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Chapter 12—Crossing Queen Charlotte Sound
Departure from the Charlottes. Sebastian with Hecate Strait and Queen Charlotte Sound in background. [20mm, F5.6, ~1/150sec, Kodak RG 100] A mere 4 hours later, I am rudely pulled out of my dreams by the alarm. It is time to go. I listen to a scratchy VHF weather report and hear the South Moresby, South Hecate and Dellwood buoys report winds from the south or southwest at 10 knots. Sea height is 2 meters. Conditions sound good. As quietly as we can, we fire up the trusty Mercedes diesel and untie from our friends in the Aorama. It is our first time this trip to depart before sunrise. It is a beautiful morning with a bright moon.
We have carefully timed our departure to coincide with the beginning of the flood. The flood should give us a little push out of Houston Stewart Channel, but not enough to pose a rip tide threat had the wind been blowing hard out of the southeast. On our way out I call Prince Rupert Coast Guard on 22A and reactivate our sail plan. They come through loud and clear on what must be their Rose Harbor transmit/receive antenna. I give them a “send the helicopters”, last-ditch ETA of 41 hours from now.
The wind is blowing lightly out of the southwest, so we raise the sails and motorsail. Jose and Ben head back to bed, but Sebastian and I watch a wonderful sunrise over Hecate Strait. By 7:00AM, we are about 7 nautical miles away from Cape Saint James. This is about as close as we will end up getting to the Cape. We had originally intended to get closer, but given our desire to cross Queen Charlotte Sound and get home, we decide the detour to get closer isn’t worth the extra time. After Cape Saint James, the seas get a little lumpy and I create a disaster when I try to make coffee. I spend about half an hour cleaning up coffee grinds in the galley. Sunrise as we depart the Charlottes. [20mm, F5.6, ~1/150sec, Kodak RG 100]
At about 9:00AM we see our first Albatross. The birds are actually officially called Black-Footed Albatrosses. They are big birds with a wingspan of up to almost 7 feet (2.1M). I try chumming them with some bread, but for some reason they are not interested. It is fun to watch the Albatross swoop low along the waves. They disappear in the troughs, and then come gliding back out at the crests. I watch them for hours expecting to see one make a miscalculation and crash into a wave; but it never happens. They are very graceful birds. Watching the Albatross becomes even more fun after Sebastian and I take a Dramamine. It’s not terribly windy, but very bouncy and nauseating. The Dramamine makes me woozy and lazy.
By about 10:00AM, the Kerouard Islands drop below the horizon and we are alone on the sea. The Kerouard Islands are the absolute southern tip of the Charlottes. They are desolate, uninhabited islands to the south of even Cape Saint James. As far as I know, only seabirds inhabit them. The weather is very “marine-ish”. We have some blue sky, but also a lot of low-lying clouds. The barometer has been pretty steady, rising a little in the last 5 hours. Despite the “good” weather, the thermometer in the cockpit reads 50F (10.0C). This is consistent with prior experiences sailing on the North Pacific. The water temperature is about 50F (10.0C), and the air is about 50F (10.0C). With about 15 knots of wind, this actually feels pretty damn cold. On my upper body I have on a long sleeve T-shirt, two Pategonia tops, and a down vest. On my lower body I have my long johns on under my foul weather gear. I am also wearing wool gloves. Despite all the clothing, it is still cold. Looking west at Cape Saint James (I think) as we depart the Charlottes. [80-200mm, F5.6, 1/320sec, Kodak RG 100]
The day rolls on. We are mellow and conditions are good. We are motor sailing with both jib and main up and the ever-faithful Mercedes motor throttled back. Ben & I play chess on Sebastian’s miniature magnetic chessboard. He beats me easily and I am too dejected to try again. I try reading, but can’t seem to keep my attention on the book due to the affects of the Dramamine. Around 11:00AM, we see our first vessel since Cape Saint James. It is a freighter of some type – 6 miles away and “hull down”. I carefully make some Quesadillas for lunch. Due to the motion, everything takes about twice as long to do as normal. Movements are limited as we use one hand to hang on to something and the other hand to actually do something. I take a few hour power nap as I know I probably wont get too much sleep tonight.
By 5:00PM we are pretty much in the dead center of Queen Charlotte Sound. Sebastian ejects bottle #4 and we duly note it in the logbook. Conditions are getting milder. We have gone from about 6 – 8 foot (1.8 – 2.4M) waves and 10 – 15 knots of wind to 3 foot (0.9M) waves and 5 – 10 knots of wind. The barometer has been rising all day and is now up 5 millibars (0.14 in) to 1036 millibars (30.59 in). During the afternoon we have passed about three fishing boats off in the distance. The Mercedes drones on.
Later in the evening, Ben makes us all baked potatoes for dinner. The wind has pretty much completely died and now it is just lumpy with about a three foot (0.9M) confused sea running. The jib is now down, the main is prevented out to prevent it from banging around. We have the motor up to full cruising RPM’s. Conditions seem to be changing and we are desperately hoping for a northwesterly so that we can sail into Queen Charlotte Strait in style. There us a bizarre cloud formation in front of us. Sebastian predicts that it is fog. The Patience Nav Station. [20mm, F2.8, 1/60sec, Flash, Fuji Velvia]
Sebastian has identified several Storm-Petrels flying around us. They look like small sparrows or swallows fluttering around. Sebastian tells us that according to our book Birds of Coastal British Columbia, the reason the bird is called a Storm-Petrel is that ancient mariners believed the presence of the bird foretold an approaching storm. With all due respect to the ancient mariners and sea lore, we prefer to watch our barometer, listen to the reports from weather buoys and see what the fishermen are doing.
At 10:00PM we start picking up weather 2 on the VHF. We have been out of range of VHF weather for about the last 12 hours. The forecast sounds mellow & buoys are reporting 4 – 6 knots of wind and 4 foot (1.2M) seas. It is pretty damn calm. We continue on as the sun sets at around 10:15PM. The sunset is a bit of a let down, but the eight dolphins that skitter across our bow for a minute or two are not. They don’t play long, but head off to spend the night somewhere else. Ben and Jose take the watch and Sebastian and I get some shuteye. Before hitting the bunk, I try calling the marine radio operator to try and patch a call through to Amy. It is our engagement anniversary. Unfortunately I am not able to raise anyone.
Some time around 1:00AM, Ben gets me up, concerned about a bright light on the horizon. I sleepily look at the empty radar screen and tell him he’s nuts. Ben insists a freighter is about to run us down, so I climb up to the cockpit and look for the supposed light. Sure enough, over in the east is a light that is bright enough to be a Boeing 747 with landing lights on, performing an emergency water landing. However, it is very far way. We watch the light for about 15 minutes and it slowly fades away. We later conclude that it was planet rising over the horizon; probably Venus or Mars. Very far away indeed. I head back to sleep. The picture on the Patience's radar screen in the middle of Queen Charlotte Sound. An unusual sight for us... no targets at 24 mile range. [20mm, F2.8, 1/60sec, Flash, Fuji Velvia]
Ben gets me up for my watch at about 2:20AM. Soon everyone else is asleep and I am alone. We are entering Queen Charlotte Strait and are 30 nautical miles from the mouth. Besides the running lights, the boat is totally dark. The brightest light on the boat is the stern light, which reflects off our American ensign. A fog has rolled in and there is zero visibility. I can’t see anything beyond the boat; it is like motoring into an inky, black void. Fortunately the radar continually revolves, casting its invisible beams into the murk. We are on 24 mile mode and there is absolutely nothing on the screen. The water is almost oily calm. There are at least 10 birds (I suspect far more), that are continually circling around the boat, squeaking and squawking. Once in a while I can see them in the glow of the running lights. The water is very phosphorescent. The bow wave is glowing, and it seems like there are phosphorescent eels scooting away as the Patience cruises forward. We are fighting the ebb out of Queen Charlotte Strait, but the tide will change in about 3 hours. Landfall in Queen Charlotte Strait after the fog clears. Scarlett Point lighthouse. [80-200mm, F5.6, ~1/800sec, Kodak RG 100]
Sebastian takes the watch some time around 4:40 or 5:00 and I thankfully pass out below. My blissful sleep is short lived as Sebastian wakes me back up at about at 6:00AM. It is still very foggy and there is a lot of traffic nearby on the radar screen. We hold our course and shortly afterwards, we see a cruise ship and the Queen of the North through the fog. Both are northbound out of Queen Charlotte Strait toward the Prince Rupert. Shortly afterward we sight our first land since the Charlottes – Hope Island off the north end of Vancouver Island. We are headed to Port Hardy via Gordon Channel and Christie Passage. We get out the cell phones, and sure enough we get a dial tone. I call Amy and my Dad, and Sebastian calls Shelly. We haven’t been able to talk to anyone at home since Sandspit, 5 days ago.
By about 10AM the fog has pretty much cleared and it is looking like a beautiful day. We start peeling off layers of pategonias, long underwear and foul weather gear. The VHF is a chatter box – a strange contrast to the radio silence we encountered while crossing Queen Charlotte Strait. We have been underway for 29 hours and should be in Port Hardy by about noon. Patience docked at the public wharf at Port Hardy. [35-70mm, F11, ~1/500sec, Kodak RG 100]
We arrive at Port Hardy at noon. Our passage from the Queen Charlottes has taken a total 31 hours. On our way in, I call Comox Coast Guard on the VHF and close our sail plan for the last time. Docking at Port Hardy ends up being a little hairy. Due to sleepiness and the 12 – 15 knot north wind, I underestimate our leeway and we crash into the dock prematurely. Fortunately we don’t damage anything and are soon safely moored at the public wharf. Port Hardy has two public wharves; the “outer wharf”, where we are moored, and an inner wharf farther to the southwest. The inner wharf is better protected, but seems to be primarily used by fishing boats.
We have many errands to do; the highest priority of which is to empty the trash. It has been 6 days since we were last able to dump trash and despite our careful packing and compacting, things are getting gross. After empyting the trash, we head up to town to try and get Sebastian home and pick up some provisions.
Those of you who have read Around Vancouver Island will know I am not a fan of Port Hardy. I am happy to report (especially to the people who emailed me and said Port Hardy is a great place) that our impressions of Port Hardy this trip were much better than in 1995. We now believe there is a high degree of correlation between the weather and ones assessment of a port of call. When we visited Port Hardy in 1995 the weather was miserable; thus our assessment. Today is beautiful. Enough said. Downtown Port Hardy. Looking east into Hardy Bay. [35-70mm, F11, ~1/500sec, Kodak RG 100]
In our brief three hours in Port Hardy I see parts of the town that I didn’t experience in 1995. We walk west up the main road from the wharf and there are an abundance of stores; liquor, grocery, hardware, video rental, etc. They even have our favorite store: “Bargains, Bargain, Bargains”. The walk from the public wharf is only about ½ a mile. Sebastian is successful in finding a route home. He manages to find a flight from Port Hardy to Vancouver and then an Alaska Airlines flight to Seattle. The best part is that for once, the flight is semi reasonably priced. Normally you have to give up your first-born to fly out of places like this. We bid Sebastian farewell as he hurriedly takes a shuttle van off to the Port Hardy airport to catch his plane.
There is now a general feeling of depression among the remaining crew. Sebastian is gone, we have successfully crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and now all that is left is a sprint home through relatively familiar territory. The great adventure is over. To cheer ourselves up, we head to the restaurant at the top of the wharf for some grease burgers.






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Adventures in the Charlottes was written by Tim Whelan.
All pictures and text ©Tim Whelan 1998-1999.
For useage, please see my copyright notice.