Port Townsend, 2-SEP-2024 – There was heavy dew on the windows and a grey sky. I opened the companionway door to a whiteout: Cotton Candy.
I could hear women’s voices speaking, ‘‘I keep hitting the front stop and that’s never happened,’’ the voice said. I turned and looked at the water level and could see sixty yards to an eight-person rowing shell sitting, the crew talking amongst themselves. Looking toward town, there was no town, I could just make out the ferry terminal, the large boat nearest me, and the Hawaiian Chieftain at her dock. A sailboat outboard of us had her mast top anchor light lit without a boat below. The two sailboats with no anchor lights were a mystery. The fog horn of the ferry said she was in the bay on her way to the dock. After a few moments, I could see her at a right angle to me.
Yesterday morning we motored from Spencer Spit following the cascading currents as they changed to ebb. We traveled fast enough to arrive at the next current before it turned; We’d then do three knots until we were on to the following current. We’ll need to be more optimistic next time.
A month earlier, when we’d rounded Cape Caution things, began to change. Where there had been almost no sailboats, here there were many sailboats,1:1 really and they were crewed and owned, oftentimes, by young people (under fifty-five and sometimes as young as their thirties). The weather became milder and we stopped wearing foulies for warmth. There were no empty anchorages and once we got into Washington State, we started grabbing mooring balls.*
In Canada, where we anchor tends to be frequented by Canadians. I’m not sure why, though, perhaps because it would be difficult to fit the larger boats that Americans are so fond of. We like the Canadians and hope they like us. When they speak in a group they use conversation markers (eh and rising intonations) that I don’t have. I don’t want those markers in my speech. I worked hard to get rid of them, but it marks me as non-Canadian.
In BC, on the way south, we passed Conover Cove, a place I wanted to return to. Looking in, we saw that the exact spot we were looking for was available. It was perhaps 40-feet long on the inside of the L-shaped dock. Jennifer came in, spun us to the left, and put us at the dock. I was so surprised at the speed and agility she did this with that I forgot to let go of the line I was passing to someone on the deck. (I don’t normally let people help anyway.)
The first night, there were four boats on the dock and two anchored out. The regulars couldn’t explain why it was so empty but we were pleased.
Earlier that day, Jennifer and I walked down a path to Princess Cove on the same island. There were more than 18 vessels, all American, all more than forty feet. Deep draft boats can’t come and go from Conover at certain tide levels and can’t anchor where they want, so that is part of why they were here and not in Conover. The day we left we found a guidebook warning that sailboats can not anchor in Conover, which is another part. There were three sailboats at the dock the second night all drawing five feet. We’re pleased with the ersatz warning.
We stayed on Newcastle Island in Nanaimo for three nights and met a bunch of people I’d like to stay in touch with. Most were my age and some seemed much younger – turns out they’re closer to sixty than forty, but younger.
In Nanaimo, Jennifer spoke to every boat on the dock. She walks over, speaks to the people onboard, asks questions and they begin to talk. We met a group of four people sailing together on two boats from Shilshole in Seattle. Sharon and Jim on a 36-foot Hunter, and Erik and Karen on a Catalina 34.
We six went to dinner at the Dinghy Dock Restaurant on Protection Island. It was good conversation with Jennifer asking biographical questions about the four of them and getting them to talk. At this age, we’ve all been married and divorced and half of the group have kids.
Jim and Sharon had never taken their boat on a trip this long, which surprised us. They routinely fly to faraway places and bareboat charter. The boat is not badly equipped, though no AIS on their nor Karen and Eric’s vessel, which shocked Jennifer and me.
Karen and Eric have sailed back and forth to the Bahamas from Florida and have re-powered their current vessel by themselves, but it is lacking radar in addition to AIS. They don’t like fog, no wonder, they can’t see anything. They’ve sailed to BC before, but like us when we started, are in awe of going to Alaska. They are pretty good sailors and learning about their boat, which they live on.
Days later, when we picked up a mooring ball on Blind Island, I noticed the boat on the next ball belonged to Eric and Karen. They had gone ashore to explore and to meet the larger group of friends they had been traveling with. We’re close enough to Seattle that many of the islands have ferry service and housing developments.
We had Eric and Karen over for dinner; they brought a bottle of wine. I made a salad for dinner of finely shredded cabbage, green peppers, onions, two jars of ground beef I’d canned and a dressing of cooking oil, sesame oil, and vinegar. Karen described cooking with freeze-dried ingredients, something Jennifer and I had never considered. How much does that cost?
The next night, Erik and Karen anchored on the protected side of Spencer Spit. There wasn’t much to be protected from that night, but their side was mirror calm.
Jennifer and I are here in Port Townsend. Jennifer starts volunteering for the boat show Wednesday, September 4th. While she’s gone, I’ll start maintenance on Caro Babbo. The weather through Sunday looks very good for anchoring where we are. We’ll figure out where we’ll go if it changes. We have friends arriving on their way back to Australia, a friend from Hawaii, and perhaps some others. Then we’re off sailing around the sound, and down to Gig Harbor to do some electrical work.
I want to write about the people we met and a blog that contains the two-minute morning videos I made for a WhatsApp group.
There are always such mixed emotions about being home.
* Jennifer likes mooring balls because she sleeps better on them knowing someone else is responsible for us not dragging.
