Submarines, Whisky, and Hitchhike Pizza
By Alex Morton

The Sabine Channel was roaring and all I wanted to do was find a cove where we could hide out for a while until things settled down. We'd come out of an overnight moorage after a day of peace and bunny watching at Newcastle Island, and then got hit with everything the Northeast had to offer; rollers, wind, tide and bad radio reception. CBC sounded like it was coming out of a dishwasher and the ship to shore seemed hopeless until it blasted out a warning to get away from Whisky Gulf, or face the wrath of its guardians.

Rosie, the border collie who normally spends her every waking hour trying to keep our family rounded up, had given in to the greater powers of seasickness and could have cared less if we'd wandered off, individually, to the far corners of the world. Even mentioning the word "biscuit" had no effect, although normally it will send her off into a dance that begins with tapping her toenails on the deck, and can build up to her crashing her nose into my leg until I follow through with the promise. She just spent her time staring mournfully off into the horizon, and hoping for some miracle that would deliver her from a floor that rolled and pitched, and the stupidity of humans who would subject her to such torture. I could tell that she had a good mind to call the SPCA on me as soon as we reached shore.

I took the sole blame because my other two crew members were suffering from the same malady and therefore were not to be held accountable. My wife and daughter kept their eyes cast downward, as if attempting to peer through the deck, and except for the occasional moan, they were mighty quiet.

I've been told that if you don't get seasick, something's wrong with your middle ear. Well, I'm here to tell you, I'll take that kind of malady anytime. I was even hungry, not having eaten since early in the morning, although there was no way I could leave the helm to grab a snack, not with my crew on submarine watch. They hadn't looked up from the deck in a couple of hours. The problem with this state of affairs was that I was the only one fit to take the helm, navigate, and curse and moan about the ridiculousness of a torpedo testing range or whatever it is that they really do at Whisky Gulf. I don't buy that torpedo testing stuff for a minute. There's a reason they named it Whiskey Gulf, and I think it has to do with what goes on there. Nobody sober would put out a story that there is still a reason to be testing torpedoes. Not after the seventy or so years they've been around. Fellas, I think we can definitely conclude that torpedoes work. Now can we have our gulf back?

While the storm grew worse, I managed to navigate my way around the Forbidden Zone, encountering neither torpedo nor whisky bottle. Then I made the turn into Sabine Channel, and found where even worse conditions were hiding. The wind was roaring straight down the channel at me, and so was a fair amount of sea.

It was our first trip up that way and our plans were relatively tentative. We'd planned to either anchor at Deep Bay on Jedidiah island, or Scotty Bay on Lasquiti. Now that we were finally in the Sabine Channel, I needed a squint at the chart to decide on our best choice.

The first mate, now known as the first zombie, assured me that should she make it below to retrieve the chart, she'd wind up giving in to the more active form of seasickness. Our daughter, now known as the second zombie, would not come out from under her earphones to respond to me, managing only to mumble, "I'm holdin it down, Dad, be cool."

Now, I have to be honest, here. I'm a bit of a chicken sailor. I'm okay most of the time, but when the wind and sea come roaring down and I'm trying go up and there's a calm harbour somewhere nearby, I have been known to crank up the old Atomic Four and drop the sails. I know, I know, I should hoist the storms'l, reef the main, and beat my way, but you know, there's a limit to being cool.

Being a chicken sailor paid off this time, because I was able to perch the first zombie at the helm, where she could use the wheel as a handle to hold onto while she searched for submarines, torpedoes and the odd whisky bottle. At least it saved me having to clamp it down. Then I eased off on the throttle, checked that we were heading in the right direction and fell through the companionway, missing the steps entirely. Luckily my shoulder has been hurt before. Rosie's water dish turned out to be less resilient than my shoulder, but not by much.

I pulled the GPS out of my pocket and got a reading that kept changing in a very strange way. I figured it was just an anomaly, similar to the ones I encountered back in the days when Loran ruled the seas, and the evil little screen would occasionally tell me I was closer to Iceland than Gabriola Pass. Luckily, the readings were all clustered close enough together that it didn't matter, so I poured a cup of coffee from my new super-insulated thermos, grabbed a few aspirins, tried to swallow them with a swig of far-too-hot coffee, and attempted unsuccessfully to temper my language. At least the burned tongue distracted from the pain in my shoulder.

Stuffing six pieces of melba toast and a peach in my pocket, I made my way back up on deck.
The First Zombie was still clamped onto the wheel, but she was now slumped over to one side, which solved the puzzle of the GPS. We were going in circles! Her partners in malaise, the headphoned Second Zombie and the dog Zombie were stretched out on a bench, consoling each other as the same scenery passed again and again.

I gently pried my wife's hands from the wheel, gave her a piece of crumbled up melba toast from my pocket, got us headed back up the channel. When Ichecked the GPS. it now gave a series of bearings that didn't suggest we were proceeding like a drunk wandering up the channel. After another half hour of battling our way along, I finally spotted the entrance to Scotty Bay. The wind was howling and the sea pounded the side of the Haiku when we turned broadside to the channel to head in.

As we motored into the bay, everything suddenly turned very peaceful. Gone were the rollers, the chop and the hefty wind. Paradise! There were only a couple of other boats in the bay, and they were both pleasant to look at; a big Nauticat and a thirty-four foot wooden sloop.
In the placid, little bay, it was easy to drop the anchor by myself and I soon had us securely hooked to the bottom. My wife, alias Zombie Number One, immediately went below, crawled into a bunk and fell deeply asleep, followed closely by Rosie, the dog zombie. Zombie person number two, made an instant recovery as soon as the boat was stationary and turned back into our daughter. After a minute of sitting around being bored, she announced that she wanted to get on land for a while.

We left a note for the comatose zombie number 1, that read, "We've decided to give up being pirates and have run away to dry land to become common burglars. Back within a couple of hours. Love, Us."

As we were rowing the dinghy to shore, a voice called out to us from the sloop, "Going to shore for a pizza? Today's the day."
"Huh?"
"Duck's bakery makes pizza on Saturday, and that's today."
"Pizza?" said recovered zombie number two, excited enough to begin punching my arm.
"Really good, too. Whole wheat, I think."
"Where is it?"
"Across the island. Just follow the road."
"How far?"
"A bit. You'll make it."

We rowed into shore, tied off the dinghy, and walked up to the road. Just as we got there, a big old blue Ford car stopped to offer a lift. When we told the driver that we were going out for a pizza, she said that she was just shopping for a few things and could pick us up on her way back.

The drive across Lasuqiti revealed an island of pretty houses and a bucolic peacefulness that you only find on the islands not serviced by big car ferries. The few cars we saw were old and comfortable looking, and their occupants were definitely relaxed.

"Dad," my daughter whispered to me, "Are we hitchhiking?"
"I guess you could call it that."
"We're not supposed to hitchhike, you know. Isn't it dangerous or something?"
"When I was at Acadia University, in Nova Scotia, I used to hitch everywhere. But, that was a different time. Now, you're right. It's a much more dangerous world. But, somehow, here, it seems safe."

We were dropped at the bakery without harm, but with the admonition to "Be sure you keep an eye out for me. You wouldn't want to have to walk all the way back to your boat."

Duck's Bakery was cozy and very friendly. Not a bad place to hang around while we waited for our pizza, and listened to neighbors chat warmly with each other. When it was ready, we sat on a couple of stumps near the road, sniffing our dinner and every once in a while chuckling over how the first mate would react when we showed up with the surprise pizza.

Our ride showed up, and once again presented no great danger to us other than the one time the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a squirrel skittering across the road. We thanked her, profusely, as she let us off, then got ourselves into the dinghy and back to the Haiku, where the first zombie had finally turned back into the first mate.

"Where have you two been," she queried, as we tied on.
"We went out for pizza," our daughter answered.
Obviously, my wife thought we were joking. "Bring me back any?" she laughed down at us.
With a flourish, I held up the pizza box. "All of it. We figured to share it together."

We ate the pizza in the cockpit, while our daughter related our adventures. "And then we hitchhiked back," she said with great satisfaction. "It was okay to hitchhike, wasn't it mom?" My wife assured her that if I thought there was no danger in it, then it was alright with her.

That night, when I went out on deck to thank the lucky stars sitting overhead that we'd made it to such a placid and beautiful place, it occurred to me that one of the reasons we put up with foul weather, seasickness, and whisky zones when we go sailing is because that's what it sometimes takes to find places where hitchhiking is safe, and pizza can still be a big deal. And it's always worth it.