Pacific Northwest Sailing Adventure

Part 1 – Preparation and Departure
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“This weather sucks!” Jeff observed, revealing his highbrow learning and linguistic sophistication.

“Well, what did you expect in Seattle in mid October?” I asked, knowing the inevitable answer.

“Rain, rain, rain and rain – with a little cold rain thrown in for variety.”

The location and timing of our little college reunion could only have been selected by the Three Stooges – or Jeff, Jon and Tom as we are more commonly known (the names in this story have not been disguised because these yo yos are definitely guilty of everything outlined herein).

Twenty six years ago, the three of us arrived at a certain East Coast institution of higher learning ready to take on the world. Now, 22, 21 and 20 years after graduating (took some of us a little longer than normal), we had come together to assess our lives and renew old ties. A banker, a broker and the luckiest man in the world were ready for a four day sailing adventure.

But first, we had to deal with the weather.

While waiting for our float plane pilot to arrive and fly us from Seattle to Friday Harbor in the San Juans, Jeff and I had taken a quick tour of the Center for Wooden Boats. The centerpiece of the Center was a three masted ship that had seen much better days and probably shouldn’t see any more at all. Nonetheless, people worked away on it replacing every rotted plank (and they were all rotted) with a new one. Seems simpler to build a new ship but these sawdust covered old salts seemed to think otherwise.

We walked the docks for a bit, growing increasingly annoyed with the weather. Sunlight glinted off the water and made me wish for the sunglasses I had left at home. The building heat made me wish I had left my three layers of clothes at home as well.

“Clear blue skies and warm steady winds – this is just great,” Jeff sneered sarcastically.

Indeed, we had both hoped for cold, gusty rain so we would have something to complain about to our host and Seattle resident Jon. Now we had nothing. I supposed we would have to complain about not having anything to complain about. Or perhaps the lack of suntan lotion.

We returned to the float plane port (also known as a dock) and met our pilot. After weighing our bags (maximum weight 25 pounds – no exceptions), we wondered why the staff didn’t bother to weigh us. Jeff certainly seemed to have put on a few pounds since graduation and, as his former roommate, I had kept pace so as not to make him self conscious about it. Likewise, he had acquired a few gray hairs to make me more comfortable. With light bags and heavy guts, we climbed aboard the DeHavilland Beaver (a definite improvement over last week's Cessna 150 float plane) and took off.

On the way to Friday Harbor, we flew over one of Jon’s waterfront homes (did I mention he’s a bit lucky?) to get a glimpse of how the other half lives. We also noted just how rough Puget Sound gets and how squirrelly the currents seem. All kinds of standing waves, rip lines and upwellings awaited us down below. Good thing most of my sailing has been on the tide/current/whirlpool free Great Lakes!

Arriving over the San Juans, I became a bit concerned when the pilot flew all the way into the harbor without touching down. Ah well, I figured he would just lift up at the last minute, do a quick turn and set her down heading away from the docks. No such luck! We came in fast and hard and touched down approximately three and half feet from the dock. After hyperventilating myself into arrhythmia, I looked at the pilot’s cocky grin as he asked “What? You’ve never flown with a GOOD pilot before?” as he tied us up to the dock.

Hefting my 24.998 pound backpack, I headed towards shore and the fully provisioned Catalina 42 awaiting us. Unfortunately, my eyes kept tripping over the plethora of gorgeous pilothouse sailboats in the marina. Just when I thought they couldn’t get any better, I came upon a Fisher 37 Pilothouse Ketch – a boat I had drooled over for three months on the internet. Seeing the boat up close sealed the deal – I don’t want one anymore. I need one. Absolutely perfect for my early and late season lapses in judgment. Wide side decks protected by tall, solid bulwarks. A roomy and salty looking pilothouse. Room on deck for multiple kayaks. The Perfect Boat. Again.

Jeff dragged me away and asked if I thought Jon had finished the provisioning yet.

“Is the Pope Jewish? Is my dog smart? Am I stinking rich?” I asked.

“Yeah, I bet he hasn’t even started.”

We found the boat but no sign of our skipper. Jeff asked around but no one knew him until I properly phrased the question to an old salt hanging out near the charter office.

“Have you seen a guy who looks like the last person you would want to go to sea with?” I queried.

“Other than you two, you mean? Sure, I saw him head for the grocery store five minutes ago carrying some kind of long scroll.”

Jeff and I looked at each other and knew we’d found our companion and his grocery list.

Walking uphill through the thoroughly delightful town of Friday Harbor I noticed two characteristics of the inhabitants that were to prove constant throughout our trip. First, they were all friendly and happy looking. Second, they all had Grizzly Adams beards. Great masses of gray whiskers. I’m still not sure if they looked odder on the kids or the women.

Entering the grocery store, we found Jon, his still empty shopping cart and his befuddled expression.

“Yo Jonathan! Long time no see buddy!” I enthused in that grand old collegial fashion. “I thought we flew up so that we could shove off early. You said the boat would be stocked and ready to go.”

“Yeah, well, I’m almost started. See? I’m looking at tomatoes,” he replied, bringing back distant memories of missed planes and delayed trips. “At least I’ve got the menus all planned out.”

We spent the next hour (!) shopping for food and I noticed that we seemed to be loading up on quite a few Fundamental Foodstuffs rather than the microwaveable, ready to heat fare I am used to.

“Uh … guys, there must be some mistake. I’m scheduled to fly back in four days,” I reminded them as we pushed two overflowing carts towards the checkout. “There’s enough food here to last for weeks! And hardly any junk food either!”

“Nonsense!” Jon declared. “I have carefully planned this and we will return with full stomachs and an empty larder.”

The $379 bill made me wonder about that.

While Jon and Jeff headed for the boat, I went uptown to West Marine to pick up CO2 cylinders for my automatic inflatable PFD with integral harness (I knew who I was sailing with and I figured I should be tethered to the boat even while sleeping below)

The smiling, gregarious, bewhiskered woman behind the counter encouraged me to buy a small laminated chart of the “Ten Most Commonly Hit Rocks and Reefs of the San Juans.” Apparently we were supposed to make a game out of checking off our inevitable hits, groundings and punctures. I bought three.

I returned to the still empty boat and two overeducated geezers standing beside a minivan with provisions for an army.

“We’re trying to figure out how to get all of this aboard,” Jeff explained.

“How about carrying it?” I suggested.

“I knew we brought you along for a reason!” Jon exclaimed as he started handing me 400 pounds of food and 500 pounds of his personal gear.

“Yo! What about the 25 pound weight limit?” I asked. “You’re going to lower the waterline a good foot with all this junk.”

“You flew, I drove, I have everything I need. Things tend to work out that way for me,” Jon explained and we knew it was true.

Our planned noon departure was ready to go at about 4 PM. Given the tight conditions in the marina, I suggested that I take the boat out of the slip but Jon would not hear of it and he grabbed the wheel while I tended the lines. Jeff made sure that beer was chilling.

I must admit that I was impressed with Jon’s picture perfect departure and three point turn in the narrow slipway. Impressed indeed – right up until he said “How the hell did I do that????”

And so we were off. Three (no longer) young lads in search of adventure and derring-do on the high seas.

We found it right outside the harbor.

Part 2 – Wicked Waves and Wind
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After plotting a course to a distant harbor (about four nautical miles distant according to the GPS) we headed into the zephyrous wind in order to hang some canvas. All lines were led aft on this late model Catalina 42 so hoisting and trimming sail looked to be an easy task for brawny lads such as ourselves.

With Jon leaning lazily on the wheel, Jeff lounging nearby and me on the main winch, I prepared to show these boys how a real sailor sets his main. Leaving the winch handle aside, I heaved mightily on the line – expecting the mainsail to zip halfway up the mast. After listening to my shoulder tendons zip halfway open with no effect whatsoever on the sail position, I picked up the winch handle and prepared to hoist sail the middle aged way. Three wraps around the winch, one wrap through the self-tailer and one crank on the winch handle set the protocol for the charter as the winch slipped, the line tangled in two overrides and the sail refused to budge.

Interesting.

I checked the mainsheet and the reef lines to make sure they were free and tried again. Still slipping. I wrapped the line more tightly. Still slipping. I tried a jib sheet winch. Still no purchase. Finally, Jeff roused himself and headed for the mast where, inch by inch, he gave me some slack on the halyard so I could winch it in. We were certainly going to have to figure out that problem but the sail was up and that was good enough for now.

“Ok, we’re starting to heel. Let out the main” Jon ordered, taking definite pleasure in his skipperly role. “C’mon! Let it out, let it out!”

I had the rope clutch open, the mainsheet free and loose and plenty of wind in the sail but the sheet just sat there, refusing to go out. I grabbed the boom and tried to shove it over but the mainsheet still stuck. I finally got some leverage with my legs and heaved the boom over – taking a bit of mainsheet through the clutch. I examined the rope clutch closely and noticed that the mainsheet was an eighth of an inch too large for the clutch. Hmmm, that can’t be good.

“Unfurl the jib!” the captain ordered.

I uncleated the furling line and faked it out so it would run free. I took a wrap on the massive jib sheet winch and pulled with all my might – expecting to see the jib unfurl all at once as it always has on my boats.

It unfurled about a foot.

“Get a winch handle in there and crank it!” Jon suggested.

“I don’t know Jon,” I said. “When it binds up there is usually a problem and just trying to overpower it is not a good idea.”

“I’m getting weather helm here! Just do it!!!!”

I looked out at the calm seas, felt a slight breeze on my cheek and noted that we were heeling over between two and three degrees.

“Weather helm?” I wondered aloud.

“Get it out, get it out, get it out!”

“Ok, it’s your security deposit,” I said as I grabbed the winch handle from the main winch and wrenched my arm trying to get it out of the winch.

Several long, frustrating minutes later I finally worried it out of the main winch and put it in the jib sheet winch. I gave three full, hard revolutions before the jib suddenly unfurled with a mighty TWANG! Not a happy sound but as far as I could tell, the mast was still standing and most of the rigging was in place so it couldn’t have been too bad.

I started sorting out the running rigging to identify the problem with the main and jib sheets when Jon yelped “Wind shift!!!! Get ready to reef! Hold on tight!”

I instinctively grabbed a winch with both hands and spun around to see the imminent danger. The wind died and the sails hung limp.

“What the heck Jon? The wind just died as we came into the shadow of the hill over there. Ok, now it’s coming back.”

“Reef, reef, reef! If you think about reefing, it’s already too late!” he keened.

“Jon, the wind is blowing about 7 knots.”

“No time like the present to take precautions. Get the sail down!”

Jeff opened one eye and said, “Captain, sir, you are disturbing my nap. Now shut up!”

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Jon worried. “There’s a ferry coming at us! We’re going to crash! Hang on!”

I spun around again but could only see one ferry and it was at least 1000 yards away.

“Jon, are you a bit of a nervous sailor?” I asked gently.

“Of course not. I just …wait! OMIGOD! Full wind shift! The jib’s backwinding! Tack, tack, tack, tack, TACK!”

The jib swung limply from port to starboard tack several times. Never filling completely, never drawing properly.

“We’re between two big hills. It’s gonna be squirrelly for a few minutes,” I pointed out.

“Strike the sails!”

“Oh c’mon….”

“Get them down NOW!”

“Ok,” I agreed and went forward to bring everything in.

Of course as soon as I had the mainsail flaked and tied, the order came to set sail again. I grabbed the main halyard where it came out of the mast and gave a mighty heave and a minor ho. The sound of sail zipping up the track to the halfway point was quite satisfying. I held the halyard with my foot and grabbed higher for another heave and ho and lo and behold, the sail was up! This was much better than dealing with a slippery winch – up to a point. I had the sail all the way up and the halyard all over the deck at my feet. As the normal method is to raise the sail from the cockpit on a self-tailing winch, there was neither a mast winch nor a halyard cleat at hand.

“Uh…Jeff…if you wouldn’t mind, could you take up the 42 feet of slack in the halyard? Getting a little stressful holding it here.”

Jeff opened an eye, looked around and said, “Ah, you’re doing fine. Besides I think Jon is about to fall off.”

It was my turn to scream now, “No, no no!!!! Don’t fall off! I’m still holding…ahhhhhhhh FIDDLESTICKS!”

I think the imprint of my fingers remains on the mast to this day where the main halyard, under full load, reduced my digits to spaghetti diameter. After teaching the boys a few salty phrases, we headed up and I retrieved what was left of my fingers while Jeff took up the slack and closed the rope clutch on the halyard.

“Ohhhh noooooooo, here we go again,” Jon warned as we heeled over four degrees.

“FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! SAIL THE BOAT!” I intoned softly, realizing this trip was gong to be a bit different than sailing with the infamous microtrimmer Bruce “Bury the Rail” Whitmore, a friend of mine who actually knows how to sail.

I finally decided that everything would be a bit easier if I took the helm. Jon relinquished the wheel and went into tour guide mode.

“There’s one of Bill’s houses on that island. He was telling me about it yesterday while we played tennis.”

Jeff and I looked at each other and asked, in unison, “Bill who?” knowing full well the answer.

“Why Bill Gates of course,” Jon smugly announced.

“Who’s he?” the tandem team of Jeff and Tom asked, thus taking all the wind out of poor Jonathan’s sails.

Jon tacked conversationally into more mundane matters better suited to his peasant crewmates. “See that ferry? It’s specially designed to go forwards or backwards with no difference AND the hull shape is so finely engineered that it leaves no wake whatsoever.”

“Wow,” I replied flatly.

“No, seriously, this is important. You see, those boats run all night and they would really disturb the anchorages if they left a wake and…WHAT THE HELL????”

Suddenly, pots, pans, food, clothes and everything else flew around the cabin. Jeff rolled off the seat (but didn’t wake up) and Jon knocked his head on the bimini.

“What the hell was THAT? Can’t you steer? Were we knocked down all the way?”

“No,” I explained, “that’s what we call a ‘ferry wake.’”

“Oh, well, uh, you see, um – that must have been a different kind of ferry. Yeah,” Jon reasoned, unreasonably.

Having been at sea now for nearly two hours, we decided to anchor for the night and recover from our exertions. After an ‘interesting’ navigational insight on my part (hey, all those islands look the same!) we found our inappropriately named anchorage, Shoal Bay.

Jon took the wheel again and I went forward to lay out the chain and rode. As I started to bring the chain back towards the cockpit, Jeff and Jon looked at each other in a funny way and asked why the hell I was doing that. I patiently explained that faking out the rode and chain served the dual purpose of measuring the line and making sure there were no kinks or knots.

“Well, don’t you think that chain is going to nick up the deck as it goes clattering overboard?” Jon asked. “Why not just let it out of the anchor well until the anchor touches bottom?”

“Oh fine, I’ll do it your way,” I huffed, covering up my newly recovered memory of never having laid chain on my deck before. Must have been just the rode – or something like that. I headed back to the bow and unpinned the anchor.

“Ok Jon, bring us in close here. Let’s get some protection from these hills.”

“No, that’ll be too close and will get too shallow. Let’s drop anchor here.”

“We’re in the middle of the bay! There’s almost no protection here at all and the water’s plenty deep.” I whined.

Jeff spoke up, contributing his nautical expertise. “Are you two bittys done dicking around? Put the anchor over or I’m not starting dinner.”

That was enough for me. I gently lowered the anchor about a mile until it touched bottom. Then I dumped all the chain overboard.

“What’re you doing???” Jon hollered, “All that chain is going to end up in one place – on top of the anchor!”

“Uh, yeah. Well that’s how we do it back home,” I replied rather pathetically, realizing just how long it had been since I’d been out cruising.

We finished setting the anchor, memorizing our reference points and putting the boat to bed while Jeff cooked up a feast. Following a game of Scrabble (during which Jon made up all kinds of weird two letter words that just happened to be in the Official Scrabble Low Life Cheater’s Dictionary), we hit the sack. Massive wakes from the wakeless ferries rocked us violently to sleep.

Part 3 – The Cruising Life
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It’s a pleasant, if somewhat unusual for me, feeling of waking up and finding your boat exactly where you left it the night before. From my snug berth in the forward cabin, I looked through the porthole and saw trees. Last night we had anchored in a bay surrounded by trees. Close enough for me.

I slowly rolled over to get out of bed and get this cruise truly underway when I heard ominous sounds. Creeeeeeeak. Creeeeeeeeeeak. Creeeeeeeak. SNAP! Crackle, pop.

Damned tendonitis.

I tried to massage my sore right elbow but couldn’t reach it with my locked up left arm. My right shoulder felt fine but only in comparison to the screaming pain emanating from my left shoulder. My neck had swollen, I had no feeling in my toes, my knees cracked all by themselves and my hip throbbed in agony. All in all, a pretty good morning for me.

I crawled into the salon to find my shipmates…missing. The engine rumbled away but I felt no motion and heard no human sounds. Strange. Perhaps my companions had gone ashore but why leave the engine running? Then it stopped and I heard some rustling in the aft port cabin.

“Was I snoring?” Jeff asked from behind the closed door.

“Ah wa ugh wo goo bah nee,” Jon explained from the aft starboard cabin.

Realizing I would be on my own for awhile, and sensitive to my mates’ need for beauty sleep, I turned on the VHF weather band and cranked it up as loud as it would go.

“Gale force winds expected throughout the day, building to really frightening stuff in the San Juan straight. Winds will be from the west at 25 knots near Destruction Island. Desolation Sound will see building winds from the North at 35 – 40 knots. Freezing temperatures expected. Desperate Straits is under a small craft warning with winds from the south at 25-30 and waves reaching 18-22 feet. Whirlpools, williwaws and typhoons may be expected at any time in Spilled Milk Pass. All vessels should stay tied up until Spring.”

I popped my head through the companionway and was blinded by bright sunshine streaming through crystal clear skies and reflecting off the mirror calm waters of Shoal Bay. Rubbing my eyes, I retreated below as Jeff stumbled out of his cabin.

“Mornin’,” he grumbled, “where’s the coffee?”

I took my hands away from my eyes and screamed, “For crying out loud! Put some clothes on!”

“We’re all boys here,” he replied, scratching his ass. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Not like that you aren’t!”

“I’ll put an apron on.”

“And I’ll end up in psychotherapy for years. Cover thyself.”

As Jeff retreated to his cave, Jon crawled out and asked where the coffee was. I found an old stovetop percolator and tossed it to him. He looked at it in obvious distress because it didn’t look at all like a full cup of brew with a Starbucks logo on it.

“Your problem,” I announced. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“Je-e-e-ef-f-f-ff,” he whined. “Tom’s not making coffee. I’m going back to bed.”

“Fine with me,” Jeff replied. “I’m using the head next to your bed for the next 20 minutes.”

“I’m up,” Jon wisely decided.

“What’s for breakfast? A quick bagel?” I suggested, hoping to get under way early.

“Yeah, a bagel’s good,” Jeff agreed. “Then we’ll have some bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, coffee, juice, fruit and cookies.”

“Very funny,” I laughed. “No one eats like that anymore.”

I wasn’t laughing an hour later as I washed 47 dishes and pots.

Leaning back on the settee and sucking their guts in just far enough to keep their belts from bursting, Jeff and Jon appeared ready for a couple hours of nap time.

“Hey Tom, looks like you’re a little stiff this morning. What’s the matter, getting a little old?” Jeff joked

“Can’t handle the old morning routine, ya geezer?” Jon joined in.

I dumped out the rest of the coffee in retaliation which set off a flurry of protests.

“Hey, I needed that!” the clowns chimed in unison. “I need to take my pills!”

They looked at each other and then grabbed their shaving kits to compare pharmacies. Each had rather large pill boxes compartmentalized to keep the days of the week and times of day from confusing the invalids. Between the two of them there were pills for high blood pressure, high cholesterol, “glandular disorders”, lactosis, migraines, hives, giggles, grins and even fibromyalgia. They gleefully stuffed their faces with this pharmacological dessert and started discussing prescription drug plans.

I grinned from ear to ear and announced, “I may have a few tender joints – which may have been hurt by doing ALL THE HEAVY LIFTING yesterday but at least I don’t have to take PILLS yet!”

“Yeah, right” a nameless one retorted, “but you have to take Viagra … at least when the time is right.”

“No.”

“Oh! Well, um, gee, uh, neither do I . No, not me. Hey! These must be yours,” he said, tossing a bottle over the table to the other geezer.

“No, mine are right here…I mean NO I don’t need those.”

“Why did you bring them on this cruise anyway?” I wondered, backing away and looking for blunt instruments.

“Don’t worry Tommy. It’s not for you this time. It’s just me and my sweetie,” Jeff cooed, wrapping his arm around a worried looking Jon.

I whistled my way through the rest of the dishes feeling more fit and healthy than I have in years. 

Following my domestic duties I went on deck to sort out the rigging problems of the previous day. Sure enough, the mainsheet was too big for the rope clutch. An eighth inch smaller would have made a big difference although it did seem to have shrunk somewhat since we had first used it. I don’t know if double braid can swell up or if someone accidentally dropped some pills on it the previous day but it seemed to fit better now. Nothing I could about that in any case.

The teeth on the winch handle were stripped, so I replaced it with a spare and then found out why they were stripped. The winch itself was partially stripped inside and the outside was too slick to firmly hold line anyway. Major rebuild required there so I left it alone.

The boom vang line was tangled into the reefing line and the traveler was jammed on its own line. The jibs sheets were led back incorrectly. There was six inches of give in the jib halyard. There were three lines on the boom leading nowhere and the second reef line was tied to the topping lift.

The flag halyard was fine.

All in all, everything was jammed, twisted, mis-sized and seized. Aren’t charter boats great? I untangled everything as best I could and checked to see that it would all run free.

I prepared to haul in the anchor when I saw the real problem preventing our timely departure. Jeff and Jon had brewed a fresh pot of coffee and were just now settling down in the cockpit for a long gam.

“Cabin boy, “Jeff shouted, “There’s another pot for you to clean below. Chop, chop. Hurry up. Time and tide wait for no man.”

Yeah, but they do for two I realized as I headed for the cockpit.

Part 4- Under Sail
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Ah! The tranquility of life under sail. Sails drawing, Venturi effect in full gear – there’s no greater feeling for a sailor. It’s a feeling we would have to wait a bit for.

After weighing anchor using the thoroughly unfamiliar electric windlass, we picked up various severed digits and tried to match them to our mangled hands. I’m still a little concerned that I have Jeff’s fingerprints and may be implicated in various crimes he undoubtedly committed in the past.

Heading out of the bay, Jeff spotted some crab trap floats and wondered aloud if it would be ok to simply pick up a few stray crustaceans from the traps. Spotting a commercial crab boat a mile distant checking their pots, I deduced that not only were the crusties NOT stray but also that it would not be a good idea to steal product in front of the producers. Especially when they are armed with very sharp knives.

Fighting through the wake of yet another wake-free ferry we reached relatively open water under power. Jon asked for the marine forecast and I recited it faithfully as “strong winds from all points of the compass, cold temperatures and rough waters”.

“Reef! Reef while we can!”

“Put a sock in it Jon,” I advised. “The sky is clear, the sea is calm, the winds are nonexistent, the temperature is in the 70s and, most importantly, we have no sail up to reef.”

Indeed, it was a beautiful day for a power boater. At least the scenery was inviting. We were passing between several large islands near our original departure point of Friday Harbor. People might tell you that navigation in these parts is easy because it is “line of sight” but it’s actually quite difficult. One island looks so much like another that you have to keep very close track of your position. The problem is further complicated by two distinct islands lining up to look like a headland or a headland being situated to look like two islands. Even worse, the depths are highly variable. You can sail from 500 feet to nothing but awash rocks in an instant with no warning so it’s best to keep your islands straight. Thank goodness for Mr. GPS.

Most of the islands sported houses ranging from Grizzly Adam cabins to Microsoft mansions. Most of the houses were waterfront but there wasn’t much point to it except for the view. Generally, the islands dropped sheer into the water with nary a toehold of a beach. Sea level to 100 fathoms by stepping off your porch.

The docks that do exist must have cost a fortune to put in as they involved not only deep pilings but also long, steep steps hacked into the hillsides. Quite inconvenient but picturesque. I doubt the residents cared much about the cost of their docks as it certainly cost several fortunes to build the houses in such remote locations.

Thick pine forests covered most islands and helped shield us from any stray breezes that might sneak past the rocks. We motored. Our destination was a state park about 12 nautical miles from Shoal Bay. We weren’t going to set any distance records on this trip but we at least hoped to get some sailing in.

After an hour of putting along, we reached reasonably open water with a nice breeze coming through. “Reasonably open” in the San Juans is equivalent to “filthy with islands” in Lake Michigan but at least I could tell the islands apart and we had wind.

Setting the sails was much easier now that I had straightened out some of the rigging. We heeled, Jon screamed, I gave him a beer and off we sailed on a lovely reach. Those 15 minutes under full sail making six knots is what brings all of us back to our boats time and again.

After the obligatory fifteen minutes I discovered that the GPS actually can display negative numbers for Velocity Made Good. Interesting. Sure enough, the two islands we’d been sailing between were accelerating away from us. The water was roughing up a bit as well. Heck, standing waves began to form! Drat. I hate tides.

I suggested we strike sail and motor through the narrow shoaly passage in front of us especially since the wind had become directionless and weak. My two mates preferred to use the sail to overpower the tide and to heck with the rocks! Fortunately, I know how to drop sail all by myself so disaster was averted.

We powered forward for an hour and made good three yards towards our destination.

Eventually the tidal current weakened and we headed for our next snug harbor. Jon wanted to put up the sails for the last quarter mile but I convinced him it was against park regulations. We motored towards the mooring field as trepidation crept towards me.

How do you pick up a mooring? I know that my true sailing buddies had explained the whole process just a week earlier but I had absolutely no recollection of the details. The balls were just sitting there with rings on top and no pendants so there really wasn’t anything to “pick up”. No, I guess I would have to tie a knot onto the ring. Hmmm, that could be challenging. I tie bowlines with the best of them but I have a particular problem with tying a bowline AROUND something instead of in a freestanding loop. I can do it with a little concentration but lying on the deck and reaching down to the ball was not going to help my focus. I decided to innovate (always dangerous!) instead and invent a special mooring ball knot. I designed it so it would hold in a hurricane but release under a slight tug.

“How do you want to do this?” Jeff asked with boat hook at the ready.

“Well, I figure a slippery knot with a double half hitch tied into a quick release hook knot should do the trick.”

“I meant which side do you want the ball on as we approach?” he asked, adding immeasurably to the complexity of the task at hand.

“Er…starboard I guess so we’ll have right of way,” I answered sagely.

“Yeah, with all these boats – let me count – um…one – around we should be concerned with mooring ball right of way?”

“Just joking old buddy,” I answered, doing nothing of the kind. “We’ll take it on starboard.”

“Ok, so you’ll cleat off the line on the starboard bow cleat and then lead it through the ring and over to the port cleat?”

“YES!” I exuded a bit too enthusiastically. “That’s EXACTLY what I had in mind! Lead it through the ring and over to the other cleat. Yup, yup, yup – you betcha.”

“And what about that strange knot?”

“I think you’ve been in the sun too long. You’re delusional. I never said anything about a knot, especially not a hook knot.”

We moored up without a hitch (or a half hitch for that matter) and put the boat in good order.

Jeff desperately wanted to go crabbing and there was a crab pot aboard so he made a liberal interpretation of fisheries laws and deduced that the presence of the pot, the absence of a No Crabbing sticker on the mooring ball, his hunger and the lack of any game wardens in the vicinity could lead only to a stunning set of conclusions: crabs were in season, we were not in a protected area, licenses are unnecessary and if you eat what you catch then no one will be the wiser. The crab pot went overboard with raw chicken dangling inside.

While the nautical rodents made their appointment with the Grim Reaper, we prepared to go ashore for a little hike. Jon pulled up the RIB dinghy with the little outboard and bailed out copious amounts of oily water. Apparently the gas can had leaked along with the floor of the dinghy. I sprayed some dishwashing detergent on the slick (or at least I intended to – not sure if it actually happened) to break it up and we prepared to disembark.

Jon had simply stepped into the dinghy, athletic old geezer that he is. Jeff somewhat less nimbly but nonetheless sure footedly stepped aboard. I stumbled, slithered, fell and launched myself aboard. Rather gracefully I thought.

With a good ¾ inches of freeboard, we motored to the dock where we were met by an enthusiastic Irish Setter. So enthusiastic, in fact, that my crawl out of the RIB nearly ended in disaster. An even more enthusiastic and thoroughly wet Golden Retriever then bounded up to slobber hello all over me. His owner, the skipper of a rather handsome mini trawler tied to the dock, harshly called over Goldie and apologized.

After helping Jon and Jeff out of the boat (help they claimed verged on hindrance), I sauntered down the dock to admire Goldie’s boat. She was thoroughly sudsed up on the aft deck where the skipper was cursing her roundly.

“She just refuses to stay out of the saltwater! Every time she comes aboard I have to wash her down or she’ll stink up the whole boat. There! She’s clean at last. I’m locking her inside for the rest of the day. Get inside Goldie!”

Goldie obediently, but forlornly headed for the cabin.

Being a big fan of Other People’s Dogs, I leaned over the deck and said, “C’mere Goldie let me give you a…..”

“No!!!!!!!” screamed skippy as Goldie bounded towards me, turned away at the last second and swan dove clean over the transom and into the bay.

“Gotta go hiking! Good luck with the dog!” I shouted while dodging the boat hook swinging in my direction.

And hike we did. Up hills, down hills, around hills. Without food or water, we survived nearly 30 minutes ashore in the hostile environment of a state park with cleared trails. As we safely returned to our starting point, Jon hilariously suggested that we hike yet another grueling circuit. Not surprisingly, in our weakened condition we got lost about 20 yards from the dock. Had it not been for my knowledge that moss grows on ALL sides of the trees in the Pacific NorthWest, we might still be lost today.

Upon returning to the dock, I stumbled into the dingy, rather gracefully again I thought and we returned to the Mother Ship. Surprisingly, it was right where we left it which gave me great comfort for I have never actually left a boat anywhere other than a dock. This opened up all sorts of new cruising possibilities such as meals ashore and sightseeing tours. I’ll have to try getting off the boat on my next weeklong cruise and see how it feels.

Jeff nearly sent me swimming in his rush to step on my head and run forward to check his precious crab pot. Sure enough, four keeper sized crabs snarled and snapped at him. I know they were keeper sized because he kept them. Jeff impressed us (and puzzled us) with his knowledge of crab anatomy as he pointed out that three of the beasts were females.

“I don’t think you are allowed to keep females,” Jon informed him.

“I can’t tell the difference,” Jeff admitted belatedly and more than a bit disingenuously.

Jon, who happily snarfs down sushi, became a bit squeamish at the idea of steaming the critters alive and then sucking their guts out. Hmmmm, doesn’t sound so tasty to me either when I put it that way. Jeff had no such reservations and immediately potted the doomed shell dwellers.

Twenty minutes later, after making a wild guess as to proper cooking time, Jeff cracked open the first crab and discovered that it was either a female or a really, really caring and sensitive male as it was full of eggs. He scooped some of the eggs onto a cracker and wolfed it down so as to destroy the evidence of his misdeed.

Smacking his lips in delight he then dissected the crab and explained that there was one organ – the liver he thought – that was highly poisonous and that it should not, under any circumstances be eaten. I figured the green stuff oozing all over was bound to be toxic but Jeff scooped it up and declared it delicious. He then ate through the belly of the crab in search of the mysterious liver. I stuck to the claws.

When we had finished the crab meat and totally grossed out poor Jon, I pointed out that the shells were empty.

“What happened to the livers?” I asked.

“Ah, this species apparently doesn’t have livers,” Jeff burped in reply.

I got a little green myself after that.

Following another game of Cheater’s Scrabble, we turned our attention to intellectual matters. Forty five seconds later found us talking about women instead.

“Do you remember CENSORED? She CENSORED with CENSORED that one day after we all CENSORED!”

“No way! That can’t be because I remember very clearly that I CENSORED her earlier that day!”

“You SOB! You know that I had waited all year to CENSORED her! How could you?”

A pathetic wrestling match ensued with crab shells and Scrabble tiles flying all over the cabin as testosterone raged. Twenty five years of frustrations boiled to the surface and polluted our formerly congenial atmosphere until we all lay spent on the sole.

“We are disgusting!” I informed them. “How can we fight over something so stupid after so many years?”

“It’s the nature of our college environment.” Jeff opined. “All those raging hormones wasted at college.”

“Yeah,” Jon concurred, “A true waste. Why don’t you roll back and uncensor those comments so we can get it all in the open for the world to read.”

Reluctantly, I comply:

“Do you remember Suzie? She studied at the library with me and Tom that one day after we all took the physics exam!”

“No way! That can’t be because I remember very clearly that I offered to explain Newtonian mechanics to her earlier that day!”

“You SOB! You know that I had waited all year to tutor her! How could you?”

A waste of hormones indeed. Our college never even made it on to the ballot for biggest party school.

We moved the conversation into the safer territory of financial management. Given that all of us had attended the same university and studied the same subjects, you might expect similar outcomes later in life. We compared notes.

Jon: “I’m lucky, so now I’m rich.”

Jeff: “I’m methodical so I am permanently middle class.”

Tom: “I buy too many boats so I am perpetually poor.”

We could have saved a lot on tuition if we had figured that out years ago.

Of course, money isn’t everything. It’s the final outcome that matters so we compared notes again.

Jon: “I’m going to get bored and have a torrid affair with the tennis pro who, unbeknownst to me, is a post-op transsexual. My wife will castrate me poorly when she finds out and I will bleed to death.”

Jeff: “In a single fit of unreasonableness, I will gamble away the college savings accounts and my boys will hate me forevermore and have me committed to a nursing home before my time.”

Tom: “I’m going to buy a really big boat that I can’t possibly afford with a really big loan that I’ll never be able to repay and sail off into the sunset before the first payment even comes due.”

It all works out in the end.


Part 5 – Sailing Into Trouble
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The sun never rose on our third day in the San Juans. A thick fog blanketed the hills while a steady, cold rain seeped through every seam of our foul weather gear. Breakfast was stale bagels in the cockpit as we headed out of the bay and into open water. A gray, foul day in every way.

Jon and Jeff hunched over the GPS and tried to pick a way through the invisible shoals while I stood watch on the bow.

“Guys, I really think we should just return to our mooring and wait this out,” I suggested. “I really hate fog and it’s not like we have to be anywhere today.”

“We’re fine. We’ve seen, what, maybe three boats the whole time out? The GPS will guide us through the murk and the fog will burn off in a couple of hours. By then we will be well on our way to English Camp where we can do some serious hiking.”

I didn’t share Jon’s optimistic reliance on the GPS or thrill for hiking in the damp but he was the skipper.

“What was the marine forecast?” I asked.

“Sunny and calm with temperatures in the low 70s.”

“As accurate as ever,” I muttered, burrowing into my six layers of sodden clothes as a gust whipped spray into my face.

“Hoist sail!” Jon shouted.

“Oh for crying out loud, let’s just motor,“ I whined. “We didn’t put the sail cover on last night so the sail will be full of water. My gloves are soaked, the lines are slippery and I’m NOT having fun here.”

“Hoist sail!”

Sure enough, I received a fresh water shower at the mast as I sent the mainsail aloft. The jib jammed as it unfurled and I washed my feet in the swell as I sat at the bow picking apart the innards of the furler. I love sailing.

With all sails set, I swam back to the cockpit and ducked under the dodger for a little protection from the rain. Jon and Jeff continued to fiddle with the GPS.

“As the former head of major technology divisions of the world’s largest software company, you’d think I’d understand this thing but, hey, you’d be wrong!” Jon informed us. “Tom, could you enter a route for me again?”

“No.”

“Aw, don’t be a spoil sport. Just because I beat you at scrabble….”

“With a vowel-less word no less. I’m not sulking. I just don’t like your blind reliance on the GPS. I think you should be looking FORWARD instead of DOWN but call me old fashioned if you will.”

“I can’t SEE anything forward!”

“The we should stop or at least keep track of our position on a chart.”

“Nonsense. This little unit is accurate to within 3 feet. I don’t have a pencil sharp enough for that level of precision on a chart. Besides, the charts just aren’t that accurate to begin with,” Mr. Technology reasoned.

“Jon, the GPS charts are derived from the paper charts! Any inaccuracies are transmitted directly through to the chartplotter you are relying on.”

“Someone got up on the wrong side of the boat this morning,” Jeff muttered.

Twenty minutes later, I felt a thrumming in the hull and stood up to investigate. Far off in the mists I sensed more than saw a shape. I looked back to the circus act on the wheel but both clowns were still head down over their techie toy.

“Ship,” I told them.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go back to sleep grumpy.”

“Ship.”

“Hmmm. Jeff, do you see anything off the port side?” Jon asked. “There should be an island there with shoals reaching out towards us.”

“That’s a thousand yards away Jon,” Jeff answered. “No way we can see that from here.”

“Ship!” I repeated.

“Yeah but I swear I hear breakers Jeff, look again.”

“SHIP!” I screamed. “Container ship off the starboard bow! Turn to port! Now, now, NOW!”

“I don’t see it,” Jon said staring at the screen, “and I think we’ve got shoals off to port.”

“Turn NOW! Look up for god’s sake! Go to port, go to port, go to port!”

I lunged for the wheel and got a quarter turn to port before the impact amidships on the starboard side tore the wheel out of my hands. The force of the collision threw Jon against the lifelines and Jeff somehow ended up sitting on the sole in the cabin. I heard the hull cracking along the starboard side as the boat was thrown hard over to port. Dishes and gear crashed across the cabin, landing all around and on top of Jeff. Jon hung precariously in the lifeline.

Another great THUNK! reverberated through the boat as our keel hit the hull of the ship and sent us flying wildly back upright. I hauled Jon into the cockpit as Jeff crawled up through the companionway.

“Do we have water coming in?” I screamed at Jeff.

“Not for long,” he answered calmly, looking below. “It should stop as soon as it reaches deck level and we sink.”

“Get your life jackets on! I’ll try and send a MAYDAY.”

“Uh…the only life jackets are below and it looks like we just lost power,” Jon informed us.

Water was now actually welling up through the companionway. We were going down fast in the cold, the fog, the rain. With only one of us in a life jacket. And no radio or flares.

“Ok, grab the throwable cushions and get ready to swim. There’s an island off to what used to be port, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t know which way that is now,” Jon said, worry finally creeping into his voice.

Jeff was bent over the wheel looking totally out of it. I don’t know how he went from the helm all the way into the cabin on impact but he’d surely hit his head on the way through. From his mindless stare, I figured he was going into shock and, without a life jacket on, surely wouldn’t survive two minutes in the water.

“Jeff! Snap out of it!” I shouted. “Let’s get the lifesling around you. That will hold you up.”

“Quiet,” he muttered. “I’m trying to figure out something.”

“There’s nothing to figure out. We’re going down NOW. Let’s get off.”

The decks were awash and the only thing holding the boat up must have been a bubble of air trapped in the cabin.

I grabbed Jeff by the arm but he shoved me away.

“There!” he shouted, pointing off the port bow. “The island’s over there. We were headed due east right before we hit and now the compass shows us pointing a little north of east so the island is right there.”

I was impressed. He hadn’t been in shock after all. With everything coming to pieces around him, Jeff had had the foresight to get his bearings by looking at the quaintly old fashioned and reliable compass at the helm.

Just then, the forward hatch blew open and air rushed out. The boat went decidedly bow down and headed for her final mooring, deep below the San Juan Straits.

“Get clear of the rigging!” I shouted. “Swim away from the boat and don’t get caught in any lines!”

“The dinghy!” Jon screamed, a second too late, as the RIB followed the Catalina to the bottom, still happily tethered to the stern rail.

My life jacket inflated after a panic filled couple of seconds and I bobbed high in the water, held up by a massive and uncomfortable pillow around my neck. Jon and Jeff each held a throwable cushion to their chests. The silence around us was broken only by the pattering of rain drops on our heads.

“Well, I guess we should have updated the software on the GPS,” Jon sagely observed.

“Yup,” agreed Jeff. “I never saw that ship on the screen at all. Obviously a hazard to navigation – at least our navigation – and it should have been marked.”

I tried to shake my head in disgust but the PFD just chafed my cheeks.

“I guess I can kiss my deposit goodbye,” Jon observed.

“I wish I’d kissed my kids goodbye,” Jeff added.

“Aw, c’mon. It’s not that bad. The worst case has been realized and nothing more can happen. You guys are strong swimmers and I’m in a life jacket. Let’s just head for the island and everything will be fine.” I encouraged them.

“I’m really, REALLY cold,” said Jon.

“I think my leg is broken,” added Jeff.

A sudden hissing sound assaulted my ears. It could only be coming from my life vest. I wisely found religion and closed my eyes to pray.


Part 6 – Rescue?
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The hissing sound took on a sizzling quality and the aroma of burnt swine wafted past my nose. I opened my eyes and saw the cabin liner above me. Soaked with sweat, I rolled out of my berth and opened the door to find Jeff whipping up another Cardiologist’s Special for breakfast.

“You look worse than normal,” Jeff cheerily observed as he added a pound of salt to the congealed collection of animal parts in the frying pan.

As my two mates tore into their breakfasts, I related my dream. Shaken to the core, I could only force down two eggs, a half dozen sausages and a side of bacon. When I was done, Jon and Jeff looked truly frightened.

“Let me get this straight, I lost my security deposit?” Jon asked in disbelief.

“And we only had stale bagels for breakfast?” added Jeff, a look of horror on his face.

Clowns.

“Forget it. What’s the weather like?” I asked.

“Dreary, foggy and raining. But the forecast calls for warm, sunny skies!”

Uh oh.


Part 7 – Seasoned Salts
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Coming off the mooring ball proved much easier with the straight through mooring method than it would have been with my original magical knot technique. This allowed us to get underway at the unreasonably early hour of 10 AM.

I clomped back to the cockpit in my spiffy yellow seaboots that the clowns had derided earlier. They glowered in envy now that the weather had returned to normal. Cold rain with fog – just the way sailing should be in the San Juans in October. Light, variable winds added to the joy.

“Thanks for inviting us out here Jon. I know it is difficult for you to travel with your hectic retirement schedule so I was happy to come out to the cold. I really couldn’t afford the suntan lotion in the 75 degree sunny weather stuck over the Great Lakes. Oh wait! I wouldn’t have had to buy an airplane ticket, that’s right.”

Jeff chimed in with “I could have had LOBSTER if we had gone sailing in Maine but it would have been such a hassle to be so close to home and hearth. Thanks for the invitation and lovely weather.”

It felt good to finally release all those complaints. Two thirds of the crew was in high spirits and the other one should have been used to rain by now. It’s what we economists call equilibrium and that’s a good thing.

Those good feelings persisted until the next gust blew rain down our jackets. J&J shivered in their wet shoes. I put my boots up on the seat for all to see and Jon retaliated with “Hoist sails!”

As is almost always the case with sailors trying to get somewhere, the wind was on our nose. We tacked back and forth for an hour to gain a precious 10 yards of distance towards our destination. Jeff and Jon seemed perfectly happy with our progress (they had beer) but I (who had no beer) was less pleased.

“You don’t tack using a broad reach! We will never get anywhere like that. We have to go close hauled!”

“No, no, no,” Jon insisted, “That’s all wrong. Boat gets all tippy when closehauled. Tippy boat is BAD boat. Capsize. Drown. Death.”

“Jeff, talk some sense into him,” I pleaded.

“I sail a gaff rigged dory. I don’t know the meaning of close hauled.”

We tacked and tacked and tacked. I knew I could never convince these two with logic so I resorted to subterfuge. On each tack, since I was doing all the line handling, I brought everything in just a little tighter. Pretty soon we were heeled over properly and throwing a bow wave.

“What the hell is happening?” said you-know-who.

“Wind must have picked up,” I guessed. “That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

“Oh no, oh no. We’ve got to do something. I know! Let out some sail and we’ll fall off.”

“Can’t do that Jon. We’ll be heading away from our next harbor. Look, we’re finally eating up some distance.”

“Let it out, let it out, let it out!”

“No can do. The rope clutch is jammed. I can’t even release the halyard to reef the main.”

“We’re all gonna DIE!”

“At some point, yes,” I agreed.

J&J retreated to the comfort of their toys and stayed glued to the GPS and depth sounder. Pretty soon, they got used to the proper motion of a sailboat well underway and relaxed. I think they even began to enjoy making as much forward progress as possible on each tack. Disturbingly so, since we were now tacking literally between a big rock and a very hard place.

“Guys, let’s tack here. Getting a little close. Big island there in front of us. Not going to move out of the way.” I reminded them.

“No problem, chicken little,” Jon chortled. “We’ve got plenty of room. Look at the GPS. See? We’ve got like a full inch of space on the screen before the island.”

“Look UP! That MOUNTAIN is right in front of us! TACK NOW!”

Jeff actually looked up for a split second and spun the wheel almost as fast as his eyes dilated in fear.

“How did that happen?” Jon asked. “Is this GPS broken? It looks like there’s plenty of room.”

“You’re zoomed all the way in!” I pointed out. “That does make a difference.”

“Gosh, I was looking at the depth sounder the whole time,” Jeff claimed. “It was still showing 100 feet.”

“Yeah, well maybe it was in HORIZONTAL mode,” I suggested.

“Whale!” Jon shouted, pointing over the stern.

I leapt up, banged my head on the dodger, knocked my knee on the wheel and twisted my neck. The circus twins broke down in hysterics.

“Look! There’s another one,” Jon said, pointing at a bird.

“And a sea leopard too!” added Jeff.

Very funny. Just because I had misidentified a dolphin as a killer whale the previous day, these guys thought they could have some fun. At least I hadn’t called the first seal an otter like someone on board. Maybe because I thought it was a dolphin when I saw it but still, there’s no reason to mock a Great Laker for his lack of experience with sea mammals.

“GUST!” I screamed and Jon hit the deck, giving me a good laugh.

“Beer’s gone!” I announced.

Jeff turned a paler shade of white before figuring it out and replying that SOME things are not to be joked about.

All of this joshing around had taken our concentration off the boat and proved that some omnipotent force does, indeed, protect fools as we avoided shallows, rocks and islands. Unfortunately, the Omnipotent One has his own sense of humor and turned the tide just as we entered a narrow strait between two islands. The wind picked up as well, straight down the strait.

“Strike sail!” Jon hollered, “Wind’s up to 15 knots.”

“It’s a funnel wind Jon. It’ll be gone in a minute when we clear the strait. It’s not even strong now.”

“Funnel wind? Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Tornado! Drop the sails! Prepare to abandon ship!”

So I flaked the sail for the 47th time in three days. Just in time for the wind to drop down to 8 knots as we cleared the strait. I didn’t even wait for the call but just pulled my quick release knots on the sail ties and sent the whole thing back up again.

“I’m not striking sail again,” I informed the crew. “I’m taking a well earned nap.”

“No worries. I’ll just sail us up to the dock. Look, we’re almost there.”

I jumped up and dropped sail again before anyone tried anything dangerous.

We came into port just to fill up on water. Somehow, the tank had run dry even though we only used a bit for washing dishes. Jon had done the boat checkout before we arrived and he knew two things about the water system. First, there were four tanks holding a total of something like a hundred gallons of water. Second, the charter agent had showed him how to switch tanks and he had forgotten. I had spent an hour earlier in the day tracing water lines all through the boat but I just couldn’t find where the tanks all came together. It seemed easier at this point to simply fill the empty tank and hope it gave us water again.

Before watering up, we went into the dockside store, supposedly to ask permission to use the dockside spigots. Personally, I think Jeff was still spooked by my comment about the beer running out. His purchases assured us that would not be a concern on our final night aboard.

The store was full of salty looking characters so we fit right in with our mismatched dayglo foulies and two days of scraggly beards. Everyone looked at us, probably picking up fashion and hygiene tips.

“Appears that you lads have seen some heavy weather,” the Old Salt sitting near the door observed.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” I replied

“Aye, that they can be.”

“What’s amazing is that we appeared at all,” I informed him.

While his one eye bored into my soul, the other wandered aimlessly around the room.

“Tell the tale lad, tell the tale.”

And so I did. I started with our departure from Alaska three months previously and filled in the details of our detour to Kamchatka and the subsequent battle with Chechen rebels. As I was describing the time we ran out of food and lay on the brink of starvation before landing a walrus using light fishing tackle, Jon interrupted.

“That’s nonsense! We’ve just sailed here from Nearby Island. We were moored at the state park last night.”

“Don’t go pulling me wooden leg, young’un,” the Old Salt warned. “From the looks of ye and the smell of ye, I can tell you’ve been at sea a month or more. I don’t know what you’re trying to cover up, but you won’t pull the wool over my wild eyes,” he warned.

“I’m a jazz pianist from Seattle! Look at these hands. Silky smooth, right? Do I look like a sailor?”

“Take off those silly hats and let me have a closer look at ye,” he insisted as he reached for a belaying pin. “Well, blow me over, you’re nothing but a bunch of college boys. I thought you came in on that Catalina but I can see now that you must be with the Optimist fleet.”

The store erupted in laughter and I ushered my hard bitten crew outside.

“That was embarrassing!” I complained as we filled the water tanks and prepared to depart. “Those guys now think we’re just a bunch of city boy amateurs who rely on the kindness of Fate rather than true nautical skills.”

“So what? We’re rich, we’re smart and we’re handsome,” Jon offered.

“WE are not rich, YOU are not handsome and I think last night’s dinner had more brains than the lot of us!” I scowled.

“Yeah, but at least our women don’t have footlong beards,” Jeff pointed out.

“There is that,” I admitted.

“Ok boys! Let’s get this fine vessel out into the middle of that windy channel and drop anchor for the night. The fishing boats coming and going should rock us gently to sleep,” Jon observed.

“This harbor faces due south. The wind is howling from the south. There are no mooring balls. There is no protection. The locals will mock us all night. Why do I think this is a bad harbor for us tonight?” I wondered.

“But the forecast is for winds from the north,” Jon whined.

“The forecast hasn’t been close to correct the whole trip! Now let’s motor over to the little cove that Old Salt suggested and get squared away before dark.”

Reluctantly, Jon steered us out of the bay and towards our final mooring for the trip.

The cove we entered was tiny and shallow but we squeezed in next to a big cabin cruiser and moored without theatrics. Much to my surprise, I saw what looked like a Weekender moored a couple hundred feet away. As I explained the details of the boat to Jon and Jeff, Jon displayed his extensive nautical knowledge by declaring that no wooden boat could last more than a couple years before leaking and sinking. When the owner returned to his boat in a small kayak, I hailed him.

“Ahoy there! Is that a Weekender?”

“At most! And a little crowded at that!”

“No, I mean what is the model of your boat?”

“It’s a Devlin (I forget the name)”

“She’s a beauty. Did you build her yourself?”

“Oh no. Devlin himself built her back in 1962. I’ve only had her a couple years.”

I turned to my friendly mates and suggested we invite the lad over for dinner. Given the rain, the cold and the size of his boat, I was sure he would appreciate a hot meal in a heated cabin with a cold beer. Jon shook his head no so I bade the sailor farewell and headed below.

“Why don’t you want to invite him over? It’s the neighborly thing to do and I’m sure he’s got a story or two to tell.”

“Yeah but what if he has a knife or something? How do you know he’s not on the run from the law?”

“In a small wooden sailboat? I’m sure he does have a knife and I expect he’ll be using it to carve you into bite sized chunks later tonight after he’s spent a few cold hours smelling steak and watching warm vapors coming out of our companionway.”

“You can never be too careful.”

“Jon’s just afraid the dude would beat him at Scrabble,” Jeff suggested.

So we ate copious amounts of steak to cover the guilty knot in our stomachs. And then we ate more because the larder was still full. Following a second round, we rested before diving into another course. Yeah, we had overshopped a bit. Finally, Jon threw about 4 pounds of green steak (keep the refrigerator on next time) overboard for the seals.

We hit the sack early, bone weary and wet clothed, looking forward to softer beds and fresher food the following night.

I only got up once that night to stomp around the deck above Jon’s cabin while muttering, “So you won’t have me to dinner, eh? Where’s my knife? I’ll teach you some table manners.”

The final morning of our trip wasn’t fit for sunshine so Old Sol just hid behind the clouds while rain pummeled us. For some bizarre reason, we decided to put the sail cover on, in the pouring rain, while still on the mooring. The captain of the nearby cabin cruiser sat with his window open and watched us as he drank coffee.

“Now I see why sailing is so much fun,” he remarked. “I suppose you’ll be sitting outside all day too.”

“Just the way we like it,” I replied as the rain poured down my back.

As I was getting ready to release the mooring, the Devlin sailor paddled over to say good morning and ask about our plans. When I told him we were headed back to Friday Harbor and then home, he looked surprised.

“Gosh, if I had known this was your last day I would have come over earlier. I know how provisions can run low at the end of a trip and I wouldn’t want you to go hungry. I can go get some granola to share if you like.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” I told him “but we’re fine for now. Tell you what though, if you’re ever in the neighborhood, stop by for dinner. No need to call ahead. Heck, we’ve even got a guest house you can stay in. Pretty daughters too.”

I scribbled Jon’s address on a piece of paper and handed it over. Generosity sure feels good.

The trip back to Friday Harbor was uneventful and wet. After checking out with the charter company, we made the mistake of piling into Jon’s minivan. Three sailors four days from a shower in a confined space is NOT a good combination.

Once we reached the mainland, we had to go through U.S. Customs because the ferry had originated in Canada. Jeff and I asked the border agent to perform a body cavity search on Jonathan but he just held his nose and waved us through.

At last, we went our separate ways, vowing to get together next year in Maine where the fog is thick, the water is cold, the rocks are hard, the tides are extreme and the lobsters are undoubtedly out of season.

Looking forward to it.