22May09

Long, bright stillness

We got up at 5:00am to make an early departure from Ketchikan. Stepping outside at that normally unholy hour was like walking into mid-morning brightness. The air was warming, was very dry, sky was clear, there wasn't a hint of a breeze, and fishermen were already at work all over the marina, using the good weather to get their boats ready for the season. The sky was so bright that I would have guessed it was 9:00am or later down in the Lower 48.

We were out of the marina by 5:30am. Our plan was to push all the way up Clarence Strait to Snow Pass and then to a small unpopulated harbor named St. Johns. Over 80 miles, plus we had a forecast of 20 knot winds and 4 foot waves from the NW in Clarence Strait - directly into our teeth. That's not enough to stop us, but closely-spaced 4 foot seas on the bow make for an uncomfortable ride. "Stirs the tanks" as I call it. So we were hustling to get most of the way up that long strait before the winds blew.

Bottom line. we never had any wind, and the upper half of Clarence was glassy smooth and lake like. The sky was robin's egg blue with just a few puffy cumulus clouds here and there. The terrain isn't steep around Clarence Strait, which is ten miles or so wide in places, although we were surrounded by distant snow caps in all directions and had completely pristine shores all the way. After getting out of Tongas Narrows (Ketchikan) and north of Meyer's Chuck, we didn't see any signs of habitation in more than 9 hours of cruising.

Snow Pass is written up as challenging in the Douglas Guide due to non-laminar flow (which means swirlies), so I slowed down to arrive after the peak ebb current of 3+ knots had dropped to 2+ (we are in the spring tides) but it turned out to be a "1" on the scale of "10" for swirlies. Salt water rapids are much more impressive down in BC than up here in Alaska, at least from what I've seen so far. So we took the 2+ knot push and said "thank you".

The prime anchoring spot in St John's was taken, so we had to anchor in a more exposed spot with a fairly rocky bottom. The set was good enough to handle 3 knots worth of power in reverse, but at 5 knots the anchor was jerking as it rolled the rocks over, the chain making a bunch of noise. Nothing for the Rocna to dig into. But we have an easy way out of here if a really big wind comes up, so with the anchor alarm set, we'll sleep well. Forecast is for light winds tonight from the east in any case, and we're sheltered from that direction.

On the other hand, we had to set the anchor to handle a 12 foot tidal rise from the time we set it, and then a 20 foot drop overnight. Makes setting the right scope and the right anchor watch circle on the NavNet interesting. Even more interesting, we're anchored on a little plateau that's 55 feet deep at zero tide, with 150 foot deep water about two boat lengths from the anchor in all directions. If we drag that thing off the edge of that tiny plateau, then the 220 feet of chain we have out will hardly reach the bottom. Anchoring is interesting up here. Fortunately, my anchor alarm will sound before the anchor drags over the edge.

Speaking of which, our stateroom is so well insulated down in the bottom of the boat that we can't hear anything that's going on in the pilot house, including the anchor alarm. I've fixed that by installing a wireless digital baby monitor that listens to the "baby" (the instruments in the pilot house) with the speaker down in the stateroom. Totally reliable and only 35 bucks. Beats running wires and adding speakers and installing instruments downstairs. I can even hear if the wind comes up and the antennas start rattling. Or if someone is blowing his horn -- whatever. Sometimes simple is better. I now have ears in the PH without being there.

We spent an interesting evening last night with Jim and Christie Caldwell over on their Nordic Tug 42, Noeta. They'd got one of the perfect boats for these waters. Simple, fast when you need it, economical when you don't need fast, and doesn't draw a lot of water. Plus its got Pacific Northwest built into its DNA, given its built in Washington, right near Anacortes. We like our Nordhavn a very great deal, but if I was only going to cruise the PNW, I'd look very close at one of those tugs.

More interesting than their boat were Jim and Christie's exploits. The night we took a lot of wind from that storm in Codville Lagoon, but sat securely at anchor on our Rocna, they were a few miles north in Bottleneck Inlet and could not get their Bruce to hold in 25 to 30 knots. They'd set it per normal when they arrived, but only were able to put out 3 or 3.5 to 1 scope due to the size of the inlet and other boats -- the classic problem we have up here. When the storm really got going near midnight, they had to get up in the "silver whiteout" (spotlight simply creates a silver aurora around the boat and you can't see anything) of blowing rain and utter darkness to reset their anchor several times. Given the tiny inlet, the other boats that were anchored there, and the near gale force winds that kept hitting them from different directions, they had one heck of a night. They also showed some real seamanship (of the PNW type) in moving around the narrow inlet (not forgetting t he rocky ledges that stick out like teeth along the shore) to reset, wind blowing the boat sideways and every way, standing outside in that horrific cold wind and rain trying to find the right spot to drop and reset - and then get up and do it two more times in the next few hours! They kept themselves and their boat safe, which is what seamanship is all about. Yet by morning they were exhausted and shaking with the jitters you get from running on adrenaline and too little food or drink for far too long.

All of which reinforces my belief that the right ground tackle, stuff you know can handle a big blow on short scope, is the secret to cruising these waters and still getting some decent sleep.

They are off back down to CA for a couple of weeks on a silver bird, but we hope to catch up to them over in Sitka. Seems likes that the place to be come mid-summer.

We're going to spend Saturday night (23rd) in Petersburg, a Scandinavian town in the middle of SE Alaska, but we have to run Wrangel Narrows first.

Much of Wrangel Narrows is a narrow (duh!) dredged channel with more navigational markers per mile than any other channel in the US. It's also full of barges and cruise ships and ferries that hog almost all that channel, and the depth only a few feet outside the channel is too shallow for us. Plus we are starting on a minus 2.5 foot tide, and ending on an 18 foot tide, a tidal range shift of over 20 feet while we are in the channel. At minus 2.5 , we might be looking at a ditch through mudflats.

Interestingly, it's possible to time Wrangel Narrows t to have the flood tide push you in the mid-point and then have it suck you out the top. That's because it floods in both ends (or ebbs both ends) at the same time, meeting in the middle. Do it right, and you get a 20 mile push at more than 6 knots (we're in the spring tides). Do it wrong, and you've got that current against you all the way. So I'm working to get my timing right so that I can get flushed all the way through the Narrows and only carry enough power to maintain steerageway and keep the engine warm. St John's harbor, where we are anchored, is only 5 miles from the start of the Narrows, so it's an easy jump off point. Anyway, should be an interesting pilotage and currents challenge tomorrow.

We heard the USCG working a potential rescue issue today where a boat sighted flares being shot off near Hog Rocks south of Ketchikan. Interesting, they were asking the people to do the "fist test". That's a method to estimate the distance of an object of known height (like the top of a flare's rise). You basically make a fist, extend your arm, and orient the base of your fist with the horizon and then you note how many knuckles up your hand the object is. The data is useful in estimating slant ranges. A new one for me.

For tonight, we are enjoying the bright stillness of a very long and nearly cloudless evening along the edge of Sumner Strait. The sun just lasts and lasts this time of year up here. Many people think of Alaska as cold and snow, but in the summer, it's endless, beautiful sunlight and a sense of profound stillness.

Of course, this high pressure and these blue skies won't last forever. Per the forecast, nature will restore the balance of things with a few days of rain starting on Sunday or Monday.

Hopefully by the time the rain and wind stop, we'll be in Auke Bay, Juneau.

Calm seas.

John and Deb