A Pacific Butt-Kicking

July 11th was an odd day. It started off with sea lions gobbling fish just a few feet - literally - from our boat as we fought our way through the 3-knot current at a very narrow cut between North and South Inian Passes. We could barely make any headway as the swirling water threatened to toss our boat against the rocky shore of the island to our south. It was a sea lion feeding frenzy! Their large, sleek bodies diving down and then shooting up out of the water, tossing fish into the air and catching them on the rebound, while sea gulls hovered overhead hoping to steal a meal. Magical! I was in awe and glad for the slow progress of our boat through this incredible passage. The sea lions didn't even seem to care we were so close.

Just half an hour later, our electrical system went south. No charging of our batteries from either of our alternators. Switching regulators didn't help either. Brad tried to troubleshoot but came up perplexed. He exhausted his abilities and then started our Honda generator, an end run around the problem. Usually our batteries are completely charged up by the time we motor to our destination but not so this day. Brad composed an email to send via SSB asking for advice and proceeded to send it. Error. Damn! Will nothing work today? That's when the alternator charging system mysteriously started working again. Don't you just hate those intermittent electrical problems??? Aaaah!

So we continued along to our next anchorage at Lost Cove. The winds were building - 15 to 18 kts - as we left Lisianski Inlet for Lisianski Strait. Brad was getting concerned but I pointed out that it might just be a venturi effect. We were surrounded by lots of tall mountains so that made sense. Things would surely calm down when we got to the coast, away from these tall peaks. (Am I optimistic, or what???) Brad was dubious and said he thought we should stop at the unexpected find of the USFS dock we had just passed. I argued to keep going. He continued to doubt but thought I just might be right as we went around a slight bend into some fairly calm winds and water. Ha! See? What did I tell you? I was feeling quite smug about this time.

When we came around the next slight bend, the wind whipped up to 18 to 24 kts and there were whitecaps even in this narrow little strait. Brad was now wishing more than ever that we had stopped at the very nice dock we passed which was by now almost an hour behind us. We forged ahead to Lost Cove only to find two boats were already tucked in there and hunkered down. It seemed that even the commercial fishing vessels in the area had given up and taken cover. There was no more room anywhere for another boat. We attempted to find another spot nearby that would afford us some protection from the wind that by now was roaring and that would be shallow enough to allow us to anchor, but there just wasn't any place. We tried three different spots with no luck.

We decided to go on to Lumber Cove, just two more miles down the coast. But that meant we had to exit the strait out into the vast Pacific Ocean and then reenter two miles further south. The mouth of the strait is littered with lots of gnarly, boat-crushing rocks, many of which are submerged. This meant I needed to be bow watch. I donned my rain coat and rain pants, not for protection from rain, but from the wind and sea spray, and got out on the bow sprit to watch for rocks and direct Brad as necessary. We got past the scariest part where the bulk of the rocks and underwater hazards were, but the wind just kept getting stronger and stronger and the sea was getting angrier and angrier.

I felt pretty safe out on the bowsprit. Even though my footing wasn't too secure (too much anchor hardware mounted up there to have enough space to plant one's feet), I was surrounded by a solid, stainless-steel lifeline "cage". And I could see the swells coming and anticipate when to bend my knees to absorb the shock. As long as I kept a death grip on the rails, riding the bow was exhilirating and fun even in the big seas! Like a rollercoaster for one. Up, up, up towards the sun and then down, down, down into the abyss! What a ride!

With all of the hazards, Brad had to steer a serpentine route to avoid them. This meant the boat was partially broadside to the waves for much of the time I was on the bowsprit. This makes the boat roll back and forth like an out-of-control tight-rope walker. Brad yelled for me to come back inside. He was going to turn around. "It's just too rough out here to be safe. We're bailing!" I said okay and started back. That's when I realized leaving the safety of the bowsprit was going to be no mean feat. Things were about to get dicey for me. You see, we weren't anticipating the severity of the situation so I had no PFD on and no harness and besides, we had no jacklines set up to attach to even if I had them on. Damn! Getting back to the mast wasn't too bad because I could hang onto the Hoyt boom (the jib's boom). (Normally, one would just walk along the lifelines along the outer edge of the boat to get back to the stern but I don't have that luxury because we have kayaks tied to either side of the bow and they take up the entire walkway.) Aft of the mast, where the "hot tub" seating section resides, is the area of the boat that has NO handholds whatsoever. I had to spider-walk back to the front of the pilothouse. (Spider-walking is where you are on all fours but your face and chest are up and your back and butt are down so that you can hopefully slow yourself down should you slide by using a little butt friction. Just imagine riding a bucking bronco in this position and you get the idea.) Once I got to the pilothouse I could hang onto the pilothouse roof edge and slide on over to the security of the walkway handles on the roof and to the lifelines along the outer edge of the walkway and at last I was back in the safety of the back porch, protected on all sides.

Once inside, Brad timed his U-turn as best he could. At some point in turns, however, the boat is completely broadside to the ocean's considerable force and fury. It just can't be helped. That's when all hell breaks loose below decks, especially when you weren't planning on any ocean travel and thus all of your gear is not properly stowed. The books flew across the pilothouse floor, the boxes of MREs and freeze-dried meals tipped over and disgorged all of their contents on the galley floor. The milk crates holding the rice and related staples went sideways. All the stuff on our respective night stands ended up either in the middle of the bed or scattered across the floor. The spices over the wineglass holder hit the deck. The fruit and water bottles were rolling back and forth on the floor. The dish drying rack landed upside down on the floor in the forward stateroom (our bedroom). The glasses (which are actually plastics, thankfully) which we keep behind the stove ended up in the stateroom as well. The cutting board above the microwave lay on the galley floor as did the tea kettle and cupcake pan. The aft stateroom mattresses were both on the floor between the bunks. The two sails were cowering underneath the mattresses. (This was MUCH worse than the momentary williwaw we encountered back in BC. The sea just kept hammering and hammering us. But at least this time the binoculars, electronics and coffee cups were stowed properly so at least THEY didn't go flying.)

I went below to secure all of the cupboards to make sure nothing else could end up on the floor. It was hard to find a bare spot on the floor for my feet as I made my circuit. I was glad for the handholds sprinkled throughout the boat! (Thank you, Bob Johnson, boat designer for being so prescient.) I was sure we were going to capsize at any moment! Brad saw our heel meter touch 30 degrees and the wind got up to 29 kts. The swells may have only been about 8 feet but the period was quite close together. I just held on for dear life. I am SOOOOOO glad our Island Packet is built tough. A lot tougher than the occupants.

We retraced our track out of the mouth back in so a bow watch was no longer needed. Then we highttailed it back (but with our tail between our legs) to that lovely USFS dock we saw an hour or so back, just hopeful there would still be space and nobody or no sign to tell us we couldn't stay there. (There wasn't. Whoohoo!) That dock never looked so good!

USFS dock and shelter in Tongass National Forest

Two days later we ventured back out this same entrance/exit but we were prepared: everything (and I do mean EVERYTHING) was stowed and braced for impact. And no breakfast in our stomachs. It was still a rough ride but we were ready. It definitely made me appreciate the protected waters of the inside passage. The ocean can be a cruel mistress!