"The wonder is always new that any sane man can be a sailor."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Hmm, I don't know if our rather ambitious voyage proves us as sane or not. Still, as I pondered our trip, I found myself wondering if anyone else was wondering how life living on a boat is different? Maybe you are. So I thought I might chat about that in this post, but first, let’s talk
about leaving Port Hardy and our brave, noble passage past Cape Caution. ;) (Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=40LvzMuKmrY)
The morning after we left Port Hardy, we passed Staples and
Nye Island (“Bill Nye the Science Guy!” we couldn’t help singing). Then we nosed
our way into open ocean to attempt a crossing in front of Cape Caution the
terrible, Cape Caution the mighty—
But….the general consensus after an hour or so was: “So far
Cape Caution isn’t very…cautionary.”
We have been blessed with ridiculously good weather on this
trip. Cape Caution is usually like, “Hover in Port Hardy, call all the buoys
and Egg Island and that old lady that lives on the point, and if they say it
looks all right, run like heck across open water and…pray. Pray lots.”
Well, we always pray and God answers our prayers, because
besides a few not-so-terrible swells, Cape Caution was all right. Lots of birds
with red on their beaks. A few other boats. Maybe a bit o’ fog.
Still, I noticed something strange. Adjusting to the rolling
motion of the Star has become nearly
unconscious, like breathing. As you sit in the cockpit looking out at the
waves, your torso twists this way and that to stay upright. Walking on deck or
below, your legs bend just so to keep your balance. That’s crucial you see,
keeping your knees bent, like shock springs on a jeep. It’s sort of like life
on a boat. It’s amazing how quickly ‘normal’ can change. So let’s get real for
a moment.
Tip #1 for Living on a
Boat: Don’t be surprised to find a sea shrimp or phosphorescent algae in
your toilet.
First thing you need to know about toilets on a boat, is
they don’t flush themselves. You pump them out, and seawater is pumped in—sometimes
with stowaways. It was April on her stay that had a sea shrimp get sucked into
the toilet bowl.
And phosphorescent algae in the toilet? Totally cool.
Northern British Columbia puts on a mini firework show in the bowl when you
pump the water down, like little white sparks flying this way and that. Turns
out some kinds of algae light up when they’re agitated. Who knew?
And yes, it’s kind of a pain to be pumping all the time, but
when the toilet gets clogged? You don’t grumble about having to pump the toilet
anymore. You start cringing when you have to use the bucket instead. Of course,
Captain Gary can fix just about anything on this boat, so that trial didn’t
last long. He’s super modest, so he doesn’t quite believe us when we tell him he can fix almost anything, even after he fixes the engine, the toilet, the GPS, the bilge pump and
the breaker.
All the cupboards have snaps, so that if your boat suddenly
tips 45°, all your stuff doesn’t crash to the floor. You have to make sure your
windows are closed when you sail, or you’re liable to have sea spray spraying
all over the couch and the stove (yeah, that happened). Also, instead of
watching freeway signs, the islands are your freeway signs. You look at your
chart and comment all day, “Hey, that must be Jane and Sarah Island, we’ll
round the point in a half hour or so.”
The view outside your window is always bobbing, dipping or
changing. If you go to sleep and someone else is driving, you have no idea what
the view will be when you wake up. Yet, we never sleep so well as when there’s
a gentle swell, and the motor is humming in the background. 
"The cabin of a small yacht is truly a wonderful thing" said Herreshoff, and its true. Everything you need to live for weeks at
a time can be fit into 42’. In fact, we did the math when we stopped in Shearwater that
night and found we had traveled 357 miles from Anacortes in 4 days.
We’re very tired, ladies and gentlemen. From Shearwater, we
measured 258 miles to go to Ketchikan. Since then, we pulled what navigators
term an “overnighter”—20 hours of sailing, much in the dark. At one point,
Alyssa slouched on the cushions in the cockpit, fast asleep in full gear with her
hood pulled over her eyes just so she’d be ready if need came. And need did
come, for the Captain and First Mate and Sissy each took their turns in the
dark and into that morning.
Sometimes the ocean’s orders dictate the captain’s, and it
takes just about everyone on board to fulfill them. When we reached our hoped for anchor bay--one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen--we dropped our anchor, and so dropped our hopes. The anchor chain just rattled in its place as the anchor scraped along the rocky ocean floor uselessly. It was hopeless to anchor. We were in the middle of one of the most remote channels in all British Columbia (Teolmie Channel) and darkness was falling too quickly to find another anchorage before dark.
This left us only one choice--continue onward. And so we did, all through the night, reaching Prince Rupert at noon the next day. Prince Rupert has had its quirks and difficulties too--but I'll save that for later. For now, I'm lying in this bunk docked in Cow Bay Marina, with everyone charting our next course out in the salon.
What’s next? We’re not quite sure yet. But you’ll be
(almost) the first to know.
Skipper Krystal
Watch some beautiful scenery here: You Tube Channel: Sailing the Northern Star. Videos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mucaUvlAZ7A & https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjg_90eMruk
No comments:
Post a Comment