A Warm Welcome in a Cold Country

Tom and Roberto sat in the cockpit in Hawaii contemplating the prospects of travel in a time of pandemic. “I think we just need to go someplace isolated, without people. We’re going to Alaska for the scenery, not the people,” Tom said.

“No,” replied Roberto. “You have to go to Alaska for the people. You can not experience Alaska without getting to know the people.”

How right he was. And Kodiak alone proved it to us. It was hands down the friendliest place we have ever been. Upon arriving in the drizzly, chilly evening gray, we were greeted by the smiling faces of friends and a neighborly fisherman, Gene. We headed out to find pizza and beer for takeout, but were welcomed to sit down in the empty cafe almost at closing time. The waiter was one of the most friendly and open people we’ve ever met. The next day, he not only greeted us by name, but remembered what we had ordered and asked if we wanted the same again. A large fishing boat pulled in next to us and handed Tom a big King Salmon; Tom tried to pay him for it, but he refused. “Nah, I just don’t feel like cleaning it,” he winked. The giant fish fed us for days in the form of sashimi, baked salmon, salmon burgers, and salmon and pea pasta. At the marina, one of the staff offered to drive me the two miles to the laundromat, only to find out that it was closed. She paused, and then said, “You know what, you can do your laundry at my house. I’ll drop you off, and my daughter can drive you back when you’re done.” Wow. “And if you need to borrow the car for a shopping trip sometime this week, just let me know.” Wow again. Upon arriving back to the dock, Gene greeted us, “Want some Pacific Cod?! I just fried some up fresh.” He handed us some steamy, fried pieces of cod straight off the grill on the back of his boat. Oh, my goodness, it was so good it was worth the slightly burnt tongue that resulted.

One sunny afternoon while walking back to the boat with a six pack of beer, Tom passed a guy who smiled and said “I should be going in your direction.” Tom laughed, simultaneously noticing that the guy was carrying a fancy Fluke multimeter. “You a marine electrician?” Tom asked. “Yeah, mostly refrigeration, but also some electrical work,” he said. “Can I give you a call to help with an alternator wiring problem I’m trying to solve?” Tom asked. “I imagine I can. When are you leaving?” he asked. “Um, day after tomorrow,” Tom said apologetically, knowing it’s the busy season for boats. “Sure. I can’t today, but I could come tomorrow. Give me a call.”

A marine tech available the following day during the high season?! Awesome. Juan came by and spent hours with Tom trying to troubleshoot some wiring questions about our perpetually problematic alternator. They worked the problems. They broke for lunch, then reconvened in the afternoon. After some progress and some new understanding, they solved the wiring and gauge problems, but still deduced that the alternator was fried again, which couldn’t be fixed at that time. When Tom asked how much he owed him, he said “Nah, you don’t need to pay me. We weren’t able to fix the problem.” “No way,” replied Tom. “You just spent half the day with me and helped me troubleshoot a major puzzle.” He handed him a few hundred dollars and a six pack of beer, and then we proceeded to spend the next hour and a half knocking back beers and talking about life. He waved happily and tipsily as he left, but not before he offered us his car to use if we needed it.

A knock on our boat the next day brought out Nancy, Kodiak born and raised, whose parents had come to the island as missionaries in the 1940’s. She said that our friends in Anacortes, Junko and Eiji and their kids, had lived with her for a while in Kodiak while they were in the process of sailing from Japan to the US. Junko had told Nancy that we were in town, and she had come and found us! She took us out for coffee, told us all about what Kodiak used to be like, drove us over to Near Island, and then brought us a bag full of books for the kids and other Kodiak paraphernalia. What a beautiful gift!

I can’t finish up without mentioning one more person who dropped by the boat to talk and also offered us her car if we needed it. Did I mention that the people of Kodiak are the friendliest in the world?

And to top it all off, just as we were about to leave the next day, two of four dock lines already untied, our neighbor Gene shouted over: “Hey, you want some halibut?” “Um, sure!” He ran over and handed us two huge frozen halibut steaks as we untied the docklines and pushed the boat off the dock from the town that had become one of our favorite on Earth.

We waved goodbye to the island that had welcomed us with such open arms. Kodiak drifted into the distance as a small pod of fin whales hunted the reefs in the distance and horned puffins played chicken with Korvessa. What seemed to be mini-orcas leapt through the water beside the boat, so we pulled out our beloved Whales, Dolphins, and Porpoises book: Dall’s Porpoises! A first for us.

Tom looked up and shouted, “Icebergs!” I couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Uh, you mean glaciers. That’s the end of the Kenai Peninsula.” The curvature of the earth allowed us only to see the tops of the glaciers on the south end of the peninsula 70 miles away, making them look like icebergs. The glaciered mountain peaks of the Kenai poked out from above that curved horizon of the now-flat water, and further to the west emerged even more magnificent ice fields on the stark Alaskan Peninsula that becomes the Aleutian Island chain. If only the idyll of that passage beginning could have lasted.

By 3am the perfect southeast wind behind us had built to 22 knots. No worries, that was what was predicted in the forecasts. By 4am it had clocked around to the northeast, putting us nose-in to the wind and giving us an apparent wind in the high-20’s; this was not in the forecast. I was beginning to get sick as the waves increased and the motion worsened. By 5am we were close-hauled and I had already thrown up before I realized I should take some medicine, which I took and then promptly threw up. By 6am I couldn’t keep us on course anymore without heading straight for the rugged, rocky coast (still three miles away, but we like our sea room). I took down all the sails and motored straight into the wind, waves, and wicked current at 3 knots.

At 6:15 am, the chart plotter died. I ran down below, started plotting our location on the paper chart, and turned on Tom’s tablet which has our back-up electronic charts. For the first time on Korvessa, I was properly scared. But a few deep breaths and reminders to myself that the boat was made for this and that we had already made it this far helped to alleviate the fear.

At 8am, Tom woke up for his shift. I threw up again and crawled straight into bed. Tom held down the fort as the wind built and the waves became angrier. A few hours of sleep helped my state, but as I crawled out of bed and into the dreaded bathroom I felt the seasickness resurface. My body wanted to throw up again, but there was nothing left. I braced myself against the sides of the tiny head as I spit into the small sink. Defeated, I crawled back into bed and stared at the hatch above me. Are those snowflakes? I heard the wind screaming. It must be over 30 knots now. Gale force. This was so not in the forecast. Tom eventually came down and let me know he needed a break. “Do you think you can manage for an hour or two so I can get some sleep?” “Yes, I can do it.” I got up and hauled myself again into the dreaded bathroom. I immediately got sick and emerged pale-faced and sweating five minutes later.

“I’m fine,” I told Tom. “I can do it.” And I did. Well, there wasn’t really much to do except keep the boat from hitting shore and taking over if the autopilot broke (which, thank goodness, it did not). There was little I could do about the waves, which hit the boat with a ferocity we had never experienced. They would bash into the side of the boat with a load bang, and periodically we would take a massive one completely over the bow that would crash straight into the pilothouse windows. The waves weren’t as big as the ones out on the ocean, but they were way more violent, way more unpredictable. We were in the great washing machine of a Gulf of Alaska gale. I sat on the top step of our companionway in my full foul weather gear with my face into the rain and wind. I drank in the fresh air. I let the rain and the salt water calm my clammy skin. I took deep breaths and watched the violent water.

We inched our way towards the mouth of Resurrection Bay. Tom (awake again after his short break) called one of the tour boats nearby to ask if they could see us on AIS (a transponder system that shows other boats where you are) and if they could avoid us since our ability to maneuver in these seas was restricted.

“Abolutely. How are you guys doing?” the captain asked. “We’re okay, just really uncomfortable and looking forward to getting out of this,” Tom replied. “If you come in closer, you can tuck behind Cheval Island and get a respite. And the water west of Cheval is a lot more benign. I was going to tuck back in there soon, too, to give my guys a rest,” the captain said.

Respite, benign, rest. Those words were all music to our ears. We headed our course towards Aialik Cape and saw one of the most rugged points in the country emerge from the rain and fog. Birds flitted through the air and over the waves, not in the least bothered by the tumult. We sneaked inside Pilot Rock and saw Cheval Island appear in the distance before us. Slowly, ever so slowly, it neared. And finally I could see the line where the waves stopped. That line: dark, calm, and inviting.

And the stillness of motion finally arrived. The relief of a brain that could now focus, of a stomach that finally growled for some calories that it promised to keep down. Tom chatted with a friendly tour-boat captain whose boat had been built in Anacortes. He then disappeared down below while I went above to take us the last few hours up Resurrection Bay to Seward. The waves were dissipating, and once beyond the barrier islands of the eastern side of the bay, they disappeared entirely. The water became glassy, and the clouds began to lift, exposing snow fields and glaciers in the nooks and crannies of the 4- and 5-thousand foot mountains that rose out of the fjords around us. The jaw-dropping majesty of this wild corner of the planet became obvious. It is rugged, magnificent, awe-inspiring, and full of watery, cold life in sea and air. But there is a price of admission to this striking land, and we just paid it.

Informational Addendum:

More major things broke on this 34-hour passage than on the rough passage from Hawaii to Kodiak, and more broke on that passage to Kodiak than the TWO prior ocean passages to French Polynesia and Hawaii. Let that sink in. (Tom says I’m not supposed to use that word on the boat.)

The chart plotter was a major casualty, especially being only two months old. The pin came out of joint that holds our main boom in place. How? We have no idea, but we can only assume that the repetition of the violent waves for 12 hours knocked it out. There is also a new crack in the deck where the mizzen sheet attaches, but it mirrors other cracks that were there when we bought the boat (signs of huge stresses, but not a concern for failure). Our boarding steps on both sides of the boat are completely toast from the repeated beatings they took, our bow-thruster is broken (we think just the switch), and our anchor windlass switch (that allows us to raise and lower the anchor) is completely rusted through and non-functional from all. The alternator hasn’t worked since Mexico, so that is a story on its own that Tom needs to tell in his own words someday. There might be some swearing. Have we mentioned how much we love and appreciate our generator?! May it last us the seven weeks we need to get home to Anacortes.

So, our time in Seward has partly been repairing things and getting the boat ready to be back in anchoring mode: getting the anchor and windlass ready, getting Tinker back in his deploy-able position and getting him outfitted again with his own little anchor, paddle, motor, and safety equipment. We haven’t anchored as a family since Playa Bonanza on Isla Espiritu Santo in Mexico in late January. Life has thrown us a few curveballs since then.

Tomorrow we’ll set out for the Kenai Fjords and then make our way up to Prince William Sound and then across to SE Alaska, from which point we’ll be making a fairly quick trip of it back down the coast to Washington. Please wish us fair winds and following seas (not beam seas or head seas, please!) and no more gales. We’ve had enough of those for a lifetime.

In the next installment: More on land life in Seward, Anchorage, and Eagle River!