Dinghy adrift, grandparents, and orcas by Caroline Van Hemert

We are now solidly in Alaska, cruising up the west side of Prince of Wales Island. We’ve had an incredible stretch of southeast sunshine, eight days and running. With the sun, though, comes the northwest wind, which has made sailing difficult or impossible many days. We can plot our course by looking up at the wind vane: whichever way the wind is blowing is opposite the direction we intend to travel. But for now, we will take a little motoring in exchange for what feels like a pleasant, cooler version of the tropics, with spruce and cedar forests, black bears, wolves, and salmon. This morning, Pat woke up to a humpback blowing in the cove where we were anchored and, soon after, we heard sandhill cranes, and spotted a black bear on the beach. On the southern part of the island, which is a designated wilderness area, there is little sign of logging or other disturbance. By the time this posts, we will likely be a bit farther north, near the communities of Craig and Klawock. We’ve had a full week and a half, with the crossing of Dixon Entrance into Alaska, a visit from our first sleep-aboard guests, and more wildlife sightings as we travel north.

Six years ago, we spent several nights camped at Cape Fox, a small point of land that juts out into Dixon Entrance just north of the Alaska-Canada border. On that trip, we were traveling north in our 18’ rowboats in April. We hadn’t seen another boat for days. We stopped at Cape Fox to take shelter from a gale that quickly turned into a storm. After the first night, we thought the weather might be improving so poked out several miles before being chased back, frightened and humbled. Soon, the wind blew so hard that ferries were cancelled, sea spray reached us far inland, and we clearly had no business being out in small boats. This time around, in mid-July, the sun shone and the water was as still as Dixon Entrance ever is, with just a low westerly swell that rose to meet the rocks with a quiet, steady crash.

To assuage our sentimental sides, and give us all a chance to stretch our legs after 2.5 days straight on the boat, we decided to stop here with the boys and visit our old campsite. We anchored in the small, sheltered bight between Fox Island and the mainland, then rowed Marshmallow to the same beach where we’d landed our rowboats, desperate and relieved. The afternoon was warm, and we planned on a quick stop so took only a basic shore kit. With the boys, we passed our old campsite by the enormous cedar tree, then hiked over to the other side, where a quarter-mile long beach offered tidepooling, sand running, deer tracks, and memories. But just as we began to eat our sandwiches, the sky unleashed. Within ten minutes, we were all drenched. By the time we got back to Marshmallow, two inches of water stood on its bottom.  As we climbed onto Chaika, I heard: “It’s good we have our water shoes on for all this rain, isn’t it, Mommy?” Huxley‘s knack for pointing out the seemingly obvious, with a toddler’s version of the profound, is becoming legendary in our family. Most recently, while relieving himself overboard, he commented, “When we pee in the ocean, it gets fuller.” 

That night, we anchored at Foggy Bay, where we met a friend-of-a-friend from Haines, whose 27’ boat was moored near ours. They had been waiting for four days to cross Dixon Entrance so we considered ourselves lucky to have a quick transit, with only moderate swell. The next morning, we went to explore the interesting reef and coastline. Pat and I often take turns exercising on shore. One of us hunts for crabs or goes for a mini-hike with the boys while the other comes up with a workout of sorts—beach sprints, dips on a log, push-ups in the sand. Anything to keep us from feeling too boat-bound and sedentary.  That morning, I exercised, we swapped, and then it was Pat’s turn. There were berries on shore so the boys and I were busy picking. Pat was occupied by squat jumps when he looked up and saw Marshmallow, our dinghy, floating away with the wind. We always tie off Marshmallow, even when the tide is falling, in part because adventures with the boys carry us to unknown destinations with an unknown schedule (though we can pretty much count on everything taking longer than we ever imagined). Except this time of course. There weren’t any logs or rocks nearby for a convenient tie-off so we carried Marshmallow high up the beach and figured we would be right there to watch her anyway. Famous last words. As Pat sprinted down the beach and into the water, the boys squealed with excitement, “Go daddy, go!” Pat managed to reach the dinghy just before he had to start fully swimming. With the only neighboring boat now gone and a mile-wide bay for a dinghy to drift across, it could have been an epic morning instead of an entertaining spectacle for the boys.

We arrived in Ketchikan the next day to check in with Customs, resupply, and meet my parents who would be our first sleep-aboard guests. Unlike our last stop there in April, the city was in full summer swing, with more float planes, cruise ships, and fishing boats coming and going than I’ve seen just about anywhere. After encountering few people and little such activity for quite a few days, the busyness felt jarring, but the visit from my parents made up for any culture shock. The boys were thrilled to see Yaya and Bumpa and kept them busy on the boat and on shore, teetering from one side of the deck to the other, turning over every rock on the beach, “watering” weeds on the dock, and providing instruction on how the various parts of Chaika work. “OK, Yaya, now step here, and hold onto this rail, yep, right here, OK, now over the lifeline, see how I’m doing it.” Like ususal, my parents seemed to find the accommodations just fine when we headed out for an overnight sail to southern Gravina Island. As Huxley had so carefully planned, our family of 4 squeezed into the V-berth and my parents got cozy on the fold-down table. Huxley has developed the habit of migrating out of his nook created by a lee cloth and sleeping squarely in the middle of the V-berth. The fact that two adults were now occupying this space seemed to do little to discourage him and both Pat and I thought we were shoving each other out of the way when in fact it was Huxley we were wrestling all night. A small person with a big presence, even while sleeping.

But size, of course, is simply a matter of perspective. Pat happily informed me one evening while we were in Ketchikan working late in an attempt to finish all of our town tasks, “The boat has been feeling much bigger to me lately.” All of the hatches from the engine compartment were piled on our bench-turned-bed, an assortment of electronics, kids’ books, and dirty dishes were covering our single table, and the groceries we had just bought and not yet stored away covered the modest galley countertop. Spacious wasn’t exactly how I would describe our surroundings. Incredibly, he wasn’t joking, or even speaking in metaphorical terms. The boat just felt big. Go figure.

We woke on our last morning in Ketchikan to the fog horn blowing through a sky of mashed potatoes. By the time we pulled away from the dock, the sun had largely burned off the fog and we were happy to steer away from the busy channel. The fog worsened, though, just a couple of miles from town and we fine-tuned the operation of our radar, squinting to make sense of boats, reefs, islands. And, as it turned out, whales. Out of the mist to our port rose two orcas, likely a mother and calf judging by the size of their fins. Close enough to see even in the dense fog, the whales paralleled our course for several minutes before disappearing again. When two specks danced across the screen a few moments later, we worried that an unseen boat was approaching until we saw the whales surface again, this time with a third companion. For the next hour the trio swam near Chaika. Their sleek black fins rose magically from the surface before slipping into the fog, then appearing again as blips on the radar screen.

We plan to head north along Prince of Wales before veering west toward the southern tip of Baranof Island, making our way toward Sitka via an outside route. However, if the winds continue to blow against us, and strengthen as predicted, we may need to change course.

 

Leaving Cape Fox in a deluge. 

Leaving Cape Fox in a deluge. 

Learning from the knot master.  

Learning from the knot master.  

Raising the main.  

Raising the main.  

Nearing Ketchikan.  

Nearing Ketchikan.  

Does Mustang need a mascot? 

Does Mustang need a mascot? 

Good morning! 

Good morning! 

Sailing with my parents.  

Sailing with my parents.  

Dad & daughter.  

Dad & daughter.  

Grandma comfy in the bowsprit.  

Grandma comfy in the bowsprit.  

New Marshmallow captain.  

New Marshmallow captain.  

On board entertainment.  

On board entertainment.  

Bye, Yaya! 

Bye, Yaya! 

Crab hunting, one of our main pastimes.  

Crab hunting, one of our main pastimes.  

Watch out, world! 

Watch out, world! 

Misty morning.  

Misty morning.  

Orca in the fog.  

Orca in the fog.  

Rainforest hike.  

Rainforest hike.  

Prince of Wales blueberries.  

Prince of Wales blueberries.  

Whale watching.  

Whale watching.  

Humpback putting on a show.  

Humpback putting on a show.  

Another southeast swimming day.

Another southeast swimming day.

 

 

“I’m gonna catch our dinner.” 

“I’m gonna catch our dinner.” 

Dining on deck.

Dining on deck.

To Alaska...with a new alternator by Caroline Van Hemert

A boating blog wouldn’t be complete without some sort of engine trouble. A week ago, Pat and I rose early to slip away from Shearwater before the boys woke up. We made good time and were already ten miles into our day when we could no longer ignore the fact that our batteries still weren’t charging. This had been a recently nagging problem we hoped could be explained by a combination of sailing more (and thus running the engine less), a bout of rain (which meant less sun for our solar panels), and slow discharge over time (we hadn’t done a full charge since Bellingham). But after motoring for two hours and consulting with a friend who is savvy with all things boat-related, it was obvious that the alternator was not doing its job. As we throttled back the engine to decide what to do, Huxley climbed out of bed, looked around, and started wailing. “I wanted to see the docks before we left!”

Well, this time he was in luck as back we went to Shearwater. It was a Sunday, so other than finding available dock space where we could charge our flogging batteries (we’d previously been tied to the breakwater with no services), there was little to do besides visit the local playground again. We resigned ourselves to an indefinite wait for parts and a potentially expensive repair, while being grateful that the alternator had the courtesy to go out within shouting distance of the only full-service marina in the area. Lucky for us, we learned early Monday morning that the parts shop had a suitable replacement on hand. They had ordered a compatible alternator for a different boat and never ended up using it. By afternoon, the alternator was in, Pat had learned a bit more about diesel mechanics, and the boys caught a few more fish from the dock.

Two days and ninety miles later (many of these upwind sailing in stiff but steady offshore winds), we pulled into McMicking Inlet on the west side of Campania Island, where Caamano Sound meets Hecate Strait. These outside islands see strong wind and surf, which make for dramatic scenery, rocky islets, and lots of sand. Just outside the largely protected inlet are a series of white sand beaches frequented by wolves, deer, eagles, and gulls. Harlequin ducks, red-throated loons, murrelets, and guillemots use the clear, protected waters where hundreds of tiny sandlance and other forage fish can be seen schooling below the dinghy. Hidden behind a thick fringe of cedars, the island also hosts an extensive peat bog forest, with bonsai-like fir trees surrounding big mounds of granite. It’s a fairy land of sorts, where wolves and marten leave their tracks and small boys scramble up one rock after the next. This was backcountry hiking we could manage.

Our first afternoon at the inlet, we met Paer, a Swedish sailor, photographer, and filmmaker who has been cruising in his 33’ sailboat for more than three decades. Most recently, he’s been living aboard year-round in British Columbia, exploring the coastline in search of wolves, wilderness, and, apparently, solitude. He connected immediately with our boys, and we soon learned that he had spent several years cruising with his wife and two sons. The boys are grown now, and his wife prefers to stay home in Sweden pursuing other passions, but he recalls his family’s sailing days as the happiest of his life. With no fixed itinerary other than needing to resupply every month or so (he’d been out for six weeks when we saw him), Paer seems in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. He told us about a month he spent in an uncharted lagoon just south of where we met him, after entering at high tide and later realizing he wouldn’t have a suitable exit for four weeks. “It was quite nice,” he said. Like Pat and me, he and his wife began sailing in part because they didn’t want to stop exploring wild places when they had children. But Paer’s first passion for sailing came when he and his brother hitched a ride south on a research vessel leaving Svalbard in 70 knot winds and were put on watch and instructed to wake the captain if “anything happened.” Twelve meter seas and black water crashing over the bow were apparently within the realm of normal as the boat pounded on, the waves curled and broke, and yet “nothing happened.” He explained that the boat would come to a near-complete stop when hit with a wave equivalent to the height of a 4+ story building, then, with a gust, sail on. This, Paer said, “impressed him severely” and he decided that someday he would get a boat designed by Colin Archer, the builder of the Svalbard ice-breaker. So came Sjoa, which he constructed himself. Our Westsail, similar to Sjoa, is also a product of this man’s sea-faring designs (based on Rescue Boat #122, which was among Archer’s 200+ boat designs).

The boys continue to be in their element out here. They play hard, get dirtier than they’ve ever been, eat sand in their dinners, melt down in big, dramatic displays, laugh and cry and generally see nothing the slightest bit odd about life on a boat. Huxley’s first words to me this morning when he woke up to the anchor chain droppping in by his head were “Mommy, big clumps of seaweed mean there are rocks underneath.” Both boys have been embracing the cold water, and we had to drag them out of the surf at 9pm the night before we left McMicking Inlet. Dawson’s favorite phrase lately has been, “Big big ‘pash! Hoooj ‘pash!” (Translated as “big, big, huge splash,” which he has perfected as he jumps up and then immerses himself to his armpits in the water.)

We are now on the move again after three days of exploring. We’ll likely cross into Alaska by the end of the week, assuming Dixon Entrance doesn’t blow a gale. My parents will meet us in Ketchikan for some grandparent time and we are excited to see them soon. Huxley asked just a few minutes ago, after waking up to us on the move again, “Mommy, where are we trying to go this day? How about, this day, we go to see Yaya and Bumpa?” Yep, we’re on our way.

 

Happily working again.    

Happily working again. 

 

First catch. 

First catch. 

Campania Island beach

Campania Island beach

Paer, our first dinner guest.  

Paer, our first dinner guest.  

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Clear water fishing. 

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Dawson. No words needed.  

Wolf tracks in the sand. 

Wolf tracks in the sand. 

A person could get used to this life. 

A person could get used to this life. 

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Amazing seaside scrambling. 

Peat bog forests. 

Peat bog forests. 

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Wolf signs everywhere. 

 

“Summit” views.  

“Summit” views.  

A new friend.  

A new friend.  

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Goodbye Campania Island. 

Endurance by Caroline Van Hemert

Before having kids, my concept of endurance dwelled almost exclusively in the physical world. Endurance meant marathons and long, hard days in the mountains. It meant the taste of blood in the back of my throat, tendons aching under impossibly heavy loads, joints protesting over too many hours of abuse. It meant forging ahead even when my body said, “enough,” and “enough again.” Each time, coming out the other end, often slightly bruised and battered, but somehow enlightened, I felt the deep satisfaction of overcoming a personal challenge. As anyone who has ever set out to reach a physical goal knows, be it one mile or one thousand, such endeavors can teach us much about ourselves, and the world. When muscles can’t possibly manage another paddle stroke, blistered feet won’t bear another step, the mind has hit its metaphorical wall, there is no choice but to continue. Push beyond your comfort zone, and eventually there comes a moment of euphoria. This, I always thought, was the essence of endurance.

Here, on this boat, with a family of four, I am beginning to conceive of a different form of endurance. It fits more closely, perhaps, with the textbook definition: “persisting through unpleasantness.” Like when one child, and then the next, spills milk all over the cushions that can’t be washed, while yelling mommy, mommy! (as though I was the one who caused the cup to tip). Or when one child, and then the next, vomits all over the inside of our boat, conveniently spewing into the cracks and crevices of multiple hatches. Or when I want desperately to wake up and stretch and fix myself a cup of coffee, alone. But when I tiptoe the three steps to the stove, the floor creaks and I bang the tea kettle, and soon the whole boat is awake. There are no doors, no fore- or aft-cabins, no my space and yours. It is, in all of its tiny glory, simply our space, all of the time.

We are traveling along serene and often remote stretches of shoreline, anchoring in coves occupied only by rattling kingfishers and resting seals, but the volume of my life is louder than it’s ever been. Two boys with energy to burn and voices that want to be heard—more, now, me! The only quiet times are in those short evening hours when sleep finally comes. Those hours when Pat and I have a million small tasks to attend to. Scrub the dishes. Fix the leaking hatch and empty the sea strainer. Clean the sour milk from the unwashable cushions. Listen to the weather forecast on the VHF. Plan our route for tomorrow. Breathe.

Of course we’re here entirely of our own choosing. We’re here because we have sacrificed much of our “regular” lives to make this happen. We have saved and studied, packed and planned, and spent many late nights preparing for this trip. Still, every day begs the question of just what we have gotten ourselves into. Why give up our personal time, our fitness, our jobs, our proximity to friends and family for this constant chaos?

Fortunately, between gritted teeth, answers come frequently and definitively. Peer into the V-berth when two small boys are sleeping, bottoms raised, hands draped across their faces in that deep slumber that comes after a day of playing hard. See them discover, with great delight, that sea anemones squirt if you poke them. Try to keep a straight face when Dawson pees for the first time in the ocean, surprising himself most of all. Watch Huxley encounter death in the form of a squashed crow and hear him tell you, “I wish if it would fly away.” Feel the power of a humpback as it surfaces thirty feet from the boat. Listen to two tiny voices shout, “Raise the main, daddy!” Feel a soft warm body curl itself against yours as it burrows under your sleeping bag in the quiet morning fog. Tune your ears to a cacophony of voices, wavering between toddlers squealing from the beach, an eagle calling from a cedar snag, and thunder pounding its drum in the sky. Slow down long enough to realize that this time together is precious, and rare, and ever so fleeting.

So while my body doesn’t have that familiar, pleasant ache that comes after a long run or a day of skiing, the rewards of endurance are unmistakable, even out here. Endure, and euphoria shall follow. Eventually.

 

These two could tell you something about endurance.

These two could tell you something about endurance.

Huxley’s first fish.

Huxley’s first fish.

Rockfish chowder.

Rockfish chowder.

Proper 4th of July beach BBQ.

Proper 4th of July beach BBQ.

Makings of a sailor (maybe he can teach us a thing or two!)

Makings of a sailor (maybe he can teach us a thing or two!)

Sailing in the sunshine.

Sailing in the sunshine.

Pelagic Cormorants in Queen Charlotte Sound.

Pelagic Cormorants in Queen Charlotte Sound.

Tidepooling on Hunter Island.

Tidepooling on Hunter Island.

Sunset swim.

Sunset swim.

The shovel goes everywhere.

The shovel goes everywhere.

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Morning snuggles.

All seriousness here.

All seriousness here.

Tied to the breakwater at Shearwater near Bella Bella. Dock space was full prior to the fishing opening.

Tied to the breakwater at Shearwater near Bella Bella. Dock space was full prior to the fishing opening.

Mommy, are we in Hawaii? by Caroline Van Hemert

We crossed Queen Charlotte Strait and rounded Cape Caution four days ago, officially marking our journey into northern waters, where there are more bears, more lichen-draped trees, and many fewer communities. The stretch of open water between Vancouver Island and the British Columbia mainland is notorious for big swell and “boomers,” submerged reefs that explode when a wave passes over them. When we made this crossing in our rowboats six years ago, Pat and I would lose sight of each other behind each large swell. In our 32’ Westsail, which is capable of serious offshore sailing, we had little to worry about besides operator error, but the power of the ocean is unmistakable here. 

Fortunately, we had no seasickness on this bout of marginally rough water, only a minor case of sea-boredom. It can be hard for everyone to stay cheerful when sailing or motoring for long stretches, especially when we haven’t had a chance to stretch our legs all day (or sometimes two). The boys are fairly tolerant, and have yet to question the fact that we now live on a small boat, but they have energy to burn and Pat and I sometimes run out of creative ideas for entertainment.

Although I think we’re doing reasonably well considering that there are 4 people sharing a space the size of a large utility closet (and two of them are under the age of 4), our differing versions of time continue to frustrate us all.  Pat and I conceive of plans for this afternoon, tomorrow, next week, and next month. Huxley also has plans, but these revolve around next dinner, last dinner, the knot that he’s taking five minutes to tie as we’re all waiting to dock, or one hundred and eighty eight days from now. Dawson finishes breakfast and before he’s even dressed, he says “Nack?” Neither of them care much for our adult version of time, which is alternately too slow or too fast for their liking.

While underway, we rarely have emergencies, but we often have urgencies. Things must sometimes happen quickly, and correctly, and without small fingers or toes in the way. Sails can’t be left half-raised, our course can’t deviate into a rock or another boat, hatches can’t be swinging wildly or dumping their contents when we are heeled over. 

But urgency does not exist in toddler time. There is only now, in the slow, suspended moments of the present. The pace is set not by external forces like the size of waves or the strength of the wind, but by very particular desires and intentions. My sandwich must sit on the plate exactly like this. The fishing pole I am using should be strung, yet again, around the lifelines. I NEED to walk up to the bow of the boat in the most difficult way possible, even if it means I will trip on the sail lines and nearly knock my teeth out on the windlass. 

Nearly a week ago, on our way to a resupply at Port McNeill, we had an urgency borne not of sails or wind or a finicky engine, but of poop. It was a beautiful morning, with a hint of a breeze that hadn’t yet materialized enough to raise the sails, and we motored slowly, fishing along the way. All was well until the head clogged and we were suddenly running buckets onto deck. Meanwhile, Huxley needed to go, NOW, and Dawson had already gone, with a mess to follow. Suddenly, it was all hands below deck, with no one left to steer the boat. So we did the only logical thing: check for hazards, stop the engine, and start cleaning. Just when I was ready to lose my temper entirely, as Dawson thrashed around on the changing pad and Huxley whined to Pat that he wanted to put the toilet seat down in a different way, we heard a whoosh outside. When I peeked out the companionway, there was a humpback surfacing nearby, and we watched its tail fluke rise against the horizon as it dove.

So we found ourselves whale watching on a beautiful stretch of ocean, in the midst of poop. Life could certainly be worse, even if we had a bit of stink to deal with. As though on cue, Huxley piped in, “That sure was good we stopped, wasn’t it mommy? So we could see the whale.” Leave it to a 4-year-old to remind us of what we’re doing here.

We are now in the Hakai Luxvbalis Conservancy adjacent to Calvert Island, where there is a research station and a small network of trails that lead to picturesque beaches and rocky headlands. After a stretch of rain, we woke up this morning to blue skies and the longest white sand beach anywhere on this stretch of coastline. Huxley asked me this evening whether we were in Hawaii, and upon learning that we weren’t said, “Is that where we’re going next?” Not exactly, but except for the trees, we could certainly pretend.

Crossing Queen Charlotte Strait.

Crossing Queen Charlotte Strait.



Somebody loves sailing.

Somebody loves sailing.

Midden beaches at Fury Cove. The white shells almost make it look sunny. 

Midden beaches at Fury Cove. The white shells almost make it look sunny. 

Rainforest hike. We don’t make it far these days when bushwhacking is involved.

Rainforest hike. We don’t make it far these days when bushwhacking is involved.

Fish Egg Inlet. 

Fish Egg Inlet. 

Knot master.

Knot master.

Almost Hawaii. 

Almost Hawaii. 



Beach time.

Beach time.

Life is good.

Life is good.

No time for Kombucha by Caroline Van Hemert

We spent last night at Echo Bay, a small marina with several float homes and a tiny elementary school where children in the surrounding area are transported not by school bus, but by school boat. In the summer months, the friendly harbor attracts everything from kayakers to 100’+ powerboats, including one rumored to be piloted by Jimmy Patterson.  Yesterday, it might have been the site of a classic sailboat show, with a dozen beautiful boats that had been sailed everywhere from the tropics to Newfoundland. During our short tenure at Echo Bay, we were hands-down the loudest, the stinkiest, and the most obtrusive presence on the docks. Two little people can make quite a scene. Fortunately many of the other boaters were of the grandparently type or young and free enough to feel happily unencumbered when they saw our reigning chaos.

A fellow biologist, also heading with her partner to Alaska, kindly gave me starter for brewing Kombucha tea. The instructions she provided were simple, but by step 3 (hold in a secure location in a large glass jar), it was obvious that its preparation could pose a problem on our boat for two reasons: 1) it takes time, which I have precious little of at the moment; 2) it requires that no one put their hands in the jar, spill its contents, or send it flying across the galley to break into a hundred shards. However, I needn’t have worried about the technicalities. We hadn’t even made it through breakfast clean-up before the Kombucha starter was no more. Pat saw a Tupperware full of what looked like the same sort of slime that accompanied our usual messes (somewhere on the spectrum of dirty diapers, pre-chewed food, and spoiled milk) and chucked it overboard. He didn’t bother asking what it might be, as the answer seemed obvious: something the kids produced, and something we didn’t want in our lives. No Kombucha for this crew. 

Yesterday, more than usual, I needed a long, solo run. (Actually, I needed a quiet cup of coffee, a few hours to work, and a long, solo run, but one out of three isn’t bad). To stretch our legs and burn off recent boat confinement, Pat and I took turns exploring the trails around the cove. These turned out to be largely overgrown, so calling this running was perhaps a stretch, but at least it involved sweating in the woods with no one hollering nearby. 

Despite the persistent high volume and high energy state of Chaika, she has taken us to some very serene places in the Broughton Islands. We’ve been tide pooling, rock hopping, rowing, and fishing in forested coves and along white shell midden beaches. After a number of days of this, we’ve established a fairly standard shore routine. As soon as we land, Huxley sets off up the steepest rock or into the thickest patch of forest while Dawson grins, attempts to follow his brother, and then quickly asks about a “Nack” (snack). Olives, freeze-dried peas, and dehydrated cherries are among the current repertoire of favorites. For us, each day offers new sights. For the boys, each day delivers a brand new world. They are not only rolling with the changes, they are rollicking, somersaulting, back-flipping, and generally loving life in the way that only kids can do.

Tonight we’re anchored at a quiet cove on Eden Island, where we were greeted by red-throated loons, great blue herons, and marbled murrelets. We will wake up tomorrow with an eager and noisy crew, ready for whatever adventure finds us.

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Huxley the climber. 

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Dawson ready for a snack. 

Fishing off the docks at Echo Bay. 

Fishing off the docks at Echo Bay. 

Family hike. 

Family hike. 

Trail “running” on Gilford Island. 

Trail “running” on Gilford Island. 

Giving it a good college try.

Giving it a good college try.

Name that knot. Or ask Huxley. 

Name that knot. Or ask Huxley. 

Sailing Johnstone Strait. 

Sailing Johnstone Strait. 

Deckhands by Caroline Van Hemert

While Pat and I are distracted by other tasks—steering the boat, hoisting sails, attempting to keep this hungry crew fed—Huxley and Dawson are busy making their own contributions to our northward progress. Everywhere, there is evidence of their work. Go to pull the staysail line and you might find a series of meticulously tied knots. Close the companionway hatch and down come a waterfall of clothespins. Look for a life jacket in the on-deck sleeve and instead encounter a collection of shovels. It’s not an easy job for these boys to continuously rearrange our attempts at order. In fact, each time we insist that the boots don’t go in the sink or the knots can’t be tied in every available on-deck line, there is usually severe protest. We are clearly messing up their systems. It’s a wonder they keep us at all. 

After several indulgent summer days on Hornsby Island, reveling in hot weather and swimming, the winds switched and we continued our passage north. We’re now most of the way through Johnstone Strait, which is known for its orca whales and strong northwesterlies in summer.  Currents in this area are impressive, in some places exceeding 14 knots. This means that getting our timing wrong is not an option as many of the narrows have rapids and whirlpools if attempting to transit at their peak flow. We went through Seymour Narrows and Current Passage yesterday without any trouble, and managed to sail most of the day with decent southeast winds. The wind switched abruptly in the evening, suddenly gusting hard from the northwest. We took down the sails, pounded into the waves for an hour and a half, and tucked into Port Neville on the eastern side of Johnstone. This time, I was wise enough to insist that we all get on deck as Chaika started to rock, well before the funny taste appeared in anyone’s mouth.

We also recently passed some of our old “cruising grounds,” where we had our first sailing adventure, of a very different nature than the current one. Fourteen years ago, we took a 27’ sailboat (Sirocco) up Bute Inlet to climb Mt. Waddington from the coast. This summer, such a plan seems like something from a different life entirely, though it’s hard to imagine that more than a decade has gone by.

The forecast is for more northwesterlies, so we’ll probably spend a few days exploring the surrounding area, including the Broughton Archipelago. We’ve been fortunate to find decent hiking and running options along the way, for Pat and me to nurse our sanity and maintain some semblance of fitness (beyond hoisting 30- and 40-lb boys over the lifelines). However, as we head north into wilder areas, with fewer trails and more cougars and bears to keep an eye out for, we will need to find more creative solutions. Packrafting, beach combing, and push-ups may be in our future.

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Summertime fun.

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Our sometimes cautious child has taken to the sailing life with gusto!

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Dinghy exploration of a “secret” cove.

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Lots of bald eagles, great blue herons, and belted kingfishers in the Gulf Islands.

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Scenic trail running on Hornsby Island.

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Swimmers!

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One of Huxley’s main birthday requests: climb the mast!

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Father’s Day sunset.

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All seriousness on this boat.

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Canopy views.

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Where old growth still stands, it is the land of big trees.

Seasickness, shovels, and birthday cake by Caroline Van Hemert

...fortunately not all at the same time. Yesterday brought our first day of big following seas in the Strait of Georgia. We were downwind sailing and all seemed well until things got just a little too rough for comfort. Chaika of course didn’t mind, but when Huxley said he had a funny taste in his mouth we knew it was time to pull in some sails. Turned out to be too late and breakfast ended up all over the galley floor. Dawson followed suit as soon as I had finished cleaning up the first mess. Once they went on deck and we resigned to easing the rocking with some motor assistance, everyone felt much better. I’m not sure what lesson we learned exactly, except that we all have our limits, and kids don’t necessarily know how to tell us when they are nearing theirs. This was the first sign of seasickness we’d seen. It was also a reminder that “all hands on deck” comes in a very reduced form for us, meaning that one person needs to be able to manage just about everything single-handedly.

Today we celebrated Huxley’s 4th birthday at a sandy beach on Hornsby Island. We had gorgeous sunshine for tidepooling and digging. Shovels continue to be one of our primary modes of entertainment, and, despite the fact that they are identical except in color, a source of incredible sibling strife. Red vs. yellow is apparently worth fighting for, and fighting hard.

Back on Chaika, we used the galley oven for the first time to bake a birthday cake. The 350 degree setting ramped up to 500 and the store-bought frosting was so sweet it made my teeth hurt, but the cake was deemed a success by the guest of honor. He had also requested kale salad and because we are now well-stocked on fresh produce after our stop in Nanaimo, we each had our serving of kale to offset the sugar. 

It continues to amaze me just how much time and energy it takes to keep an almost-2-year-old and newly-4-year-old occupied, happy, and safe on a sailboat. I have all the more respect for families who have forged this path ahead of us. It’s an odd mix of endless time and no time at all. I imagined I would have at least an hour or two a day to read and write, and instead we find ourselves squeezing in basic tasks late in the evening, between washing a pile of dishes, familiarizing ourselves with boat systems, checking weather and charts, and, yes, dealing with dirty diapers. It’s largely a matter of adjusting expectations, but it’s hard to know what falls in the realm of reasonable when reasoning is not always a toddler’s strong suit. (Or mine, for that matter, when it comes to having a screaming match over who is going to climb out of the dinghy first.) The strong north winds that brought in the sunshine are likely to stick around, so we’ll have a chance to see how it feels to be at one anchor for multiple days. The boys will no doubt wake up ready for another adventure tomorrow, none the wiser about weather, schedules, or anyone’s plans but their own!

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Dawson finding his sea legs.

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Fun at anchor.

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Huxley recovering from a bout of seasickness.

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Digging for sand dollars.

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Hiking with a color-coordinated shovel.

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Cool sandstone features along this island’s shore.

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The makings of a sailor.

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Happy birthday!

The basics by Caroline Van Hemert

Daily life on the sailboat spans the gamut from amazing to completely ordinary. We are in the Gulf Islands enjoying the early days of summer, which means catching crabs (so far only tiny ones that have crawled onto our toes), hiking through madrone forests, and watching seals, otters, and orca whales. Besides sailing and shore excursions, we are never far from the basics. As it does on most days, in most places, our schedule revolves largely around three things: eat, sleep, poop. The eating occurs in impressive abundance given that two of our crew are still under the age of 4. They are hungry boys indeed. The sleeping happens after a lot of wrestling in the V-berth, where Dawson behaves like a wound-up toddler in a padded playpen. This is essentially the nature of their beds so it’s easy to understand the confusion. Little brother is now relegated to some quiet time on the galley floor while big brother goes to sleep. The pooping happens in equal abundance as the eating, and only partially in the toilet (namely, Dawson). This means a lot of hand sanitizer, compostable diaper inserts, and opening of portholes. But, mostly, having all four of us crammed into a small space is a gift. We are together in a way that happens only rarely amongst the bustle of work, school, friends, and errands. Our attention is diverted, no doubt, by figuring out a new boat, remembering how to sail, and keeping one eye on the weather and waves, but the boys have us, and we have each other, always at arm’s reach (except for those occasional hours when Pat or I escape for a run or a little alone time on shore). Huge thanks to Will and Joan Miller for shepherding Chaika to us in such good condition, and for filling the boat with love and care. We will do our best to continue the tradition.

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Chaika at anchor in James Bay, Prevost Island.

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 “Fishing” off the dock on Wallace Island.

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The captain takes his job seriously.

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The clown attempting to escape his confines.

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Our dinghy, christened “Marshsmallow” by Huxley.