Photo: Boardwalk in Bamfield.
From Robbers Passage, we motored through the fog to the town of Bamfield. There we strolled the boardwalk, hiked to Brady's Beach, visited our artist friend Brunnehilde who lives high on a hill overlooking the sound, and ate dinner at the Hawk's Nest Pub. It was the height of the sportsfishing season and small boats zipped around the harbor and fishermen cleaned salmon on the docks. Despite the activity Brunnehilde told us they'd had a slow season that year. The economy is taking its toll.
I always find a visit to Bamfield to be bittersweet -- sweet because it's such a picturesque town and sad because with the demise of commercial fishing the town is struggling to survive. They have only two months to make a living from tourism and their main customers, sports fishermen, are not big spenders. With the economy down, things have been especially slow this year. The Net Loft, a store that once sold art made by Bamfield residents has closed. Too many artists and too few buyers.
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Photo: Sports fishermen in Trevor Channel, Barkley Sound.
"I hope we have some sun tomorrow," Steve had said as we got Osprey ready for the run down the coast. "I'll take clouds over fog any day," I argued. The last few trips we had made into the Strait had been in fog so dense around us we could hardly see the bow and so thin overhead we traveled in sunshine.
I was in luck. Only a light fog and low clouds greeted us the next morning. We motored out Trevor Inlet, weaving our way through a fleet of sports fishing boats thick as the fog I had feared. With so many fishermen it was hard to believe any fish could escape. We rounded Cape Beale and turned southeast -- right into a light southeasterly. We knew we had to make speed to get to Becher Bay by nightfall so we kept motoring.
By noon the wind died to nothing, the clouds burned off and we entered the Strait on an undulating sea of glass. Then a few cats' paws ruffled the water. By the time we'd eaten lunch, the wind was 12 knots behind us and it was time to raise sail.
As the afternoon wore on, the wind built to the high 20s and the sea became a field of white caps. I went forward to take the cover off the small jib to get it ready to raise, but the wind backed off to the low 20s so we kept the large jib flying. With the wind behind us, the current with us and the seas low, we were clipping along at 9 knots.
At 6:30 we were approaching Beechy Head wing-and-wing with the jib poled out. Then we entered a tide rip. Waves crashed around us, sea birds circled overhead and the wind climbed back up. Just when it was time to take the pole down, it was everything we could do just to steer the boat. We sailed past the rip into the Bay but now the wind swept down off the bluff, skittering in gusts across the water and making Osprey round up. With the boat heeling, I went forward to take down the pole. I yanked the release. Nothing happened. I yanked again, nothing. Imagining us screaming into the anchorage unable to take the jib down. I gave one last tug and this time the pole came down and the sail collapsed. Then I had to crawl back to the cockpit to crank the jib over to the other side. We were flying across the water, heeling hard. But ahead I could see quiet water between Wolf and Lamb Islands. A few minutes later, we rounded up, let the sails down and dropped the anchor. It had been a good run -- with just enough excitement at the end to make us appreciate the quiet anchorage.
I'll end this year's blog here, with the lights of Washington State just visible across the Strait. We were almost home.
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Photo: Steve and Jigger, approaching Winter Harbour
"Queen Charlotte Sound, NW 15-25 knots." Those words on the weather radio were just what we wanted to hear the night before the 160 mile crossing from the Queen Charlotte Islands to the West Coast of Vancouver Island. Queen Charlotte Sound is called a "sound", but it is open to the west so from a practical standpoint we'd be doing an ocean crossing of a day and a half. We planned to sail south to Triangle Island off the northwest tip of Vancouver Island, then to Winter Harbour, the first major sound on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. By sailing out around Triangle Island we would avoid Scott Channel with its strong tidal currents.
By morning the forecast had changed to NW 20-30 knots, more than we liked but better than the 30-40 knots we'd been sailing in on the West Coast of the Charlottes. We headed east out the Houston Stewart Channel to Hecate Strait and turned south. At first the winds were light and the seas the usual short, steep and uncomfortable waves the Strait is known for. But as we left the Charlottes behind us, the seas turned to longer, more comfortable (comfortable is a relative term here, we were still doing plenty of rolling) swells and the wind speed picked up. The sky was overcast and hazy; Cape St. James at the southern tip of the Charlottes was only a distant smudge.
The northwest wind was directly behind us, which meant we had to go wing and wing. Because of the wind speed, we flew our self-tending jib, a small sail with a boom that's great upwind but when we pole it out downwind, the boom slams and bangs, threatening anyone working on the foredeck. In the Charlottes, we'd taken off the boom and sheeted it from the clew like a regular jib for better downwind sailing but we'd put the boom back on for this passage in case the wind turned to the south. A better sheeting system to allow us to use this sail upwind and downwind without the boom is definitely on our to-do list for the winter!
Just before dinner, I went below to wash the breakfast and lunch dishes that had piled up in the sink. I turned on the saltwater pump and was horrified to see it run pink and smell like antifreeze! The heat exchanger had failed. Steve immediately went into a planning mode and got out his computer to order a new one. He was worried about getting it fixed. I was just worried about getting to port! I imagined us drifting without wind off the Triangle Islands.
Fortunately, the wind kept us sailing through the night and when we had to turn on the engine to charge the batteries, it didn't overheat. The issue, according to Steve, was getting seawater in the engine so we just had to limit the engine use.
I had the early morning watch and as the wind slowly decreased, the fog moved in. I turned on the chart plotter and the radar every 10 minutes or so to check for traffic. But we were alone in this remote corner of the ocean. Sailing at night in the fog is something I have always feared, but I discovered it wasn't as terrifying as I thought it would be. Yes, you can't see but you can't see that you can't see. At 5 a.m. I watched the sails slowly emerge as white shapes out of the mist as the sky lightened.
As the fog lifted, the wind shifted to the south and although at first we were thankful we had left the boom on the jib, the wind moderated and soon we had to change to the larger jib anyway. We tacked down the coast in amazingly quiet seas. Our cat, Jigger, who had been hiding down below since we left Rose Harbour, finally emerged from his bunk to sit in his accustomed spot next to the chart plotter.
In the afternoon the email light came on and we turned on the computer to learn that friends Bob and Sherry Custer in their sailboat Ponderosa would be in Winter Harbour that night too. Outside Quatsino Sound the wind died and we motored in to tie up to Ponderosa. "Don't worry about dinner," Sherry said. "I'll make it. You deserve a rest." I can't think of a better ending to a crossing then dinner with friends.
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