Waddington Bay, 5-JULY-2025 – It’s been a month or so since I’ve written. I haven’t had much to write and had tons to write. The tons to write are all the places we’ve been and spent time, all the people we’ve met. The nothing to write is that it is very much the same as it has been in all the years we’ve been doing this: nothing is very different; we’re returning to places we’ve been and most of the new places are pretty much like the old places. We’re not traveling great distances, the rhythm is different but the same, just shorter.
Jennifer has taken control of the destinations, as she does and we’ve fallen into ‘‘getting there before everyone else does.’’ This is different. We haven’t been anyplace that getting there later would have made much of a difference.
This is odd. We’ve been preparing for the onslaught of people, Canadians and Americans arriving in droves with their kids and toys and huge raft ups and loud music. We haven’t seen them. Perhaps they’ll arrive soon, but school has been out for almost two weeks and no people… no large groups of people. That is not to say that we’re alone. We’ve only anchored twice in an empty anchorage, but it hasn’t been crowded. We’ll wait and see.
Jennifer has been taking us to docks often, something she announced we would do before we started the trip. That’s been fine… she has the money she tells me.†
We’ve been meeting people on the dock and at anchor. Canadians and Americans in equal numbers, though we seem to bind better with the Canadians. This may be a matter of a few different things: Most of the sailors are Canadians. The Canadian sailors have boats more our size (less than 40 ft) and, well, we don’t come across as much like Americans – growing up in Toronto may do it for me, and Jennifer’s mother may do it for her.
It’s been a pleasant trip once Jennifer became accustomed to staying in one place for at least two nights whenever we drop an anchor. Jennifer’s taken to talking to every boat on the dock, asking questions about where they are from and their recommendations about where to stay in the Broughtons. [We were in Destination Sound, but the Broughtons are unusual to us.] The Broughtons are very small; the entire area is less than thirty miles in diameter. (Less than one day’s travel on the way to Alaska.)
But enough of that. I’ll cover it in another post, or perhaps never at all.
In Lagoon Cove, we were at a dock for two nights. Lagoon Cove is just a dock owned by a very nice couple. They provide a dock, fuel, and water. Nothing else except a set time ‘‘appy hour’’ or dinner, depending on how much you eat. They provide shrimp, the boaters at the dock provide the food – it is very definitely BYOB.
When it is raining, there are chairs set up along the perimeter of the room. Like other things Jennifer and I have been to, people who know each other sit together to the exclusion of those who do not. The first night, we sat next to Garrett. We spoke about boats and his personal history, family history, and boating experience. Garrett had long hair to the middle of his back, a hat, T-shirt, and looked at first glance to be in his thirties. After a few minutes, we realized he was in his fifties. Jennifer kept up the conversation with me, speaking occasionally, as has become our habit. It was a good time with Garrett, but a bit of a bust for the evening.
I was quite beat when we went to sleep and slept fairly well, but felt different in the morning, the difference I felt when I was healing after the stroke in Blue Fox Bay on Afognak Island in June 2023. It just felt different when I woke up: I found I could keep up a conversation and initiate one.
I’m not sure when I initially noticed it, but I put it into place at that evening’s potluck. I met Kevin and Dana at the dock. They are on a Catalina 38 and were quite easy to speak with, very down to earth. When the dinner was setting up, they sat at a four-top: I asked if we could join them – you can’t say no, so I knew I had them. I just started speaking to them, well, asking questions. Jennifer joined us, and we were off. Jennifer spoke to the people at other tables, and some of those people came ’round to ours, but we continued to speak. Kevin spoke about First Nations people’s archeology and logging. Dana filled in blanks. We spoke about food, and Jennifer asked about the places they liked. She also spread the conversation to other tables, so it was a great time. And I was part of it. It’s taken a long time.
I still lose words, but my head is becoming filled with thoughts and music, like it once was, instead of the empty silence it has often been for the past two years. My great and wonderful friend John Riley told me that people heal from strokes for five years. After that, you have whatever you will get. I’m two years in, and I’m still healing!
People’s names escape me, and so do words. In a conversation with Kevin, I could not think of the word ‘‘winch,’’ a word I have often had trouble with from long before the stroke… I had lost the mnemonic from Arthur J Knapp’s book, Race Your Boat Right, ‘‘winches, like wenches, come in many sizes and shapes.’’ I don’t know if it is sexist, switch the gender and see if it is offensive, but it is the best way I could remember the word.
Floating around in my mind are many, many untethered thoughts. They have been for the last two years, but not more than one at a time, when they did float. Things I hadn’t thought of in decades. They continue now, but in parallel, many at the same time bumping up against one another, which I suppose gives me topics to talk about.
Another week and we start back. We need to be out of the country on the first and in Friday Harbor on the fourth: Three of five months gone, but the months will coalesce for me.
* Well, I keep up a conversation and can initiate one.
† In the money split, I pay for fuel, provisions, and maintenance. Jennifer pays for anchorage and entertainment.
