Launching at Deception Pass and Racing to the San Juan Islands and Friday Harbor

           Fourth of July celebrations are over, the crowds are gone, and we have until sunset to drive 275 miles, step the mast, launch the boat, and claim a spot at the dock.  This year we are hauling our 25 foot  sailboat, our trusty 9 foot dinghy and an inflatable kayak (three boats, three people).  We are sneaking through Seattle just ahead of rush hour and hope to be in the Anacortes area late in the afternoon, but I'm already talking of changing our plans as we drive along at 60 mph. Instead of going to Washington Park as planned, I suggest Deception Pass State Park.  We had been there before by boat and knew there would be a good ramp, docks, hiking, and  protected Cornet Bay. The only problem would be the threat of fog and nasty currents in the pass. I knew in the morning the current was favorable and fog, well fog was another thing.  I had previously announced that even with our GPS,  we shouldn't be  taking risks in the fog and,  we change plans or wait it out. Another consideration is that at Washington Park we will have to take off or anchor, but at Deception Pass we can stay the night at the dock.  We went straight to Deception Pass this time.

On our way to Cornet Bay we crossed over the double bridges spanning Deception Pass, but first I pull over so we can  walk out onto Pass Island.  We get great views of Deception Pass and  Canoe Pass.  As luck would have it a pirate ship replica full of tourists is going through just as we arrive. The ships cannon fires and smoke fills the air as the boom echoes off the canyon walls.  The water is deceivingly calm at slack tide, in another half hour the water will be rushing out to sea at more than 6 mph and the pass will have whirlpools, and standing waves (sometimes, not always) over 5 feet high, and that's just a normal summer day. In the winter it can be dangerous for even large vessels.  I took a picture looking straight down down at narrow little Canoe Pass, tomorrow Linda and I will  fail to get the dinghy through Canoe Pass, not being able to overcome the incoming current.

This is looking straight down from the bridge into Canoe Pass at slack water, tomorrow we fail to overcome the current with our 7.5 hp honda on a 9 foot dinghy

Deception Pass bridge is really two bridges meeting on Pass Island, this view is looking westward towards the San Juans.

This view is from the Deception Pass bridge, Cornet Bay is in the background and off to the right past the little island.  If you come here I recommend you figure out a way to get out on this bridge, It is well worth the hike or drive, unless its foggy then don't bother.

     Cornet Bay is just half a mile inside the pass so we arrive there a few minutes after crossing the bridge.  As soon as we pull into the parking lot it's obvious coming to Deception Pass is a good idea.  The docks have plenty of room for more boats, and the trailer parking lot is virtually empty.  While I start rigging "Sunshine" and prepare to step the mast, Jaiden and Linda walk down on the docks, within minutes Jaiden is back for his fishing gear.  In about two hours I'm ready to back down the launch ramp and float the boat. The trailers extension tongue and guides make launching and retrieving a simple affair.

This ramp is first rate and good at all tide levels, after  launching you can tie up for the night or up to three days at the float. 

Down on the dock we discover Margarette and her black lab mixture Mackee. A lady and her dog, and their vintage 1937 40 foot motor sedan. We had met them four years earlier when we were on a trip to Port Townsend.  Over the next two days we become friends again even though power boaters and sailors don't mix well.

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 Jaiden is having a such a great time fishing and meeting new people that we decide to stay another day at Cornet Bay. This gives Linda and Margarette time to hike some trails. I get to read.

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        On an incoming tide Linda and I take the dinghy and perhaps foolishly attempt to circle Pass Island.  The currents and eddies aren't too bad in Canoe Pass, no standing waves have developed yet, but it is a challenge holding a straight course.  The swirlies are tossing us around so much Linda accuses me of doing it on purpose.  At the narrowest point directly under the bridge our 7.5 hp Honda can go no faster, we aren't making headway and are at a standstill unable to proceed. Briefly I consider riding a whirlpool counter current to gain another few feet, but instead just turn around.  The  run back to Cornet Bay takes only minutes with the current whisking us along. A week later when we return to go home Jaiden and I take another shot at Canoe Pass, only this time with a little lighter load the dinghy is planing along at better than 10 mph. We fly through Canoe Pass, circle Pass Island and return through Deception Pass. Small waves and whirlpools all around us, it's not really much of an achievement, but with Deception Pass's nasty reputation it will make a great story, and is a ride  that only few people get to experience in a little dinghy.  During our extra day at Cornet Bay we were able to study our current and tide charts bringing me to the realization that my plan to whale watch and ride the current northward in Haro Strait would be ill advised since we would most likely not get to a place to moor for the night until 8 o'clock or later. If any problems came up we would be in the dark. As it turned out, planning anything for mornings was a waste of time since every evening a blanket of fog descended on us.  

        On the morning of the third day we had to decide what to do and where to go, and if we were going through the pass we would need to go before 1pm or the tidal current would reverse trapping us for six more hours.  To make things worse some men in a pretty large sea worthy looking aluminum fisheries boat had just come back from the pass saying the fog was pea soup and waves were 6 feet forcing them to turn around. This was not good news, our only  option was to run through Swinomish channel taking us on a round about journey to avoid the pass.  Both previous days the fog had burned off in the early afternoon and the weather forecast was for more of the same, curiously the forecast said nothing about small craft warnings or waves any higher than 1- 2 feet. I decided we would go through Deception Pass then follow the shoreline northward, if the fog or seas were too much for us we would duck into Bowman Bay just outside the pass. 

        When I  announced we were leaving Margarette and some other boaters asked us to stay in touch by radio and give them updates on sea and fog conditions.  We left Cornet Bay and the outgoing current immediately pulled the boat swiftly  into Deception Pass, there was no turning back now, our little 10 hp outboard would not stand a chance of pushing against this current, (plus we are towing the dinghy and a 7.5 outboard) all we can do is maintain steering and go for the ride. The fog is thick, we can barely see the bridge where we stood three days earlier.  It's not  pea soup fog, in pea soup we can't see the bow of the boat and it feels hard to breathe but I know thats just me getting nervous.. Visibility is about a quarter mile so we are not worried about running into other boaters. Under the bridge are 4-6 foot standing waves and we bury our nose into the first one but the water rolls off before it gets near us in the cockpit, the next wave buries us also and the boat begins to hobby horse bringing the propeller out of the water for a few seconds at a time, I reduce throttle to slow us down and avoid over revving the motor. It never occurs to me that we could get some great pictures. The biggest waves only last for a few hundred feet at the narrowest point in the pass, and then the sea state returns to something you could paddle a canoe in. In short order it is quiet, and we are alone in the fog, the bridge is lost somewhere behind us,

        Deception Island is 1/2 a mile ahead and to one side somewhere, beyond is Juan De Fuca Strait,  Bowman Bay should be right beside us, if we could see anything I would turn in for a quick visit. We have to trust our hand held GPS to know where we are since all we see is white fog. Suddenly the radio crackles to life, it's Margarette wanting our report. I inform her that the sea is very calm and visibility is about a quarter mile or less, the standing waves are only under the bridge where expected. We gave Margarette two more reports on the fog as we made our way north along the coast.  I don't know what she finally did, but I think she went through Swinomish channel since she did not have a GPS to guide her through the fog.  We on the other hand continued north riding a very convenient counter current all the way to Skyline Marina in Burrows Bay where we promptly ran aground in the entrance channel right next to a sign reading "shallow water on right side"  Our retractable keel once again saves the day as we winch it up a foot and enter the moorage. Soft groundings are embarrassing but don't damage the boat. Skyline Marina is private and unless you are buying gas there is no place to stop or tie up. We are killing time waiting for the fog to lift, and circle around ogling all the million dollar boats before venturing  back into Burrows Bay.  Finally the fog starts to dissipate and we can  see all the way across Rosario Strait, plus a nice breeze has come up. I quickly kill the motor, hoist our main and working jib and point our little ship at James Island.

James Island Marine Park

Four boat float at James

       We are running on a fast beam reach, and cross the strait in record time, exactly the sailing I was looking for. As we sail along I can see the fog is still hanging south of us, I try to reach Margarette on channel 16 but she doesn't respond. We decide to head for Friday Harbor and shoot past James Island into Thatcher Pass.  Friday Harbor is a bustling little city, the county seat and largest city in the San Juan's. It also boasts a very large first class boat basin. Once through Thatcher Pass the wind falls off so we motor-sail in order to keep making good progress.  Around 5 o'clock I begin to worry that the harbor office may close before we get there so I use my cell phone to call the harbor master to reserve a slip. I'm informed they don't make reservations, so I ask if they have any slips available and he says he doesn't know, but when I arrive I can call security on channel 66a for a slip assignment. We ride some pretty good winds and benefit a lot from some  favorable currents  arriving at the outer breakwater about 6:45 where I radio the harbor master and receive our slip number for the night, I guess the phone was too easy. We drop sails and  motor, leaving no wake, into our slip.  Most of the boaters are enjoying dinner and cocktails, it is a fabulous evening.  Jaiden does a great job with the lines and keeping the dinghy from banging into the neighbors. After all the usual small talk and story telling with boat people (sailors) in the slip next to us we head into town for dinner, the weather is great and were starving. We pass by all the bars and grills, the grocery deli, Chinese food, Sea Food, and find ourselves at a pizza place we had discovered years earlier. Once dinner is devoured we window shop our way back to the docks. Jaiden is having fun running ahead and poking into side streets, a habit that is not setting well with Linda. We meet the resident seal again, he/she seems to hang out near the floating sea food store for some reason.

I didn't get a picture arriving so this shot is as we are leaving Friday Harbor, I have about 20 seconds to get out of the way before the Ferry  picks up speed

Friday Harbor

        Linda fills out a registration card and places it with our moorage fee into an envelope so that Jaiden can shove it in the little slot in the closed harbor office door. That's it, we don't need to do anything except vacate our slip by 1pm tomorrow.  Tonight I sleep like a rock, It had been a long day.  I wake up early when the boat people next to us leave, then roll over and go back to sleep.  Every day starts the same way, we make coffee on the camp stove using our 12 cup drip coffee maker.  If its cold out we set it up inside, if its nice we set up in the cockpit. Later Linda and I walk down the dock to the seafood store to buy ice and watch the seal beg.  Jaiden hauls all our garbage to the dumpster and then we cast off, we will have a small current against us all day as we make our way to Jones Island, but we have a light following wind. As soon as we clear the last wharf, Jaiden and I set the 150 drifter on a pole and wing the main out to catch all the wind we can. I experiment with different headings to get to Jones Island the fastest under sail. Our big drifter is helping us out pace several other boats going the same general direction. I mention to Linda that maybe I should rig a preventer so the boom doesn't pull an unannounced jibe on us. Hindsight is 2020, later Jaiden got a really hard whack that scared us all.

Wing on wing all the way to Jones, this is what its all about.

     The bean bag chair is Jaiden's usual on deck comfort zone, unless a sail change is needed.

We have sailed all the way to Jones, and we could have sailed right to the dock or anchor but using the motor is prudent when other boats are around.  As we motor into the bay at Jones there is no room at the dock so we decide to anchor on the right side where we have anchored before. This is Jaiden's first time handling the anchor. The cove is very quiet and all eyes are on us. the first attempt to set the hook fails, as I back down it easily comes loose. Jaiden pulls it back up as I motor back into position for another attempt, this time I have him pay out enough line for about a 7 to 1 scope before he cleats it hard, but it comes loose again. I ask him if he cleaned it completely of weeds and mud, his answer makes me suspect not. I go forward and assist sloshing the anchor up and down washing loose the snagged grass and muck, I can barely lift it, I think I know why it didn't hook the second time.  I run through the steps for anchoring and make sure he knows why and what we are doing. This time the anchor digs in. To prevent the boat having excessive swing we use the dinghy to set another anchor at about 180 degrees off the first, this will keep us off the rocks and away from the boats at the dock. Jaiden heads for shore in the dinghy, Linda and I settle in for some reading. Later we up anchor and move the boat to the dock when a power boat leaves.  Jones Island has camp sites on shore with fire pits,  for dinner we get a big fire going and roast kielbasa and marshmallows, several other boaters come around to share the fire and join in the conversation.  Later on when it is almost dark we notice the deer have gathered in the lawn area right next to us. After it is completely dark the children have fun walking amongst the deer and using their flashlights to spot the tame animals.

The next day I get some good pics

This lady was right next to me and I didn't notice, she never got up, its about two feet 

                                                   Full dock

      When we leave the campfire and head down the dock to the boat it is after 11 o'clock so we fall asleep immediately, but both Linda and I are up around 6 am and find each other on a hike across the island.  Our walks started separately but ended together.  We return to the boat, start the coffee and plan the day. Today we want to make it all the way to Lummi Island where my brother lives.  Our plan is to sail the entire way, anchor off shore near his house and spend the night visiting.  Coffee, bagels and cheese for breakfast, no sign of Jaiden makes us wonder if his head whacking yesterday was more serious than thought.  I've been paying attention to the wind and think we can sail away from the dock without using the motor.  There is a very slight breeze in the cove and much more once clear of the island. I set the 150 drifter and the breeze just barely holds the sails shape even though it is made of light weight 1.5 oz cloth. Any heavier sail cloth would have hung limp.  Since the boat is facing into the wind the sail is back winded at the dock, I cast off the bow line and keep the stern line with me on the dock, as the boat slowly pivots 180 degrees the sail fills correctly and begins to pull the boat away in the right direction. I step aboard and tidy up lines and fenders while Linda steers us deftly between anchored boats.  In no time at all we catch fair wind and leave Jones behind. It's a good feeling when your able sail away and not use the motor, especially with an audience, and much more satisfying than running aground.  

      We  head north around Orcas Island, Jaiden sleeps until close to noon, and its about this time that we begin to loose our battle with the current.  We knew that the current would turn on us but hoped the wind would stick around to make up the difference, it did not. We are halfway between Orcas and Sucia and have about 15 miles to go, the current is dragging us backwards at about 1 mph.  We have eaten our snacks, our trail mix, made sandwiches, drank the water, set the Bimini top to create a little shade from the blaring sun, and stared at the same point of land for the last two hours, discussing whether it was getting closer or farther from us. We drop the sails and start the motor, I quickly check our speed with the GPS, measure our distance and determine we will be about 8 more hours, which is unacceptable, so it's time to change course around Matia Island to intercept a counter current that will swing us right into Hale passage on the other side of Lummi Island. A longer distance but with smart navigation we will get there faster, I hope.  After about 30 minutes I start to question my judgment knowing that the current charts have not always been correct. I then change course again heading for shallow water near shore on Orcas Island, I know that the current is less in shallow water, plus I expect the wind to come back once we clear the shadow of Orcas and enter Rosario Strait. We are running along in about 30 to 40 feet of water when suddenly the depth sounder swings right up to 12 feet, I instantly slow down and turn abruptly away from shore. After conferring with my chart I know right where we are because the chart clearly marks an under water ledge coming out from shore. No harm just a little scare and a lesson learned for free this time. After about an hour conditions improve, as we come around Orcas and feel the influence of Rosario Strait the wind is on our beam. The seas are 3 to 4 feet with an off angle swell sweeping across.  This is very uncomfortable for Linda so she goes below, Jaiden and I really having fun, get the sails up and sheet her in tight, this greatly stabilizes the action as we leap from wave to wave but does nothing for the underlying swell. We are still unable to pick out Lummi Island from the background scenery, we can see the tall summit of course but the tip of the island is blurred with the mainland.

     We are making very good headway but the current is also dragging us south. Each time I tell Jaiden to hold a course steering towards a prominent landmark or feature, I need to correct myself in a few minutes due to the sideways drift. (set)  It's imperative not to steer for the tip of the island, but to steer well above to correct for the drift, otherwise we will find ourselves way south and have to steer directly into the current to get around the island. We are sailing very fast and the boat is so responsive I feel like saying to heck with the destination, and just sail. It is obvious Jaiden is enjoying manning the tiller even though it is hard work.  We have sailed about 6 to 8 miles and cleared the tip of Lummi Island, we now have to turn south into the wind, but with the current.  I set us on a close reach crossing Hale passage, with the current boosting us we should be able make two long tacks and round up in the little bay where we plan to anchor.  I call my brother Bill on the phone to let him know we are getting near, he wants us to call him when we anchor so he can pick us up in the car.  I need to adjust our course so as to not antagonize the skipper of the Whatcom Chief, the small ferry that serves Lummi Island residents.  By the time we close the gap the ferry has crossed in front of us several more times. When we started the passage this morning I knew we had all day to get here, part way here I was sure we would be very late or not make it at all, now it appeared we had time to kill and still have an early dinner. Jaiden handles the anchor again, he remembers everything I told him and we set the anchor very well the first try, we set the grapple anchor off at 90 degrees, I'm not worried about our swing room but the changing current direction every 6 hours or so. If an anchor is set from one direction it may pull out and not reset itself when pulled from the opposite direction.  Bill doesn't wait for us to call, we see him up on the road waiting to see where we come ashore.  The three of us grab a few things and climb into the dinghy, the first place we come ashore the beach is not very steep so to avoid getting our feet wet I push off and come ashore 100 feet further up where we have a nice steep gravel beach.  The three of us muscle the dinghy up into the driftwood and tie it to a tree. Bill says not to worry that someone may steal our dinghy and outboard, after all we are already trespassing on private property.

At Uncle Bills house we find more deer

We enjoyed our visit with Bill, but it was the turn around point for our trip.  We did not have anything left to accomplish except find our way home.  The next morning we talked until late and then Bill gave us a ride back to the beach where we stashed the dinghy.  The boat anchors had done their job.  We weighed anchor within 30 minutes and slowly motored southward along Lummi Islands east shore.

The wind was blowing right in our face about 15 to 20 mph and throwing up spray and chop, we motored as close to shore as was safe (sometimes within 100 feet) to avoid the worst of the waves and wind all the way to Inati Bay where we ducked in and anchored for lunch. Jaiden took the dinghy to shore and explored the area. The beach and shore is private property belonging to the Bellingham Yacht Club.  We felt like trespassers due largely to their keep out signs on the beach. While sheltered in the bay we discussed our next nights destination and what course to be heading. Cyprus Island was too close, we wanted to stay out of the southern end of Rosario due to fog, Linda had earlier stated she would like to go through Swinomish channel as did I, I also thought a short stop over at LaConner might yield some ice cream for Jaiden. While anchored several other boats pulled into the small cove, I'm sure everyone was seeking shelter from the seas and wind.  While anchored I hanked on our 70% heavy jib and reefed the main to our second reef point. I raised the sails before we cleared the coves protection. The wind was still right on our nose so I set a close reaching course that would take us across Bellingham Bay and then on the return tack we would clear Vendovi Island and at that time would decide where to spend the night. By the time we had reached the mainland and needed to tack, I already shook out the reef and switched to our working jib, and then the wind just went away. We have been gone from last nights anchorage about four hours and I could still see the ferry at Lummi Island, we really needed to give up sailing and motor somewhere or risk being out after dark.  We have no problem navigating in the dark, it is eminently easier than fog, but we like to arrive in the day light and take a walk or short hike. We settle on Saddle Bag Island and start the motor.  Saddle Bag is a small 20+ acre Island marine park with a small shallow bay, when we arrive one other sailboat is anchored at the entrance to the bay, by morning there are two more, we circle the cove slowly checking depths and anchor to one side in about 10 feet of water. To check our swing, Jaiden drops the grapple from the dinghy before he paddles to shore. We can see  the people from the other boat on shore by a fire and Jaiden has joined them.  In a few minutes he paddles back and reports they are nice people, we all jump back in and head for shore.  After securing the dinghy we determine again that they are nice people and then excuse ourselves for a walk around the island.

After circling Saddlebag Island we find the sun has set on all the boats but (Sunshine) ours. 

We talk for awhile around the fire then head back to the boat for dinner.  Back on the boat we discover the water pump switch had been left on, and all our water is gone down the drain, plus the pump has burned up from running dry.  We have a half gallon or so in the cooler plus a couple smaller bottles laying about. We are all really hungry and very cold. We light the camp stove and start cooking two boxes of noodle helper (servings for eight I think) we also light the propane radiant heater, our one big candle, and our gimble mounted kerosene lantern.  Pretty soon we are warm enough to remove our coats. Dinner is consumed rapidly and we are all looking for more servings. It is about now that I discover the kerosene lantern flame is getting smaller and I cannot adjust it, I trim the wick to no avail. Something is wrong, I suspect we are burning up all the oxygen but no one is light headed or feeling stranger the usual. Linda says we need a Canary. To test my theory we set the lantern outside in the cockpit and the flame immediately burns brighter, brought back inside it drops back to half again. We test it several more times and then close the canvas door to keep the heat inside..  I'm more than a little concerned over what we have discovered,  regardless we blow out all the flames and shut off the propane, its time for bed. I sleep like a log again, I wonder why. In the morning Linda and I get the propane heater going first thing, it's a small radiant heater that attaches to the small bottles. The heater is perfect for a small boat, but we worry about knocking it over and are considering some sort of mounting system. We make our coffee using some of our remaining jug water and raise anchor to quietly motor away. The water is flat calm with hardly a ripple, I leave the anchor suspended in the water hoping the boats motion would clean the mud and weeds off. Breakfast under way is coffee and some really hard bagels with cream cheese.  We seem to be benefiting from the incoming tide and I predict that as we get closer to Swinomish channel we will pick up more speed, but I'm wrong, the closer we get to the channel the  slower  we are moving.  I've never seen any publication with  channel predictions or even current flow directions, it seems to not make sense how the water can move out while the tide is coming in. Just as I think about increasing our engine speed I remember the anchor is still hanging from the bow, so I go forward to stow it properly.  Sure enough it is clean and weed free.  The tide is coming in but it is still very low water in Padilla Bay. The channel is well marked and a little narrow, we are meeting a lot of outbound boats, some are leaving  large wakes to bounce us around. Jaiden has appeared in the cockpit and wants to know where we are.  Linda is steering and we are moving only 2 mph, Jaiden and I both tell Linda that it looks like we are pointed toward shore, but she continues on course saying it looks right to her.  I gently suggest that from her position it may look correct, but from where Jaiden and I are sitting, it looks like were headed for land. Linda then says, something to the effect of "you can drive" and goes into the cabin.  Within seconds the boat runs into the soft mud bottom and comes to a halt with the motor still pushing. This is not the first or last time the boat has run aground. But it is the first time we have run aground right in front of a open railway bridge. By steering hard over I am able to use the motors thrust to slowly turn our stuck keel 180 degrees and then slide back out into the channel and resume our journey. Once past the railroad and twin highway bridges we are officially in Swinomish Channel, this is a man made channel connecting Padilla Bay with Skagit Bay.  If your unfamiliar with the area the names  mean little, but you should know that by connecting these two bays in 1937 the corp of army engineers created a nifty 11 mile detour allowing boaters to go around Deception Pass, missing the nasty currents, big waves and persistent fog. Using the channel also allows boaters to avoid all together the Strait of Juan De Fuca which can have its own behavior issues.  To overcome the opposing current we must run the motor at close to full throttle and only make a 2.5 mph over ground, so we of course run out of gas in short order.  I had earlier raised the main sail to help us along and now without the motor, the wind was holding our position so at least we weren't going backwards while I transferred gas.  This is the second time this trip I have filled the motors little 3 gallon tank  from my six gallon container on deck, this is pretty much all we have plus whats in the dinghy tank. Several more wakes rock us as I try not to spill any gas in the cockpit or any where else. As we approach LaConner we go right by the gas dock and I wonder if that's a mistake. The city maintains guest docks for short time and overnight visitors so we slide over and take about 40 feet for ourselves and the dinghy. (we have been towing the dinghy everywhere). Jaiden bounds off the boat looking for the restroom and I mistakenly tell him the wrong way to go (oops, sorry)  A local boat owner working on his vessel says hello, so I mention the current and how we have been all day coming from Saddle Bag.  He says the current flows north for 23 1/2 hours and flows south for a 1/2 hour, and no one knows when the 1/2 hour is. I said thanks, that clears it up. Linda says, that explains why all the boat traffic is going the other way.  Main street with all the quaint shops and eatery's is only a hundred feet from the dock so we join the crowds on the sidewalk to stroll up one side and down the other hoping to be enticed by some irresistible aroma or ambiance.  We settle for ice cream for Jaiden and a block of ice for the boat, and then make sandwiches on board. When we cast off later I think it looks like the current has slowed some, sure enough the GPS confirms we are making about 4 mph, still not good for fuel economy, but better. I could  turn around and buy gas but push on hoping for favorable winds. Some where in the channel the navigation aids reverse colors, because red is on the right and green on the left at both ends. This is not confusing to me at all because we just steer between the red and greens regardless. When we enter Skagit bay we are faced with a straight well marked channel leading us safely across a mile of mud flats, and I remember a skipper a while back complaining how he had run aground here, and he was in the marked area.  Linda is steering while I manage the sails and I can see the channel markers are not in a straight line like the official chart shows them.  Of course all charts have a disclaimer warning not to use them as your sole source of information. (thanks) Linda is keeping a sharp eye on on the depth which is only 12 feet. We are now less than five miles to Cornet Bay and Deception Pass, we have a light wind and the motor is only needed sparingly. As we make our way north four navy patrol boats go by us at high speed, twenty minutes later they return in the same formation only three this time. Judging their speed they must have gone through the pass into the strait of Juan De Fuca a short distance turned and came right back minus their leader. An hour later we approach the dock we had been tied to a week earlier and tie up in the same spot. Margarette and Mackee are gone of course, most of the big anchored boats are still there. Jaiden grabs his pole and mixes in with the fisherman on the dock.  Linda and I go about organizing the boat, we will eat and sleep on the boat tonight, and then in the morning, load her onto the trailer, unstep the mast and head for home. As I motor the dinghy towards the ramp for loading on the roof of the car I can't resist turning away and racing at full throttle, the dinghy planes very well with only one person, skipping lightly over the water. In a minute I find myself without my life jacket heading for Deception Pass determined to circle Pass Island. I think for a second if this is a wise move, then slowly  turn back to pick up Jaiden and both our jackets for one last ride through the pass.  John  July 2010

Rosario Rendezvous on Orcas Island results in Mt Constitution Thrill Ride

Rosario Rendezvous 2010

        The best cruise yet!  I'm sitting in my home gazing out the window at my land locked nautical variation of a  RV camper, (my boat on a trailer) I drift off and begin day dreaming again.  This must be the 100^th time since New Years that I have imagined our upcoming summer cruise.  The trip is planned for July right after the fourth and we are going to cruise the Washington San Juan Islands again. This trip our focus will be whale watching, (the last trip was whale watching too), but we were sidetracked meeting up with our daughter at Rosario Resort on Orcas Island.  As I remember we supplied the trailerable yacht, cheese and wine, she supplied the car that seats four, and two friends. It turns out we had no cell phone service so we were glad we had earlier made plans to meet this afternoon. The weather was pleasant, and balmy with hardly a breeze in the air.  It’s just about sundown when they wave to us from the parking lot at Rosario.

Rosario marina and gas dock - anchor area to right out of picture

           We leave “Sunshine” our  25 foot sailboat, tied to an anchor buoy.  The three of us  quickly paddle the dinghy ashore.  Soon we are six in a Subaru that seats four.  I’m a happy camper I get a front seat, we are heading for the top of Mt Constitution, the highest point in the San Juan Islands. At about 2400 feet I expect to have a fantastic view and see a gorgeous sunset.  But, like whale watching, it was not meant to be. When we arrive at the summit, the sun has been blocked and was settling into a thick blanket of fog that seemed to cover the western half of the world, the temperature felt like it had dropped to minus 50 and the wind was a howling gale the likes of which only arctic explorers are capable of surviving.  I was glad we didn’t walk from the boat as I had once planned, if the seven miles of winding uphill switchbacks didn’t kill me, I’m sure the elements would’ve done me in just the same. We quickly scan the fog free remaining eastern views to spot Anacortes, Bellingham, Mt Baker, and  Lummi Island.  Ocean freighters and Ferries far below look like toys. The swirling currents of Rosario Strait are clearly visible.  South of us we can see the Strait of Juan De Fuca and one edge of the fog bank. The frigid cold wind is biting into us. It had never occurred to me to bring a coat. We soon leave Mt Constitution to the only other people around, two lonely cold but hardy tourists.  Climbing back into the Subaru is the beginning of a fast and scary bobsled ride back to sea level. Coming down I don’t remember near so many switchbacks or how steep the road is.  In minutes we are back at Rosario.  I invite everyone out to the boat for wine and snacks.  It takes three dinghy trips to get the six of us on board, and it’s just about dark when we hang a dim flashlight from the backstay and break out a cheese and cracker assortment, along with a 1.5 liter bottle of fine (read cheap) Merlot.   Before long, we are lost in conversation and story telling. Jaiden enjoys being Sunshine’s wine and cracker steward.  A second bottle of something just as red but decidedly different appears and the night is fast upon us.  The darkness is almost total without the moon. even though the dock is only a short distance away, it can’t be seen, nor can the half dozen or so other boats anchored nearby. Eventually our daughter and her friends decide it’s time to leave and that our dinghy for three can take four of them in one trip. After all, the water is flat calm and its not far to the dock, even if you can’t see it. Why not give it a try.

Freeboard is a relative term.

           They carefully cast off and paddle in the direction of the dock; the silence is complete as we listen for problems.  A few minutes later, our son reappears without his passengers.  Linda and I are both relieved, even though we know they are quite capable, it’s still unnerving having your children paddle off into the darkness in a boat overloaded and only a few inches above the water.  That night I slept very well indeed, I always do on board. . In the morning we go ashore to stretch our legs and check out the new sites.  In earlier years we have toured Rosario, so we skipped the mansion tour, didn’t play outdoor shuffle board, skipped the swimming pool, ignored the gardens where they hold weddings, but we did read the new Café's menu and decided we couldn’t afford to eat out.  In the little store, we noted the inflated price for a bottle of propane and felt we shouldn’t be cooking either.  In the tourist souvenir section I try really hard to find something I want enough to be willing to pay a premium for it, and finally settle on some post cards. Post cards are a good way of assuring I get  quality pictures.  In good time we step back into the warm morning sunshine and stroll the manicured Rosario lawns just in time to watch Jaiden petting a deer and scratch its head. After awhile I’m sure I must have said “it’s time to go” but it really wasn’t, it was time to stay.

John

Playing Chicken with a Canadian Ferry

This is not a Canadian ferry

When Ferry Boats Attack!

Far off in the distance, I can barely make out a small town named Crofton. The town holds no particular interest to us, but the Canadian Ferry that runs from Crofton to Salt Spring Island is on the move. The sun is high, the water smooth, and visibility is unlimited. The ferry is still many miles away, just a speck on the horizon, hardly a cause for concern, or so I think. However, today my assumptions are wrong. We will cross paths with the ferry, that much is certain, but where, when, and how close will we be? Will the ferry cross in front of us, or will we cross in front of the ferry? We are on an intersecting course, so avoiding a collision is a top priority.

Quintin is at the helm of "Quartet," our rented forty-foot trawler, as we return from the Gulf Islands in the north. Tomorrow, we will dock at San Juan Island to clear customs. Quartet plods along at a slow and steady fuel-saving four mph, right down the middle of the wide waterway that separates the two islands. The day is characterized by clear blue skies and motionless inky seas. No other boats are in sight, and except for the occasional seal popping its head up, we are alone. The ferry becomes more visible as it moves swiftly off to the side, demanding our close attention in search of clues about its course or the captain's intentions. As the distance between us shrinks, our concerns grow.

This inter-island ferry is double-ended, with a high pilothouse at each end, enabling it to move forward or backward with equal ease. With propellers and rudders at both ends, and rounded features instead of a bow or stern, it is challenging to discern the exact direction this marine monster is pointed in or where it is heading. But today, it seems to be pointed straight at us.

The discussion in Quartet's wheelhouse is straightforward: Where is the ferry headed, and what should we do? The ferry is moving at considerable speed, rapidly closing the gap between us. We continue straight on our course, and I ponder what to do because something is about to happen, and soon. I have several choices. We are already going slow, so we could simply stop dead in the water and let the ferry run over us, but that's not a good option. We could turn away and try to outrun the ferry, but that's not even possible. We could turn directly at it, hoping it will back off to avoid damaging its paint job, but that seems like a foolish move as well. I yell over to Quintin, whose hands grip the throttle and steering wheel with tension.

"Why don't you speed up a little?" I suggest. Quintin is relieved to have something to do, anything to avoid being a sitting duck in front of an onrushing ferry. He pushes the throttle forward, and Quartet surges ahead, doubling its speed. Our once fuel-saving, wake-free path now generates a three-foot curl of water. If there are any small boats nearby, they will undoubtedly give us a big, friendly thank-you wave for sending them a boat-swamping wake. The ferry gradually changes its course, following us while still heading directly at us. I contemplate calling him on the radio, wanting to ask, "What the hell do you want us to do, you big bully? Leave us alone!" The distance between us dwindles to about half a mile, with Quartet directly in front of the ferry, and it seems we are about to be run down. Perhaps the ferry is on autopilot, and nobody sees us. Maybe no one is even paying attention. Once again, I urge Quintin to speed up. Quartet responds, billowing a huge plume of black smoke as Quintin willingly pours on the coal. Our fleeing wake is now fit for surfing. The big diesel motor is guzzling fuel at an astonishing rate. The ferry is no longer bearing down on us; they will pass well behind us unless they change course again. We pull away from certain death, and the ferry lets us go. Quintin throttles back, returning to our earlier leisurely pace.

We breathe sighs of relief and start to relax once again in the wheelhouse when suddenly the VHF marine radio crackles to life, startling us all.

"This is the Canadian Ferry calling the American motor yacht Quartet," a voice announces. I glance over at Quintin and motion for him to respond since the microphone is hanging right next to him. His response to me is, "I didn't do anything. It's not my fault. I'm not driving," and he walks out the door, leaving me alone with no one steering the boat and a ferry captain likely wanting to discuss the incident. I walk over to the helmsman's seat and make myself comfortable. I am quite certain the ferry captain thinks we got in his way, so to avoid causing an international incident while we are in foreign waters, I speak into the microphone and simply say, "This is Quartet; I apologize for getting in your way!" There is no response from the ferry, and there are no further radio communications. Quartet continues on a steady course straight down the middle, and once again, we are alone.

The End

Note: This is a true story, and if the ferry skipper reads it, I'm sure he will have something to say.

Sailing & Boating Short Story's

Keeping anchored

If you find yourself at this page, don't be alarmed, the Sailingthesanjuans website is where you have landed.  This page is simply some scary nautical (or not) stories at the very end of the postings.  To get back to the business of the site, simply click the heading at the top, or the home button on the bottom, or click on any of the many titles on the sides.  Or you could scroll down and read some stories. The stories are about boating and are set in the San Juan Islands.

Fueled by imagination, time to write, and drawing a little from real-life experiences, I have jotted down some quick stories.  They are more or less truthful except for the obvious deviations from reality.  

Coast Guard boat:

This is an excerpt from a rather long rescue mission story.

Hearing powerful high-speed motors throttling back they all turn to look just in time to see the fast-response boat from Bellingham dropping off plane outside the cove.  Holy **** says Mack, there’s someone you don’t want chasing you. That big deck-mounted Gatling gun could empty this cove in seconds, and when I say empty I mean send us all to Davy Jones. All eyes are on the Coast Guard boat as it idles into the cove.  Bristling with antennas and electronic gear, its bright coast guard colors, and obvious weaponry demand respect and instill a little fear. 

later:

Tom notices Tracy eyeing his printed flower gloves, and then says in his best pirate voice, “arrrgh, the wives bandages, I normally don’t use gloves.  Everyone laughs and they spend ten minutes with small talk, including one of the children asking a crewman if he had ever shot anyone with that big gun, pointing to the deck-mounted machine gun. A simple no was the answer.  As is always the case, talk came around to the fast response boat and its capabilities.  Some of the questions were deflected as top secret or unknown which thrilled the children but truly disappointed the adults.  The crew was very forthcoming about rescue equipment and pointed out their mission was also to protect the country from enemies, intercept ships, and chase down smugglers. 

A single chirp from the pilothouse radio alerts the crew; Tracy says “Let’s go boys, it's back to business.”  The Coast Guard vessel trying not to leave a wake idles slowly out of the cove, but once in the channel between James and Decatur islands, Tracy guns the triple 400 hp motors for a few seconds causing the craft to churn up a steep wake and then the 33 foot vessel leaps forward faster than anyone would have thought possible. Turning a 180 that Indy cars only dream of, he stabs the throttles again just as they hit their own wake. With lightning acceleration the huge RIB launches itself clear of the water, skillfully backing off the throttles while airborne Tracy urges them open again as the boat's stern lightly touches down, in seconds they are up on plane and clear of the island.  "Holy ****" Mack says again, “I told you, you don’t want one of them things chasing you.”

    

 FIRST  PEA SOUP FOG:

     As the two-boat flotilla makes its way north in Rosario Strait the fog thickens, and soon land shapes and forms less than two miles distant are not visible anymore. Sailing is not possible, there’s not a breath of wind, it seems like the fog surrounding them has taken away the wind, their sight, and their senses. Except for the gentle purring motors it is deathly silent. The little boats move closer together trying to stay in view of each other as the fog thickens even more. They motor along at 3 mph, but when the speed of the northward flowing current is added, they are probably making over 5 mph. Mike has previously determined he would follow a compass course of 300 degrees magnetic. This course would keep the boats pointed in the right direction and as long as they kept making forward progress they would eventually make it across the strait. The current is constantly pushing them north, so it is important they get across fast or risk being swept past James Island, their destination. As the fog thickens the two families feel more and more isolated. The laughter and joking give way to quiet as the seriousness of their situation becomes apparent. Mike is wishing he had radar, Rosario Strait is traveled by commercial vessels that not only could run them over but their wakes present a danger to small boats as well. The two boats squeeze closer together, they don’t want to lose sight of each other in the fog. Mike calls Tom on the radio and says to be sure to keep a course of 300 degrees if they become separated. About once a minute the kids ring the boat's brass bell. Ringing the bell keeps the kids occupied, plus fulfills Coast Guard regulations to sound a warning when navigating in fog. Tom’s family does the same. Hearing the bells is reassuring to them but does nothing to combat the unrelenting whiteness, Another hour slips by and the tension on board is taking its toll, the kids have gone below to stay warm and dry. Mike and Tom and their wives are standing at the helms in the boat’s cockpits, all of them are dripping wet from condensing fog. Everyone speaks in hushed tones saving their sense of hearing for the deep throbbing sound of an approaching ship's diesel engine, or the unique moving splash of an on-rushing bow wave. Sometimes they think they may hear the crash of waves on a nearby dangerous rock or reef. Keeping a constant eye on the GPS and compass is their only assurance of a safe passage.

      Peering deeply into the white mist ahead of them Mike spots what appears to be a wall of white water or surf breaking on a beach. For a second he is in disbelief, how can they be headed for disaster? What has he done wrong? He quickly scans his depth sounder and GPS, the boats have 40 fathoms below them and they are in the middle of the strait. Suddenly, in a flash it comes to him, now in shock and scared witless it dawns on him that they are headed straight into a huge tide rip, a tidal bore; the incoming tide they are riding at 2 mph is meeting the outgoing tide. The recent minus tide must have created a monstrous opposing force and now they are heading right into the face of a six-foot over-fall created by one flowing mass of water flowing into and under another mass of water flowing the other direction. Any boat or anything unlucky enough to get caught in this breaking curling wave will be rolled over and over until finally released as scattered debris, floating flotsam, shattered dreams, another Rosario Strait statistic. Headlines will read Hapless Inexperienced Boaters Succumb to….. Snapping out of his shock, Mike swings his boat around and Tom also seeing the wall of water follows him. Both boats are now fighting the current but their little auxiliary outboards pushed to full throttle are unable to hold their own, and can't make headway against the incoming tidal rush. Precious minutes tick by and the current increases as they are dragged slowly backward, ever closer to the massive tide bore. Mike has read about tide rips in Rosario Strait sometimes extending across the entire 4-mile wide width. There seems to be no escape from their desperate situation. Trying to run away from the tide rip isn't working, they are steadily dragged backward towards it. In just a matter of minutes, the battle will be lost. It’s no longer quiet, and no one is whispering, for above the whine of their motors the ever-present thunderous roar of the curling breaking over-fall eerily beckons to them. The women have gone below, and the children wide-eyed in the little cabins are trapped and helpless unable to do anything but wait for their uncertain future to arrive. The skippers, their two boats running very close together in thick fog are not talking on the radio, Mike is at a loss for what to do, no amount of preparedness or planning can undo their predicament. The over-fall is only about 50 yards from them and getting closer. Mike decides letting the water crash into the cockpits would spell certain disaster, it would be much better, even survivable perhaps, to turn around and take the massive wave head-on, the high bows piercing the water, their enclosed cabins shedding the tons of green sea sure to crash upon them. He keys his microphone calling Tom. When Tom answers, Mike says, he’s going to turn around while there is still room and hit it straight on. Mike then yells for Jan to close the hatch and hang on. Inside the cabin Jan and the children, their life jackets secure, brace themselves on each side of the mast post ready for the ride of their lives.

    Having no good choices, but to batten down the hatches, keep everyone in the cabins, and trust their boats to carry them safely through, First Mike and then Tom turn the boats once more towards the menacing wall of water quickly bringing them squarely face to face with nature’s awesome power. The current giving them a final kick causes the remaining distance to close unbelievably fast. Tom is white-knuckled steering his boat; there is no turning back now. Fran peers out from below the cabin hatch looking for support in Tom's face. He yells he loves her and to hold on. Mike sees the over-fall appear to double in height as they close the final few yards, he can hear the thunderous roar of the breaking wave sweeping out of the fog and now directly in front of him. At the last second, to avoid being washed overboard he grabs a line and attempts to tie himself to the safety grab bar. Why, he thinks didn't he do this earlier. His thoughts race, what if the boat and his family survive, but he doesn’t, what will happen to them? In his haste, he leaves the loop open, and the line falls uselessly to the deck. He grabs the line a second time, but when he looks up it's too late, all he can do is hold on and hope he is not torn away and lost overboard. In an instant it is over, the two boats hardly feel the wave as they ride up and over. Tom and Mike are both shocked and speechless, they see now that the tide rip over-fall was only one foot high or less; hardly much of a ripple even for a rowboat. Their eyes and senses have been tricked by the dense fog and their own wild imaginations. In pure white pea soup conditions, they have had no depth perception, nothing to compare or judge what they were seeing, and no way to tell distance or determine height. The supercharged adrenalin rush is over, everyone is now relieved and talking about the close call and how fooled they each were. The thick fog has taught them a deep appreciation and respect. With things back to normal everyone on both boats gets back to peering into the dripping mist, watching and bell ringing, the fog has given them a lesson they won’t soon forget.

Rosario Strait Tragedy:

 This story is a sad tear-jerker, Please don't read it to your children.  And I have left out the middle and surprise ending. If you want to read the middle and end, e-mail me and I will e-mail it back to you.

“Hang on,” yells Tom to his children, Jacob and Wendy, leaning against the mast, “We're going to tack, prepare to tack,” he yells down the companionway to Sandy.  “Helms a lee,” yells Tom as he swings the tiller hard over.  Fourwinds turns and heads up into the eye of the wind, and the sails luff while her bow carried by its momentum moves over to its new heading.  Before the sails fill, before they see it coming, before they feel the huge first gust, they hear the far-off low whistle signaling the coming of the Banshees, then with a much closer shriek the calm is broken, and Fourwinds is in trouble.

The first eerie whistling sound alerts Mike, and he looks south.  Less than a mile away the once smooth gentle swells of Rosario Strait have become steep waves with white caps.  He knows white caps form when the wind is around 10-12 mph, but further south he sees the tops of waves being blown off and spray is whipping across the surface indicating 30 mph+ winds, and beyond that, so much water is in the air that visibility is zero. The land Jan pointed at moments earlier is gone. The fast-moving micro storm has swiftly moved up the Strait and will be on them in minutes.

“You kids get below right now—hurry!” Yells Mike.

He grabs his radio mic to warn Tom,

“Fourwinds, Fourwinds—Tom, get everyone in the cabin and drop the sails right now and hurry.”  Then Mike leans on the tiller and forces Bluebelle into the wind and pops the main halyard line clutch.  The main sail drops smoothly to the boom. Seconds later he lets fly the jib sheet and begins pulling in the furling line wrapping the headsail neatly around the forestay.  The whistling has increased a hundredfold; it’s been less than a minute, and now the wind sounds like the wailing scream of a thousand Banshees announcing the arrival of untold miseries handed out to mariners around the world. Some say that each time a mariner perishes at sea another banshee is added to the winds wail.  Others say a banshee wail foretells death.

Fourwinds, with sails still flying, is upwind of Bluebelle about a quarter mile so she will be hit first.  Mike is tying the last sail tie around the main, and he looks up just in time to see the first wind gusts slam into Fourwinds.  Oh my god, thinks Mike as he helplessly watches.  Tom hasn’t reduced sail and the kids are still on deck.  On Fourwinds, Sandy has heard Mike’s frantic warning call, but it’s too late.  Tom has slackened the main halyard but the sail does not come down, after tacking she has not yet regained speed and cannot turn back into the wind, Fourwinds stalls, caught in irons, her sails flat to the wind, and her sail slides jam.  The gusts swirl around and Tom doesn’t know which way to pull the tiller to regain boat speed and steerage.  A huge blast broadsides Fourwinds, with all sails flying she is knocked over so far her sails dip in the ocean, her mast almost touching the water. She begins to right herself but holds at a precarious angle, her slippery decks sloping toward the sea, the relentless wind pinning her down. Sandy is hanging on in the cabin where everything has slid off the table onto the cabin sole.  Tom knows he has to somehow release the pressure on the sails but is suddenly alerted to Wendy’s terrified screaming; she has one arm around the tilting mast and is holding onto Jacobs's life jacket with the other.  Jacob is halfway over the edge of the boat with his life jacket pulled off over his head.

 “I can’t hold him,” she is screaming, “he’s too slippery.” 

Trying to get a foothold, four-year-old Jacob is squirming and thrashing causing Wendy to lose her tenuous grip. With his father watching, Jacob slips over the edge and disappears into the water.  Seconds later, arms thrashing, Jacob appears off the stern of Fourwinds.  The buoyant life jacket pinning his arms as it works its way over his head. The Life Jackets floatation meant to save lives is now trapping the doomed boy, his head repeatedly going underwater. 

“Do something,” Sandy screams from the companionway, “he’s going to drown.” Her yell is barely heard above wailing banshee winds circling Fourwinds.

“Get the life ring and boat pole,” yells Tom, as he launches himself over the back of the boat. His dive is picture-perfect and would deserve applause in a different setting.  The cold water shock triggers involuntary convulsions, and he barely stifles screaming.  He surfaces one stroke from Jacob and pulls his face to the surface, but in the process, Tom forces his own head under water, now both of them are coughing and gagging seawater.  Jacob is hysterical, but when Tom yells—Close your mouth, and hold your breath—he obeys. Tom is choking but manages to stay in control. He holds his breath and with one hand under Jacob and the other on the life jacket, he manages to shove his son back into position.  Gagging and kicking furiously to stay afloat he manages to click closed the top buckle and tighten all the straps.  His son is now secure, but Tom is struggling to keep on the surface, and so he holds onto Jacob. The buoyancy of the small children’s life jacket is keeping them both afloat.  Hearing Sandy’s cry Tom looks towards the sound and sees she has tossed the life ring in their direction.  Pulling Jacob, he kicks and strokes with his free hand towards the white plastic and canvas ring.  With each stroke they lose ground, the rescue the floating ring promised is quickly being blown away as Fourwinds in the clutches of the powerful storm is pulled further and further from them, taking with it the life ring securely tethered to the rail.

“What should I do?”—yells Sandy, but the shrieking wind and Rosario has stolen any chance of him hearing her.   She is forced to watch her husband and son recede in the distance, helpless and scared; knowing this could end in tragedy.

Chapter Four

 By now the waves are five feet between the tops of the blown-off white caps to the bottom of each lonely trough. The spray is horizontal, in another minute Sandy loses sight of her boys.  Tom and Jacob can still see Fourwinds each time they rise to the top of a wave, and then as the swell passes, they plunge back down, wondering if the boat will be there next time.  The Williwaw wind that knocked Fourwinds off her feet and is pinning her down has conspired with Rosario’s current, to drive her away, and soon they are alone.  They have been in the water just a few minutes and both of them are shivering violently, Tom’s swimming is for the most part ineffective, he can’t stay above water without tremendous effort and he has no energy left, hanging onto Jacob to stay afloat is his only chance for survival, but each time a wave comes over them his added weight is causing Jacobs head to go under water and come up coughing.  “Keep your mouth closed; hold your breath,” Tom repeats, his teeth clenched to stop shaking, and his voice barely audible.

Chapter Five

Mike has lowered the outboard motor back into the water and has been running Bluebelle at full speed since watching the knockdown and his friends go overboard. Closing the gap takes only minutes, but with the big waves they can’t see the boys in the water, Mike is hopeful they are hanging onto a line or the life ring. They have been calling on the radio but Sandy has not responded.  As they approach, Sandy is wildly motioning towards the worsening storm, it’s obvious she wants them to go that way, and look for Tom and Jacob.  When the two boats are close enough to yell, Mike asks if she is sure that’s the direction she last saw them.  Sandy is beside herself and barely able to function.

She screams across the waves while waving frantically, “What are you waiting for, they’re dying.”

“Listen to me—loosen all the sheets, start the motor, and head into the wind at full power to get the sails under control.” He knows there isn’t much chance Sandy will be able to get the sails down and the boat upright until the wind lessons, he just hopes she doesn’t go overboard herself.

Mike and Jan have put on their safety harnesses and are clipped onto their jack lines. They head the way Sandy pointed scanning the waves and troughs, they can’t see much, a person in the water may be visible for just seconds before another wave blocks the view.  The boats are being blown south, literally being sucked into the low-pressure area of the storm, but the current is flowing north, persons in the water will be mostly affected by the current and not the wind, he alters course, and motors Bluebelle at full speed directly into the wind; he’s not sure they are making any headway. It’s been about two minutes since turning from Sandy, a quick glance shows that she appears to be getting the jib rolled up, that’s good he thinks, that will ease the pressure, stand the boat back on its feet and make it possible to get the main down.

“They’ll be ok,” he yells over the wind to Jan.

“May day, may day, may day, calling the Coast Guard, may day, may day, may day.”  Mike cups the microphone trying to block the roar of the storm.  After what seems like an eternity but is only about five or ten seconds the radio speaker crackles static and booms out. 

“Bellingham Coast Guard, May Day, please identify yourself and what is your emergency.”

 “This is the sailboat Bluebelle, we have gale winds and high waves, we have two people lost overboard, we are in Rosario Strait one-half mile offshore due west of the north end of Cyprus Island, over.”

“Sailboat Bluebelle, do you have the overboard people in sight, how long have they been in the water?”

 “Negative Coast Guard, we can’t see them, it’s been about five minutes.” Mike and the Coast Guard radio operator exchange information about the boats and all the people on board.  Mike had punched the mob (man overboard) button on his chart plotter when the microburst hit them so he had the longitude and latitude where Tom and Jacob went missing.

The Coast Guard “Cutter Terrapin” on patrol in Haro Strait some twenty miles to the west on the other side of the San Juan’s takes the dispatcher's call, and immediately launches off its stern a high-speed inflatable with a crew of six. The shortest and fastest route is through the San Juans where the RIB (rigid inflatable boat) finds short gentle swells and small wavelets, perfect conditions for going fast. The powerful triple engine half fiberglass half inflatable and aluminum craft swiftly skims the surface at over sixty miles per hour leaving hardly a ripple of a wake; ETA to Obstruction Pass is 20 minutes. Once the RIB clears the pass and enters Rosario Strait the large waves and gale winds will slow them, but not stop them. Bellingham Coast Guard also dispatches a helicopter with rescue swimmers; the Helo’s ETA is 10 minutes to the GPS coordinates Mike has given the operator. The Coast Guard Helo crew has been monitoring the deteriorating weather, they know what to expect.  As soon as they are airborne they can see the menacing micro storm between Orcas and Cyprus Island. They fly a few hundred feet above the surface at 165 knots, rapidly closing the distance.

                    

                                              Chapter Six

Sandy is overcome with fear and emotion, she is desperately trying to save her family but is helpless to do anything, she stares into the wind, and the raging windblown seas.  She sees Bluebelle, but Mike's not going the right way, she waves her arm to the right yelling.

“Over there, over there”. It’s no use, Mike can’t hear her and the airborne spray has blotted out any chance of him seeing her waving.

“Mommy, mommy” Wendy tearfully cries out, snapping Sandy’s attention back to the boat and her terrified daughter, are they going to be ok? I couldn’t hold Jacob, the sunscreen was too slippery—I’m sorry.”  Sandy works her way to the companionway, and huddles down  Wendy, and hugs her saying,  “I’m sure Mike will find them, it’s not your fault.” And then she bursts into tears and holds Wendy as tight as she dares.

Sorry to leave you hanging, e-mail me to receive the rest.

This story takes place in a small cove on the west side of Orcas Island

Excerpts from Orca Boy:   chapters one - and when Josh meets Sammie

 “It’s okay guys,” says Josh, trembling, his heart pounding, “we’re not going to hurt you.” He stops rowing and slowly drifts towards the bigger killer whale's snout. 

“My name is Josh; this other fellow is my Uncle Charley.  We live in that big old house up on the hill.  Over there, on the dock, is my Aunt Maggie with the camera, and Sammie and Sadie.   Sadie’s barking brought us to you.”  Josh’s constant patter is supposed to calm the huge animals and bolster his own courage.  So far, the orcas appear to be in control of their emotions.  

 

The two killer whales have brought an exciting nervous calmness to the cove, and then they both spout—ending the tranquil spell.   They exhale a foul-smelling steamy mist high into the air. Their breath erupts for ten long seconds from fist-size blowholes.  Everyone is caught by surprise. Charley swallows hard and dry; his neck muscles knot and won’t cooperate.  Their guttural inhales sound like the earth herself is drawing breath.

 

“Hi momma,” says Josh, still shaking a little, “that was impressive up close like that,” his voice barely above a whisper.  “Like I said, I’m Josh, this was your idea to come here for help, wasn’t it?  Do you have names? What do you call each other?  Has anyone ever told you your black and white outfits look formal? You know, like a penguin looks. This conversation is totally one sided, but I need to talk.  I know—you both look like salt and pepper, I’m calling you Pepper, and mom, I’m not calling you salt, you don’t seem like an old salt, you tell me what to call you?”  Josh pauses for his own deep breath; the quiet moment is Sadie’s cue to whimper her concern.

                 

Pepper moves her flipper fin in a circular motion pushing her blowhole and eye back above the surface. She is half resting, half perched on momma orca  ’s outstretched six foot fin. Without constant swimming or her mother’s support, the heavy net and weights tangling her body will pull her to the bottom.  She calmly watches the rowboat drift closer. 

 

Fifty feet away on the dock, Sadie whines, Sammie rubs her neck soothing her, maybe Sadie senses something, maybe dog and orca   have somehow connected.  Sadie was certainly drawn to the cove, bringing Sammie and Josh running.

 

The puny little boat offers no protection should the two orca  s suddenly thrash about. Josh rows directly in front of Pepper; with one eye, she watches him pull the oars in, and reach for his hiking stick.  Her left eye is dark blue the other is dark green.  Above each eye is a white eye-patch, nature’s subtle disguise.  She is black on top and white on her belly.  The black and white markings are duplicated on her mom.  Like mother, like daughter, Pepper is a ten-foot version of her twenty-two foot mother.

 

“Well Charley, so far so good,” says Josh, “It’s okay Pepper, I need to keep from banging into you and your mom so I’m going to touch your mom lightly with this stick, that’s okay with your mom—right?”  Charley holds his breath, he squeezes the edge of the boat with white knuckles.  Josh exhales slowly through pursed lips, and reaches the stick out to momma—he gently pushes. 

 “Oh jeez,” says Josh trembling all over again, “this is scary—pushing on her is like shoving on a piling or dock covered with old truck tires.  This momma is definitely a serious animal.”  The boat rebounds backward.  Momma’s eye follows them; ever so slowly, she strokes her fin on the far side.  Underwater, she flexes her broad tail fluke—Josh freezes while holding the stick hovering over her.

  “It’s okay momma, Uncle Charlie and I are your friends, I’m going to rub this stick over here on Pepper’s back.  He lightly touches the tip of his stick on her back between her blowhole and pectoral fin.  “Would you like me to scratch your back, Pepper?”

He rubs the stick back and forth and wonders what to do next. 

 

“You really are a brave girl Pepper; let me scratch you a little bit over here by your big back fin.”

Josh slides the stick over the ropes that are cutting into her skin and scratches in front of her dorsal fin.

 “What the heck is that noise,” says Josh, “Pepper, is that you squealing? No, you’re whistling—you sure are.  You like this scratching, don’t you?”  Josh lifts the stick and raps it in one spot like when Sammie smacks Sadie on her haunches as part of a good-dog back rub.  Pepper’s whistles continue with an occasional click sound.

 

“Josh, I think that whale likes you,” says Charley, loosening his grip on the boat while the strange almost unbelievable sight unfolds in front of him.  “If I didn’t know better I would say Pepper is purring.” 

“Uh, I hope not, I once had a cat that purred when I rubbed its back, but then it bit me.”

 

The scratching, whistling, and clicks continue while momma orca supports Pepper on her extended fin.  Her gentle fin movements hold their position opposite the floating dock.  His courage showing, Josh experiments and rubs the stick on different parts of Pepper's body.  He carefully shoves and manipulates the area where the ropes are cutting into her thick skin. Except for the clicks, she shows no preference nor displays any pain or displeasure; she tolerates his touching and doesn’t mind the boat bumping against her.  Momma orca is motionless just a few feet away, and except for the occasional tail and fin adjustment, she could be asleep.

 

Josh and Charley lock eyes, Charley shakes his head, “Josh again—you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do, Uncle Charley, now more than ever, I can’t not help them.” He clenches his jaw and with his hand, gently rubs the white patch above her open eye, comforting the small orca.  With his other hand, he wipes his own wet eyes.

 

 Using the hooked pole, he reaches into the water underneath Pepper and snags a piece of net.  He pulls the snarled mass to the surface.  With his Leatherman tool lanyard securely looped on his wrist, he slices into the netting.  He saws the serrated blade through a seaweed-encrusted line. He hooks more gobs and cuts through fifteen or more lines before coming to an extra heavy rope holding a lot of weight. It takes both him and Charley to pull the taught rope to the surface.  Josh braces himself up on one knee and leans out over the ten-foot orca  .

 

“This is horrible Pepper, how the heck can you swim with all this junk hanging from you?”

 

The knife cleanly separates the stretched rope and hundreds of pounds suddenly sink to the bottom of the cove.  When the weight falls, Pepper, Charley, Josh and the rowboat all rebound at once.  Big momma’s huge supporting fin snaps upward like a catapult unleashed, lifting and tilting the boat.  Charley falls over backward in the middle of the boat and rides it out, but Josh’s precarious position is impossible to recover from, and he sails over the side flopping onto Pepper's back.  Her dorsal fin trips him up and he slides into the water between mother and daughter. Sadie jumps to her feet barking her alarm.  Sammie pulls her down clamping a hand over her muzzle quieting her. Maggie yells Josh’s name.  Charley with the boat hook still in his hand pulls himself up and looks for his nephew.

 

“Oh my god,” says Charley, eyes wide, fresh adrenalin replacing stale fear.

“It’s okay Pepper,” says Josh, “It’s okay momma, just a little mishap—everyone remain calm.”

 

Josh has slipped between the two killer whales, one arm resting on Pepper, the other forced upward over the much higher mom. 

“Charley, you aren’t going to believe this, I’m kneeling on her fin.  I’m going to climb over Pepper and get back in the boat.” He crouches, ready to stand and straddle Pepper, but when he stretches for the boat, he doesn’t quite make it and falls on her again.  With both arms, he pushes off ungracefully rejecting sitting on her.  He lands with a flying crash back in the rocking boat.  The two orcas watch but remain motionless, unlike Josh and Charley their emotions and fear are still in check.

 

“Oh boy,” Says Josh, able to breathe again, “I thought that was going to do it, and we would be smashed to bits, or big momma’s tail would toss us over the dock.”

“Are you okay,” says Maggie, “what happened, did the big whale hit you?”

“No, everything is fine,” says Charley, “we just got off balance.”

 

Getting back to work, Josh says. “That last cut released a ton of weight, but it didn’t loosen these two tight ones around her body, we have to keep fishing for hanging lines.” 

In the next fifteen minutes, Josh and Charley manage to make another dozen cuts, removing a lot of netting and line but no more significant weight like the gob that threw him into the water.

 

“Okay, we’re almost done, this is the one digging in, I’ll slice—what the!!    This rope has a wire inside of it, it’s dulled my knife, I can’t cut it.”

“I should have told you, that some of these fishing nets are made with a thin wire cable in the top line.  It’s ultra-strong and doesn’t stretch,” says Charley.

“It’s also killing Pepper, we have to get it off somehow, but I can’t cut it or even reach it without cutting into her blubber.”

Chapter two:

Yesterday—on the ferry

“Hi!—Hellooo...... I said Hi!—”

“Oh . . . you’re talking to me?” Oh geez, you dweeb, what a dumb answer.

“Well yeahhh,” she says while twirling her sun-streaked hair around a finger.  “Do you see anyone else on the top deck of this ferry boat?”

“Well when you put it that way, just me I guess.”  Wow, she’s kinda pretty, her blue eyes sparkle—think, think, say something not too stupid, offer her a tic tac.

“My name is Sammie, what’s yours?” She looks straight into his face, he holds her stare for a second and then looks down.   His legs shake, his chest quivers, and his head swims.  She lets go of the hair twirl, setting the ringlet free, and starts another twist.  She tilts her head trying to make eye contact again.  His face flushes and his cheeks burn...

Excerpt from Death Watch:

The scene is somewhere off Cuba.  The sinister Bela is dead, after attacking Marissa he gets finished by a great white shark.  Kings Ransom is dead in the water, having fouled her propeller in an abandoned net.

            “It’s a mess down there,” says Freddy when he surfaces, “it looks like a big ball of net, The propeller is completely covered and there is a fine cable my knife can’t cut.”

            “I’ll find a wire cutter, you do what you can.” Says Jake. Ricky gulps a lungful of fresh air and drops below the surface a second time. Nic overheard everything, so Jake makes eye contact, shakes his head and makes for the engine room where he hopes to find a cable cutter. Seth is working on getting the transmission into neutral when Jake appears.

            “Any luck”

            “Good you’re here, I need a hand; I can hold it with this bar if you’all can pull on the shift linkage.”  Jake hesitates a moment then begins to trace cables and wires,

“Which one is it?”

“I think it’s that one right there.”

Jake grabs the heavy lever and tries to move it both ways,

“It's jammed up tight, go ahead and put pressure on the shaft.  As Seth moves the propeller shaft with the monkey wrench and cheater bar, Jake pulls on the linkage to no avail. 

“Try the other way, this isn’t doing anything.” As soon as Seth reverses the wrench and relieves the pressure, Jake easily slips the transmission into neutral.

“Got it, she’s free to turn now. We need to find Ricky a cable cutter, any ideas.”

“Right there in the tip-out bin,”  says Seth. “Grandpa used to say…”

“Hold it,” Jake cuts him short and points up and towards the door while bringing his finger to his lips.

“Oh, I was just going to say that I’ve been told that all sailing ships must have cable cutters in case they need to cut the rigging loose in a storm.”

Inside the bin are miscellaneous large and small bolt and cable cutters.

“Here’s a small, curved jaw cutter, it’s perfect and even has a lanyard ready to go.” Jake leaves Seth to put away the tools he had dug out and enters the passageway half expecting Nic to be there and question him about Seth’s almost slip-up.  He had already decided he would cover for the sudden change in conversation by saying he was in a hurry to get the cutters to Ricky, but thankfully Nic had not followed him.  At the aft end, Ricky is sitting on the generous swim step catching his breath, as Jake approaches his thoughts momentarily drift to the second transponder beacon he had hidden under the platform.

“Here’s a hooked cable cutter Ricky, is this what you had in mind.”

“I think that will work, but there is a lot of net,” says Ricky as he slips his wrist through the wrist loop.  Ricky has one tool on each wrist, the looped lanyards making sure he doesn’t accidentally drop a tool to the depths below.

Before Ricky drops off the swim step, Jake adds. “Seth got the transmission into neutral, you should be able to rotate the propeller now.”

“Ok,” and with a little jump, Ricky is gone again. Marissa and Jake are alone at the back silently contemplating the new predicament and ongoing issues with Nic.  Marissa simply thinks Nic is some sort of crazy Balkan state nut case up to no good whose association with Bela has ruined any chance of an acceptable explanation for his actions. Jake on the other hand knows Nic is a cold-blooded criminal in the midst of an international operation. Both now concerned with getting Kings Ransom moving again

Suddenly Nic's voice interrupts the calm, “Raise the sails, we must get moving again.”

“No,” yells Marissa, “We can’t sail with Ricky down there.”

“He can hang on, we will only be moving slowly.” Retorts Nic.

“No I won’t let you, he will die under there.” Nics pulls the familiar Luger from his waist once again, but before he points it or says another word, Marissa walks toward him yelling.

“I won’t let you, you can shoot all of us, and then who will run the boat? Are you going to shoot the only crew you have?  Marissa stops an arm’s length from Nic, he never does raise the gun and point it at her, and now she is so close he is afraid she might cause him to accidentally shoot her.  All he can do is stare her down.

“If you want to get moving so bad, why don’t you find a way to help Ricky.”  Marissa continues her confrontation.

Face to face, Nic stares at Marissa for a good long time, he wants to shoot her right then and there for opposing his authority in front of another man.  Her heaving breasts and slender tan waist excite him. He wants to drag her into his cabin tear off her clothes and show her who is in charge.  Marissa’s defiant eyes do not miss the lusty look; it’s always the same look and the same look Bela had the day she and Ricky killed him, feeding him to a shark. You bastard she thinks. You will get yours too.

“You help him, woman.” Nics puts the gun back in his pants, turns and walks to his cabin.

Jake and Marissa’s eyes meet, a mutual respect is already enjoyed between them. No words are spoken or needed, both peer into the water ready to help Ricky.

 

A short excerpt from, "Adrift"

Feeling abandoned, Tom and Fran and their two children silently climb into the dinghy. The quiet is peaceful yet ominous.  Pushing off with the oar Tom paddles into the darkness toward the boat.  The dock recedes leaving each person alone with their thoughts. Breaking the silence he says, I can’t see where to paddle, you will have to tell me where to go.  “Oh great” Fran yells at Tom losing all control, “First you almost crashed us on the freeway, then were lost in the fog while a huge wave almost rolls over us, then you lose a rope and can’t get the sail up on a sailboat, next your kids try to burn up a State Park, then your boat runs aground at the dock of all places and now were lost in our dinghy and can’t find the boat in the dark.”  Tom stutters and is at a loss for words, thankfully before he can say anything a blinding light pierces the night and cuts across to their boat.  With just a few more strokes the dinghy softly touches home on Blue Belle and they all climb aboard.  Mike's powerful spotlight goes out as fast as it had come on. “Thanks,” says Tom, and to Fran, “Let’s get to bed, this breeze is chilling me. In the morning everything will be great.”

Tom and the children went right to sleep, but Fran was awakened by every little noise, the wind banged and slapped the halyards against the mast, she could hear the boats at the dock squeal as polished fiberglass hulls rubbed against rubber fenders. She heard or felt the low deep throb as a ship or ferry went by, the smallest waves would rock their tiny little home. Several times she thought she heard something moving on deck. Afraid of the unknown and building on her own fears, Fran never looked out a window, perhaps that was best.  Finally, the noises subsided and Fran fretfully slept.  When she opened her eyes, it was daylight and she peeked out.  What she saw outside scared her plenty, but somehow yesterday’s events prepared her for the vast emptiness of swirling white misty fog now outside her window. She calmly tells Tom to wake up.  Not hearing a response from his so-called queen bed shoe box under the cock pit Fran tugs on his empty sleeping bag. “Tom” she yells, “where are you” “Do you kids see your father anywhere”? Squelching a scream and feeling a sudden emptiness in her stomach Fran throws open the hatch, she stands on the companionway steps where she can see the entire boat. Tom’s not on board, the dinghy’s gone.  Looking around a full 360 degrees, she has no idea where they are, but it is definitely not the cove at James Island.