a clear day and the view to Malibu Rapids at the entrance to Princess Louisa Inlet was extraordinary.  A bird’s eye view of the inlet is humbling to say the least. 

The hike down was cooler, but harder on the knees.  The trail looked entirely different, more colorful, greener, more dense, the perspective broader.  Our hike took five hours and was worth every minute of it.  To cool off, a quick dip off of the stern ladder of our boat into the fresh glacier water sealed the deal.  It was an extraordinary day.      

Princess Louisa Inlet

“It will touch your soul”, a woman said to me as we cast off the lines at John Henry’s Fuel Dock in Hospital Bay.  As one cruises deeper into the inlet, first up Prince of Wales Reach, then turning up Princess Royal Reach and finally the last turn into Queen’s Reach, the solitude increases. On both sides of the channel, in front of us and behind us is nothing but the most spectacular scenery;  heavily wooded, lush, deep green fjords that rise to the sky and towering cliffs.  There is complete silence. 

We are aware that we are but a speck upon this earth.

Francis Point, Gerran's Bay, Pender Harbor

We shared a delightful lunch with Bruce and Margaret of Tapawingo at The Garden Bay Hotel , which is actually a pub and not a hotel at all, before dingying across the harbor to the Whiskey Slough Public Wharf for a short walk to the Francis Point Marine Park.  We hiked through the fragrant forest of old-growth Douglas fir and western red cedar to the headlands where we were enveloped by a hot, dry breeze and brilliant sunshine.  We were rewarded for our efforts with the most incredible views of Malaspina Strait. 

Swanson Channel

With sunny skies, light winds and calm seas, we were making a leisurely three knots under full sail.  “These things aim for you”, Ken stated as a matter of fact.  I was pitting fresh pie cherries in the cockpit and looked up to see this behemoth bearing down on us.  In Adventures in Solitude, Grant Lawrence describes the BC Ferries as “lumbering white whales of steel, frothing forward, giant mouths agape, ready to swallow anything in their paths.”  We watched as she silently slid by us.