Prittles, Kittles, and the Mal de Mer


Part 1

Some things never seem to happen when you're a sailor. The pleasant things, that is. Plenty of the other things happen; you routinely get them, you get them good and hard. The wind doesn't blow (unless you're painting or lighting a BBQ), it blows from the direction you are trying to go, the tide is against you, etc. And it always rains and is cold. Even off the coast of Mexico. And sometimes even when it seems perfect...

So here it was the end of May, sunny, warm, and we were flying south on the big push of a minus tide and with the wind 15 to 20 knots on the starboard quarter. Three day weekend here we come. Wife, kids and the cat. The tide which had previously been against the breeze had kicked up a couple feet of disorganized chop however. The boat was flying along under main and jib; I was too lazy to pull up the mizzen. We were doing between 5 and 7 knots and that was plenty fast for a 14 mile trip in the sunshine. The problem began with the kids, especially my daughter (aka Miss Prittles), when the boat began heeling and bouncing about and the cat (aka Kittles) started freaking out a bit. He's an odd cat anyway, and not having been on the boat since last summer, he ran down to the aft stateroom and lay on the bed with his face peering out the transom porthole. The kids all felt he needed their combined emotional support, and so instead of staying on deck and shouting themselves hoarse as they cheered on the waves, they stayed below away from fresh air and from a view of the horizon. Warm, stuffy, bouncing about; you probably can grasp where this is going.

My 6 year old daughter, the fabulously beautiful and diminutive Princess of Ferndale, doesn't need sea sickness to take the darker view of life. She has often expressed a morbid streak since the moment she was first able to post an articulated opinion. Maybe it was the first days of her life outside the womb, being marked by an immediate case of pink eye, and a Mom with the same affliction and pneumonia. Not to mention before the newly opened eyes were glopped again shut she may have gotten a look at what we even now refer to as The Wacky Brothers, which may have given her the, mmm, wary perspective. As a one year old she would solemnly inform her siblings and me, "The world is going to explode." That was always a conversation stopper. We would look up from whatever we were doing or watching or talking about, and warily eye each other for some clue as to why that might have come from the two foot tall oracle. Maybe we would sneak a quick glance out the window to see if the Hindenburg were touching down just then in the back yard. There was no arguing her out of it, nor would she ever give a clue as to how she came about this info. Just the other night at bedtime the kids were enjoying being told, or reminded of funny things they used to say when they were little. I mentioned Soph instructing us back then on how the world was going to explode. "Oh, yeah," the boys laughed, "I remember that." Sophia just gave me an odd look that I first took to mean she didn't remember saying that, but almost immediately I had the thought that she just didn't remember letting us in on the secret. Recently she woke me up early in the morning because she had a bad dream. In her dream the whole family was stuck in quicksand, and Daddy had turned into a robot. This too is exactly my land bound nightmare. Like her exploding planet, I too can see this vision in the middle of the day.

Once Sophia was physically sick, (Uh, where did we stow that bucket?) she did feel better; and then they all dropped off asleep, cat included. But still, how was I supposed to enjoy a (now formerly) perfect sail knowing my baby girl was sick? And let's face it; it is different for her than for the boys. Its genetics pure and simple and I won't bother to apologize for my pre-ordained biological make up. Her brothers I can tell "Walk it off, put some dirt on it, the swellings not that bad, direct pressure, hobble off to first base," etc. Not the little pink princess, whom I must add never asks for special treatment. Be that as it may, if she suffers my whole world crashes. Thus, true to (this) sailors form, the last half of the perfect sail had me feeling pretty grim.
Upon turning the corner into Echo Bay the water became flat and all four of them crawled up from below to enjoy the beauty of the island and to request that we anchor at a variety of beaches, none of which were to be found within the confines of this particular bay. A small mutiny began to develop amongst the shortest of the crew, but I was able to quell it by promising to take them to one of their sought after beaches by dinghy. That, and of course, another in the endless servings of string cheese which always seems to mollify them for 90 seconds or so. It occurs to me now that one way or another everyone in the family has been given a beach to call their own at Sucia, except for me and the cat (who isn't even allowed to go ashore).
The long weekend went very well with good weather, wonderful meals, and elaborate appetizers on the beach with really beer or wine. I might add there is really nothing better than to be sitting on a sunny patch of beach surrounded by incredible natural beauty, with a great beer, a cracker covered in aged English Stilton, while cramped shivering kayakers hobble knee deep in 50 degree seawater pumping out the liquid from their boats that they have been sitting in for hour after hard paddling hour.
"Dad, they all have wet bottoms." Sophia pointed out.
"Yes they do dear," I agreed, "and their leader is just now reading the sign that says they can't camp here. He is going to tell them they have to get back in their little boats. Isn't it nice to have a dinghy with a motor?"
"Yeah" she laughs at the absurdity of not having a boat motor. "Ick, his bagel is all wet." One of the kayakers, whom we had waved at when he had first stumbled (nearly) ashore with our Chianti salami and olive laden crackers, was now pouring the seawater out of a baggie that held ¾ of a soggy white bagel. He turned his back on our banquet and faced back out to sea to nibble a bit before putting it glumly back in his (not so) waterproof bag. Seeing the pained look on his face made me feel good about my decision to no longer allow my boys to throw rocks at kayakers, unless of course it was a very small beach and there were way too many kayakers heading our way. They are never quite sure if the kids are simply skipping stones or not, but they tend to veer away just in case. I expect it's the cramping and the cold, just as much as the poor diet, that seems to take all the fight right out of them. Just kidding about the rocks thrown at kayakers, unless you actually have video evidence.
We had a great time with hiking and playing (did I mention all the food and drink?) and motored home in no wind and flat water with the kids happy as clams, and any worry about my youngest child wanting to return as defective The Gift of the Sea I so want to give to her. I looked forward to 9 full days on the water in two more weeks.


Part 2

I am becoming old and weak minded, so there are things from the past that I can still remember, but I can't always pinpoint who they happened to. I know flying fish have jumped from the sea, flown across the previous boat's cockpit and landed in the bunk that Carla was sleeping in, but I don't remember if it happened to me as well. I can remember in the middle of the ocean, sea water from a slapping wave making the same sly journey to smack me in the face as I slept, but I can't remember if it happened to her as well. I do know that only the Admiral herself has gotten out of her bunk on a pitching boat at Sucia in the middle of the night and stepped with her bare foot into a seasick cat's vomit. That's just good old fashioned family style yachting right there. The cat's rations were reduced at that point for the rest of the trip I know as well.
We were tucked into our favorite spot, Ewing Cove, secure to a mooring ball. This wonderful spot is too small to safely anchor in, but I told Carla that there would be an open mooring ball waiting for us, 'Because I called it.' Shockingly there were two. This was confirmation I thought, of my Captainly omniscience. The light northerly had given way sometime after dark to a 25 knot southwesterly. Hey, wait a minute that's the one angle we aren't protected from. Omniscience is a fickle little...thing. The cove is narrow and is surrounded by rocks (except from its SE facing opening which allows a nice bit of wind wave fetch that can build up as it travels over the top of Orcas Island.). The outflow of current was enough to also pull the boat broadside to the chop for long stretches of time during the long dark night. Bang, clank, pitch, and roll, crash of water on the island wall 30 feet from our aft cabin. Our big worry was that Sophia, who had once again gotten sick on the motor out that afternoon, would wake up and feel bad again. As it happened, the kids all slept through slopfest until after dawn when it was much reduced. The cat getting sick we had not foreseen.

"How do you know it threw up?" I asked.
"I stepped in it."
"Eww, with your bare foot?"
"A little bit. And look Snuggles is back on our bed"
"Why is that foot back in the bed?"
"Because I cleaned it off with your tee shirt."

She might not have said that last part, I don't remember for absolute certain, because I dozed back off again. Normally I would be the one up and about at night making sure things were ok, but since we were on a mooring and not on our own hook, there really wasn't anything to worry about. I have learned the hard way to make sure fenders, boarding ladders and that sort of thing are wedged in properly before dark. It is amazing what one rocking oar can sound like five feet from your ear. Any one loose thing has tremendous Keith Moon potential if not tucked properly when the wind gets frisky in the night.
In the morning things were calmer, but still a bit bouncy, see we decided to leave early and head for calmer waters. As we headed out of the bay the children popped out of bed happy and rested. There is something wonderful about breakfast eaten underway with fresh coffee. The kids looked at the chart and compared it with various points in view and we had a nice little navigation lesson along with the cereal and the toasted bagels. Tommy only stepped on the chart three times. Safely out in the fresh air, they eagerly looked for power boats to come by and create boat rolling wakes. Seeing the Lev-o-gage get to 25 is their holy grail.
As we rounded the top of Orcas Island there was another small mutiny. It almost approached keelhauling status, but we just barely avoided it. The thing was, what with all the chart work, the kids, especially the oldest, knew we were getting close to their beloved Skull Island. [See previous shark hunter episode] This island had been skipped last year after having been promised, due to a leaking water muffler, and there was concern among the swabs that they might be getting shafted again. This concern was due to our (the Admiral and I) mentioning that we were going to look in to see if Jones Island had an open mooring. This small island was a favorite of boating families, but the small harbor has only a few mooring balls and very little room to anchor. There has never been an open mooring any time we have ever gone by in the past. Carla told Cavan that there probably wouldn't be a spot.
"There will be a mooring ball," I said, "I called it!"
A glare from the suddenly sullen children. As we saw the islands the children had the binoculars out from a distance of several miles and declared the little cove to be completely chockfull. I pressed on anyway, not quite trusting their superhero vision. Sure enough, there was an open mooring in a lovely little spot. Captain = Omniscient, I pointed out. Carla and I were happy about this anyway, and if you count the cat who hates the sound of the motor in general, that was 50% of the souls on board. We had to promise our stone faced little crew that we would leave the next morning no matter how wonderful the island was. "I promise we'll leave tomorrow, even if you love it here and don't want to leave." I said. Oddly, this seemed to satisfy them.
We went ashore and had a nice hike on the island, which was, as always, interrupted by the children and their Emergency Poops. I could have called this entire entry "The Children and their Emergency Poops." But then, I could call every story of our boating life that. Every one. Every. One. I don't think I'm scatologically prone, but I have to say, that when I write about us at the dock, or underway, and without fail while on a hike, I would have had the opportunity to mention that one of the little munchkins has had to send some portion of us flying toward a potty, usually on the other side of wherever we are at. And I mean flying. Think: sight of water, green corn, goose. Just because I don't mention it, doesn't mean it didn't happen. It did. From now on you can just mentally fill that in yourself. Many of the best hikes, as on Jones Island, are loops. There is a certain satisfaction when returning to the dinghy having made it clear around an island, or half an island, or a point, or whatever. I know this, but Carla pretty much has to take my word for it. She doesn't get to finish them; not in the same direction as I do, anyway. Since most of the time we try and take hikes we haven't done before, we have to guess when we are say 45% around a loop, which is when the digestive Pearl Harbor tends to strike one of the height challenged crew. Captain Bligh suggests, rather fairly, that since they ignored the 27 pre-hike pleas to go before we left, that they will just have to soldier on. The Mom however buckles under the strain and agrees to take them back to the nearest outhouse, you know, the one back by the dinghy on the other side of the island. The one they didn't have to use when we passed it before. The way back always seems to be a bit shorter than the unknown way ahead, so backtracking she goes with the stressed child. The other variation of this involves getting a bit past half way on the hike when one of the ships officers notices that the ordinary seamen no longer has their coat, pack, shoes, etc. Again the offending party is taken away from the unhappy Captain at double time and their hike is completed as a pair of 180's instead of a full 360. I mention this, after having mentioned how I don't mention it, because on the Jones Island hike we managed to hit the daily double. We were stopped somewhere near the presumed half way mark, eating trail mix and drinking water and enjoying the seascape when I noticed Tommy no longer had his coat. Off he and his Mom went the way we had just came. Cavan and Sophia and I walked a bit further, until they wanted to rest and/or throw rocks. I sat down and drank the nice beer I had stashed in the backpack. A bit more hiking and then Cavan falls victim to intestinal distress. He wanted to walk fast, but Sophia will only move at her pace, and I wasn't going to carry her, since, well, see Captain Bligh comments above.
"It's only up the hill and around the corner," I told him, "you can run on ahead. We'll catch up to you there." Turned out to not be quite so near, more like up and down 5 hills and 4 corners, and he had darn good cross country run. He eventually got to the solar powered outhouse, and then when done, didn't spot his Mom and brother and instead of taking the short path to the dinghy or waiting there, started going on the path in the wrong direction and in danger of making the entire loop again. Tommy, tired of waiting around with Mom (perhaps my beer drinking slowed us down?) took off on the path he thought we were coming down and decided to create a short cut. Just another Lyons family trip in the great outdoors, pretty much. Somehow or other we did end up all together again before too long. And then it rained a little and we went back aboard for appetizers.
The next day was a little rainy so we went ahead and made the trip up West Sound to anchor off Skull Island. The rain stopped long enough for us to scamper ashore for awhile that afternoon, and cleared the next day entirely. On the next day the family invented a game called Pirate Tag which involved hiding, giving clues over the kids' walkie-talkies, and jumping out at people shouting 'Arrrrrrgh!' It was a darn good game but needs more codification before I can really pass on how to play.
After a quick night at Lopez Island to visit Carla's mom, not to mention take real showers and buy some more ice, we headed out to visit Cypress Island. We had heard many nice things about Cypress, but it was another spot that was said to generally be restricted to moorings. As we turned south over the top end of Cypress we followed a Beneteau heading to the same apparent cove. Then a large power boat came sledding in toward the same spot, and there was some concern about not getting a ball.
"Don't worry there'll be a spot, I called it."
An amazing thing happened, the power boat slowed down to let us turn in to the cove first. We were frankly gasping at the gentility (though it was a trawler and those guys do tend to be a cut above), and we soon gasped again to see the entire beautiful sunlit cove with every mooring ball empty.
"Better get your hook ready," I told Carla.
"Why are they all empty?" she asked.
"Uh, because I called it."
"Really, Dad is that why?" Tommy asked.
"Yes, it really is."
"Your Dad is joking."
"No I'm not. I have super powers."
"Why is it really empty, Dad?"
"Ebola virus outbreak. Or swine flu maybe."
"Your Dad is joking again."
Carla went forward to get the boat hook, and I told Tommy to call out the depths as we went in. Our depth sounder is conveniently located behind the helmsman, which is very useful if you find yourself backing into shallow water.
"Fifty, forty-five, forty," Tom read out every so often. The Bendyboat slowly approached one of the inner mooring balls, and the trawler slowly peeled off to our starboard quarter. "Twenty-five, fifteen, twenty-five" I eased up within a boat length of a ball and made sure I was moving slow and into the small bit of breeze.
"I can see the bottom," Cavan said, which I from experience know means he can see kelp. "Fifteen, three five," Oh it's getting deeper, that's good.
"Dad, I can really see the bottom now."
"How deep is it Tommy?"
"Three five."
I lean back and try to read the numbers thru the glare. Ahh, 3.5 feet. I stop the boat and ease her back a length. We draw five feet. It was a minus tide and we were about ten minutes after the low. I guess the depth sounder must be at least a foot and a half below the water. We tie to a mooring out another length from shore just to be safe.
That afternoon we went on a long beautiful hike over the island to the other side. It was fantastic, as was the secluded beach on the other side below cliffs full of eagles, and included the children giving names to the huge banana slugs they saw along the way. One of them, Herman, was fed chocolate chips. He ate them. It's sad to see a slug let itself go like that, but you can just chalk it up to tourist violation of traditional island life.
About the stuff I told you I usually don't tell you and you can just assume? If Jones Island was the daily double this hike was at least a trifecta. And I'll leave it at that.

The whole week went without any mechanical mishap except for some Cypress Island kelp getting sucked up into the salt water galley pump. An easy fix. And the ride home was smooth and uneventful with no more sea sickness for girl or cat. A day or so after we were home though, Sophia had a bad dream, where the whole family had fallen off the boat and was in the water. She kept either having the dream, or thinking about it, for several days. I think it was not the mal de mer, but watching some of that T.V. show about Alaskan crabbers in a storm that had really caused her worry. That is what I tell myself anyway, ever since she recommended that I sell the boat with her grimly knowing look.

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Envision for a moment a scene from your dream of cruising on a sailboat: anchored off a lovely beach, beautiful vista of open water and other islands off the port bow, the gentlest of breezes lightly ruffling the water between you and another graceful classic ketch. Are you in that moment? Can you feel your hand reach for the cold fruit and rum concoction? Now relive it with me... the sound isn't Jimmy Buffet exactly, and the orange-ish thing in the drink holder seems to have become some little stuffed animal instead of a cocktail. It's a little simulation of a feral cat of some sort and it's called Peeky, or Sneaky or Streaky or something and you never get it right and all the various children shout from all their various crouching spots aboard the boat the correct animal name in shrill and reproachfully offended voices, and its sounds pretty much like what you just called it, and what freaking ever anyway, it isn't your drink, and it isn't easy to hear, and is all that pain in your forehead from the roar in your ears? The sound is not the kids so much, not even really the torrential mid August deluge of rain pounding against the water, the deck, and especially the increasingly leaky enclosed cockpit canvas, but it's that other roar, ROAR, really, that is coming from the open upper deck of a power boat 50 yards away, that has an air cooled, and apparently absolutely unmufflered non-marine John Deere generator the size of a small sedan running for (I'm not kidding here) its 6th straight hour while producing what judging by engine size and decibel range must be 150,000 watts of electricity. More power than every boat in Shallow Bay could use all together in 48 hours. The boat did not have its name on the transom or I would post it here and every where else. Anything other than a family of ten below his deck all in iron lung machines and the old guy really ought to get spear gunned, because he obviously does not have his hearing aids in and thinks the vibration in his hull is coming from gawd knows what (a Geritol and Viagra smoothie whipped up in his 200 gallon AC commercial blender?). And you are playing Snakes and Ladders (a game invented by Spanish Inquisitors 500 years ago to destroy the life spirit of any possible heretics that had been left unbowed by the rack) with a crazed Super Competitor 7 year old boy on a tiny eye-scrunching magnetic travel set, with a single die half the size of your smallest fingernail, and no matter how many times either of you get within a few rolls of the agony ending finish of the game, it's always another trip back down the really long snake and then another short one, which absolutely delights the boy (and add a heaping of guilt to how you feel because the kid thinks this is special time with his Dad, and you only feel like you are being burned alive) and there you are right back to the very beginning of the interminable game, and you realize that you had drifted off in a reverie, a dream of cruising on a sailboat and how great it would be, while you were actually aboard one already!
Seconds from a stroke (massive, cerebral cortex), events change, and you get an entirely different stroke (of luck, one). It is an avalanche of happiness. The Snakes and Ladders game gets kicked over, and my son Tommy replaces the pieces and his already large lead has somehow increased and he wins. It's over. The generator of M/V Torquemada shuts off with a whimper and a soft click. The silence is sublime. Birds, wavelets, the paddle of a kayak paddle dipping in the water, all delicately punctuate the quiet. Appetizers and wine magically appear as my teeth stop grinding. The San Juan Islands no longer resemble a geographic root canal, and right on cue the rain gives way to a soft milky sky.
The children and I read stories together, and we forget all about ESPN and Tom and Jerry like back at the dirt dwelling. Carla bakes a blueberry pie instead of exchanging emails with other Mom's while simultaneously talking with them on the phone. Hold everything, it is special time. The dream of cruising is made real in the snap of your fingers; the promise of what it can mean to the richness of the short span of your life, and to your relationships to those few people who mean pretty much, everything, to you. You don't have to hide from the national debt, the tanking economy, the value of your mortgage resting on quicksand, job disasters or the fact that the only news you can really trust comes from comedy shows. In a moment you remember that those problems only apply to you, because you let them. To be honest, we stand in line and borrow money to have this misery, because everyone else around us is doing it. Out on the water we can glimpse what amazing wonders our children are, and feel courageous enough to consider what kind of life we really want to offer them. Our schools are cobbling together bits and pieces of classes and programs and literally sending home notes to parents saying that the point of education and being a good student is that they can go to college and get a job serving a corporation some day. Socrates, Benjamin Franklin, and Karl Marx all must be spinning in their graves. What sort of fodder do you want your children to be? What company logo do you want on your grave stone? Quick, go watch a sitcom or some science fiction, visit a glitzy website, something, until the urge to look around goes away. What ever you do, don't go sailing.

The next morning after leisurely coffee, breakfast, and reading, but before the 200 decibels of AC fury got going; we headed off in the dinghy for one of the beaches. We had water, books, and a back pack full of string cheese. The amount of string cheese aboard the Dawn Treader is enough to lower her waterline a full inch at the start of an outing. I have no explanation for it, other than Carla may be trying to balance the weight of all the wine I pack aboard. The new outboard has been making all the difference on trips this summer. Zip to shore, forget something, and zip back. Rowing is now only to entertain and exercise the children. This morning the kids needed to be run like a pack of cooped up Irish Setters. I knew this because Tommy and Cavan had both said, 'Dad, we need to run!' I'm good at picking up on my children's needs like that.
The boys ran. The girl ran. Carla and I sat on a log. The kids wanted to be timed. They ran timed back and forth wind sprints. They raced each other. There were obstacles and staggered starts. My wife, the planet's most competitive person, wondered why everything had to be a competition with our children, and inferred I might be to blame. As I suppose she predicted, there were eventually some tears for the losers and egregious celebrations for the winners. Carla went back to the boat for something and I realized she might not return for hours. To keep the children happy, I had them switch their sprinting to a team relay race. This was during the second week of the Olympics after all. This was also very funny. A 30 second back and forth run with two handoffs and a rotating order. The handoff would be to the wrong person, or the new runner would take off in the opposite direction, or would leave so early that it would turn into a distance race just to catch them for the tag. The kids gasped and sweated and celebrated while I sat and watched and laughed. Other parents, whose children merely dug holes in the sand, or looked at the scenery, eyed our hyperactive brood, mmm, quizzically.
Kaaaarannng!!!! The generator from hell fired up on the far side of the bay. Each new boat entering the bay would send an emissary dinghy over to the power boat, but the old guy never came outside while the motor was running (it may have been too loud?), and he might have been blind as well as deaf. When the would-be complainers began to bleed out of their ears, they would circle back to their boats defeated. The sound wasn't a problem on the beach; it was kind of like the familiar roar coming from breakers just around a nearby point. Kind of. We went for a walk on the beach, which turned into a hike on a trail. It was lovely; though walking along cliff faces with three children is not always relaxing, per se (per se being Latin for always ready to grab for their collar). We kept going and going and then more going. The going was starting to seem like maybe too much wenting. At a certain point, we began to wonder if the path went three or four miles to the other end of the island. The walk back from there would be, well, equally long. We were literally within seconds of turning and walking all the way back, when we went up one more rise and found the path rejoined the main walk and we were returned to the beach in a couple minutes; log sitting, drinking water and eating string cheese.

Our previous week plus out on the boat in July involved way too much moving around, this time we decided to stay put. Except for the Legion of Doom wannabe, Generator-man (or maybe just Gen-aray-Tor!), this was a very good plan. We hiked different trails on Sucia every day, hit different beaches, and spent time breathing the still air instead of motoring expensively thru it. We had been a few days late getting away. Firstly, because of some fine tuning on the repair of the water muffler (I won't bore the non-total boat geek with details, other than to say an old weld began failing as soon as we got to the San Juan Island that was the farthest away from our dock on our previous outing, and it began dripping increasingly large amounts of corrosive hot salt water in the engine room, requiring me to hang a series of gallon jugs from wires to catch the mess and then having to empty them every hour by the end of the last day) which leaked from one end of the repaired exhaust pipe at the one gasket I hadn't replaced (because I couldn't find one), but it all came right when I cut a new one from hi-temp gasket material using the remains of the old one as a pattern (the high point being when Carla walked by as I was carefully razor-blading out the new gasket and she asked, "And what would make you think you would know how to fix something like that?" before wandering off to presumably forehand volley something or other) and the only concern on restarting the motor was the total lack of smoke. 'Can that be right?' I said doubtfully to myself.
The next hold up was the weather. Really not the weather but the marine weather forecast. High wind warnings and even a gale warning. Right after one of those reports and just as we were set to back out of the slip, the wind did start gusting hard around 25-30 knots dead from the direction we would be heading. Prudent old mariner that I am, I decided to not head out into a gale warning with my wife, three children and a cat. We did other things and watched the wind die and not come back. Finally we determined that the warnings, which kept coming every day, were meant for a person named Gayle, and they were merely warning her to bring lots of fuel because they were high, and couldn't find any wind. It never stopped being glassy, and I'm trying to not let this be a lesson to be more imprudent in the future.

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The salon of the boat was suddenly (and uniquely) quiet, as everyone stared at me. Not the usual way they stare at me: 'What have you done/broken/said/drank/eaten this time?' They (a father {not me}, two sons {not mine}, wife and three children {okay those were mine}) appeared surprised and impressed.
'You did all this last night?' Alec oldest of the five kids of either father asked. 'While we slept? I never head a thing. You were like a Ninja.'
'El Gato Negro' his father, the notorious Ed agreed.
'Yes,' I had to agree, 'like a Ninja, with an oar. Of course le chat noir was only out on the prowl because his wife made him get up out of bed because it was getting too noisy for her to sleep. But don't kid yourselves, that probably happened plenty with old-time Ninja's too.'
Here is the thing, Carla and I had only returned the previous week from nine days on the water where nothing had broken!* In our giddiness, we had invited Ed and his sons Andy and Alec over for a weekend sail. It would be his boys' first sailing trip on salt water. They came up from Seattle Friday night and we all played and ate too much and got off to our typically slow start the next day. By the time the boat was loaded (with enough food and drink to keep us for a month), and we were finally ready to depart for the fuel dock, it was noon. The skipper deftly handled the old barge in the tight and slightly breezy conditions, only to have the two line handlers, Carla and Ed, high five to congratulate themselves for the success of the maneuvers. I tried to argue the point briefly as we waited for the attendant to show up, but, in a word, lost.
A remarkable thing happened as we left the marina and snaked our way out of Drayton harbor: the wind blew. The tide was a big heavy flood (against of course), but there was wind. And it was sailing wind, not just the Semiahmoo gusty land breeze that smacks you on the beam right as you're docking after a day of motoring on a glossy Strait of Georgia. Up went mizzen, main, and jenny. Off went the motor as we sailed close hauled on a starboard tack headed west. A sailboat race began on the Canadian side, and our speed seemed pretty good in comparison. Our deck was certainly a lot more level than all the racers with their legs hanging over the side. Ed brought out a huge bag of sunflower seeds.** I mostly only write about problems so I don't have too much to say about the sailing, other than I was very happy. After an hour or two, Carla did point out that Sucia was 90 degrees to the course we were sailing and did I have any reason for not pointing that way. I mumbled nautically about current and set, until she threatened to get the chart out, at which time I buckled and steered the boat off to a beam reach just for the speed of it, and then finally ran full with the wave chop rocking away at us. We were under full canvas (there is a mizzen staysail tucked away somewhere...) with a dry sunny deck. We watched another boat headed the same way under jib alone, her crew in their yellow foulies all huddled and tucked in the cockpit, while aboard the Dawn Treader, Ed napped dry on the foredeck. The only time I heard from the crew was when they complained that their lounging spot was taken out of the sunshine by a (totally unavoidable) bit of yawing. We took the great circle route to Sucia and the boat performed great. Some real wind for a change with white caps in bright sunshine. What a boat it will be in the trade winds.
Andrew, at 8, was quite worried about the sailing trip beforehand, and we had done what we could to put him at ease. You never know though, and as it turned out, the boy was a natural pirate. While some of the crew yawned and blinked in the bouncy wind chop, Andy was climbing, prowling, leaning, exploring, watching the water and asking good questions. It was great to see. His father of course was a just great lump on the deck (occasionally dribbling a sunflower shell out of his mouth were it would be blown into sea cocks, bilge pumps, electronics, etc), but what are you going to do? He did bring a ton of shrimp, beer, and wine, so he really could lay about all he wanted. It's not like I was going to give up the helm in any case. Andrew was good company anyway.
The only problem with turning a 14 mile trip into a 24 mile joy ride, is that you get in later, and we already left late, which gave us little day light now that it was getting all autumnal-ish. What little time we did have was largely squandered by the Admiral/First mate having us poke our nose into every bay to look once again for a mythical open moorage buoy. In her defense, it did happen once at Reid Harbor, that we pulled foolishly into the head of the bay on a weekend at her insistence, only to have someone right off the beach leave their mooring immediately upon our approach. That miracle occurrence will haunt me for eternity.*** So we wander around the various little coves before finally heading back to Echo Bay. The plan had been to anchor, but I'm picky about anchoring, and don't like to drop the hook and fly off the boat. So we (maybe it was me) came up with the idea to try the weird yellow rope mooring raft/station contraption. This allowed us to tie up fairly quickly, and get the dinghy launched. The bad part about the wyrmr/sc was that it was way out from the beach.
We were thus left a long row, upwind, in the dinghy loaded with hyperactive kids. It really left two long rows, because it didn't look like the entire shore party could fit in the boat at the same time. We needed to get to land; kids, like dogs, need to be run. It was an interesting problem, a bit like the Becket sucking stone passages (for those who know their Irish literature and you all should) in all its possible permutations toward a desired end. How best to get five kids and two adults ashore? Carla had decided to handle dinner preparations and stay on the boat. Before you give her the Nobel Prize for self sacrifice, it should be noted that she was staying aboard, and was insisting that everyone else go ashore, whether they wanted to or not. It was less falling on the grenade, than it was, well, something similar to me bravely missing church to change a few light bulbs while watching the football game. [I may have digressed.] One adult and four children could make it, but then someone had to bring the boat back, without abandoning the children on the island to a Lord of the Flies in fifteen minutes or less scenario. That meant two adults had to go on the initial trip. One adult rowing the long way against the wind with a full boat, then dropping off three children and an adult, before rowing back to pick up two more children and then rowing a laden boat across the bay again, would have been way too much. One adult rowing the laden boat then getting out with the kids and leaving the previous passenger adult to row back and reload and then re-row back was better, but still asking a lot considering the return voyages would be nearly as burdensome. My brilliant solution***** was to have Ed, Carla, and the three smallest children row ashore, and then Carla could bring the boat back and I would take the remaining kids, thus getting everyone ashore with Ed and I only having had to row the windward distance once each. ******Carla agreed to any plan that would get her a few hours peace.
When I did reach the shore on the second trip, children were scattered about everywhere, as one of my offspring had needed to do an emergency poop. As one or all of them have done everyday they have ever even visited the boat. The Diarrheic Treader might be a more apt name for our vessel. Ed, who had not been to Sucia in many years, took Tommy's advice on where the nearest outhouse was located.**** Eventually all the various lemmings were rounded up and we had a nice hike to the other side of the island, took the hilly way back, and even managed to give the boys a little treasured rock throwing time. It was getting very dusky however, and we decided to load everyone (heavily life jacketed), all into one downwind dinghy ride. Not a lot of freeboard remained, but catamaran boats are wonderful things (I'll admit we looked like albino Cuban boat people and may have had a photo or two snapped of us as we wallowed past other boats), and we got (more or less) safely back in time to begin gorging and gulping again just at dark fall. Ate and drank, ate and drank, and ate and drank. Tommy and Cavan went to bed in the V-berth forward, Ed took the salon bed, Sophia slept in the aft stateroom with Carla and me, and Andrew and Alec slept in the enclosed cockpit.
At some point in the middle of the night the wind came up quite strong and caused the boat to change its position against the large yellow polypro lines she was moored to. This in turn caused one of the hard fender floats on the wyrmr/sc to begin thrumming and then bongo-ing against the side of the boat. If you think of the shape of a conga drum, and then think of a sailboat hull, you will picture pretty much the same thing, focused amplification. Boats taking waves fore or aft make a whoosh splash, whoosh splash, sort of sound as they slice the water, but waves hitting the side of the hull say bong, bong, well, more than a college freshman. And big rock hard stupid scratch your boat float balls attached to goofy mooring systems make that sound too, only more staccato and irritating. Finally the admiral had had enough and decided to do something about it.
'What is that?' she said, shaking me. 'It doesn't matter. Go make it stop.'
Even in the middle of the night, at that point midway between climbing into bed all warm and glowing from good wine, and waking in the morning sternly wondering why anyone in the world would not have a cup of coffee ready to hand you, I knew it was no time for a mutiny, and got out of the warm sheets. I found my glasses and a flashlight in the dark without managing to step on Sophia who was sleeping on cushions on the floor, and crawled into the cockpit. The wind waves were lit by the full moon and the stars. We were so far from the beach that there was enough fetch to kick them up to a about a foot high. No one else aboard seemed to be awake. The sound of the banging was much quieter in the cockpit. The epicenter of the sound must have been just on the other side of the hull from where we had been trying to sleep. Undoing the clasps that held the canvas enclosure shut, I climbed carefully over Alec in his sleeping bag, and out onto the deck. It was a cold north wind blowing thru me knickers, I'll tell you, and I immediately wished I'd bothered to throw on a pair of sweat pants. It seemed a bit risky in my current tired state, to step back over the two kids any more times than absolutely necessary.
I went forward around the front of the main mast and assessed the situation. The wind was pinning our hull hard against the ropes of the mooring station. The furthest forward and furthest aft of our boat fenders had been pushed down below the lowest horizontal mooring line and no longer cushioned the hull from the hard floats that looked like they were soft, but were not. These floats were rock hard plastic, each about the size of a soccer ball. They were not only making the bongo sounds, they were grinding away at the hull as well. The Dawn Treader had too much high freeboard exposed to the wind hitting our starboard bow to allow me to push the hull away enough to raise the fenders by hand. I needed something to pry with, and the boat hook would have ended up bent and useless. An oar would do the job, but they were still in the dinghy, which bounced jauntily at the end of its painter in the light chop a few yards just aft of the mother ship. I retraced my way back around the mast and stepped over the lifelines.
The wooden boarding ladder had its lowest step submerged in the water, so it was easy to know when I was at the bottom. The water was cold, the waves splashing a bit, and the breeze through the boxers wasn't getting any more tropical. A sangre fria (as Truman Capote used to say), I hung outboard with one hand, and pulled the line to get the dinghy behind and below me enough to grab it with one foot. It was just then as I hung from the boat with one hand and one foot, and prepared to drop my weight into the pitching dinghy, that it would not work out well to fall in the water. The headline: Drowned sailor washes up on shore at Patos Island in his underpants; friends can't stop laughing. So I dropped into the dinghy and used some caution in reaching an oar up to the boat, before climbing back up the ladder.
Armed with my big lever it was a fairly easy job to pry the hull from the mooring island, and get the boat fenders to the proper height. The sound of banging and grinding gave way to the gentle sound of waves lapping against the bow. Muuuuch better!
I climbed back over the various sleeping kids and made it to the aft head where I spritzed the salt off my hands, feet, and face, before climbing back into the sublime wonder of a warm bed. Carla woke briefly, and said, 'I can't believe you actually fixed it.' Then she was asleep again. I thought about counting just how many bad ways there could be to take that, but decided to just fall asleep again instead. It wasn't until the next morning, during what turned out to be a series of breakfasts that Carla asked the assembled crew how they had managed to sleep with all that racket. 'Noise,' they said. "What noise?'


* Readers of our previous Gulf Islands misadventures are permitted to gasp here.

** I will be finding sunflower shells in various places on the boat now for eternity.

*** Okay there might have been another time outside Friday Harbor, but don't quibble with me.

**** Readers who know Tommy are permitted to gasp here.

***** Get an outboard motor? I know, I know.

****** And a bigger dinghy? I SAID I KNOW!

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