Home ||| Intro ||| Contents ||| Index ||| Chart ||| Previous Chapter ||| Epilogue ||| Subscribe
Chapter 13—The Mad Dash to Get Home
Sunset in Blackeye Passage. [20mm, Unknown Exposure, Fuji Velvia] The remaining three crew departs Port Hardy by 3:00PM. Our departure from the wharf is almost as hairy as our entrance due to the now stiff northwesterly blowing us into the dock. However, with the reliable Mercedes cranking out maneuvering horsepower and help from some fishermen on the dock, we get out. As soon as we get into Hardy Bay, it becomes evident that there is some excellent sailing to be had. I winch up the main and jib and what follows is the best five-hour sail of the entire trip. The wind is blowing about 20 knots and we rock down Queen Charlotte Strait. At about 5:00PM I see what I initially think is a Boston Whaler jumping off a wave. When I see it again however, I realize is a single whale breaching. I point him out to the guys, but he doesn’t surface again. By sunset we are still sailing and are entering Blackfish Sound. In Blackfish Sound we watch the most dramatic sunset of the entire trip unfold behind us. Just when we think the color in the sky has reached peak saturation, the colors get a little better. I talk about a roll of pictures. The entire area at the northwest end of Johnstone Strait is amazingly beautiful. I don’t remember the this part of the Strait being this beautiful when Amy and I came up three weeks ago, but I think it had clouded over by this point.
We decide to go to Growler Cove for the night. We select Growler Cove because it happens to be convenient and nearby; it has started to get too dark. We anchor deep in the cove in 20 feet (6.1M) of water at low tide. It is dead calm and I only put out about 75 feet (22.9M) of rode. Although we didn’t see much of it, Growler Cove seems like a nice anchorage; a good stopover for anyone needing a resting spot after transiting Johnstone Strait. The anchorage is not very large, but would probably hold a few boats. The water temperature at Growler Cove is 60.8F (16.0C). We are the only boat in the cove besides some kayakers. We talk for about an hour and go to bed. Whale in Johnstone Strait. West of Havannah Channel (West Cracroft Island). [80-200mm, F2.8, Unknown Shutter Speed, Fuji Velvia]
We are up bright and early the next morning at 5:00AM. We are headed to Campbell River via Seymour Narrows. The weather is good and Johnstone Strait is flat calm. This is markedly different from when Amy and I came north up the Strait 3 weeks ago.
After a breakfast of toasted bagels, we see 10 – 15 killer whales right near Adam River. The whales are headed north and we take a few photos and then bid them farewell. We will be fighting the ebb until about 11AM and then the current will change. We are aiming for 5:00PM slack at Seymour Narrows.
The day is uneventful, but the weather is beautiful. The barometer is at 1036.5 millibars (30.61 in) and it is about 80F (26.7C) in the cockpit.. Slightly before Hardwicke Island, the tide changes and we start making better time. Curiously, the ebb hasn’t slowed us down too much in the morning anyway. We literally race through Race Passage at speeds not normally seen by the Patience. We reach 11.5 knots (over the ground) and manage to maintain over 10 knots for 30 – 40 minutes. The flood is running at 3.8 knots through Race Passage. Further down at Ripple Point, the flood is running at 5+ knots, but for some reason we don’t see the same speeds we saw in Race Passage. Tug with tow (in marginal control) in Discovery Passage near Chatham Point. [80-200mm, F4, 1/500sec, Fuji Velvia]
About an hour later we exit Johnstone Strait and enter Discovery Passage. Discovery Passage and Seymour Narrows are uncharted waters for the Patience. We are still very tired, and perhaps just a little hungover from yesterdays Captain Morgans. While cruising down Discovery Passage, we pass several tugs with tows. They are all going slow, biding their time waiting for slack water. Their slow speed makes their tows behave erratically and we sometimes have a hard time getting around them. We see some cool rapids and whirlpools near Turn Island, but other than that, nothing slows our rapid progress toward Seymour Narrows.
To pass the time, I set up what I dub as the “sail-cam”. The sail-cam is our video camera, jury rigged with my tripod onto Patience’s twin backstays. The idea is that the sail-cam will record our passage through treacherous Seymour Narrows in case I am pre-occupied steering. Seymour Narrows has a bad reputation. The Narrows is subject to very strong currents and is also the main thoroughfare for all commercial traffic using the Inside Passage. The main hazard to navigating the Narrows however, was permanently removed in 1958 when Ripple Rock was blown to smithereens. The rock, which used to be 9 feet (2.7M) below chart datam in the middle of the Narrows, apparently caused vicious overfalls and whirlpools. According to Bill Wolferstan’s book, Desolation Sound, prior to the rock’s removal, the Narrows had claimed 114 lives and 14 major vessels sunk or damaged. Over 100 small vessels have been lost on the Narrows. The 'sailcam'. Setting up the equipment was more exciting than the footage we recorded. [20mm, Unknown Exposure, Fuji Velvia]
We get to the entrance to Seymour Narrows at 2:30PM. We are two and a half-hours ahead of schedule and the Narrows are still running at 12.4 knots. We decide to hold in Brown Bay and wait until the flood eases; or until we see someone else go through. About an hour and fifteen minutes before slack, all the boats waiting for slack seem to collectively decide it is time to go. The Narrows are still flooding at about 6 knots. We head south in a big caravan of sailboats, fishboats and tugs. We have the 6 knot current running with us. Our caravan goes right over the nub that is left of Ripple Rock and we can’t even tell it is there. The eddies and whirlpools get a little interesting near Race Point, but nothing terribly exciting. Overall, our transit of the Narrows turns out to be a bit of an anticlimax. I make a note to try going through about two hours before slack on our next transit.
It is baking hot when we arrive in Campbell River about half an hour later. There are several marinas at Campbell River, and we chose to moor at the Discover Harbor Marina. The marina is on some type of Indian Reserve and was built in the early '90s. As a result, it is a nice, new, large marina. Despite all the apparent dockage, they barely have space for us. I would recommend calling ahead for reservations if you want to stay here during prime season. The marina itself has great facilities including two nice showers (a loony gets you about 2 – 3 minutes hot water), laundry, a marine store and at least one pub and restaurant. The showers, bathrooms and laundry are in the same building as the pub. The dock staff is friendly and professional and the docks are equipped with water and power (30 and 50 amp). One night’s moorage for the Patience was C$39. A much needed Starbucks. Business park near Discovery Harbor Marina in Campbell River. [20mm, F8, 1/60sec, Fuji Velvia]
Behind the marina is a new business development that has a host of stores including: Zellers, a food Superstore, a liquor store, at least two banks, several restaurants, and best of all, a Starbucks. Before showers, the entire crew goes up and buys the biggest Frappacino’s available. Afterwards, we monopolize the showers for about an hour as we have our first non-hot spring showers since Prince Rupert. That evening we BBQ steaks and potatoes on the grill and enjoy a beautiful evening with a few beers. The Patience is by far the rattiest looking boat on the entire finger pier; million dollar yachts surround us. We console ourselves by being content in the knowledge that our adventure was probably a lot more exciting that theirs. The guys stay up and watch Scream on the VCR, but I am way too exhausted due to sleep deprivation. I pass out into a blissful sleep. Substitute for missing Anthony Island? Totem pole in Discovery Harbor Marina. [20mm, F8, 1/60sec, Fuji Velvia]
The next morning I wake after having the best and longest sleep I’ve had since Amy left. I get up and put freshwater on the boat. I am too lazy to check how close we are to empty, but I know there can’t be a lot left; we haven’t filled up since Prince Rupert, 10 days ago. While we haven’t been taking showers, four guys still tend to use a lot of water just for dishes, drinking and washing hands and faces. I call Amy and then we depart Campbell River at about 11:00AM. Getting away from the finger pier is once again difficult as we are moored on the north side of the float and the stiff north wind is pinning us in. With some help from the dock staff we manage to get out without damaging our multi-million dollar neighbors, or our pride. Despite our short stay, I really liked Campbell River. I am excited to come back here with Amy. Looking north at the Cape Mudge lighthouse. Note light riptides. [35-70mm, F4, 1/160sec, Fuji Velvia]
By chance we catch the ebb out of Discovery Passage and we make 7 – 9 knots over the bottom for the first hour or so. We pass Cape Mudge on the port as we enter the Straits of Georgia. It is fun to finally see Cape Mudge; I have often heard it mentioned in books and on the VHF. Whatever wind was blowing in Campbell River, is not blowing on the Straits. It is oily calm. I am again disappointed, as I had been hoping for a good sail.
Once we are in the Straits of Georgia, we start to pick up to Comox Coast Guard Radio and the Comox weather forecast. The weather forecast is a thousand times easier to listen to than the North Coast forecast. Instead of taking 15 minutes to cycle through the forecast, the forecast cycles in 5 minutes. When you miss a buoy or station report up in the Charlottes, you have to wait 15 minutes to hear that report again. Here the report is repeated every 5 minutes. We have also started to pick up our favorite Coast Guard dispatcher. This particular gentleman has a wonderful French-Canadian accent. His radio etiquette and dry sense of humor has entertained us since we first heard him back in 1995. We constantly monitor both 16 and 22A to listen to his ongoing commentary. Today, a sailboat has run aground somewhere around Lasquetti Island. Our dispatcher friend at Comox is coordinating getting the sail boater some assistance. A helpful boater tries to assist potential rescuers find the grounded sailboat by noting on the VHF that, “it’s the only sailboat in the bay anchored at a tilt”. South Campbell River. [80-200mm, F4, 1/640sec, Fuji Velvia]
It is a scorching hot day and the mercury exceeds 90F (32.2C) at its peak. There is no wind, the Straits are calm as glass, and there is not a cloud in the sky. We stop and take two swim breaks in the middle of the Straits. The water in the middle of the Straits of Georgia is a relatively balmy 65F (18.3C); well above the Patience’s swimability threshold. We all dive in and swim around the Patience while she drifts. I take the opportunity to clean up the boot stripe. After swimming, we continue south. There are not many boats out and I navigate from a comfortable seat on the bow, novel in hand. Sisters Islets Lighthouse, near Lasquetti Island. [80-200mm, F4, ~1/320sec, Fuji Velvia]
By about 6:30PM we are nearing Lasquetti Island. We take Stevens Passage and pass between Lasquetti Island and the Sisters Islets. At 9:47PM the sun sets in a red ball behind us and we still don’t know where we are going to spend the night. Ben and Jose fall asleep and I decide to head to Silva Bay at the southeast end of Gabriola Island. It is relatively close, and I have been there before – albeit many years ago.
After sunset, the wind starts to blow out of the north at about 20 knots. By 12:30AM we are at the north entrance to Silva Bay, near Rowboat Point. I try the spotlight, but its beam doesn’t pierce the pitch-black night; there is no moon. Fortunately, I can see the narrow entrance to Silva Bay on the radar screen and Visual Navigation Suite. I proceed slowly in, spending half my time below with the electronics and the other half peering into the blackness trying to see something that will help orient me. I go about ½ a nautical mile down Commodore Passage and then turn west and proceed into Silva Bay proper. Needless to say, the entrance to Silva Bay is encumbered by an ugly rock called Shipwreck Rock in the middle of the east channel. The passage around the rock is tight and I am disoriented because I can’t see squat. I consider bagging the entrance a few times, but ultimately just continue on in, dead slow. Silva Bay. [35-70mm, F8, 1/125sec, Fuji Velvia]
Fortunately, all goes well and we successfully pass Shipwreck Rock and enter Silva Bay at 1:30AM. Interestingly, it appears there are a lot of boats anchored. I use the radar to locate the approximate center of the bay and do my best to visually keep us clear of all the anchored other boats. I put out 140 feet (42.7M) of scope (the water is 30 feet [9.1M] deep) because I can’t see how much anchor chain has rattled out in the darkness. Once everything is secure, I pull a sleeping bag into the cockpit and pass out.
The next morning I am up bright and early with the sun. I am planning on going to Roche Harbor to clear customs and spend the night. It is a beautiful morning and the anchorage is full of boats. By 8:15AM I have the anchor up and we are on our way out of Silva Bay. Navigating Commodore Passage and Shipwreck Rock are 1000% easier by daylight. I set a course back out to the Straits of Georgia. We will go about 8 nautical miles in the Strait and then head west through Porlier Pass into the Gulf Islands. We are certainly in familiar waters. Riptides at Porlier Pass. [80-200mm, Unknown Exposure, Fuji Velvia]
We transit Porlier Pass in style with a 3.0 knot ebb helping us along. The transit is fun, only complicated by a few turns to avoid the various rocks and reefs strewn in the pass. The three knot ebb poses no problem for us, but I probably wouldn’t try going through the pass with much more than 4 or 5 knots of current (if you are a full-keeled sailboat at least) due to the turns that need to be made. Our trip through the Gulf Islands is typically uneventful. In Captain’s Passage near Prevost Island, I look around and am able to count over 50 boats underway within eyesight. The Gulf Islands and San Juans are in peak season! I remark that this is probably more boats than we have seen in total since leaving Prince Rupert.
We arrive at Roche Harbor at 4:15PM and pull into the U.S. Customs dock. Those that have been to Roche will know that the customs dock is in the center of the harbor and is a literal hub of activity; not the kind of place where you want to screw up docking. As we pull in, my brother Ben jumps to the dock to presumably catch the stern line. I toss him the line and he misses it. The Patience drifts out a bit further and I re-throw the line. Ben misses the line once again. I make a final throw of the stern line, and Ben misses my throw for the third time. Argh. Now I have no crew (Jose is on the dock and had to throw his bow line back on the boat) and the Patience has drifted off the pier. I have to redo my docking approach in a chaos of bobbing Bayliners and irritated people waiting to clear customs. It isn’t pretty, but we finally get moored. Lighthouse on Race Point--near Polier Pass. Straits of Georgia in background. [80-200mm, F5.6, 1/320sec, Fuji Velvia]
After clearing customs, we head out into the middle of the harbor and drop the hook. It is a beautiful day with the temperature about 74F (23.3C). To get back at Ben for his docking screw-ups, I decide I to push him in to the harbor for a swim. As we are getting in the Avon, I ask him to check the water temperature. As he leans over, I give him a good shove. Unfortunately, what happens next is completely unplanned. Somehow, as he goes in, Ben gets his spidery arms around me and pulls me right in with him. Next thing, both Ben and I are swimming in Roche Harbor. We both get out, soaking wet. I somehow manage to save my glasses, but my wallet has fallen out of my shorts and is missing. All in all, my plan has gone completely astray, and I am pissed about losing my wallet. More about what finally happens with my wallet in the Epilogue of this story. Sunset at Roche Harbor. Looking west. [Unknown Lens, Unknown Exposure, Kodak RG 100]
We go in to shore in the Avon and take showers. We run into my other brother John (who is Ben’s twin brother) who has driven up from Seattle to meet us. All four of us go to dinner at the Roche Harbor Resort restaurant. Somehow Jose manages to snag us 8:45PM reservations at a window table. We watch colors and I have a wonderful end-cut of Prime Rib. Ben amuses the waitress by ordering “steak and potatoes”.
After dinner, we head to the bar. Jose & I don’t stay long, but the twins are in prime form and keep going until late in the night. The next morning, I wake at 6:00AM, ready to head home for Seattle. Ben and John are crashed out in the salon looking disheveled from their night of partying. Ben has decided that he will drive home with John from Roche Harbor instead of going via the Patience. As a small piece of revenge for the prior day, I take pleasure in dropping the two of them off at the customs dock at 6:30AM.
With only Jose and I left as crew, we head out Mosquito Pass across the Straits of Juan de Fuca. We are literally on the last leg of the trip. I am hoping to have us home at Elliot Bay Marina by 6:00PM. We exit, riding the tide down the southwest side of San Juan Island. Lime Kilm Point. South side of San Juan Island. Straits of Juan de Fuca to right. [Unknown Lens, Unknown Exposure, Kodak RG 100]
At 10:15AM Jose and I jettison the fifth bottle of our trip. As of writing this story, this is the only bottle I have heard back on. I think I have finally figured out the best way to play the tides when crossing the Straits of Juan de Fuca from Roche (headed to Point Wilson). When you are headed south across the Straits, the best thing is to leave Roche Harbor on the ebb. Precisely when to leave during the ebb depends on the speed of your boat. The ebb helps you out of Mosquito Pass and down the southwest side of San Juan Island. If you do it right, slack water will occur when you are in the middle of the Straits (where there isn’t a whole lot of current effect anyway). Then, the flood begins and you get sucked into Admiralty Inlet and the Puget Sound. In general, the currents in north Puget Sound are greatest around Admiralty Inlet, so it doesn’t matter as much if you end up fighting the ebb for your last few hours into Seattle.
Despite the fact that there is little wind, our Straits crossing proves to be fairly eventful. During the first half of our crossing, a small powerboat comes over to us and asks us where the nearest place is to “get gas”. They have no charts and seem to be navigating by the seat of their pants. I point them towards Friday Harbor as best I can, and tell them to be careful in case of rip tides in San Juan Channel. They jet off and I keep my fingers crossed that all goes well for them. About an hour later, we hear a conversation on the VHF between the U.S. Coast Guard and the s/v Ondelay (spelling?) who has lost her Zodiak. They give a waypoint where the dinghy was lost, which is almost right on our intended course. We keep a sharp lookout for the Zodiak, but unfortunately we don’t see it. About an hour later, we see some action through the binoculars in the rip tides off Point Wilson. While we are close enough to Whidbey Island to avoid the rips, a few other northbound powerboats and sailboats are not. While there is not much wind opposing the dying ebb, there is still 3 or 4 knots of current butting up against the low westerly swell. Through the binoculars I watch several boats slow way down and make radical course adjustments as they hit the rip tides. Seattle. Cascade Mountain range in background. [Unknown Lens, Unknown Exposure, Kodak RG 100]
Finally, to top the day off, we are passed by a nuclear sub as we enter Admiralty Inlet. The dispatcher on the VHF Vessel Traffic Management station (5A) refers to the nuke as simply Submarine 1. The nuke is under her own power and in my judgement is doing in excess of 20 knots as she passes us about ½ nautical mile away. It is a pretty amazing sight; I have never been so close to a sub going so fast. She slows down to around 15 knots as she passes Point Wilson and heads towards Hood Canal. We wallow in her wake and hope that the video footage I took won’t jeopardize national security.
After the sub passes us, I start preparing for our arrival in Seattle. Jose makes a brave attempt to finish off our remaining beers, but is unsuccessful. It is a beautiful day, 77F (25C), barometer at 1033 millibars (30.50 in). Near Seattle, the ever-faithful Mercedes clicks over its 3,000th hour.
It is nice to back in the U.S.. We really know we are home when we hear a couple familiar hails on the VHF. The hails essentially go something like this:
“Hey, idiot skipper, nice wake! Slow it down!”
Home sweet home! At 5:30PM we turn east around West Point and can see Elliott Bay Marina with Mount Rainier and Seattle in the background. Amy, Barkley, showers and all the other pleasantries of home wait us. It has been a great trip, a great adventure, but we are home.






Home ||| Intro ||| Contents ||| Index ||| Chart ||| Previous Chapter ||| Epilogue ||| Subscribe

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