Close to the Water

After a heart-thumping crossing of the Strait of Georgia and end of my trip. I had become captivated with the meandering arrival in Nanaimo, the path toward Anacortes and the end of my nature of the past six weeks, with moving at the pace of my own journey was straightforward. But after five weeks meandering desires and as the weather allowed. I had become fully present south along the Inside Passage, I knew that voyages like this in the moment—yet all that would change in one short hour of happen on their own timelines. sailing, when the ferocious pace of land-based life would sweep

In real life, I’m a doer—happiest with a goal, an agenda, a me up once more. planned activity, ceasing only when exhausted. Being on a The achiever in me, eager to accomplish the final crossing, cruise is a sort of un-training for me. Over time, the rhythm of battled with the unhurried cruiser I had become, who saw no the present overtakes the need to achieve. So now, on this last need to forge on. The latter won, and I was soon tied up at the portion of my trip, I was fully prepared to let go. dock on James Island State Park for the night. A curious sailor

Heading south to the Gulf Islands, I had to choose between from a motor yacht invited me aboard for dinner. Relaxing in his the busy and wake-churned Dodd Narrows, or False Narrows, wood-paneled cabin, storytelling, laughing, and drinking, I knew which my cruising guide described as running at half the speed I’d made the right choice to wait. of Dodd, but is shallow, full of kelp, and best left to the locals. Come morning, the fog had cleared and it really was time to With Row Bird’s one-foot draft, that was good enough for me. go home. Catching a favorable tide beneath still skies, I made Pulled along by a mild current, completely alone, aware that a thankfully dull crossing of Rosario under oars. As arranged, a other sailors were jostling for position at Dodd, I smiled as I friend met me at the dock with Row Bird’s trailer and pulled her rowed towards the well-placed range markers that made the to the parking lot. I watched the water drip past the green slime passage a breeze.

It was past Labor Day, and as I entered the Gulf Islands, I found that cruising here now was like being in an amusement park after closing time. I loitered in places I’d only traced my finger over on the charts, relishing experiences I could only pull off with a small boat: going ashore on the white shell beach of Pirate’s Cove Park, watching whales from a kelp bed, and cutting through the narrow channel separating North and South Pender Islands.

I went with the flow, catching tidal currents, scooting between islands, and watching for the right weather window to cross back to the San Juan Islands. When that window opened, I sailed slowly but steadily towards Haro Strait, mindful that a ship or errant powerboater were equally potent dangers as the immense sheet of moving water beneath me.

I’d been looking forward to clearing customs at Roche Harbor, where for the The author peers through the fog while gliding over a glassy pane of water. first time I would cross the U.S. border in a human powered craft. “You crossed Haro Strait in that?” I on her hull, my feet leaden. Slowly, I set about preparing the imagined the agent would say, impressed with my derring do. boat and myself for the road home. Instead, all she could see of Row Bird were the masts, poking up I’d tasted the depth of a true cruise, rather than the nine-toabove the tall dock. And rather than admiring my seamanship, fiver’s escape that lasts only a week or two. And I was hooked. the woman interrogated me. I was suspiciously pale after The pace and length of the voyage, its physical and mental supposedly sailing for five weeks, she remarked coolly. Where challenges and delights, had exceeded all my expectations. had I really been all this time? What was my true intent in With a week left of my sabbatical, I should have been crossing the border? Relenting somewhat after I produced a preparing to go back to work. Instead, I started sketching out tube of SPF 40, she consented to allow me back into the States— my next journey. after a scolding for my disorganized paperwork.

A week later, I had reached the eastern edge of the archipelago and found myself caught in a fog at Rosario Strait, a mere three Bruce Bateau sails and rows traditional boats with a modern miles from the terminus of my voyage. Yet as I drifted in the mist, twist in Portland, Ore. His stories and adventures can be found at I was aware of more than a physical gulf separating me from the http://www.terrapintales.wordpress.com 48º NORTH 21 JULY 2020