This afternoon's departure from Melanie Cove was, I admit, partially motivated by a growing desire for human interaction. I often claim to be too used to being alone, living what turns out to be a slightly hermit-like life. Still, I seem to need at least casual contact with people in passing, whether they are acquaintances or the occasional counter clerk or barrista who's willing to put up with my sarcastic sense of humor.

So it was pleasant to find a small flotilla of sailboats anchored just inside Laura Cove's narrow entrance and I unabashedly stern-tied about 30 yards east of a Catalina 36. Two men were out on deck reading and fishing while they eyed my technique. I guess I performed reasonably well because they called hello and said they didn't mind when I apologized for my proximity in a relatively empty bay. I admitted to my desire for company and they, in blatant imitation of the McKenzie Brothers' Canadian accents, introduced themselves as Andre and Louie.

As it turned out, the four sailboats spread around the east end of the cove WERE sailing in flotilla. Louie and Andre (there was a woman aboard as well, but I can't remember her name) had come in from Yukon, AK to join a group charter out of Powell River that included their Catalina, another sloop a few yards over, the big Beneteau on the far side of the entrance, and the big catamaran beyond them.

Continuing to chat, Andre let on that Laurence and Anne Yeadon-Jones, the authors of the series of Dreamspeaker cruising guides, were aboard the Beneteau, A Capella, as leaders of the cruise. I'd had the pleasure of briefly making their acquaintance during a promotional stop they'd made at a National Marina Day do in Bremerton in early June, so I succumbed to my groupie impulses and motored over to say, "Hi!"

People aboard an anchored boat always watch an approaching dinghy with a combination of expectation and suspicion, and this was no exception. Seven female pairs of eyes in the cockpit joined one male set on the bow in assessing my intrusion. It was Laurence lounging on the foredeck, as I learned later, nursing an ankle he'd twisted while climbing the shoreline rocks to secure their stern tie. Anne was back among the bevy enjoying a late breakfast.

Waving as I sidled up to the bow, I reintroduced myself to Laurence and he graciously pretended to remember me. We passed some nice, chatty small talk back and forth, some of it nautical, as I stood on the dinghy's thwart while holding onto their gunwale. I was invited aboard a couple of times, but it wasn't until I'd admitted my embarrassment at having brought along my Dreamspeaker guidebooks for signature (Andre made me do it!) that I finally accepted. I have five of them, including one of the San Juans (my first) that is basically in tatters, held together vaguely by a mostly ineffective spiral binder and, more aggressively, by an Acco binder clip.

The ice thoroughly broken by this blatent fandom, we had a very convivial time saying hello while Laurence and Anne inscribed very thoughtful greetings and well-wishes in my guides. I shared my plans and they shared theirs. One of the women, actually the official captain aboard this particular vessel, writes for a local nautical magazine and conducted a tiny interview with me. If she immortalizes me in print I'll be sure to let you know.

I would have liked to spend some more time with this friendly group, but they had a noontime flotilla skippers' meeting to conduct before their early afternoon departure, so I said my goodbyes and returned to Mabrouka. I was still hanging about when the four boats dropped their stern ties and hoisted their anchors one by one. I was sad to see them go after so brief an acquaintance, but A Capella flattered me with a detour to my little corner of Laura Cove, waving a cheerful goodbye and snapping some photos.

The Yeadon-Joneses will be officially kicking off their new Puget Sound guide (coming out in electronic format this time) at the Tides Pub in Gig Harbor on October 7th. I hope to be able to attend, but if you make it and I don't, please tell Laurence and Anne hello from me and Mabrouka.



Later that afternoon I went ashore to pay homage to the woods and see what could be seen of Phil Levigne's homestead. Nothing, but I did meet Brock and his half-Labrador, half-Border Collie, Lupin. Brock and I chatted while Lupin dropped by repeatedly to appreciate my knowledge of dogs' erogenous zones. She'd wiggle and squirm when I scratched the top of her hips or the backs of her thighs, waggle sheepishly back to Brock to confirm that she wasn't being too much of a hussy, then slink back to me for more.

Brock, Lupin, and (I think) Liz were up from Powell River and were very familiar with the area. They confirmed my impression that the only remnants of Levigne's habitation were the spring board notches left in the old growth stumps from logging, but encouraged me to push beyond the fallen trees that had discouraged my push up the wooded trail that leads over the ridge to Mike Shuttler's claim on Melanie Cove.