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The Curve of Time

“Time did not exist; or if it did it did not matter, and perhaps it was not always sunny.” M. Wylie Blanchet starts her iconic memoir of sailing the British Columbia inlets in the 1920’s and 30’s with her five children. “Standing in the Present, on the highest point of the curve, you can look back and see the Past, or forward and see the future, all in the same instant.”

As we start in on the final few days of our summer leg, now following the curve of Vancouver Island more east than south, we feel that curve. We rounded Cape Beale this morning, made our eastward turn past Pacheca Point an hour later, saw Cape Flattery appear off our starboard bow, and can now see the Olympic Peninsula fully stretched out to starboard across the 12-mile Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Following this curve, I see the summer memories pass behind us – watching whales breach and sea otters play, swimming in chilly waters, struggling to get our sea legs, planning and navigating, scrambling over rocky shores, running from biting flies, fishing and crabbing, dealing with whiny toddlers awake past their bedtimes, exploring the remains of cabins and middens, running from waves, competing to find the best shells, bushwacking through rooty trails. There is a special feeling – an almost palpable presence of that curve of time – when you realize that this is what Blanchet and her kids did a century ago and what Native American kids have done here on these shores for thousands of years.

Simultaneously, you can’t help but imagine what the early explorers must have gone through- Vancouver, Drake, DeFuca, Fidalgo, and others – coming into these waters without charts or GPS, thinking that down every deep inlet was a route to an inland sea, wondering all the time where dangerous rocks and reefs were lurking below the surface.

As we have followed the curve of land and time around the island, our perspective began changing. A few days ago, we found ourselves looking squarely toward the future, which looms large in the Unknown up ahead. There are voyages into less familar waters to prepare for – the western coast of the U.S., and then Mexico after that. And in a very short time, it will become our Present.

It feels odd to be finishing this leg of the adventure – a journey that has certainly been a shakedown cruise, but also a huge adventure and a massive accomplishment in its own right. I’ll reflect later on many of the specific and practical things we’ve learned along this trip, but for now, I just want to express appreciation for the ability to do it, to be able to see and explore a coast that so few people get to see, to live a little off the land with its rich resources of berries and fish, to get used to a new lifestyle, and for a moment to slow our lives down enough to feel – sometimes fleetingly and sometimes deeply – that curve of time upon which we all travel. I feel joy in becoming a small part of of this island’s story and the anonymity of all those who have gone before and will yet go.

In Search of Sand

As the parents of young children, we’ve spent much of the last six years in search of beaches. At the start of the 4:00 crazy hour(s), we sought out beaches. On what-should-we do-today weekend days, we sought out beaches. On short boat trips, we anchored and immediately went ashore to explore the beaches. When we traveled to the UK and Iceland two years ago, we wisely booked our rooms on beaches. And when we started on this new boat adventure, we expected to be going from beach to beach with our sand-crazy kids. But expectations are meant to be dashed, I suppose, and we have found it difficult to find that elusive sand.

After heading north from our San Juan Islands backyard, we found no end to oyster strewn beaches, kelp-covered rocks, and expansive low tide mud flats covered in bivalves. We would see a light strip of land from afar, point Tinker in its direction, and then feel our faces drop as the light color was yet more oyster and barnacle shells, crammed in so tightly together that they looked like white sand from a distance.

The kids, to their credit, learned to walk carefully on those rocky oyster beaches, and they are becoming more adept at at navigating slippery kelp covered rocks (not without some falls along the way). But mud flats are now avoided, as we have had to retrieve one too many shoes from the mud and had to carry overwhelmed kids one too many sticky steps back to real land. And so we are willing to drive our little Tinker around every inch of an anchorage to find any hidden strip of sand.

One of the great joys of the west coast of Vancouver Island – other than its stunning desolate beauty – has been the reappearance of sand. Real sand. Sand castle sand. Sink-your-toes-into-the-softness sand. I never realized sand could be stunning. The joy on Dylan’s face as doffed his shoes and ran around on a strip of silk in the Bunsby Islands was priceless. “Mommy, this is the best sand in the whole world!” he joyfully declared. Absence makes the heart grow fonder – and more appreciative.

Rugged Point Marine Provincial Park at the entrance to Kyuquot Sound was a child’s heaven. A long, powdery gray beach stretched for a mile in front of our wavy-but-worth-it anchorage. Dylan happily rolled in the powder and ran down the beach in utter amazement. A short half mile hike to the ocean side of the park opened up a wild playground for the boys. Beach after beach of “rainbow sand” (Dylan’s term) extended for miles upon this shore, separated only by small volcanic peninsulas covered by low-tide abundance.

And as a friend drove us back to Ucluelet from Tofino yesterday evening, we got a glimpse of the extensive sands of Long Beach. Crowds spread out over the sand and the rows of low waves. It was heartbreaking to have to say no to Dylan, who wanted so badly to run down the precious sand and leap into the low surf.

The kids aren’t yet wondering about the geologic reasons why a watery terrain so dotted with rocky reefs and pillars can also be home to the softest, sandiest beaches. They aren’t yet wondering why some beaches are white, some are gray, and some are mottled rainbow. They might later. For now, they are simply experiencing the pure joy of a resource whose value we used to take for granted.

Beaches are likely to be more common along our route as we head south to Mexico and hopefully across the South Pacific, but I hope none of us will ever forget the happiness that these beautiful strips of sand have provided us on this too-brief shakedown cruise around Vancouver Island.

A strip of white shell beach on Minstrel Island, the closest thing we could get to sand in Desolation Sound.

Appreciating the sand at Rugged Point Marine Park!

A sanddollar at Rugged Point Marine Park

Low tide color at Rugged Point Marine Park.

Sailing down the west coast of Vancouver Island.

Learning from Cape Scott

Even on a calm day with only three to six knots of wind, Cape Scott gave us a learning experience we will not soon forgot. This video shows some reflections on the day of our rounding, but such a powerful experience warrants some deeper reflection and sharing. I find I can’t paint a picture of the day the way I would like – the way the fog enveloped everything, the way the anxiety of what lay ahead wrenched our stomachs, the way the waves built and built, then became swells, then became confused from all directions, then became soft swell from behind us, the way unsecured things came crashing off of shelves and cabinets and doors banged open. But instead of painting a full picture, I can reflect a little on what we learned.

I learned that I am not immune to the inevitable mal de mer. I also learned – as Tom put my queasy head and hands on the helm – that steering, dodging logs, and focusing on the rise and fall of the bow is my cure for seasickness. I learned how to steer in bigger seas than I’ve ever experienced, both with the swell in front and from the stern. I learned what ocean swell feels like. I learned what no sight of land feels like. I learned what stepping foot onto solid land feels like after a hard day.

Together we all learned that the kids can handle more than we thought. We learned that even the cat had trouble regaining her balance after a rough day. We learned where every piece of unsecured gear was. We learned that huge logs can appear over a swell in a millisecond, threatening the integrity of your precious propeller. We learned that the ocean here is littered with sea otters! We laughed at our naivete on our first sea otter sighting the day before, turning the boat around to get pictures, not realizing that we would see them every four or five minutes throughout the whole Cape Scott trip. We learned that sea otters can look a lot like logs, that waves can look like boats, and that tired eyes can play horrible tricks on a brain in the fog. We learned that our boat is strong and can handle the ocean.

Above all, we learned that we can work as a team. That we can and need to communicate with each other about how we feel and what we need at any given moment. It will not be the last time we will need to draw on that lesson. Cape Scott gave us much to learn, much to reflect on, and the confidence to recognize what we still have yet to learn and plan how to do it.

Hiding from Monsters

We wandered aimlessly through the web of trails on Cormorant Island above the sleepy town of Alert Bay. Mushrooms grew voraciously out of decaying logs. Giant ferns spread their arms out to us. Only small speckles of sunlight made it through the thick cedar boughs. The kids made up a game. There was a different monster down each path; you had to decide which path to take, walk on the boardwalks, run on the parts with extra traction, and cross over magic roots and magic bridges. There were some mean monsters, and there were some nice monsters, including – to my shock – the nice mommy monster. The goal of the game was to hide from the monsters.

My monster – boiling and erupting after issuing one too many warnings and one too many unheeded requests for help – had not been nice that morning. My erupting monster wished I could have left the kids and their maniacal, disrespectful selves on a beach up here and sailed off alone into the fog. My erupting monster was full of anger and resentment and could find neither logic nor patience nor empathy to quell the heat of every word. I wanted to hide from my monster, too.

There’s any number of reasons that all our monsters were out in full force that day. Tom was shoulder deep in the bilge attempting to replace an impeller, which was going badly as water poured into the boat. I hadn’t had a moment to myself in days and was struggling to get chores done with kids in tow while the boat was torn apart. We had had a long day of local tourism the previous day, not getting the kids into bed until well after 9:00 that night. And that doesn’t even include the whole reason we had stopped for a “rest” in Alert Bay: we had had a few very rough days transiting some difficult waters.

To hit slack tide at Seymour Narrows and a good tide in the Johnstone Strait, we were up at 5:00 and 6:00 am a few days in a row. Nobody was sleeping enough. The kids had been mildly sea sick. The boat was a mess. Wind was on our nose at 15 to 20 knots true, which means our apparent wind (what we felt) was 22 to 27. We pounded into wave after wave. There’s rarely a good time to go through the Johnstone strait, as the wind is almost always a strong northwesterly, which opposes the ebb current that you want to take you northwest. And when that wind opposes that current, the sea state becomes very uncomfortable. We braved the waves and appreciated the news from a boat further up letting us know that it would let up.

What a joy it was to finally be able to tuck into a passage behind West Cracroft Island and know that we wouldn’t have to reenter Johnstone. But the next day Blackfish Sound proved just as windy and uncomfortable. There was a saving grace to distract us: a humpback whale emerged not 100 meters from our boat and proceeded to dive and resurface around us for the next three or four minutes. A night in a beautiful but rolly bay on Hanson Island gave us little rest, even with our bellies full of freshly caught rockfish and fresh-out-of-the-oven bread. The short but windy and choppy drive up to Alert Bay was exhausting, and even the boys didn’t give much heed to the Dall’s porpoises playing briefly in our bow wave.

And back to the forest in Alert Bay, where I spoke hardly a word and tried to make the walk through the forest my meditation, my swim, my alone time. I couldn’t talk. I would have burst into tears. A woman we met twice along the paths (who, to my eyes, talked and smiled joyfully like a modern day fairy god mother) asked the kids brightly if they had seen any monsters. When they replied they hadn’t (expect for the five monster babies that Andy said he saw in the trees), she told them that they usually hide under the bridges and that’s where the kids would find them.

After that, instead of hiding from the monsters, the kids immediately went looking for the monsters. They peered under bridges. They talked about how big the monsters’ eyes were and how long their arms were. And it hit me that perhaps I need to confront mommy monster and learn to recognize her and when she’s coming. To know what brings her out from under her bridge, what the color of her eyes are, and – most importantly – to learn how to ask her politely to return down her forested path. We can’t have a world without monsters, but if we can acknowledge their existence and breathe and laugh to quell their fire, then perhaps we can devise a peaceful coexistence.

Postscript:

The impeller has been replaced, the through-hull is no longer letting water into the boat, we’ve all had time to calm down and breathe, and we rounded Cape Scott safely on Tuesday. A video and update will follow soon!

A calm anchorage in Forward Harbour after a windy day.

Grabbing a dock at an abandoned marina on Minstrel Island in the Broughtons. We woke up in the morning to men tearing some of the dock apart!

Chart Errors, Wolves, and Bears, Oh My!

Gone are the days when boating for us was heading out for weekend on well-charted and well-populated waters, going for hikes, and looking for cool wildlife, the largest of which might be a river otter or harbor seal. When you enter into wolf and bear territory, your shore range shrinks and your awareness enlarges. And when your chart plotter shows you driving on land when clearly you are not, you learn instead to pay close attention to your eyes, your depth sounder, and your old-school lead line.

Looking for an anchorage off the beaten path in Desolation Sound, we found an anchorable nook behind little Elworthy Island – a nook we would never have seen had we not been looking for it. Our chart plotter gave us no depth readings after a certain point, but we proceeded ever so slowly, having confidence in the advice that this place would make a good anchorage. Indeed it did, and other than the rave of mosquitoes, we only shared our anchorage with one other boat – a 26-foot Bristol Channel Cutter, whose owners had sailed her to and around the South Pacific and Australia for 15 years. We swapped sea stories, and they humored our kids, gave us their book, and offered us some yummy self-caught shrimp for lunch. Thank you, Dan and Alice!

Our drive the next day up the desolate Toba Inlet lived up to its reputation. Waterfalls cascaded down sheer cliffs, peaks kissed with snow greeted us around each small bend. It is sheer and wild. There are no emergency anchorages, no places to duck in to avoid weather or wind. We saw only one other boat – going in the opposite direction.

We entered the spectacular Brem Bay in the early evening near high tide. Steep cliffs rose to our left. A logging camp was at the head of the bay at the base of the cliff, and two large log booms floated along the cliff in front of it. Past the logging camp was a large expanse of flat grassland and shrubbery, broken by a bubbling, icy river coming down from the snow-capped peaks further up the valley. Opposite the bay on the other side of Toba Inlet, more white peaks rose in a line out of the bright green water. It was stunning.

What was also stunning was how difficult it was to anchor. We drove slowly along the cliff edge to try to find the spots that a guide book said we could anchor and shore tie our stern to prevent from swinging or dragging. Our depth sounder gave us no readings that would give us shallow enough anchoring depth, and we could already practically reach out and touch the scraggly trees ashore. As we edged closer and closer to find out where the anchorable water would be, the chart plotter showed us squarely driving upon land. So much for accuracy.

We motored past the logging camp, and despite assurances that it’s okay to tie up to log booms (as long as you’re prepared to leave at 4:00 in the morning when they want to hook up to a tug and depart), we chose not to take that course of action. We maneuvered slowly to the head of the bay, eyes glued to the depth sounder. This inlet, which at its center is 1600 feet deep, took its good time getting up to even a depth that we could read. We moved slowly across the contour lines: 300, 250, 200, 150, 70, 40, 19.5, 18, 17.5 (!), and into reverse we went. With a bottom contour like that and tidal changes of 16 feet, that is an impossible anchorage.

We proceeded along the bay to check out what looked like a very small cove at the far end of the bay. The chart showed it green (land at low tide), but we read in a guide book that the authors had heard secondhand of someone who had anchored there. That’s confidence inspiring, right? But it gave us reason enough to go explore.

We drove carefully and sounded the bottom. The space between 30 and 60 feet of depth gave us enough room to feel confident that we could anchor, but it was tight, and we would not have room enough to swing. We could not shore tie because we wouldn’t be able to have enough anchor scope out to keep us secure. We decided to set a stern anchor in order to keep us parallel to land. We made ourselves secure and headed out to explore the bay by dinghy before dinner. The kids were delighted with the bay as we traversed the shallow bank looking for bears and noticing the different flora, fauna, and terrain than we see in most anchorages. The glacial and fast-moving fresh-water river made the landscape of this bay a new one to our eyes. We pushed our little dinghy as far as we could up the river, tasted the fresh cold water, and then let the river’s current push us quickly back out into the bay, resulting in delighted squeals from both children.

The kids finally tucked in to bed after a long and tiring day, Tom and I went back up top for a glass of wine. As we sat on the cabin top, there she was 55 yards away, standing on the exact spot that we had gone ashore briefly a few hours earlier: a beautiful brown grizzly bear. She stayed mere seconds, perusing the berry bush, sniffing the ground, looking up at us, and then slowly ambling away. We were glad of the pool-length of water that separated us, but we were awed to be able to be so close to such a large and extraordinary animal.

In the morning, the terrain around us showed a different world than we had entered the day before. Expansive sand flats extended out from the river’s mouth, our stern anchor was clearly visible above water sunk deeply into the mud, and more and more land emerged behind Korvessa as the tide kept dropping. But our depth sounder never showed less than 28 feet of water below our keel, and our eyes could see the deepening contour of the bottom, even as dry land seemed to creep closer and closer. The chart plotter showed us on dry land. But we smiled with the knowledge of our new secret.

A morning low-tide dinghy ride and short beach excursion ashore was a good way to end our visit at this wild, difficult, and stunning bay. As we motored back down the inlet, fishing lines trolling behind us, it felt like we were headed back into the relative security of “civilization.” But after anchoring in Von Donop Inlet (and using our lead line to confirm depth after our depth sounder began acting squirrly) and seeking out one of the trailheads, we saw the sign posted clearly at the water’s edge: “This is Wolf Country.” Sigh. We are certainly still squarely in the wilderness. Just not as deep.

We chose to emerge from the wilderness with a stop at Gorge Harbor, where the kids played in the pool for 2.5 hours, and in Campbell River for three days of purging, cleaning, provisioning, and visiting with Tom’s parents. We are on the cusp of heading further into the wilderness as we round Cape Scott and head out to the west coast of Vancouver Island. And though we are loaded down with paper charts, a chart plotter, and three guide books, we know that the most important thing we can do is to use our eyes, our heads, our logic, and our hightened awareness.

p.s. Lest you believe that all is going smoothly, I thought I would give you a short list of things that have broken already. This is, after all, a shakedown trip. The alternator, the fresh water pump, the mount for the oil filter, the lid-hinge on our icebox, and one window-hatch. There will surely be more.

More pictures from Desolation Sound:

Collecting oysters in our unnamed cove in the Malaspina Inlet.

Catching crab with the crab ring the line going overboard, while enjoying a book, a beer, and an empty bay.

Exploring beaches up here reveals all sorts of things. Here is a dried sea urchin skeleton.

The marsh on the other side of our unnamed cove.

The boys getting their first kayak ride in Grace Harbor.

Taking a dip in a lake near Grace Harbor.

Sailing into Waddington Channel toward Elworthy Island.

Our stern anchor on dry land in Brem Bay on a very low tide.

Looking back down Toba Inlet the way we came.

Exploring a small stream in Brem Bay. Dylan named this stripped of sand “The smallest beach in the world.”

Fun with old mans beard lichen hanging from the trees.

Picking huckleberries in Von Donop Inlet.

Getting ready for a swim on a beautiful Gorge Harbour evening.

Settling In

We’re a month and a day into our voyage – a month and a day full of both the longest and slowest moments. After a rough first two weeks in the San Juan Islands, we crossed the Canadian border and settled ourselves into Port Sidney Marina so Tom could head back to Anacortes to work for a week. The rest did us all some good. Tom helped fill the cruising kitty, and the boys and I explored Sidney, visiting every museum, playground, pool, and store we could by foot or by bus. By the time we untied the docklines in Sidney, we were refreshed, ready to re-engage, and looking forward to heading “into the wilderness” so we could live up to our name. This short video is snapshot of those first few amazing but trying weeks. We were happy to leave the beginning behind.

Trawling our first fishing lines under low, gray, Pacific Northwest clouds, we joyfully tilted our faces toward the cooling drizzle and the next – more hopeful – phase of our voyage. It didn’t matter that nothing caught the ends of our hooks. The boys loved the new activity, and it ensured that we slowed down to less than 4 knots and simply enjoy the short passage between the towering hills on either side. We headed up to Saltspring Island and stayed for a night at a friend’s mooring buoy. Casting our eyes out over the channel and watching the tugboats and fishing boats traverse the gray water, we enjoyed good company, pool time, and cooler weather.

After a stroll in the Ganges Saturday market for me and a dinghy ride for the boys to see seals and totem poles, we took the good fortune of a simultaneous southeast breeze and flood tide to sail up the Strait of Georgia to Lasqueti Island. There in Boho Bay we sat out a rough, windy few days by catching crab, baking, peering over the edge of Tinker, exploring oyster beaches, catching dead jellyfish in shovels, and playing in Jedadiah Island provincial park. We were cut off from all communication, and welcomed the slow down that the weather and remoteness dictated.

We’re now in Pender Harbour, BC for a somewhat unscheduled stop to repair a fairly spectacular alternator failure. But after a few drives to the hardware store – offered up by the kindness of strangers (thank you Ron from Farrington Cove and Robin from Duncan Cove!) – and a long morning and afternoon in the bilge for Tom replacing the alternator, its bolt, and its belt, we are back up and running. I have done two loads of laundry, taken the kids swimming twice, and taken advantage of the wifi and cell phone signal to make some calls and upload our video, while the kids busied themselves with swimming, playing, spotting snakes in the rocks, and probably loudly disturbing everyone in (the absolutely wonderful) Pender Harbour Resort in Duncan Cove.

Next stop: Desolation Sound. I’m eagerly re-reading M. Wylie Blanchet’s classic book “The Curve of Time” in preparation for the trip and enjoying the connections she makes between her family’s own journeys, experiences, and anchorages with those of Captain Vancouver, whose boats explored up and down these shores and inlets with no expert charts or books to guide them. These are not easy waters, and the local knowledge and advice from those who have gone before – and the help from those who are here now – is essential. May we be able to pay it forward.

So, we find ourselves settling in a little more comfortably now. And we may not be experts yet, but we’re slowly but surely figuring boat life out.

And the prize for Quickest Adapter to Boat Life goes to…

Demon the Cat. Far and away, Demon has been the quickest to adapt to boat life. She’s happy in her cat-bed, has found joy in exploring all nooks and crannies, is enjoying the view and the night-time catting on deck, growling at passing boats and seals, and settling in quite nicely. Granted, she has spent more than half her life aboard boats, but after so many years away from the water, she found her groove awfully quickly. Which is much more than I can say for the rest of us.

The past almost-two-weeks aboard has not been easy and has had a lot of ups and downs. I have, admittedly, focused more on the downs than the ups, because they are all-consuming, but out of ashes lush forests and new flowers can emerge. Here is a fair attempt to lay out a balanced synopsis of weeks 1 and 2 (from my perspective) and some words of hope for what lays ahead.

Most Challenging Thing: A three year old with poor listening skills, no sense of self preservation, a class clown personality, and a tendency to push everyone’s buttons. Maybe I should rephrase that: A three year old. Period. Andy has been hard. And spending so much time disciplining, teaching, reprimanding, reminding, scolding, reminding again, disciplining again WEARS ON THE SOUL. But this is not unique to a boat; this is parenting a three year old. One big difference now is that we’re doing it 24-7, whereas before we only had morning/night/weekend duty. The other difference is that on a boat it might be a matter of life and death. When he stands on his tiptoes and leans over the side of the boat because he wants to see the bow wave more closely or grabs the pilot house steering wheel while you’re undocking, not listening to calls to STOP is not an option. So, we’re doing a lot of teaching. That word seems too gentle to convey the tone of our voices and the exasperation we feel. And yet, when I asked Andy what was his favorite thing so far about living on a boat, he said “all the love.” And so I melted. And so I will do my best to be strict and unswaying, but make sure that “all the love” is still there. Because sometimes it has felt like it isn’t.

Most Rewarding Thing: Seeing Dylan come into his own on the boat has been incredibly rewarding. Despite a few difficulties, he seems to be at home here and is absorbing everything, including nautical terminology, sea animal behavior, and even moving around on deck. And seeing the kids’ imaginative play is wonderful; they pretend that lines have been cut to the radar, they rig up nets to catch bad guys in, they practice tying knots and building boats boats with wings. It’s also rewarding to seeing them exploring ashore. No beach goes left unexplored, and every beach-fort is supplemented with the kids’ drift-wood tillers and solar panels. For my own part, I am enjoying reading. I haven’t done as much as I wanted, but I am rediscovering print books and enjoying the relationship with the printed page again.

And: ORCAS! We got to see a pod of orcas, which, yes, even if you are from the Pacific Northwest, is still a very special treat. This is the first time that we have been out on Korvessa and seen them, and we couldn’t have been more happy to catch a glimpse of the beautiful creatures. And, in truth, I also got a lot of joy out of seeing a flock of little goslings and a family of huge river otters, so the reward and joy is not reserved solely for the large animals.

Most Surprising Thing: Despite all the frustrations, I feel good being back on a boat. I like the warm, cozy spaces. I don’t mind the limited space in the galley. I like having varied views and new neighbors with every move. On the negative side of surprising, I simply thought I would have more time. I thought I would have more time to write. I thought I would have more time to read. I thought I would have more time to study Spanish or organize the boat or make lee-cloths or study cook books or exercise. None of that has happened. I seem to spend all my time cooking, cleaning, and disciplining in between shore trips. Yes, that has to change, and that will take my own self-discipline.

Most Frustrating Thing(s): The first few days of overloaded, unorganized boat mode was very frustrating. We didn’t know where anything was, struggled to figure out where everything would go, and were tripping over bags, shoes, and clothes every fifth step. Now that we have organized the galley, the bedrooms, and the sauna (our storage room), and taken a large load of unneeded stuff back to Anacortes, we are in a much better (and much less frustrating) state.

Second, boat heads (toilets) are notoriously difficult, and we are all struggling with the tight spaces and residual smell that we just can’t seem to kill. It took the kids some time to get used to boat head, but I think we’re there. Similarly, we are having growing pains with our kitty box and its perpetual smell. It currently lives under the settee in our dinette, which is a good place for it, but we have discovered that the pads that come with the Breeze litter system do not last a week as advertised; we are luck to get three days out of them. Maybe our cat is just really well hydrated. And so, we will continue to experiment. Instead of using cat pads which produce lots of trash, we’re hoping to use a corn-based litter as a base that is excellent at soaking up liquid and will control odor better. Stay tuned.

Third, our ice box is deep, and though we now have it much better organized, it is still a task to retrieve something from the bottom, which involves not only sticking your head halfway into the icebox, but getting icebox cooties all over whatever piece of clothing you’re wearing. Something to get used to. There are many things to get used to.

Ahh… speaking of which, there have been a lot of head bumps, and back bumps, and knee bumps, and (frighteningly) two eye bumps, because moving around on a boat is simply harder than in a house. Plus, it moves. None of us has been immune to those bumps, though Andy has suffered the most, and I only hope he will acclimate soon.

And then there’s the regular everyday parts of cruising: We’ve enjoyed some beautiful anchorages (Cypress Head, James Island, Deer Harbor, Echo Bay on Sucia Island, Patos Island, Friday Harbor, and on to Reid Harbor on Stuart Island tonight. We’ve met so many people along the way and love talking with them about their own passions and plans. We’ve started a little boat school (officially just an hour a day at this point for the sake of having a little structure), but of course the kids are soaking up much more than that. We’re still trying to figure out our timing with how often we’ll need to dump trash and recycling or head into a marina. It’s a little more often at this point because we have not caught our stride yet. We’ve had otters play on board at night (not welcome), crows get into our trash on deck (also not welcome), and seals poke their curious eyes up to follow us (very welcome).

It’s been a hard couple of weeks. I can’t pretend there haven’t been moments where I haven’t questioned what we’re doing. What I’m doing. There have been tears. But in the depths of frustration, anger, and, frankly, fear, I have learned a few things and reflected on a few things. I’ve learned that I need to do a better job to take some time out for myself – especially for exercise, but also for my own quiet time. I’ve learned that the kids need at least a little screen time to help calm their over-stimulated brains and emotions. In conversations with friends, I’ve been reminded and have reflected on the fact that change isn’t easy for anyone, 3-year-olds included. I’ve learned that habits don’t change all at once, even if you want them to. It takes time, it takes discipline, it takes patience in yourself and others. So, we move on to the next few weeks and months with some hope, a few deep breaths, lessons learned, new perspective, and lots of support and understanding. Let’s do this.

The Departure (and the mess behind it)

We are off the dock. It was a wonderful sendoff, being surrounded by so many local friends and family. It was important to share it and mark it – to recognize the major life change, the risk, and the love that travels with us.

But it was not a magical night. The kids were wired but tired. We were also tired, overcome with emotion and adrenaline, and frustrated with the bags of things we hadn’t had time to put away. The rain continued to come down, and low tide made a trip to our Cyprus shore slippery and difficult. In our efforts to pack our house’s pantry into the boat, we did not have time to provision for our first night, and we settled for mac and cheese and plain pasta to sate our tired, hungry souls – a far cry from the sunny celebratory beach bbq that we had wanted. I just wanted the day to be over. I know it won’t be the last day like that.

The release from the stress of the last six months did not happen immediately, nor will it. And the last month has been the busiest I have ever experienced in my life, having to schedule daily plans down to the minute and starting work every morning at 6:00 to get it all done. Here’s a few photos to convey a small glimpse of these last four weeks.

Getting out of the house was a major undertaking. I regret not purging stuff after our last move (not that there was time), because it made it that much harder this time. And getting the last 5% of stuff out of the house and garage was pure torture. The garage got cleared mere hours before our renters arrived – and how happy I was to hand over keys! However, I think it has changed my relationship with Stuff forever (see my first post for some musings at the beginning of this process)! I vow to be much more deliberate about my acquisition of things that will just end up at the bottom of boxes for years on end. I refuse ever again to own so much Stuff.

And then there was the boat. Tom and my dad worked 8 to 12 hour days getting the boat ready, replacing all batteries, rewiring the whole boat, replacing lights, installing and testing new systems (including AIS, SSB radio, chart plotter, and a new VHF radio), installing a new anchor windlass and chain, and installing our mechanical self-steering Hydrovane. Tom worked on the boat 99% of his time, and I worked on the house 99% of my time; weeks went by where we didn’t have a normal conversation.

Removing the old (not-functioning) anchor windlass

Finally! Installing the Hydrovane was a tough project.

The boat was so torn apart for months that we didn’t have a chance to start purging the boat and then moving onto it until the last four days before departure. Taking the first load down to the boat felt good, but also overwhelming. How do you pack for a 4-year trip in 4 days? By bringing way too much to start with, it turns out. There simply wasn’t time to figure out what would fit and what wouldn’t. We’re on Day 2, and I’ve already started taking things back off the boat.

The awesome shelves my dad built for the boat! A huge improvement to galley storage.

On the day of our departure, this guy met us at 7:00 a.m. at our dock, and I felt that it was a good omen. Not a good smell, but a good omen. And spending a few hours with friends and family – even in the pouring rain – before casting off was a touching and unforgettable event.

The leaving was and is hard and messy. But we did it. With lots of help from my parents. And I suppose that’s the first hurdle. And there will be more hurdles and messes to deal with, but part of the adventure is know there will be those challenges and figuring out how to face them and deal with them rather than ignoring them. May we wake up each morning with a problem-solving attitude, inspired by the fact that we’ve already scaled the most difficult mountain: just getting off the dock.

Women Who Sail… and Teach and Encourage and Inspire

Mother’s Day. Surrounded by boxes and messes at home, struggling to process all there is to do before our impending departure in three weeks, and guiltily turning down my son’s request for pancakes, I stole away to a quiet corner for 20 minutes. I haven’t let myself reflect on anything recently – my mother, my own motherhood, my departure from work (paid work, that is), our departure from friends and community, my fears – because it’s emotionally paralyzing at a time when I can’t be paralyzed. But I needed to allow myself a little reflection time to prepare for a service my mom and I were giving this morning, so I stole those 20 quiet minutes.

I wrote a few reflections about my mom – including her constant encouragement, her strong presence as a grandma, and her unwavering support and acceptance of my tendency to keep leaving the country for far off lands (okay, Canada’s not so far off this time, but all the others are).

As I wrote, it struck me that she is one of many women I’ve encountered in person, via books, or online who have been role models through their actions and words. I found myself thinking of women in the sailing community that I am becoming a part of. The environment of inclusivity and support is empowering; there is encouragement to learn a vast array of new skills, support when confidence or knowledge falters, guidance in gaining new knowledge and capabilities, and inspiration for pursuing a way of life that is outside the mainstream. I’ve had gentle and confidence-building instruction from Nancy Erley on Tethys, received offers of rides to grocery stores in remote places, seen a community rally around a female diesel mechanic to organize seminars for women, and been inspired by new sailors trying things for the first time, to name only a few. And this is only to speak of the sailing community. Perhaps further in the future I’ll reflect in more depth on the paths and tracks laid by mentors, friends, and role models in other areas.

We haven’t untied the docklines yet (three more weeks), but I already feel the pressure of all the new hats I’ll be wearing – sailor, teacher, radio-operator, navigator, blogger, vlogger, mechanic (maybe assistant mechanic at first). But pressure feels more like excitement and giddy anticipation when I think of the support and inspiration that is out there among women who sail – how we can encourage, teach, and – in essence – mother each other as we pursue a life on the water.

Phase Two

“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” – Alan W. Watts.

When we first made the decision to embark on this voyage, I thought that Phase One would be the six months of prep and planning before we untied the docklines. But there has been a distinct change between our lives and our mindsets three weeks ago and our lives now, and I realize now that the transition of “phases” won’t necessarily happen at obvious times – like departure or entering a new city or country – but rather that the phases will be reflected in our mindsets, outlook, actions, and adaptations. Continue reading Phase Two