November 2022 48° North Digital

MKIV and MKIV Ocean

Jib Reefing & Furling

MKIV Furlers are one of the most popular products in the Harken product line for racing. Harken now offers MKIV OCEAN built with MKIV quality but configured for the cruising sailor. For the occasional racer, the MKIV line is engineered with ease, durability, and winning in mind.

LOW-FRICTION EFFICIENCY FOR EASY FURLING AND REEFING

# Multiple rows of Torlon® ball bearings in high-load areas minimize friction.

# Stacked bearing races evenly distribute radial and thrust loads; drum and halyard swivel turn freely under load.

# Foils rotate around headstay so headstay load is isolated from the furling unit for easy furling.

# Large inner spool diameter increases mechanical advantage for powerful reefing and furling.

STANDS UP TO SUN, SALT, AND TIME

# Aluminum line guard, torque tube, and swivels deep saturation hardcoat anodized, UV-stabilized for durability.

# Line guard polyurethane coated for wear protection.

# Specially formulated low stretch black line is abrasion and UV resistant; standard on units 0, 1, 2.

# Aerodynamic (MKIV) and round (MKIV Ocean), clearanodized aluminum foils handle extreme reefing loads.

# Triple interlock foil joints withstand years of torque loading: foil connectors geometric shape interlocks with foil; secures with syringe injected adhesive; screws provide final lock.

photo courtesy of Jan Anderson.

Since I first got my hands on a tiller and sheet, I’ve known every nook and cranny along the winding spectrum of sailorly self-perception. While sailing vastly different boats, in venues local and exotic, engaging in wide ranging water-borne pursuits with varied company — I’ve had highs and lows, confidence and doubt, and have done my share of wondering about my fit in the world of sailing — how, where, why, and with whom. What sailor hasn’t?

Looking back on it now, if there’s one thing I’m most grateful for — other than my ongoing opportunities to play on boats in the first place — it’s for the people who saw something in me and fueled my passion for sailing.

If I’m honest, I can recall more instances when I felt (or was made to feel) small on a boat — inexperienced, slow and clumsy, like I would never possess the knowledge to belong there. Athletes often talk about the ways losses stick with them more than the victories and, in a sense, that’s true for me in sailing. Yet even though the troubling or self-critical memories tip the scales in quantity, what looms largest in quality are the occasions and relationships when I felt that someone I looked up to genuinely believed in the sailor I was or could be. Those believers, empowerers, and fire-fuelers can be credited with whatever I am today as a sailor.

“Surround yourself with good people” was something my parents often repeated when I was a kid, and it has been a mantra for me in every avenue since; boats are no exception. This advice has given me so much, and I’ve made my own addendum — the best stuff happens when those good people both believe in you and push you.

I couldn’t begin to name and credit each of these important people on my sailing journey. Crucially, they didn’t all take one form or role. One such believing friend knew that I could teach sailing, even though I barely knew port from starboard when he started volunteering his evenings to give me a personal crash course in small boat sailing and sailing instruction. Another insists, in spite of my occasional protests and some evidence to the contrary, that I have “feel” for a boat that some other sailors don’t. Yet another — a professional captain and vastly more experienced sailor — excitedly offered to crew for me (crew for ME?) when I had just started racing keelboats. Comments of support and trust and investment in me, it turns out, were as formative as any competence I was developing on the water. Indeed, those confidence builders paved the way for my competence.

For me and so many others, sailing friends are central to our ongoing desire to commit evenings, weekends, and vacations to this delightful dance with the wind and waves. Not every boat pal needs to be a fire-fueler, but those who are give a gift that transcends friendship.

So, in this Thanksgiving month, I’m incredibly thankful for all of that — for my life in sailing, and especially for those to whose belief in me filled my metaphorical sails and has pulled me back to the water time and again. To reflect on those relationships and all they have afforded me… it’s a sweeter treat than pumpkin pie.

Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving,

Cline Managing Editor

Volume XLII, Number 4, November 2022

(206) 789-7350 info@48north.com | www.48north.com

Publisher Northwest Maritime Center

Managing Editor Joe Cline joe@48north.com

Editor Andy Cross andy@48north.com

Designer Rainier Powers rainier@48north.com

Advertising Sales Kachele Yelaca kachele@48north.com

Classifieds classads48@48north.com

Photographer Jan Anderson

48° North is published as a project of the Northwest Maritime Center in Port Townsend, WA – a 501(c)3 non-profit organization whose mission is to engage and educate people of all generations in traditional and contemporary maritime life, in a spirit of adventure and discovery.

Northwest Maritime Center: 431 Water St, Port Townsend, WA 98368 (360) 385-3628

48° North encourages letters, photographs, manuscripts, burgees, and bribes. Emailed manuscripts and high quality digital images are best!

We are not responsible for unsolicited materials. Articles express the author’s thoughts and may not reflect the opinions of the magazine. Reprinting in whole or part is expressly forbidden except by permission from the editor.

News from the Northwest Maritime Center >>

As most readers know, 48° North has been published by the Northwest Maritime Center (NWMC) since 2018. We are continually amazed by the inspiring and important work of our colleagues and organization, and are excited to dedicate this page to sharing a bit about it with you. This page affirms that 48° North is part of something bigger, and that we think the missionminded efforts of our organization matter to our readers, and are good for this community and publication.

MARINE THRIFT COMES INTO ITS OWN

Marine Thrift is a second-hand store with boat stuff ranging from the genuinely fine to “what-the-heck?” to exactly what you were looking for. Located in Port Townsend’s Boat Haven and started in early 2016 as a project of the Northwest Maritime Center, Marine Thrift is growing into itself in 2022. With record levels of donations and sales “through the roof,” Marine Thrift is beginning to look like a lot more than a fledgling clever idea.

Since March of 2022, Marine Thrift has been in the care of Robert Brechlin. A former engineer and software developer and an avid boater for more than 20 years, Brechlin embodies enthusiasm for this little shop and service. His positive energy is doubly impressive considering the incredible amount of work he’s devoted to re-envisioning all things Marine Thrift. When he took over, he says it was in such disarray that he “couldn’t even find the floor.” Traditionally, donations would come in haphazard boxes, and there they stayed for would-be customers to pick through. Brechlin admits that some visitors enjoyed picking through boxes to find a treasure. These days, however, Brechlin has a thoughtful (if labor intensive) protocol for organizing incoming donations and distributing them in a carefully coordinated fashion around the store. He says, “Now, I get to find the treasures, but this way I can display them for more people to see and consider.”

While a Facebook page has existed for Marine Thrift since its inception, Brechlin has started consistently promoting new donations via the page for the first time in its history. A customer purchasing a variety of shackles volunteered, “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve seen something new on the Facebook page and come straight over.” Brechlin has e-commerce dreams to serve a more geographically diverse audience, but even the consistent marketing via Facebook is a noteworthy step forward.

As with all Northwest Maritime Center initiatives (including 48° North), a great deal of thought has been given to what good can come from these efforts. Indeed, Marine Thrift isn’t just an enterprising whim. It provides a service intended to increase accessibility to boat life by providing a variety of gear at amazingly low prices, all while helping to keep re-usable marine goods out of the landfill. People often ask whether

there’s a consignment option, but Marine Thrift only takes donations.

The shackle-buying customer mentioned that he buys quality items to have on hand for when friends and fellowboaters find themselves in need — he likes to give stuff he’s purchased at Marine Thrift away to those folks to help keep people on the water. Brechlin noted that, in addition to the tangible service Marine Thrift provides, the community that has developed there is a huge part of what makes it special. He says, “We get a ton of donations and people buying things, but the thing I remember is the people and the adventures and stories they share. Those are the treasures we get at Marine Thrift.”

With so much positivity going on at Marine Thrift, Brechlin asks for more… of everything. He says, “With more sales, we need more donations. As more donations come in, we need even more folks to know we’re here and to come check us out.” Marine Thrift has added a second employee to accommodate its growth, and the Marine Thrift team is ready to keep the throttle down toward even broader horizons.

Marine Thrift is open from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. Tuesday-Saturday. Visit the store or make tax deductible donations of your extraneous boating gear at 315B Haines Place, Port Townsend.

» Learn more at nwmaritime.org/marine-thrift/

11-12

LETTERS

Both my boys were raised on a sailboat from infancy on, and sailed with me. They never had a crib, just a quarterberth. Both are now successful well-adjusted adults. We sailed Hawaiian waters and Puget Sound. Enjoy your sailing days!

Judy Sinard, @13thlady

Hi Joe, Aww, that was a great read!

Kelsey Brenner

it!

More Response to October Issue

Hey Joe,

In response to Lizzy Grim’s amazing accomplishment of the Clipper Round the World sail on Team Seattle: Congratulations to the incomparable Lizzy Grim on realizing her life goal of sailing in the Clipper Round the World Race! Bonus accomplishment of sailing in the Rolex Big Boat Series in San Francisco also!

In response to D.J. Green’s article “Sea Change”: Congratulations on continued sailing with Kagán as well as your first pup, Capi. Hope we’ll read more articles about your adventures.

Cheers!

Stefan Damstrom

Response to Ben Braden’s Report on the Thunderbird

Coast Championship in

Editor,

I

Ben Braden’s

Townsend

Morgan Conrad Bystedt 30, Andiamo Again

Response to Lauren Upham’s “Baby on Board” from the October 2022 Issue of 48° North Dear 48° North and author Lauren Upham,

LETTERS

Foulweather Bluff Fleet Freighter Interaction

Dear Joe,

I was informed earlier this week that a commercial vessel that encountered the Foulweather Bluff fleet during the race filed a complaint about the fleet impeding its passage. While opinions vary, the 360° turn that the ship made was not out of courtesy — they felt they had no choice but to avoid the fleet.

I have had a friendly, yet direct conversation with the director of VTS about this, and he expects us to take action as a club, or he will — either against individual boats, our club, or the sailing community in general. We need to make it clearer to all sailors how important it is to abide by the VTS lanes and not impede commercial traffic.

It is clear to me that is what the USCG ultimately wants: to keep us all safe on the water.

Thank you, David Odendahl

Regarding Salmon, Orcas, and Pinnepeds

Hi Joe,

We need to talk about salmon. Sean Anderson did a full on pro video on Channel 9 about how we must remove all the dams. It was really good, and showed an overview of the state’s dam systems. All great stuff, but Mr. Anderson left out one of the important pieces of the salmon problem. The pinnipeds (seals and sea lions) are 500% over-populating Puget Sound. Us humans screwed the orcas’ eating habits in the 1960s when we caught all of the orcas in the Pacific Northwest. Resident orca pods don’t feed on seals. Out of state orcas feed on seals. Seals and orcas now compete for salmon. We need to let the people harvest the seals to protect the orcas.

The more salmon we produce, the more seals get to eat. The seals have no predators in this area. I witnessed the destruction of the Lake Washington coho run in the 1980s when Hershel the sea lion and his buddies killed them. When I was 10 years old, I went to the University of Washington to watch their first coho release in 30 years. The seals wiped them out in a matter of months. No one killed Hershel. They just caught him and moved him eight times. It only took him three days to get back to Seattle to eat more salmon. The same thing happened on the Columbia River.

If we could teach the PNW orcas to eat seals, we would get the balance of nature back in play in our waters. I have talked with a tribal elder about hunting seals. Tribes would be happy to help. Seal hunting is part of their culture.

We do need more salmon habitat. The seals are protected by law, and it is time to change that to help save the orcas.

Talk soon, Scott Anderson

ULLMAN SAILS PNW

WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU NO MATTER WHAT YOUR EXIT PLAN IS ON THE WATER

Seattle, WA | 2442 Westlake Ave N Anacortes, WA | 700 28th Street Phone: 360-504-6640 pnw.ullmansails.com

CYC Edmonds Past Commodore and Foulweather Bluff Chair

low tides » News & Events

RUM RUN WILL TAKE PLACE ON PUGET SOUND NOVEMBER 5, 2022

The long awaited official announcement is in — this year’s Duck Dodge Rum Run will be held on November 5th. Yes, the date is a little later in the year than desired, but it’s the only day that will work without overlapping with other major races on Puget Sound. This time of year brings heavier winds and heavier seas. Remember that sailing with the Duck Dodge Rum Run is voluntary and the safety of your crew and your boat are your responsibility.

The start line will be between the committee boat and the white race mark outside of the Shilshole Bay Marina breakwater. They will have two marks on the east side of the shipping lane, Meadow Point and West Point, and we will have an upwind start to the first mark, downwind to the second mark, and a reach across the sound to Port Madison. The finish line will be between the committee boat (off of Point Monroe) and a bearing directly north, extending approximately 100 yards.

There will be four starts (there is no dinghy start):

• First – Fast, racy race boats

• Second – Fast-ish and skilled sailors

• Third – Slower boats flying spinnakers

• Fourth – Slower boats NOT flying spinnakers

The normal Duck Dodge third start is split into Flying Sails and Non-Flying Sails for this race. Don’t start in fourth and fly a kite! The raft up is in Port Madison, but remember that days are short this time of year. Plan your trip back across accordingly and make sure your navigation lights are legal.

IMPORTANT: You will be crossing the Vessel Traffic System (VTS) lanes for this race. Commercial traffic has right of way,

no matter what. If you get five horns for being in the way of commercial traffic, you will be AUTOMATICALLY DISQUALIFIED. Disobeying this may also result in revocation of our future permits. Don’t mess this up.

On the water communications will be handled over VHF channel 72. It is wise to also monitor 16 (USCG) and 14 (VTS).

SHILSHOLE BAY YACHT CLUB

SNOWBIRD SERIES

The hardy bunch at Shilshole Bay Yacht Club are at it again, starting up their well-loved monthly winter Snowbird Series for the 2022-2023 season with its first installment this month.

Snowbird #1: November 19, 2022

Snowbird #2: December 10, 2022

Snowbird #3: January 14, 2023

Snowbird #4: February 11, 2023

Snowbird #5: March 18, 2023

As is traditionally the case, the volunteer race committee will be running one race per day for PHRF-rated boats in classes for Flying, Non-Flying, and Multihulls. The starting area is just outside the Shilshole Bay Marina breakwater, and the first warning will be at 10:55 a.m. with the first start at 11:00 a.m.

The courses will be 5 to 20 miles in length depending on conditions. There's typically a fun meetup after racing, but the venue isn't specified in advance, so be sure to monitor the committee on VHF 72 for this and other pertinent details.

www.shilsholebayyachtclub.org

WASHINGTON SEA GRANT WORKSHOPS

The folks at Washington Sea Grant have a busy schedule of interesting and important workshops this fall — relevant to recreational and commercial mariners alike. This month, there are two of them, in Seattle and Port Angeles respectively.

USCG-APPROVED FIRST AID AT SEA WORKSHOP IN SEATTLE, NOVEMBER 4

Learn to effectively treat hypothermia, near drowning and other incidents while on the water. Washington Sea Grant and Port of Seattle Fishermen’s Terminal are co-sponsoring this Coast Guard-Approved First Aid at Sea Course.

MARINE WEATHER WORKSHOP IN PORT ANGELES, NOVEMBER 5

Learn to read the weather before you head out on the water. Washington Sea Grant and the Port Angeles Yacht Club are co-sponsoring a Marine Weather Workshop in Port Angeles. Topics to be covered include atmospheric pressure and wind, coastal winds, daily briefing, fog, getting current weather, global winds, strong wind systems, waves, and weather models. Advance registration is required.

https://wsg.washington.edu/tag/workshops-classes/

low tides » News & Events

GOOD TIMES, COOL BOATS AT THE UNITED STATES SAILBOAT SHOW

IN ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND by Andy Cross

It has been a few years since I’ve attended the largest sailboat show in North America and, I have to say, the 2022 edition was one of the best I’ve been to. My wife Jill and I arrived on Wednesday, “Setup Day”, to find a flurry of booths being assembled and already shiny boats being made even shinier. Right away, we could feel an energy to the show that I wasn’t expecting on a day when only exhibitors were there.

The show opened with rain on Thursday morning, but by the afternoon it had stopped and from then on, the weekend weather was as close to perfect as you could get. Hordes of sailors and would-be sailors descended on Maryland’s capital city over the next few days and, unofficially, I heard that Friday and Saturday’s attendance numbers were record breakers. I believe it. The lines to get on boats were long, and tents of booths were filled with people browsing gear and talking to company reps. Bartenders at the many watering holes scattered throughout the show were busy pouring beers and, of course, making Pusser’s famous Painkiller cocktails.

Passion and enthusiasm for sailing seemed to be palpable. One show-goer told me, “It’s like trick-or-treating for sailors!” Another said, “I can’t remember a show this good.”

Each time I come to this show, though, it’s not necessarily the boats or gear I look forward to — it’s the people. I’ve been in the sailing industry for 20 years now, 10 of them in magazines, and this is the one place where so many friends I’ve met throughout that time congregate. Whether sharing

laughter and stories at after-hours industry parties, stopping by their booths to chat, or going out for post-show meals and beverages, it’s these friends I’ve made along the way that truly make the Annapolis boat show special.

Of course, the first thing people ask me after the show is “What boats caught your eye?” Here’s what I liked…

Lyman-Morse 46: The Lyman-Morse 46 is a Maine-built performance cruiser that catches your eye with it’s cold-molded construction, beautifully crafted wood, and sleek look.

Garcia Exploration 45: The GE 45 is a go-anywhere aluminum cruiser that I have some experience with. What impressed me about the 2022 version was how Garcia had taken owner feedback to make changes to the boat, including aluminum toe rail, stainless safety rail, and upgraded hard dodger.

J Boat J/45 : Pure eye candy, the J/45 had a prime slot on the docks and every time I walked by I couldn’t help but stop and notice something about this boat. This is a special design for sailors seeking an exceptional sailing experience, but also a boat that is supposed to be comfortable in a seaway or at anchor.

SERO Innovation Sol : A favorite because I grew up racing Sunfish and still do. The Sunfish hasn’t changed a whole lot since the 1950s — that’s what Chris McLellan was looking to update…but not by much. The new design keeps the Sunfish hull, rig, dagger board, and rudder, but added a new innovative deck layout.

low tides » Good Reads

by Stephen D. Orsini

In a mad rush to enter the Alaskan king crab fishery, Bender Shipyard's first king crabber, the Scottie , is scheduled for delivery, December, 1969. Two college seniors naively sign on to the dubious delivery crew. With faulty mechanics, the Scottie sails into a massive Caribbean storm. The two barely escape with their lives — and one outrageous, thrilling sea story.

Anacortes-based sailor and author, Steve Orsini, recently wrote to 48° North Editor Joe Cline, saying, "To quote your last editorial: 'Maybe you can recall a sea story that left you unambiguously aware that things were never going to be quite the same for you.' Please [enjoy my] recounting of just such a sea story, Nightmare on the Scottie. "

Published by Basalt Books (WSU Press).

Price: $17.15

SAILING BY STARLIGHT

by Rod Scher

Sailing by Starlight is the story of the adventure of a lifetime — in fact, of many lifetimes. Retired geography professor Marvin Creamer set out to do what hadn’t been done for a thousand years — if indeed it had ever been done at all. Marv and his crew boarded a 35-foot sailboat named Globe Star and set out onto the frigid Atlantic, planning to sail around the world without the use of any instruments. There was no sextant aboard. No compass. No chartplotter. No GPS. No radar. Not even a stopwatch. Creamer wanted to prove to the world that it was possible for ancient mariners to have crossed the largest seas, even sailed around the world, using only their brains, their experience, their senses, and their courage. Creamer would push his boat and his crew to the limit — and occasionally beyond.

Published by Sheridan House. Price: $29.95

NIGHTMARE ON THE SCOTTIE: THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF A DOOMED KING CRABBER

low tides

In the Biz

MARINE SERVICENTER WELCOMES JOHN SHEPPARD TO THE SEATTLE

TEAM

At the age of 16, John and a friend impulsively pooled their money and bought a beat up Hobie Beach Cat. It ignited a lifelong journey for all things sailing and maritime. That cat was the first of many boats, from racing dinghies to bluewater cruisers. John is grateful to have boating in his life, it led him to his closest friends and greatest adventures.

John has sailed hundreds of races, crossed oceans, and cruised many of the world’s most beautiful locations. Sharing his passion and knowledge is one of his greatest joys in life. He is an Instructor for both U.S. Sailing and American Sailing Association, and does private custom instruction as well. John holds a USCG Masters License with an International 500GT endorsement. He and his wife live aboard their Jeanneau Yacht 51. They spend their time cruising the incredible waters of the Pacific Northwest.

After a long career in corporate leadership, he turned his full-time professional focus to the passion that began so long ago. He is a working merchant mariner, a yacht sales professional, and a boating educator. John believes the Water Rat said it best, “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

Contact John at (206) 323-2405 or john@marinesc.com

Situated on a drive-to island, Anacortes is a vibrant coastal community offering the ultimate Northwest getaway - from seaside recreation to small town charm.

let bad fuel

dirty tanks ruin your next cruise!

the Pacific Northwest,

Alaska, Mexico or around the world,

the time

fuel

out there!

low tides » Products News

» ICOM M605 VHF RADIO

Not simply a VHF radio, M605 is designed to allow users the choice on how to set up the radio with up to three separate stations on the boat. Boaters can now add an exclusive complete display as another station on the vessel along with two COMMANDMICS™. The radio’s large, bright LCD display is easily visible and includes “night mode” to view in the dark. The full featured M605 also gives customers the option of an integrated AIS receiver. This integrated receiver can show AIS vessel traffic information on the display and the AIS combo screen allows you to monitor the AIS plotter during basic operation. The M605 also allows the user to directly call a selected AIS target from the AIS screen using an individual DSC. Other features

include built-in GPS, NMEA 2000/0183 compatibility, active noise canceling, and more.

Price: $849.95 » www.icomamerica.com

» ARNTSON MARINE DRY BAGS

From the folks who created the popular Tahoe Brim WindSun Hats™ comes a fresh line of dry bags for boaters and travelers that recently debuted at the US Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland. The new range includes the 10 liter Rolltop, 25 liter Fastpack, 30 liter Tote, and 35 liter Ultracrew duffle. All of the bags are constructed with 100% watertight, airtight welded seams and lightweight, eco-friendly TPU (Thermoplastic Polyurethane) material instead of cheaper PVC (Poly Vinyl Chloride) that is harmful to the environment. The Fastpack and Ultracrew bags feature IPX7 watertight and airtight zippers with clever pull tabs to help open and close the zippers with minimal effort. Whether you’re racing or cruising, powerboating or kayaking, the bags are perfect to keep your gear dry. Color options include cooler aqua or true red, each with asphalt gray accents.

Price: $26 - $150. » www.arntsonmarine.com

» IGLOO PLAYMATE CLASSIC KOOLTUNES COOLER

A blast from the past is back! When it first hit the market in 1989, Igloo had no idea how iconic their Playmate slidetop cooler would become. Now, over 30 years later, they’ve reinvented the Playmate with built-in speakers. The new KoolTunes, 14-quart cooler includes two Bluetooth-capable, low-profile 5-watt speakers that deliver a premium sound experience with punchy bass and a dynamic frequency response range. Perfect for the boat or beach, this 26-can capacity cooler has an audio playtime of 10 hours on a single charge and a control panel on the back includes LED status indicator, charging port, and pairing and volume buttons. The Playmate KoolTunes cooler comes in a variety of color options and includes a 3-foot USB charging cord.

Price: $149.99 » www.igloocoolers.com

CROSSWORD AND TRIVIA

DID YOU KNOW?

by Bryan Henry

Rhode Island is not an island, though it does contain 34 islands.

Coney Island in New York isn’t actually an island, but a peninsula. The same is true of Long Island.

New Zealand’s Ninety-Mile Beach is only 55 miles long, while Australia’s Ninety-Mile Beach is 94 miles long.

San Francisco Bay is misnamed. It’s not a bay but an estuary because three rivers flow into it and mix fresh water with saltwater. This is similar to Chesapeake Bay, which is the nation’s largest estuary. San Francisco Bay is the second largest.

The Thousand Islands, which lie in the St. Lawrence River and are shared by Canada and the U.S., actually consist of more than 1,800 islands. Conversely, Florida’s Ten Thousand Islands do not contain 10,000 islands.

The Coral Sea is not a sea filled with its namesake, but is an arm of the Pacific Ocean. It’s called the Coral Sea because of its proximity to the Great Barrier Reef.

The Caspian Sea is not a sea but rather the world’s largest lake.

Rip tides are not caused by tides but by currents and should be called rip currents.

Green moray eels are not really green. They get their coloration from the yellow slime covering their blue body; the result is a brownish-green hue.

Horseshoe crabs aren’t really crabs but are closely related to spiders and scorpions.

The thorny oyster is actually a scallop.

Dublin Bay prawns are actually lobsters that aren’t found in Dublin Bay but in the Irish Sea.

The cuttlefish isn’t a fish but rather a mollusk like squid and octopus.

The electric eel isn’t an eel but actually a knifefish that’s closely related to goldfish.

DIESEL

DIVE

by Meredith Anderson

REPAIR vs. REPLACE: WHEN TO CROSS THAT BRIDGE

Thequestion of whether to repair or replace an engine component, or the entire engine itself, is complicated.

Answers vary greatly depending on the engine’s use over its lifetime, how well it has been maintained, and what is found during the diagnostic phase of trying to solve the problem.

I have worked with many folks who have spent a fortune on repairing what could’ve easily been replaced at a fraction of the cost, which brings the question, “When do we stop and just buy new?” Personally, I love the challenge of fixing what is broken. Yet despite my best intentions, that isn’t always realistically feasible. In my years working in this business, I have become keenly aware of the need for a point at which we pause, reassess what has been found, and to modify the game plan so the solution can happen without breaking the bank. I want to highlight some important aspects of this approach so that it might be considered and better understood by anyone in need of an engine repair.

When I first got started as a marine engineer and diesel mechanic, I only saw one small portion of the process. I was responsible for fixing the problem at whatever cost. I didn’t initially see or understand the financial side of that after the problem was fixed — I was nothing more than the technician on the floor turning the wrenches. It wasn’t until I began working as an independent contractor that my eyes were opened to how much things really cost, and whether people could actually afford the repairs or not. For larger scale projects, learning how

to work with a reasonable budget has been beneficial to save the customer time and money.

The difficult reality is that, for many of us, marine diesels aboard our boats are older, potentially obsolete engines that may not be worth repairing. Having a competent professional who has this general knowledge can save the day when buying a boat or when deciding if an engine is worth dumping money into.

EXAMPLE ONE: PROP SHAFT

Let’s start with a simple example, one about which many friends and customers have shared their experiences: paying a pro to complete basic work on the propeller shaft of a vessel. This starts with separating the prop shaft from the coupling (to the reverse gear). Normally this process can be fairly quick; however when you are actually in the bilge trying to separate a flange that has been pressed onto the shaft for 10 years or more, this can be a daunting experience and take hours or even days. Access or lack thereof, of course, can make the process take even longer. If I am working on a sailboat with a 3-foot 1-inch propeller shaft and standard coupling, paying me to work at separating the pieces can be great if I can get the job done in a matter of 3-4 hours, but anything beyond that and it suddenly becomes cheaper to cut the shaft and coupling and buy an entire new assembly to save labor hours. The cost of a new stainless 3-foot propeller shaft and coupling with hardware can range from $400-$1,000 for

the complete assembly. If you are paying to remove and repair the existing shaft, I have approximately 5 hours of labor (max) to try and get it apart before the cost to save the old pieces now has exceeded just buying all new pieces. I have heard horror stories of techs taking days to do this work without advising the customer that it is just cheaper to buy brand new and move on to the next part of the job.

EXAMPLE TWO: FULL REBUILD

Now, let’s take that idea and apply it to rebuilding a smaller older diesel engine out of a sailboat. When folks come to me with a potential teardown and rebuild job, I will discuss the cost of a rebuild versus the cost of buying new. A lot of the time both of us land on simply replacing the engine as the cost of machining and other services can quickly add up, and that doesn’t include the labor to do the work.

For this example, I will use my boat: a Catalina 30. Over the years, Catalina 30s have used a variety of different engines. In the early days, Catalina used small raw water cooled engines such as the Atomic 4 or Universal 5411 (M15), before later moving to the fresh water cooled Universal M25, and eventually M25XP. When faced with a potential rebuild of one of these very common engines, I have to look at the availability of parts for the rebuild, whether the block and cylinder head can be serviced and machined, and the amount of labor to do this work. On the older raw water cooled engines I see nowadays, the block is usually very corroded and the cooling passages are partially or even completely blocked and unable to be cleared. While it is relatively easy to find a rebuild kit for a small Universal 5411 (M15), it suddenly becomes a challenge to service the block or cylinder head so it can perform like new for many years to come — and thus is a poor platform to rebuild.

Typically, raw water engines are the engines on which I find cracks or excessive corrosion damage, and the cost to re-machine or attempt to clean up these components to fit with the new parts can be very costly. A freshwater cooled engine (coolant cooled), on the other hand, is typically more worthy of a rebuild with new components, since its water jackets are typically fairly clean (if well maintained) so I can send the block out for service. Due to parts availability and the cost to source them (travel costs, shipping, time sourcing,

etc.) this side of a large job can also become quite costly. A brand new 2-cylinder freshwater cooled engine costs $7,500$9,500, so that becomes the working budget. If it looks like the cost to rebuild an old raw water cooled unit will exceed that, I will recommend buying new to save the time and effort on an obsolete unit. Afterall, a warranty and plentiful parts on that brand new unit can be nice to have. The only caveat has to do with potential installation expense for a replacement — a new engine may have different style mounts, require prop shaft or prop adjustment, different angles, or other work. So, be sure to understand what is required and make that part of your calculus.

Rebuilding a well maintained engine that is simply tired can also be absolutely worth it. Many marine diesels are designed with rebuild in mind, and have removable cylinder liners, among other things, to eliminate the prohibitive costs of machining. If I find the block or cylinder head to be in serviceable shape and the parts to do the work, then it can actually save money to simply teardown and rebuild with a good platform. Rebuild kits for smaller 2-3 cylinder engines are typically around $1,000-$1,500 and labor on a small to medium engine is about 25 hours or less. A properly rebuilt engine for the cost of $5,000-$8,000 is thus a reasonable cost compared to buying the brand new equivalent, however it is a delicate balance and the professional doing the work needs to be mindful of this so costs don’t go through the roof.

Considering your options ahead of time and working with a thoughtful mechanic who is familiar with the unit can really help when it comes to repairing or simply replacing. Many components on an engine can be torn down and replaced, however buying each piece individually and then paying the labor to rebuild can far outweigh the cost to just buy new. While I love to rebuild engines, sometimes, it’s not always reasonable financially. And the ability to say, “We need to stop!” before getting too deep into the project can be good!

Meredith Anderson is the owner of Meredith’s Marine Services, where she operates a mobile mechanic service and teaches hands-on marine diesel classes to groups and in private classes aboard their own vessels.

There are cases when replacing with a new engine may actually be cheaper than a rebuild.

A rebuild of an existing engine is easier if it has readily available parts, and removable cylinders designed to avoid machining.

CLOSE

MY BOAT CRUSH: WHY I WANT A TWELVE FOOTER

When I first saw a Scamp sailboat, I thought it looked like an oversized children’s bath toy. It seemed to bob around sitting too high in the water, and that snub nose made me feel that part of the boat was missing. But once aboard, the high sides created a dry ride and an atmosphere of safety. With a small cuddy forward, and lots of hatches for neatly stowing gear, it felt serene compared to some of the open boats I normally admire, where gear and stray equipment clutter their cockpits.

The Small Craft Advisor Magazine Project (better known as SCAMP) is an increasingly popular small sailboat that can be built from plans or a kit, as well as ordered as a ready to sail fiberglass model constructed locally by Gig Harbor Boat Works. With a 100-square-foot sail, and measuring just shy of 12 feet with a beam of about five feet, the boat seems like it shouldn’t sail well at all, but somehow it does.

I’ve been out on Scamps enough times to not be surprised by their abilities. For such a small boat, I’m continually impressed by how comfortable and spacious the seven-foot long cockpit,

by Bruce Bateau

with benches lining each side, and the five-foot cuddy make the boat feel. If I was blindfolded at the helm of a Scamp and you asked me how big a boat I was steering, I’d say something long and steady — maybe 20 feet. After all, I’d be sitting straight up, with my legs down in a well, not scrunched up like most dinghies. The tiller in hand would feel steady, with no signs of the boat wiggling due to any slight inattention.

I wasn’t alone in finding the aesthetics of the hull curious. “I became interested in Scamps very slowly. At first I did not really care for them,” my pal Randy Wheating wrote by email. “However, my big Chebacco was being used less and less.”

Many people construct their own Scamps as part of a class. Friend and lifelong sailor, Dale Simonson, told me, “I sort of ended up with a Scamp by mistake. Or, more like by happenstance. I was planning (or dreaming about planning) to build a boat in a few years… when I stumbled onto an upcoming ‘Scamp Camp,’ a group build of ten boats. Ten students, four instructors, two weeks, and come home with your own boat!”

Dale noted, “I wasn’t totally enamored with the design until I

started to really consider the value of the workshop, and getting such a good jumpstart on a build. It wasn’t until we got into the build, and all the ensuing discussions with the instructors (in particular, John Welsford the designer, and Howard Rice the adventure sailor), that I fell in love with the concept and the approach of the design as a very small vessel that is capable of cruising my local near-shore waters of the Salish Sea.”

For some Scamp sailors, the camaraderie is a big part of the appeal of the boat. There’s an active online community as well as Red Lantern rallies where scads of Scamps congregate. But that’s not true for everyone. Samantha Ritchie, the captain of a fiberglass Scamp named Kerfuffle observed, “the Scamp community is mostly older white men. I like older white men, but that’s not really my group, so I am not into the ‘community’ thing very much. That being said, I love seeing other Scamps and always go chat with the owners.”

But like other people, Samantha appreciates the balance of simplicity and function. “I am very comfortable in the Scamp, and it’s a low fuss kind of boat.  I am strong for a 65-year-old woman, but not as strong as I was 10 years ago. Despite that, I can easily put up the mast, pull the boat up on a beach, etc. No need for winches for any big jib — no jib!”

I initially expected the Scamp to sail like a bulldozer, slogging along pushing water. In reality, it moves smoothly under sail and turns on a dime, making sailing out of a marina or around other tight places deceptively easy. With only one sail and a short waterline, making 360 degree penalty turns actually feels like fun. I will admit one fault about my crush — as I’ve sailed alongside my friends in their Scamps, they are gradually outpaced by all but the shortest hulls.

I’ve been out in Scamps in a big blow, but when filled with 175 pounds of water ballast (integrated into cavities in the hull), I’ve been impressed with how stable they were. But, it wouldn’t be a sailboat if you didn’t get scared from time to time and yes, despite the broad beam and reefable sail, I’ve seen them capsize. Still, the boat is self rightable and floats high enough to bail with a little effort.

Besides being fun to sail, the Scamp is an able camp cruiser and despite its size, both Dale and Samantha have done overnight stints at anchor with their partners. Dale notes, “I think I’m a minimalist at heart, my wife and I lived in Volkswagen vans for two years, touring Europe and Australia. I love to row (and sail, even more) and don’t care much for motor boating. I have found backpacking, kayaking, camping, and living a bit ‘rough’ to be enjoyable… Big poofy pillows are allowed. Dutch ovens, too. It’s a very comfortable floating tent that turns into a kitchen, a lounge, and then a fun sailing machine… and fits in a single car garage.”

As I’ve started to play with the many strings and sticks attached to slightly larger boats, the simplicity of the Scamp keeps calling me. Sure I’d be slower and maybe not as sleek, but the comfort and adaptability of the Scamp in such a small package just keeps me smiling.

Bruce Bateau sails and rows traditional boats with a modern twist in Portland, Oregon. His stories and adventures can be found at www.terrapintales.wordpress.com.

For some people, a friendly sailing community is a big part of the appeal of the Scamp.

A group camp-cruising trip on the Lower Columbia River near Cathlamet, WA.

Although most Scamp hulls are the same, there's lots of room for personalization in the rigging and locker arrangements.

PATOS ISLAND LIGHT

THE LIGHTHOUSE OF THE NORTH

by Lisa Mighetto

Boaters

venturing north beyond the bustle of Friday Harbor, Roche Harbor, Deer Harbor, and other popular destinations in the San Juan archipelago will find a different world. Quiet and remote, the outer islands have a unique look and feel. Here eerie sandstone formations dot undeveloped shorelines, set against the vast backdrop of the Strait of Georgia.

“They sit low, aloof, wave-washed … and alluring,” wrote one observer of these islands (William Dietrich, Seattle Times August 18, 2002). It seems the perfect location for a lighthouse. Patos, the northernmost of the San Juan Islands, is home to a beacon that has guided mariners through Boundary Pass between Canada and the United States since 1893. According to one historian, this is the “most important” light in the San Juans (Lucile McDonald, Seattle Times, June 21, 1959).

Indigenous peoples call this island “Tl’x’óy7ten” or “Klu-whiteton,” the place of harvesting oysters. Spanish explorers named it “Isla de Patos,” or island of ducks. As international vessel traffic increased in the late 19th century, Alaska steamers and vessels associated with coal and railroad shipping encountered treacherous conditions — swirling water, swift currents, and heavy fog — when passing the island. By 1888, Canada’s East Point Light had been established on Saturna Island on the British Columbia side of Boundary Pass and the need for a similar American lighthouse across from it became apparent.

THE LIGHT STATION

The light station on Patos Island, which sat opposite the beacon on Saturna Island, became operational late in 1893. It included a fog signal building, a two-story residence for the keepers, water tanks, and a post light (lamp on a stake). While the Canadian East Point Light flashed white, the beacon at Patos Island initially used a red signal. During the next two decades, deficiencies in this equipment led to more robust replacements and improvements. A longer trumpet was installed in the fog signal, for instance, and in 1900 duplicate oil engines replaced the steam engines too weak to run the compressors. The light, not always visible in adverse conditions, was replaced in 1908 by a revolving fourth-order Fresnel lens that flashed white, housed in a new 38-foot tower added to the original building.

The light station, designed by Carl Leick, was constructed of wood in the Greek Revival style, painted white. Its square tower included a striking walkway and railing that overlooked

The Patos Island Lighthouse began operating in 1893. The tower dates from 1908. Photo courtesy of National Park Service.

Patos Island Lighthouse, 1915. Photo courtesy of U.S. Coast Guard.

the water. Located at Alden Point on the northwestern tip of the island, it remained one of the most isolated beacons in the Salish Sea.

THE LIGHT KEEPERS

Life at the light station was characterized by distance from amenities and lack of communication with the outside world. Early keepers sometimes rowed or sailed to Eastsound on Orcas Island or Bellingham for supplies, and emergencies were broadcast by turning the station’s U.S. flag upside down – a signal that could be missed by passing ships. The closest neighbor was the keeper at Saturna Island, several miles across the water.

Harry Mahler, Patos’ first head keeper, arrived on Patos Island in 1893 and remained for nearly a decade. He brought his wife

Louise, who was just 18 years old when she moved into the keeper’s residence with her husband. While two children were born on the island, Louise had her third child at a house rented on Eastsound. Her husband, who could not leave his post at the light station, learned of his daughter’s birth when a large bonfire on North Beach announced the event. Eventually the Mahlers moved to the Alki Point Lighthouse in Seattle. (See 48° North, May 2022 issue for more information on the Mahlers and how much they loved lighthouse life.)

Edward Durgan, who served as the assistant keeper, also arrived in 1893 but left soon after for assignments at other light stations in Washington and Oregon. In 1905 he returned to Patos with his wife Estelle and many of his 13 children, at least one of whom died on the island from smallpox or appendicitis (conflicting stories appear in multiple accounts). The details of the illness seem less significant than the recognition that life on this secluded outpost was fraught with peril. Additional tragedy struck in 1911, when Noah Clark, Durgan’s son-in-law and an assistant keeper, drowned during a winter storm while attempting to get his wife, son, and her sister to shore in the station’s launch, which had lost engine power and was filling with water. The other passengers were rescued the next day. For all these hardships, Durgan’s daughter recounted happy childhood memories of exploring the island’s tidepools and caves in her book, The Light on the Island (Helene Durgan Glidden, originally published in 1951).

George Lonholt, a single man who became head keeper in 1911, experienced difficulties of a different sort, quarreling with the assistant keeper, also a single man. The two keepers demonstrated how living in isolation and close quarters could amplify grievances. As the situation escalated, the assistant threatened to kill Lonholt, who left the island in fear for his life. Discovering that he could not perform the lighthouse duties alone, the assistant hoisted a distress signal, falsely reporting that his partner showed signs of insanity and had stolen a launch and fled. Upon investigation, the lighthouse inspector from Portland exonerated Lonholt and suspended the assistant. Lonholt continued as head keeper, distinguishing himself

when he aided several disabled vessels, including the Verona, providing shelter on Patos Island to its 10 passengers during a storm.

In 1939, the US Coast Guard and Lighthouse Service merged, bringing a new era to Patos Island. Even so, the isolation of the outpost continued to require self-sufficiency and resourcefulness. Don Fox, a coast guardsman stationed at Patos, recalled that storms sometimes prevented supply runs — and cooking with limited ingredients could be difficult. Fox’s first attempt at baking bread was a failure. When the other men refused to eat his biscuits he offered them to the lighthouse dog, who also rejected them. Discouraged, Fox tossed the biscuits where he thought the gulls would eat them — and even the birds would not touch them. “The good news is Dad did eventually become a very good cook,” his daughter recalled (History Nook, Eileen Lorenz, 2017)

THE LIGHTHOUSE TODAY

Lighthouse employees left Patos Island when the station became automated in 1974, and many buildings were removed. Patos is now part of San Juan Islands National Monument, established in 2013. Today, boaters can explore this historic island and view its restored and still-active lighthouse. Watch for the white flash every six seconds and for the two red sectors that mark Six Fathom Shoal and Rosenfield Rock to the west.

Cheryl McChesney, owner of Blue Water Yachts and a longtime Northwest sailor, recently looked back on her first trip to Patos, where she battled the swirling water. “I was not very experienced then and had not checked tides and currents,” she recalled. “There, at the front of the lighthouse, was the biggest whirlpool I had ever seen…I thought it would suck our boat down!” She tied up at one of the buoys at Active Cove, operated by Washington State Parks. “Beautiful island with so much sea life,” she commented. “It was how I remembered Sucia used to be.”

For more information, see www.parks.wa.gov/561/Patos-Island

Lisa Mighetto is a historian and sailor residing in Seattle.

Patos Island Lighthouse aerial view. Photo courtesy of U.S. Coast Guard.

Patos Island Lighthouse aerial view. Photo courtesy of U.S. Coast Guard.

MISCHIEF BEYOND NAKWAKTO RAPIDS

FINDING SOLITUDE OFF THE BEATEN PATH

by Michael Boyd

For more than 10 years, our 40-foot pilothouse trawler Mischief has been both our comfortable homeaway-from-home and our magic carpet to new places. My wife Karen and I especially love beautiful scenery and opportunities to anchor all alone. Being beyond signs of civilization is always a plus. This year, we decided on a late summer cruise to the waters beyond Nakwakto Rapids in British Columbia.

We left Seattle on August 10 and traveled at a leisurely pace through the San Juans, Gulf Islands, Desolation Sound, Discovery Islands, and the Broughton Archipelago to arrive at the starting point of our Nakwakto adventure — Allison Harbour — on Sunday, August 28. It proceeded to rain all afternoon, evening, and night. We never left the boat. It was an unceremonious start to what would be a stunning cruising experience in a littleknown corner of the Inside Passage. In the morning, the rain had morphed to low clouds, so we were off to go the 5 miles or so to Nakwakto Rapids.

Nakwakto Rapids is one of the strongest tidal currents in the world,

and is the intimidating gateway to beautiful Seymour and Belize inlets. Access to Nakwakto — which is located just northwest of the Broughtons, only about 15 miles from Cape Caution — and the waters beyond requires attentive navigation through a sea of rocks and islands, whether you approach from the east (Schooner Channel) or west side (Slingsby Channel) of Brahman Island. Getting there is only the first step, however. Ebb currents can reach 16 knots, and the morning’s prediction had it pegged at over 11 knots for our transit — nothing to trifle with. We wanted to reach the rapids exactly at slack, 12:01 p.m., and left Allison Harbour with plenty of time to adjust our speed to get the timing exactly right. On the approach to the rapids, we sighted a lone sea otter — the first we had seen on this part of the coast. As it turned out, we were 4 minutes early; but it didn’t matter, it was perfectly calm with only a half knot of current left in the ebb.

One feature that makes Nakwakto so dangerous is the turbulence caused by a small island called Turret Rock right in

Leaving Allison Harbour in time to make the slack at Nakwakto.

the middle of the narrowest spot. It is said that on large tides the rock actually trembles at full flow. Over the years, boaters have taken their small, high powered dinghies to the rock at slack and posted a sign with their boat names on a tree. Since our dinghy is human powered, we took a pass.

After transiting Nakwakto, we entered Seymour and Belize inlets — 220 miles of fjords reaching into the Coast range of British Columbia. This is one of the most remote and least visited areas along this stretch of coast; the first nautical chart of the inlets wasn’t issued until 1987. Even now, it is not often traveled by cruisers and we didn’t expect to see another pleasure boat.

We anchored our first night in a corner of Westerman Bay, a deep cove stretching north as you head up Belize Inlet. Except for the usual evening breeze, it was almost totally calm. It’s about 20 feet deep and the bottom is covered with eel grass, which is good crab habitat. We put out a pot first thing. Then we rowed around looking for feathers floating on the surface of the water for Karen to add to her collection. We also identified six different small streams entering this part of the bay, no doubt the result of the previous day’s rain.

On the first morning we awoke in Belize Inlet, the weather improved, as mostly cloudy skies gave way to occasional sun spots and finally to bright sun and blue sky with occasional puffy white clouds. It was a perfect day for our trip to Alison Sound. We pulled in our crab trap and examined our finds: two starfish and one

moon jelly — not the fruitful catch we had hoped for.

It’s about 25 miles from Westerman to the head of Alison Sound, mostly traveling eastward towards the mountains, first up Belize Inlet before turning north into Alison Sound at about the halfway point. Along the way there were a number of waterfalls, including a spectacular one from Trevor Lake that dropped right into the Inlet. You can practically drive the boat right up to it; the water is so deep.

While the name “Sound” might suggest a large body of water, in these parts it is often used for a narrow, steep-sided inlet that flows into a larger inlet. Alison Sound certainly qualifies. It averages a third of a mile wide through its 11 mile length with mountains on both sides rising three to four thousand feet right out of the water — in many cases as spectacular rock walls. It is also deep — too deep for anchoring except in a few isolated places and even then it’s deep. We traveled slowly up the Sound, checking out the anchorage possibilities and the cliff faces for pictographs left by First Nations peoples from 150 or 200 years ago. We found one depicting a long boat with a number of oars and six native canoes, probably from the mid 19th century.

When we got to the head of the Sound the water was dead calm, the sun was shining and there was a welcoming committee in the form of a small black bear on the beach.

The heads of most of the inlets on this coast are marked by a river delta that drops off into deep water very quickly. One minute it’s 200 feet deep then, before

you know it, you’ve run aground. But in some of these deltas there is a narrow band where you can drop an anchor and still have room to swing before hitting shallow water. We dropped our anchor in 90 feet, let out 240 feet of chain, and backed up to stretch out the rode. The depth was 15 feet when the anchor was set and we were still a couple of hundred yards from the beach. But it was glassy calm and we felt perfectly safe. It was a spectacular place to spend the night, surrounded by pristine wilderness with the closest humans being a long way away.

The stars were brilliant in the middle of the night. By morning, fog had rolled into the Sound and only our boat and the edge of the shore around us had escaped the cloak of zero visibility. The rising sun slowly lit up the scene, first on the tops of the snowy peaks, then the hillsides, and finally our little bay, gradually driving the fog away. We watched this process for several hours while rousing ourselves from slumber, eating breakfast and getting the boat ready to go. By this time, the fog had lifted to form a layer higher than the water and lower than the mountain tops, so we got underway. The water was still as calm as it had been the day before and during the night.

At the northwest corner of Alison Sound and Belize Inlet we found another pictograph and, after getting a closeup look, we entered Belize Inlet for the journey back the way we came. The winds tend to follow these long inlets and we faced a 10 knot breeze that raised a substantial chop all the way to

Turret Rock in the middle of Nakwakto Rapids with boat nameboards.

Still vivid red ochre pictographs nearly 200 years old can be found in Alison Sound.

CONQUERING

NAKWAKTO

Nakwakto is much like other rapids, only more so. It can be fast and very turbulent and on large tides the period of slack is extremely short, a matter of minutes. Timing is critical but here are some strategies that can help in that regard.

Approach via Schooner Channel from the south. It may be narrow and somewhat shallow but has less current than Slingsby Channel and it is convenient to Allison Harbour, a large, protected anchorage that makes an ideal jumping off point.

So long as you’re early, you don’t have to get the passage timing exactly right; at the end of Schooner Channel is Cougar Inlet, a calm bay free of current that is exactly 0.8 nm from Nakwakto Rapids. It makes a great place to wait for the right time; there is graffiti on a cliff showing many have used it before you.

When the moment arrives, plan to be at Turret Rock at exactly slack. On large tides there will still be some turbulence and some current.

If this is your first time, you might plan your transit for a neap tide.

The actual length of the rapids is short so before you know it, you’re through. Welcome to Seymour Inlet.

the junction with Seymour Inlet. When we turned the corner into Seymour, it became calm.

We continued up Seymour for a few miles to Charlotte Bay, which is a nice anchorage, open to the northwest with the potential of a good sunset view because the land around it is quite low, much different from the mountains of Belize Inlet. And the temperature was decidedly cool — 65 degrees after the previous day’s 81. Conditions certainly change quickly at this time of year.

On this first day in Seymour Inlet, we actually saw other vessels — all work boats in one form or another. A small tug was towing a log boom, a high speed aluminum crew boat buzzed around between various logging camps, a landing craft was traveling somewhere, but there were no other pleasure boats. We weren’t alone anymore, but it certainly wasn’t crowded.

Shortly before sunset that evening, the fog rolled in once again; and was still lingering in the morning. Fortunately, it wasn’t all that dense, visibility was a quarter mile at least, so we decided to continue our journey towards the head of Seymour Inlet. Other than one narrow spot filled with islands where the inlet makes a slight jog, Seymour is wide and deep with no hazards. We navigated with chartplotter and radar and, after about an hour of travel, the fog had lifted to about 200 feet above the water. Visibility was fine at water level, we just had no view of the mountains. The water was smooth as glass. As we motored the inlet kept getting deeper until our depth sounder

stopped reading at 1,966 feet.

The farther you travel up the inlet, the higher the surrounding mountains become and we wanted to see them. Since it was lunchtime, we decided to stop and wait for the fog to lift. We could have just stopped in the middle of the inlet and drifted, but just at that moment we happened to be passing the only anchorage for miles around. It was a little one-boat nook called Jesus Pocket, so we pulled in and dropped anchor. The sun came out and there was even a small stream to listen to as we ate cucumber sandwiches in the cockpit. Sweet.

Our lunch break ended just as the fog finally dissipated completely so we continued our journey to Frederick Sound, the southeast-reaching fork of Seymour. Starting with Eclipse Narrows, it continues straight for a few miles before narrowing and following a set of U-turns amongst steep, 2,000 foot high peaks, ending in a bay with black cliffs above — our home for the night. Anchoring depth was modest at 60 feet with room to swing.

At this point, we were only 3 miles, as the crow flies, to Mackenzie Sound in the Broughtons, an 80 mile journey by boat. It turns out this is the site of a former logging operation that was abandoned not too long ago and, most usefully for us, there was a logging road heading up through the trees toward Mackenzie. A hike at last! We rowed to the dock and hiked up the road about a mile to the first major blow down before turning around. It was a nice hike with gentians flowering in the road. We would have gone farther,

The lower section of the waterfall from Trevor Lake in Belize Inlet.

Lunch break in the one-boat nook called Jesus Pocket in Seymour Inlet.

but it was late in the day and we had to keep stepping around large piles of bear poop as we walked, some quite recent. Remembering how far we were from help, we decided to play it safe and head back to the boat.

With a little wind and fog, the morning wasn’t as picture perfect as the night before had been. But we were in no hurry and had a delightful breakfast — Karen’s orange cranberry bread — and still managed to get a fairly early start. As soon as we left Frederick Sound and re-entered Seymour Inlet, the wind fell to zero, the water was flat calm, and the fog dissipated.

When we got back out to the jog in Seymour Inlet that we had navigated in the fog the day before, we investigated a couple of potential anchor sites, each useful in different wind conditions. Then we headed south into what one of our cruising guides called Explorer Inlet, but is unnamed on the chart. It eventually leads to Nenahlmai Lagoon but three miles down, it narrows and becomes so shallow that our boat could only go through on a very high tide. Luckily, just before the narrows, the Passage widens into a lovely bay suitable for anchoring, so we did. It was very calm and would have become hot in the boat were it not for the increasing clouds. That, and the falling barometer, showed a change in the weather was in the works. In the meantime, we enjoyed a great sunset with many layers of clouds.

Our penultimate day beyond Nakwakto

Rapids started with a clear sky and brilliant view of Orion to the southeast and Jupiter to the southwest. That was at 4 a.m. and, by the time we got out of bed, it was cloudy. Soon, showers began and the rain got heavier around noon. It was not exactly an auspicious start to the day, so we decided to stay where we were for another night. The barometer had been steady and there was no wind so we were hopeful for good weather the following day.

Mischief is both a very seaworthy cruising boat and a comfortable living accommodation, and it was a good day to enjoy the living aboard part of boating to the fullest. That meant a mixture of boat chores, food, music, writing, and art — maybe even a nap. Life is good on a boat, even in the rain; and it’s even better in beautiful and remote locations.

The wind and hard rain continued until 2 or 3 in the morning. Not long after, we woke up thinking the boat had dragged its anchor and was being carried away by the rapids; the sound of rushing water was so loud. But a look around in the intense blackness somehow convinced us we hadn’t moved. In the morning we could see the source of the sound — we had managed to anchor 100 yards from three waterfalls coming down the steep hillside next to us, which hadn’t existed the day before. It’s amazing what one rainstorm can do.

We spent a week exploring beyond Nakwakto Rapids and, true to our expectations, the scenery was spectacular

and we never saw another pleasure boat. As we readied ourselves for life back outside Nakwakto, we found the rapids calm at our targeted 11 a.m. slack. We continued back through Schooner Channel the way we had come a week before. Amazingly, we saw the same sea otter in the channel but it was still too shy to pose for a picture. When we reentered Queen Charlotte Strait the wind was light with a low swell from the ocean and we could finally hear chatter on the VHF again. We continued on towards Vancouver Island, which, at this point, was only 9 miles away. Our exploration beyond Nakwakto Rapids was over for this year.

Michael and Karen have been cruising the Salish Sea and beyond for more than 20 years, the last 10 aboard Mischief, a 40 foot Eagle pilothouse trawler with all the comforts of home. Karen is a former Art Director for 48° North. Photos by Karen Johnson.

The many layers of clouds made for a fascinating sunset from our Explorers Inlet anchorage.

Exploring by dinghy in Explorers Inlet.

TRANSFORMATION AND THERAPY VETERANS AT SEA

by Justin Cronin

Ifindpeace on the sea. As a Marine Corps veteran who served in Afghanistan, this is a special thing for me and something that I want to share. I grew up sailing small boats on the East Coast and learned to sail larger keelboats while stationed in California. We lived in the high desert but would drive three hours to San Diego to rent a sailboat and escape the heat.

When I completed active duty and my wife and I were looking for a next place to land, the Pacific Northwest’s sailing potential drew us here. It took a few years before we made the jump to purchase and then live aboard our Cooper 416, but now we’ve been enjoying it for three-and-a-half years and even added an 80-pound dog to the crew.

Sailing and living on a boat in the Salish Sea has been transformational for me. The ability to link adventure with quiet time in nature is unmatched. At times, it has taken all my focus and skill, along with our Cooper’s seaworthiness, to push through heavy weather in the Strait of Georgia or Strait of Juan de Fuca. Yet, we have also been rewarded with quiet spring days when we were the only boat in anchorages like James Bay on Prevost Island — one of our favorites.

A part of the joy for me is the work of maintaining and repairing a boat, as well as planning for trips by poring over

The author, relaxed at the helm of his Cooper 416 while cruising in British Columbia in early 2022.

charts, guides, and weather models. Not only does it remind me of time spent preparing vehicles and gear in the Marines while planning every detail of a patrol, but it allows for continuous growth, learning, and improvement. While these experiences on the water have given me so much, I continue to seek ways to share the adventure and peace of sailing with other veterans. I’ve spent time looking for the right way to sail with other veterans and usually struck out.

Though it would take me far from my home waters, over the spring, I stumbled upon the perfect match that focused on the adventure and healing of sailing — an organization in Texas called Skeleton Crew Adventures. Within a few months, I found myself on an overnight watch with three other Marines discussing preparations for an adventure race around the world.

After my initial contact with Skeleton Crew, they reached out to see if I would be interested in joining them for the 2023 Ocean Globe Race (OGR). I was familiar with the race and was shocked by the possibility of joining. The OGR is a retro roundthe-world sailing race on the 50th anniversary and in the spirit of the original 1973 Whitbread Round the World Race. This includes the route mostly through the Southern Ocean around the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Leeuwin, and Cape Horn. To keep the full spirit and adventure, the race will be on production boats designed before 1988 and without the aid of GPS and other technologies that weren’t available in the 1973 race. After submitting my sailing resume and having a Zoom interview with the skipper and Executive Director, I was rostered for the second of the four race legs from South Africa to New Zealand.

My attention immediately turned to training, preparation, and a desire to meet more of the team. I got onto Skeleton Crew Adventure’s schedule and signed up to join six other OGR race team members on a short offshore passage in the Gulf of Mexico. I arrived on a Wednesday in June to face the Texas heat and meet some of the team. The crew of seven included three Skeleton Crew staff members (one that will be our race skipper), a Navy veteran with significant sailing experience that will be our first mate, and two Marine veterans that had almost no sailing experience. Despite a variety of experience on the water, the crew came together immediately with our shared past experiences, interest in adventure, and tough work ethic. We spent the evening getting to know each other and preparing our Beneteau First 44.7 for departure the next day.

In the morning, we pulled out of Kemah to start the overnight sail to Port Aransas. I was thankful for my wide brimmed hat and long-sleeved sun shirt as the Texas heat picked up. Coming from the Northwest, I was not used to the Gulf of Mexico’s strong sun and warm water. To be honest, the heat reminded me of my time in the Marine Corps, and the years I spent training and living in California’s Mojave Desert. I was ready for it and knew how to take care of myself, but it did make me miss the cool breeze, trees, and numerous islands of the Salish Sea.

The trip started with a long motor into the wind through Galveston Bay. We raised the mainsail while heading southeast between barges and shrimp boats. Once we rounded the jetty at Galveston, we turned south and killed the engine. We unfurled the full genoa, and the sailing began.

The first moments when the engine is off and the boat is

With 12 knots of breeze and a close reach, it was easy to trim the boat for balance and speed.

cutting smoothly through water are my favorites. It was special to share that with the two first-time sailors, and to watch as they began to understand the peace that was possible at sea. We trimmed the sails for a close reach and continued our course south down the coast and farther offshore. The wind blew around 12 knots and made it easy to balance the boat and consistently move at 7 knots or better. We had to explain to the newer sailors that the flat water and consistent wind was not something you get everyday, and was described by our skipper as the “champagne sailing” that clients always expect.

We continued along the coast about 10 miles offshore. Since I mostly cruise in the Pacific Northwest, it was unique for me to sail out of sight of land. Instead of navigating Puget Sound’s islands, rocks, and logs, we stayed busy avoiding oil platforms and fishing boats. Another surprise coming from the deep inlets of the Northwest was that 10 miles off the Texas coast, the water was only 60 feet deep.

During the afternoon, the wind began to shift and change in velocity. With a full crew and well-equipped boat, we adjusted sail trim for each shift. As the sun went down, the wind continued to build and we put a reef in the large mainsail; soon, we added a second. All of these were great opportunities to get the new sailors experience, and we rotated roles as adjustments were

The view was a little different, and so was the heat, off the coast of Texas. The author missed the islands and cool breezes of the Salish Sea.

made. The Beneteau First 44.7 was very responsive and we were able to see the effects of small changes to the headsail lead position or tension in the backstay.

By morning, the wind was light, so we shook out our reefs. We were sailing mostly closehauled now, and we tacked a few times throughout the second day to stay farther out to sea while following the southward curve of the Texas coast.

In the afternoon the wind built again, and we picked up speed toward Port Aransas. The greatest thrill of the sail was being on the wheel and coming back towards the coast in 20 knots of steady wind. I was just able to dip the starboard toe rail into the water while the crew made fine adjustments to the main sheet.

It felt good to be on the helm, but also to be a part of a smoothly operating team that was in sync with the boat and conditions. The whole crew hollered as we raced the sun into port looking forward to cold drinks and a full night of sleep. We arrived in Port Aransas 30 hours after we departed Kemah.

After recuperating in port, the return trip north came with a better point of sail and plenty of wind. The crew had come together and there was a rhythm to our movements around the boat. The evening’s sunset brought a calm and ease to us all as we enjoyed the peaceful motion and security of a capable crew at sea.

That night, I got another part of what I was looking for. My four-hour night watch with other Marines and a cup of coffee reminded me of a different type of watch in very distant places. Instead of being on guard for attacks in the night, this time we enjoyed the tranquility of the sea and had time to reflect. Conversations covered tough times, funny encounters, regrets, and families we’re grateful for now. As we re-entered Galveston Bay and relished a broad reach toward the marina, the team was looking to the next challenge.

Those four days on the Gulf were just a taste of the real adventure and challenge that we were looking for. The real chemical and biological changes of adventure therapy come

from engaging in a challenge that requires much of the focus, fast thinking, and problem-solving we’ve developed previously.

Our attention turned to the possibility of the OGR and preparing a crew and boat for the Southern Ocean. There are some real hurdles to overcome over the next year — from a lot of fundraising to a major refit. We have a full crew with a variety of experience that needs sea time and survival courses. For me, this brings the familiarity of readying a team for an overseas deployment, with a variety of skills to build and equipment to prepare. We have an idea of what the Southern Ocean may bring, but must prepare the boat and crew for the unexpected.

As I enjoyed dinner with our first mate back in Kemah, the race and adventure were starting to feel real. I had just witnessed the on-the-water transformation of two veterans who were new to sailing, and our plan was coming together. We had a budget and fundraising goal, and a training plan to get started. We got one evening off and then it was time to get back to work.

Now that I’m home in the Pacific Northwest, I’m grateful to be surrounded by some of the best training grounds and a community of skilled sailors. I found myself applying some sail trim techniques I learned on the Gulf during a recent trip across Puget Sound to Liberty Bay. In addition to dedicated training with the OGR crew, we’re planning some longer trips up the Sunshine Coast on our Cooper to build broader experience.

I’m excited about new challenges that lie ahead. I still appreciate the peace and healing of sailing, and am eager to see what transformations even bigger adventures may bring to me and these other veterans.

Justin Cronin is a Marine veteran that lives and cruises with his wife and 80lb dog on a Cooper 416 out of Seattle, WA. He also sails with Skeleton Crew Adventures, a non-profit that provides adventure therapy through sailing to military veterans and first responders. You can learn more or support their mission at skeletoncrewadventures.org.

The evening’s sunset brought a calm and ease to all aboard as they enjoyed the peaceful motion and security of a capable crew at sea.

more.

information,

real chemical and biological changes of adventure therapy come from engaging in a challenge that requires much of the focus, fast thinking, and problem-solving we’ve developed previously.

CALIBRATING MY INTERNAL COMPASS

ALONE ON A SUP IN THE ARCTIC

by Karl Krüger

Shewas surrounded by women. They all sat on the bench at the front of the community hall in the center of Paulatuk in the Inuvik region of Canada’s Northwest Territories. She looked me in the eyes, pausing to take another drag of her cigarette. Her expression was wrinkled into a permanent squint against the relentless Arctic. It was impossible to tell how old she was, though she was clearly a lot older than the others. Her hands were deft, her movements subtle, and the sparkle in her eyes indicated enormous depth and a certain playful skepticism.

She spoke quietly. They all heard her, deferred to her, and silenced themselves as she spoke. Their social discipline was not lost on me. I was raised under the axiom that a person should only speak when they have something of meaning to share, and that ”those who speak most, have the least to say.” This woman clearly had something to say.

She addressed me, her gaze unwavering, with the warm confidence of one who is secure in their community, beliefs,

heritage, and experience. She was bold, yet kind; strong, yet unassuming. She asked me, “You came in the canoe, hey?” in that beautiful, lilting, and deeply comforting way that Inuit have. They all waited patiently while I triangulated the answer to her question. I had only been in town for maybe 30 minutes, arriving on my standup paddleboard (SUP) after pulling a 70mile all-nighter from Cape Parry to complete this leg of the journey.

I had departed Tuktoyaktuk (Tuk) 15 days prior. In 2017, I decided I would like to paddle a SUP through the Northwest Passage. After one false start and loads of training, I began the project this year. Stepping off the beach and paddling alone into the Arctic was the hardest thing I have ever done. Also the most fruitful because the greater the risk, the greater the reward.

As I set out from Tuktoyaktuk, I keenly felt the difference between risk appetite and risk tolerance. I was scared shitless. In July of 2019, I had rolled into Tuk, clearly sporting an appetite for risk… but ultimately paused the expedition to give myself

more time to prepare. In July of 2022, my shoreside expedition crew, Scott and Elyn, drove with me into Tuk, I packed up my stuff, and I shoved off. I was in Tuk for under an hour. With the scantest suggestion of a safety net, I went for it — proving that my risk tolerance and preparation was vastly stronger than my first attempt.

The board was extremely heavy, and I almost pulled myself right over the nose on the first couple of strokes. My kit weighed in at 398 pounds at the start of the journey, including my custom BARK Expedition SUP and myself — I’d be relieved of food and fuel weight, as well as 17 pounds of body mass, in the ensuing 15 days.

It was a beautifully sunny and slightly breezy day, and it took a couple of hours for Tuk to inch below the horizon behind me. Getting comfy with a solo SUP paddling expedition in the Arctic felt like breaking in a new pair of leather boots in those first few days.

Soon, I was paddling straight into a strong easterly headwind. I battled upwind for as long as I could before posting up on the beach. The terns and sandhill cranes scolded me for a day while I stood by, impatiently working on my Arctic tan, counting bear and wolf tracks, and hoping the wind would shift to a westerly.

When the westerly came, it was stout. On the third and fourth days out, I found myself alone in the Arctic Ocean — well out of sight of land, surfing my board in steep, cold, crumbling seas with the board completely submerged. I hadn’t planned to be a submariner. Whatever the craft, mariners are tested by how well they accept the unexpected and keep moving forward. I stood in the footwells of the board with water halfway up my

calves for two days. It added a certain spice to the already mind-altering undertaking. As it turns out, submarines are quite stable, and pretty fast too.

Late on the fourth day, wind and current created a jumbled sea state. I was on my knees and paddling hard to round a point. I had just seen my first caribou and beluga. All the while, I had been keeping an eye on a cigar-shaped front approaching from the west. I watched the showers that developed along the cloud front. Just short of my daily goal, the wind suddenly veered

the Arctic, you are forced to accept your insignificance. You must exist in a space of brutal honesty and humility.

Karl Krüger's 420-mile Arctic SUP route in 2022.

northerly and started gusting 25 to 30 knots. Resistance was futile. I allowed the conditions to guide me to shore.

I battled with my tent to get it pitched. Every time I poked a stake into the permafrost, a gust would come, flog the tent, and yank it out. I finally piled all my gear on top of the flogging tent, and got it staked out before sliding the pole in to stand it up. It was a memorable blow. For the rest of the trip, I warily eyed the horizon during each crossing. I had learned how quickly things can happen in the Arctic.

My third significant crossing brought me from Tuk Peninsula to Nicholson Island. I was running low on water, and knew I could find some 15 miles across the bay. But 15 might as well be 50 when you can’t see anything. I had already paddled almost 45 miles. Though the previous cold front was on my mind, the horizon looked friendly enough so I went for it. I quickly started passing large floats of brash ice and “bergy bits” — smaller pieces of the winter pack ice that was breaking up farther to the east and north. The sounds of lapping waves around the ice bits, coupled with the beluga whistles and squeaks were my soundtrack. The weather held. That night, I found water.

In the Arctic, you are forced to accept your insignificance. You must exist in a space of brutal honesty and humility. If there are obstructions in your psyche, nature will reveal and grind away at them. Ignorance of this fact has crushed many expeditions. The tiniest decisions invite dire consequences, and traveling alone amplifies these realities. My body was enduring the physical challenges of an Arctic journey, but those first days showed me that it would take all of my faculties to find my way. The charts are inaccurate and the compass is increasingly useless as you near the poles. Thick fog formed rapidly, and the low points of tundra slipped away over the horizon very quickly. I had no choice but to dig deeper for navigational clues.

When you move into the vastness, you learn to ask for the way and promise to do the work needed to follow the way. The way opens, always. However, you must have gratitude, and you must do the work, without fail. Over time, a person becomes attuned to the tiniest impulses that come from within, and the smallest external clues. It is very important to follow these impulses — they can save your life, because they always open toward the path.

I felt great joy in discovering old hunting camps — places with good water to drink and as many bones on the beach as rocks. I found them following my internal compass, and it was also in this way I avoided becoming just another pile of sunbleached bones.

I shoved off from Nicholson Island and picked my way through the fog and side chop to make landfall just south of Cape Bathurst. I experienced the optical illusion called “Looming” during that crossing — sandy banks of the shoreline several miles behind popped back up, after losing sight of them an hour earlier. It was briefly disorienting. Later, as I neared my goal, I found the sandbars guarding the beach to be like a corn maze at Halloween. That night, I broke my fin as I pulled up onto the beach. I was down to my spare fin, and still had another 200plus miles to go. I was not happy with this development.

The next day, I paddled along a crumbling bank of permafrost. Cape Bathurst is reportedly losing 20 feet of shoreline every

There's no shortage of beauty in a simple Arctic SUP camp, once you manage to get your tent pitched in the gusty winds.

Evidence of bear activity could be found everywhere.

year to melting and erosion. The water looked like chocolate milk. Paddling in the lee, the absence of waves crashing was overwhelming — I had grown used to the roar and chaos. With the slightest whispers of breeze in my ear. I paddled close to the bank to get some relief from the building easterly. I watched the cat's paws tickling the surface just to my left as I wound my way through the shallows to land at the tip of Cape Bathurst.

This was the northernmost point of my expedition this summer — a latitude of 70 degrees north. The situation and exposure were incredible. Muskoxen and caribou tracks were literally everywhere. My tent smelled like a barn inside. I walked the tundra for hours, drinking in the solitude and exposure like it was a medicine. I found a melted-out grave. He died sometime around 1915. His wooden casket sitting on ice, and exposed to the arctic elements. A pile of crumbly permafrost spread across the top like cake frosting. The grave marker had tipped over. I stood it back up and looked at it for a while, before deciding to look for water someplace else.

I found a little water in a narrow crack near the edge of the permafrost. There was enough in a small puddle to fill a 6-liter bladder. That was the last water I would find until Cape Parry 150 miles later. Water is wealth in the Arctic.

I spent two heavenly days there on the tip of the Cape surrounded by old bowhead whale bones, waiting and watching as the easterly brought the ice in close. I worried that it would pack in and trap me there. The ice came within 100 yards of shore, and the larger bergs grounded just offshore. There was a constant cacophony. The ice sounded like thunder; the wind like a distant waterfall; the birds calling overhead, always keeping a wary eye on me. There were bear tracks in abundance. I have never been so happy in all my life. On the edge of the world. I felt enormously powerful, yet delicate like a tundra flower. You can be both.

Leaving Bathurst, I stayed close to shore to weave my way between bergy bits. I passed the Smoking Hills, an area where subsurface shale is always burning. The air quality was poor with drifting, acrid smoke. The place had a martian vibe. I passed a big brown bear cruising the beach for snacks. It trolled along and passed dead downwind of me. The instant it caught a whiff of me, it exploded into a furious run down the beach. I worried a little less about bears after that.

That night, I camped about a mile away from a Hudson’s Bay Company outpost on a huge delta below a Distant Early Warning Line (Dew Line) station. Situated about every 50 nautical miles across the entire Arctic, Dew Line radar stations are a functioning relic of the Cold War era, set up to warn of Soviet invasion by air, land, or sea. Both the Dew Line station and the Hudson’s Bay facility looked alien. The Hudson’s Bay outpost made me think about the de facto slavery of the Inuit. I had no desire to visit that place.

The next two days were a mad-dash to find water. As I ate and drank less, it was becoming more difficult to keep warm while I wasn’t paddling. The crossing to the Cape Parry peninsula was the largest crossing I made. I had grown more comfortable with the risks. I recognized them and their magnitude, yet I was somehow more capable of plowing through the discomfort. About halfway across, two bowhead whales crossed close in

There was a constant cacophony. The ice sounded like thunder; the wind like a distant waterfall; the birds calling overhead, always keeping a wary eye on me. There were bear tracks in abundance. I have never been so happy in all my life.

before.

The Smoking Hills, an area where the subsurface shale is always burning.

front of me. Slowly. They were curious but cautious — like the belugas, just a whole lot bigger. I stopped paddling and watched them pass.

I landed in heavy fog. No fresh water anywhere near there, it was like a desert. Thirsty and hungry, I paddled another 40 miles to Cape Parry. That day brought so much — sea lions, whales, fog, dehydration, headwinds, steep and choppy seas. All day, I paddled with the Arctic gaping wide to my left. I’d be lost forever if something happened and I drifted over the horizon. It would have been so easy to just disappear. So easy.

Cape Parry was my last camp before paddling into Paulatuk. I spent two very windy and clear days looking for water and waiting for a window. Sporting my orange crocs and a shotgun over my shoulder, I walked out onto the land. The distant Arctic Ocean shone the deepest blue. Bear tracks mingled with the wolf tracks. I walked a few miles. I found a cairn. The wind and sea were the only voices. I meandered this way and that, asking the way to a lake or other water source. I began to notice the wildlife tracks all lining up like electronic induction lines. I followed them in a long arc to a jewel of a lake nestled high on a ridge. For the first time since I left Tuk, I was able to fill up my water bags on this last full day before paddling into Paulatuk. It felt decadent to have so much water. I could drink as much of it as I wanted. I was a wealthy man.

A weather window opened and I departed Cape Parry at 7:00 p.m. The board performed incredibly well — the sea around Cape Parry can get rowdy. After about 30 miles, the swell became organized and glassy, and I enjoyed another 40 miles of beautiful bumps. The bright blue color of the water in the dusky twilight of an Arctic night was like nothing I have ever seen. The belugas made the water glow brightly. I arrived in Paulatuk around 11:00 the next morning after a distance of around 70 nautical miles. 420 total since Tuktoyaktuk.

As I paddled into Paulatuk, population 265, I took it slowly. I wanted to avoid being demanding, offensive, or rude in my approach. The villages along the Arctic coast are close to shore, and I didn’t want to pull up in someone’s front yard. As I chose a spot to land, I noticed a 4-wheeler rapidly approaching. The nose of my board had just kissed the grass between two skiffs when the man driving stopped right in front of me. With obvious

I had not seen a human face in 15 days. No boats or planes. Despite all that solitude, somehow, I found re-entry into that social setting to be easy. In Paulatuk, I was greeted by people who navigate from a deeper place, and have done so for a very, very long time. I have always appreciated the resonance I feel with people who thrive in harsh environments like the Arctic. Character and resolve as tough as thick old oiled leather, but smooth like a river rock. Resilient. When you are reminded so forcefully and relentlessly of the ephemeral and delicate nature of life, the result is profound gratitude.

These thoughts swirled around in my head after the old woman asked me if I was the one who arrived by canoe. I could see in that woman’s eyes a respect for my chosen solitude, it warmed me thoroughly. I held her eyes and, after quickly deciding that a canoe isn’t so different from my SUP, answered, “Yes, I did.” Her eyes shot open and her mouth formed a large O as she slowly said “Ooh!” Recognition passed silently between us. I stood there in my drysuit; soggy, hungry, tired, and also humbled and honored she had noticed my arrival.

Her next questions were “Where did you paddle from?” and “How long did it take?” At each reply, her eyes got bigger and was accompanied by a longer “OOOH!!” Lastly, she asked, “Alone?” To which I replied “Yes, alone.” After the briefest pause, she gave a slower, deeper “ooOOOoh.” We quietly regarded one another for a moment. In an instant, the younger women began peppering me with questions. Afterward, Joe helped me carry my gear upstairs to a room in the bunkhouse/hotel. Then, I ate everything and slept hard for a while.

Unlike my arrival in Paulatuk, re-entry into ‘society’ is always more challenging. There is a core misalignment between society and nature. Back south, if I tripped on a street curb and busted my leg, I’d soon have a whack of well-trained medics there to save me from myself. Water runs from a pipe sticking out of the wall. You can flush away your poop and not worry about a bear finding it interesting. Food is piled up in foul heaps at the store. The stench of entitlement is strong. Surprises are few, and are usually met with bitter protest. Change is the enemy, instead of the dear old friend it really is.

sincerity and great solemnity he said, “Hi, I’m Joe. And on behalf of Paulatuk, I welcome you.”

Joe, one of 265 people who reside in Paulatuk, welcomed Karl as soon as he stepped ashore and helped him bring his gear to the bunkhouse.

The author worried the ice might trap him, and it could. Luckily, it would ground offshore enough to let him pass in the shallows.

told me a story of a time

broke down while he was out hunting. He was forced to walk almost 30 miles in the cold and dark of winter to get back home. He lost parts of his foot, and some feeling in all his toes. I loved his matter-of-fact telling of the story. I thought of that story recently while I watched a woman freak out that her latté was made incorrectly. I adore the way the Arctic reveals the flaws of a way of thinking, and guides a person toward a higher standard. This is the allure of well-conceived expeditions, at least for me.

most important thing I learned this summer — to my own deep shame — was the arrogance and pointlessness of my original goal of paddling through the Northwest Passage in a single season. As I paddled into the fog early in the journey, it hit me. Why rush? I asked myself, “When I am dead, what joy will I derive from having blasted through the Northwest Passage in one season?” Of what value is notoriety or recognition for doing a thing that is beyond the imagination of most people anyway? I decided it is much better to go slower, drink in the experience, and concentrate on forming deeper connections with the natural world and the ancestors, while learning as much as possible. As I noodled my way through the fog, I resolved to spread my transit of the Northwest Passage out over three to four summers. Making that decision was the biggest relief of my life. It felt right. Good navigation comes in many forms, and that single decision instantly freed me to enjoy what I was doing, without added pressure.

My thoughts and dreams are filled with the Arctic. Of breezes over the tundra, bobbing cotton heads, the grinding rumble of

ice in the distance, popcorn-like exhales of beluga and their calls echoing through my board, the sticky smell of muskoxen, and the sandhill cranes raising the alarm when I approached a bit of water they felt provincial about. These experiences, and so many others, calibrated my internal compass.

On my final night of paddling, I found grace and acceptance that has stayed with me. I learned to be unapologetic about my presence. I learned to always ask first, to be more genuinely grateful, to listen to my smallest voices. I learned that it is not mere luxury to connect with, and call upon, our ancestors — it is a requirement. After a lifetime outdoors and on the water, it feels like at last I learned to navigate.

Karl Krüger is one of the Pacific Northwest's premier adventurers. He makes his home in the San Juan Islands, and plans to return to the Arctic in 2023. Learn more at karlkrugerofficial.com

Karl Krüger.

FOULWEATHER BLUFF RACE 2022

THE VIEW FROM THE REAR - by Gregory Miller

We were first-timers in this race, sailing the Ericson 28+ named Aditi with a fetching yellow hull. The pre-race hospitality of the KCYC folks was outstanding, including nearly-literal icing on the cake: hand-delivered ice cream bars to top off the BBQ dinner.

Aditi was the slowest-rated boat in our class and we were sailing shorthanded on the shorter course — from Kingston to Pilot Point, northeast to Scatchet Head, and back to Kingston. With a chase-style start, we had the privilege of momentarily racing pretty much the entire fleet as each of the faster boats took turns passing us. This was exacerbated by a slovenly start on our part, stuck well behind the line in a wimpy wind. Indeed, by the time we reached the first mark at Pilot Point, we pretty much had clear water behind us and a forest of boats ahead — a good reason to not look back.

As we headed toward Scatchet Head, the wind became quite favorable and we were reaching along at pretty much the top speed our boat can achieve. We were surprised to see other short course boats off to the west sailing relatively slowly, apparently in some kind of wind hole. With our line and favorable breeze, we caught up with and joined the scrum of boats working around the green gong buoy, cheered on by the resident seals.

Aligning with Tolstoy’s observations about happy and unhappy families, it seems that all successful spinnaker launches are alike, but each unsuccessful launch is unsuccessful in its own way. Since our spinnaker whisperer had taken ill and thus was not aboard, and we were working shorthanded and making decisions on the fly, we discovered three new variations of unsuccessful spinnaker launches. Each got more problematic in its side effects. We finally decided to stuff the kite away and do our best without it.

Letting the spinnaker drama go, we just poled out our headsail

and had a pleasant downwind sail to the finish line, not too terribly far behind the rest of the non-flying sail short course boats. With a modicum of alternative-universe rationalization (“If this had happened instead of that, then we would have done much better...”) we came away feeling more up than down, and it really was a great day on the water. Plus, we did come out on top in one category: Aditi was the first boat listed on the official Foulweather Bluff T-shirts thanks to the alphabetical foresight of some previous owner who named the boat.

Congratulations to the short course boats who won classes 1, 2 and 3, respectively: the Ericson 25+ Mola Mola, Westsail 32 HULA, and Morgan 27 Smilin’ Jack.

Light winds tempered starting speeds, but the breeze would build.

Corinthian Yacht Club of Edmonds (CYCE), in partnership with Kingston Cove Yacht Club (KCYC) and the Port of Kingston, hosted the 42nd running of the Foulweather Bluff Race in early October. With the new starting area outside of Kingston (unveiled in 2021), the race committee chose the two longer courses of the three options for 56 boats in 11 different classes. The start was delayed by one hour due to a canceled ferry sailing, but then sailors were fortunate to have near-perfect fall conditions. Here are a couple of reports from the course:

- by Nathan Kundtz

Let’s start with the most important part – the people. Our Beneteau 393, Equilibrium, had a solid mix of crew from our PNW Offshore campaign, new crew members, and family on board. It was terrific to be out sailing with our racing friends again following the summer cruising season. We emphasize using races to improve skills and build confidence with future offshore sailing in mind; and this time we even had the chance to get some spinnaker practice in as a group before race day.

The start of the race was a touch slow, but we got off to a solid start in 4 to 5 knots of northerly breeze. The forecast predicted a wind shadow extending far south of Whidbey in the morning, so we had originally planned to short tack up the west side of the Sound. Mother nature, of course, had other plans, and the wind pattern was reversed, so the fleet ultimately went east where the wind was strongest.

The breeze built through the morning, with 10 to 13 knots from the north-northwest making for perfect upwind sailing up to the Foulweather Bluff mark. Almost the whole crew was on the rail, and even ate lunch while hiking out.

After rounding the mark, it was time to deploy the spinnaker and begin a broad reach back home. The wind remained steady almost all the way to Scatchet Head, but lightened and moved westerly as we neared Whidbey requiring a couple of jibes to correct our approach. We rounded the Scatchet Head buoy in very light winds, but it picked back up almost immediately once we made some distance away from the island.

The final ride home was a gorgeous broad reach in 16 knots.

We played the spinnaker and took some extra care not to round up. Once it was clear that the wind would be steady we fired up the music and enjoyed an absolutely perfect run all the way to the finish line. What a day! It was a great race by the excellent team from CYCE and, this time, the weather did its part, too.

The overall long course winner was the Riptide 35 Terremoto, and Westsail 32 HULA won the short course overall. Youth division honors went to Evelyne aboard Equilibrium and Emily and Alice aboard Blizzard.

In the world’s best reason for a DNF ever, the J/120 Magdalena abandoned the race to return a crew member who got a call during the race that a heart had become available for transplant. The crew member is presently in recovery with his new heart.

In what originally appeared to be an elective evasion, a commercial ship turned a 360-turn to wait for racing boats to clear the shipping lanes near Point No Point. The pilot has since filed a complaint with the Vessel Traffic Service, making this a clear and unfortunate reminder that all recreational vessels, racing or not, have an obligation to clear the lanes for commercial traffic.

All in all, it was a beautiful Foulweather Bluff weekend. Thanks to all the sailors who made the trip, and to everyone from both CYC Edmonds and Kingston Cove Yacht Club who helped make the event possible.

Photos courtesy of Jan Anderson.

by John Renehan

The Seattle-based pair of Dalton and Lindsay Bergan won the Tasar World Championship held on Puget Sound September 17-25, 2022. Seattle teams dominated the top spots, showing off what two-and-a-half years of tuning, rigging, and technique refinements can do to advance a class. Dalton and Lindsay’s excellent starts, consistently cunning decision-making, and allaround speed kept them ahead of Jonathan and Libby McKee often enough to take the win. This is the first Tasar Worlds victory for the Bergans; and it is Dalton’s second world title of the year, following his Aero victory in June.

The racing area was about a mile north of Meadow Point, where the Sound broadens away from the shoreline bluffs. The fleet of 30 boats raced primarily on triangle-windwardleeward courses (triangle first, followed by one upwind and one downwind leg to finish) targeting 50 minutes in duration. The wind mostly cooperated with the schedule of three races per day, allowing 13 total with two throw-outs. Former World Champion, Chris Dance of Australia, said the Sound is “a fair and even championship venue” with a good mix of conditions. Steep chop on some days was greeted both for its modesty (Ryo Uematsu of Japan praised its small size, presumably relative to the deranged tidal swell of the last Worlds) and for its playful surfing potential off the wind.

Some hardened Seattle locals smirked at the arrival of three consecutive days of 15-knot northerlies, good waves, clear skies, and 75 degrees over the check-in and practice days. “The weather was awesome!” raved Mahoro Sekiguchi, sailing her 10th consecutive Tasar Worlds as skipper of the sole team able to attend from Japan, “even though we know it is exceptional.”

As the northerly subsided over the first two days of racing, the current remained a perplexing swirl that didn’t always match the tide tables. “Picturesque!” one Australian skipper told me, then dropped his voice to a whisper, “but we won’t mention the weeds.” Racing began before noon every day, so local thermals and the real northerly from the Strait competed

EXCEPTIONAL TASAR WORLDS

with each other. With that weather setup, the left side of the course nearly always paid upwind as the northerly eventually became the dominant wind angle. With a left-side bias, starts were extremely competitive especially at the pin — three of the top 10 boats showing the three dreaded letters (OCS) in the penultimate race.

On the first day of racing, Jonathan and Libby McKee won two of three races; while Dalton and Lindsay won the other, but sailed a throw-out by going the wrong way upwind in a dying breeze. Day two saw Dalton and Lindsay winning all three races, landing them atop the standings for the remainder. Jay and Lisa Renehan sailed several consecutive top-five finishes to establish a third place position, and Stasi Burzycki and Sophia Kasper sailed a series of top 10s as they took on Anthony and Haley Boscolo and Alyosha Strum-Palerm and AnaLucia Clarkson in the battle for fourth place — which was ultimately decided by a four point gap among the three boats.

Day three brought a gusty southerly and cloudy skies. The wind was 11-16 knots with both oscillating and persistent shifts. Staying middle-left meant you would not totally miss a persistent lefty, but many boats made gains by ducking to dig in farther left. Later in the day, the arrival of right shifts and puffs balanced the race course, and by the end of the day the right side provided a current advantage. I caught Jonathan McKee in line for seconds at dinner aboard the historic steamship Virginia V on regatta party night to ask him what to do. He suggested your position on the racecourse can guide decision-making when you can’t tell if your puff is a persistent or oscillating shift. “If you are in the middle of the course, taking a new puff farther to a side might be okay,” he advised, “but if you are already left of the boats you’re racing against, safer to be on the right tack for the angle.”

Downwind in these gusty and windy conditions rewarded close teamwork. Some teams made big gains when the crew called puffs and the pair worked together to trim both sails for

the arrival of the gust, adjust their body weight to keep the heel angle steady through accelerations, and send the boat over as many waves as possible before re-settling in the lull and driving to the next gust. Jill Wynott of British Columbia observed that top boats all demonstrate such close teamwork and that her boat focuses specifically on this process.

Reaches were race-changers in light air as well. The Tasar is underpowered and large differences in apparent wind and angle develop in these conditions. The feel for building speed with small stiff sails on high aspect foils is not something you can learn in the boatpark, to say the least. Going high was far from the only thing to do. Courageous or confident teams would dive very low right at the mark, escaping some bad air while presumably refusing to look up at the fleet rolling them. Because passing to leeward within 3-4 boat lengths is nearly impossible, a cluster of boats sailing the high route could only sail as fast as its slowest member and would usually sail too high as well. The brave low-mode boats could make big gains by sailing in less congestion and reserving some speed-gain late in the leg by turning up for the final approach to the jibe mark. Risk-averse sailors splitting the difference between the high train and the low mode got the worst of both worlds: too close to escape the bad air and not high enough to keep your place in line.

The Seattle fleet extended its habit of holding a post-racing debrief to the entire Worlds field. A competitor was appointed each day to lead a discussion of the day’s racing, quizzing the leaders on key elements of their successes and fielding questions from the fleet. Race winners shared their rig and trim settings, strategic decision-making indicators, and race course observations. We learned that Sophia Kasper clips the whisker pole to the jib on the final approach to the windward mark if they plan a jibe-set, something apparently nobody had considered before. Hanna Brush, one of a dozen recent college sailing graduates finding a home in the Tasar fleet in the past couple years, learned about adjusting shroud tension, jib tack height, and batten tension for the day’s conditions. “It’s taken a while for me to transition from the ‘set it and forget it’ mentality to being more observant and proactive with the boat’s settings." Peter Hackett, 2015 World Champion, led one debrief and later commented “it is obvious the Seattle squad is well practiced.” Francois Hebert, of Whistler, BC, raved that the

class wants to develop all its sailors. “The knowledge sharing is something special.” Among the boat setup innovations since the last worlds are that many teams put the centerboards all the way down in light air (6” lower than the standard board position of my youth), and some bored forward hands adjust the mast rotation for different downwind angles. I think teams sheet the jib tighter now too as the Seattle fleet strives to sail closer to the wind.

The event was more than just racing, though. Worlds organizers targeted a Platinum certification from Sailors for the Sea, whose recommendations for a more environmentally responsible regatta resulted in lower waste and a healthier event. The Tasar fleet also partnered with a graduate student at Seattle University to develop the first regatta carbon footprint calculator. The tool is now available to any regatta organizers.

In another first for a major championship, the Worlds used Mark Bots instead of the more traditional buoys. Deployed after a tow to the racecourse, their location can be set by a phone app. Ben Glass, the human PRO, remained in control of the bots for the entire event. The adaptability of race management with the Mark Bots was frequently employed — I never once reached the leeward mark without a committee boat signaling a change of windward mark position, primarily for regulating race length.

Three parent-child teams raced the Worlds, with the White Salmon, WA duo of Andy and Lauren Mack finishing top in this category at 13th overall. Teams that are apparently couples took the top six spots. The top female skipper was Heather Macfarlane in 12th, though AnaLucia Clarkson drove her boat on the downwinds to 6th place. Chris Dance and Peter Hackett were the top all-male team in 8th place. One fully Junior team was in the fleet — Dieter Creitz and Sam Bush — and they ended the week in 16th. The age range (from 15 to 70) and gender spectrum in Tasars makes for a lively social scene!

The first Tasar World Championship held on the waters of the Salish Sea since 2003 was a smashing success. Thank you to Seattle Yacht Club for hosting a great event and for Corinthian Yacht Club for providing the on-the-water venue, and thanks to all the volunteers who made it possible. Congratulations to all the competitors and particularly to first-time Tasar world champs, Dalton and Lindsay!

Photos courtesy of Sean Trew.

Jonathan and Libby McKee were relentless in their focus and finished a close second to the Bergans.

Stasi Burzycki and Sophia Kasper roll tack around a MarkSetBot.

by Joe Cline

A CONVERSATION WITH TASAR WORLD CHAMPIONS DALTON AND LINDSAY BERGAN

Joe: Wow! Tasar World Champs, congratulations. Tell us about it.

Dalton: One aspect of this Tasar Worlds reminded me a little of a Moth Worlds that Lindsay and I both sailed in Australia. It was on Lake Macquarie in a smaller town. This little club had all these incredible sailors. Looking back, it was people like Nathan Outteridge and Tom Slingsby and people like that, but they weren’t the total rockstars they are now. They were all just really good sailors and they were collaborating pretty heavily. I’m not trying to equate the Tasar Worlds to that level.

Lindsay (laughing): Or yourself to Nathan Outteridge.

Dalton: Right, but for the folks who came to this Tasar Worlds from elsewhere, they were coming to sail with our tight-knit Seattle group that’s got enough good teams that we’re just feeding off of each other and getting better. The key is that the Renehans really push the collaboration.

Lindsay: The Renehans and the McKees both, and much of the rest of the long-time Tasar sailors. They’re willing to share all their secrets in order to set the tone of collaboration. When we showed back up in the Tasar fleet, there was this whole crop of young people who were competitive. And we were like, “Thank you to the generation who have made it a very welcoming environment.” It helps them too, because it gives them competitive people to sail with.

What else about the Tasar and the Tasar fleet contributes to the collaborative spirit?

Lindsay: It’s a one design fleet, but it has enough adjustments that there’s lots to discuss to make it interesting. It’s so technical, down to the details, and we’ve gone over it enough that everyone shares a few key terms — everyone references the same mainsheet mark, for example. The investment of Jay and Lisa Renehan and Jonathan and Libby McKee is so important. They make sure that every boat that’s for sale gets bought by someone who is going to sail it. If someone is not sailing their boat, they harass them to sell it to someone who will.

Dalton: They were suggesting we should sell our boat a year or two ago!

What were some of your keys to success? Home waters? Boat speed? What else?

Lindsay: I don’t think home waters was that big of a factor. That was part of their reason to set the course a little farther north was to get rid of some of the super-local knowledge. Being home had its pluses and minuses. All the Australians chartered older style boats. Ours is older too, but they’re using somebody else’s older style boat. Having our own boat and practicing right up until the sailing date was good, especially for us because we were scrambling to practice. One secret to our success was just

winning the pin. The races we won, we typically won the pin. Going into the regatta, we suspected that we could be fast, but we didn’t want to feel too confident in that.

Dalton: I don’t think we’re as good as some of the others at Tasar sailing, generally. As in a lot of one-design racing, you have a point mode and a foot mode. We don’t have the full breadth of skills — we can sail low and fast well, but we’re not good at pinching. So we had to sail to our strength.

Lindsay: Dalton always thinks he’s not going fast if he’s going the same speed as others. We were fast.

Dalton: At times, for sure. I just don’t know that we could have gone fast in all modes. I’m not sure about this, but one thing I think was happening — you read the tide tables or West Point current information, and it’s not that accurate. We were starting in a situation where it was supposed to be flooding, but there was still a little bit of an ebb on the Bainbridge side. If you started at the pin and went left the whole first beat, you could get a little of that remaining ebb. The racing is just so close, and if you got a little of that ebb for a couple of minutes it gave you a couple boat-lengths lead.

What cues were making you think it was current compared to the fact that you thought you had a speed advantage if you were clear to sail low and fast?

Dalton: We don’t really know, but we were crossing all these weed lines. Anytime you’re crossing weed lines, something’s different and you’re probably either sailing better current or worse current. When I’m in that situation, I’m hyper aware and kind of stressed out about whether we’re gaining or losing. And I didn’t feel like we were losing. Sailing across those lines, there was a lot of stress about whether we were getting kelped, and we were pulling up the board.

Lindsay: The Australians were like, “We saw people clearing their board UPWIND!” We do that all the time — a lot of our life is based around clearing weeds. I don’t know whether Shilshole is kelpier than it used to be, but weed management was a huge part of everyone’s equation.

Dalton: If you just have weeds trailing off the back of your boat that’s one thing, but having weeds on your foils seems to make a disproportionate difference. The boat is pretty efficient and it kind of hates having that interruption of flow on the foils.

The one race we did really bad in, we won the pin, it was our best start of the whole regatta. We sailed for a couple hundred yards, and could cross the fleet by so much.

Lindsay: The mantra had been, “If you can tack and cross the fleet, just do it.”

Dalton: That’s pretty conventional. So we tacked and crossed on port tack, and then a lot of boats start hipping up on us. We weren’t that far off layline, so we thought we could just stay there.

Lindsay: That’s what made us think there was a current advantage on the left side. The boats on the other side crushed us.

Couples are all at the top of the leaderboard, in this region especially. That is appealing for obvious reasons, but how is that for you two and what do you gather from others sailing competitively as couples?

Lindsay: The takeaway I got from the other people who finished well at the Worlds was that it strengthens their relationship. And we’re like, “I don’t know, man… It’s a lot.” We had so much fun practicing and leading up to it, but we’re competitive people so it was stressful when it came to the actual regatta and we could tell we were in the running.

Dalton: Everyone has external stresses, but the thing that was unique for us is that we have a young child.

Lindsay: I was worried the whole time that Connor was going to get sick and we wouldn’t know what to do with him. It was a struggle for us to get time to sail together. Dalton went sailing with other people on a few Thursday nights because we couldn’t get childcare. All our practice time was our random time away from our kid, though, which was kind of nice. When there was no wind, we went on a date.

We heard from the Australians at Worlds that Frank Bethwaite had created another boat, but the weight level was so low that people just started sailing with 80-pound kids. So he created the Tasar specifically to fit a couple.

Dalton and Lindsay, extending on a reaching leg.

I looked at the class rules recently and was curious about maximum weight limits, but it’s just a minimum weight limit.

Dalton: That’s an issue with most dinghy sailing is that it’s too weight sensitive. If you get into a pretty rigid one-design, the variables shrink and it plays a role. It’s not that different from a PHRF racer who has their conditions.

Lindsay: Many couples could lose 10 pounds or gain 10 pounds and be in the right weight range — the ideal is about 300 pounds. There’s still a range of people who are competitive. Ironically, we were probably 10 pounds heavier than we were at the 2013 Gorge Worlds, where we didn’t do so well. Anthony and Haley Boscolo, who won that Worlds, weren't particularly heavy, however. We should have been heavier for that Worlds and lighter for this Worlds.

Dalton: I did a bad job, I meant to lose weight for this Tasar Worlds, but I didn’t. Lindsay lost a little weight. She did her part, I didn’t do mine.

The Tasar fleet has really effective debriefs. Could that be related to the fact that the top of the fleet is full of couples — people who are likely well practiced at communicating with each other on and off the water?

Lindsay: I’m thinking, ‘Is this true? Are we better communicators because we’re spouses?’ I think it’s fraught. I have so much more emotion when I’m sailing with Dalton. If we were to get into a protest situation or a confrontation, it’s harder because I can’t detach as much. We’re too clued into each other’s faults. We’re also not the best debriefers. There are some expert debriefers out there. I personally like the ones who draw in others and ask the right questions, while cluing into the setting that was important for the day, whether it was centerboard height or whatever.

Dalton: There’s definitely some stress in sailing with your

partner, but it’s a bit of a Type-II fun situation. Looking back, it’s really cool that we did that together. At the time, it’s not quite as awesomely fun.

Lindsay: The reason we’re sailing together is that’s where we want to spend our time. I’ve hardly sailed since we had Connor, and Dalton asked, “Well, should I sail with someone else?” and I was like, “NO! The Tasar is OUR boat that we sail together.”

When did you first start sailing Tasars?

Lindsay: We had just started dating, and Dalton told me that if I could find a boat he would crew for me at the Tasar Worlds in Victoria, which was in 2003. So, I did and we sailed together. Then we didn’t sail that much, occasionally in borrowed boats, until we bought Fritz Lanzinger’s boat around 2011. We practiced really hard for the Tasar Worlds in the Gorge.

Dalton: We didn’t do as well at that event, but it laid a foundation.

Lindsay: We got to know the Tasar real, real well.

Tell me more about your training plan for this Worlds.

Lindsay: Dalton did a lot of singlehanded sailing and remembered how to drive a boat really well (laughing). And I have done a lot of Tasar sailing and remembered how to crew reasonably well. It all came back pretty fast, and it was almost better that we hadn’t sailed the boat much recently.

Dalton: The plan was that once the Aero Worlds were over, we were going to put the Tasar on the dock and we tried to sail once or twice per week.

Lindsay: Dalton was 100% focused on the Aero Worlds, which presumably would be beneficial for all boats. And then we just tried to practice as much as we could find childcare, and tried to be serious and practice hard in those instances.

How different was that from what you were doing in the Aero, Dalton?

Dalton: Not much different. I was always sailing the Aero once a week, and sometimes there were weekend regattas. The last couple of months before the Worlds, I was trying to get an extra day.

Lindsay: And you do the hiking bench. It was a little combination of making sure we were in good enough shape to hike hard enough for long enough, and making sure we remembered how to sail the boat. We did a weekend Gorge regatta in heavy air this summer, and we realized, “Ok, we can hike.” When you first got back in the Tasar, you thought it felt super wacky.

Dalton: The Tasar is genuinely faster upwind, it’s a much more efficient boat. So, it’s a bit more about trying to set everything up so it works, versus the Aero which is more like a Laser where you’re kind of trying to fight the boat through chop by swinging your body around to make the boat keep moving. In the Tasar, try to get yourself dialed, then hike.

Lindsay: You don’t think the rudder was weirdly small, and you’re skating around sliding sideways in the Tasar?

Dalton: Yeah, there’s a little bit of that for sure. The big difference downwind is that the Aero is like any other singlehanded boat — the more times you can “s-turn” the boat,

Especially after all of his Aero sailing, Dalton's downwind driving skills were sharp.

assuming you can justify it legally, the better. Every time you turn the boat you’re basically reversing the flow across the sail. As you roll to weather, you’ve got apparent wind going luff-toleech, and as you go the other way it’s leech-to-luff. In the Tasar, you’ve got two sails and it’s got to be pretty extreme conditions to justify swerving to get them working in the same way.

Lindsay: But when we were in those conditions, I was like, “Oh, Dalton’s been sailing a lot in the past years and has improved on this skill.” You’re fast downwind in breeze. And there was so much practice for the Aero Worlds, because it was supposed to be two years ago. Y’all practiced a lot! One thing that differentiated the experiences was all the reaching in the Tasar. The fleet is obsessed with reaching, and the Worlds used mostly triangle-windward-leeward courses.

Dalton: If you get to the weather mark in first or in the top five, you’re just extending that whole reach. Even if you’re not fast on a reach, the nature of the fleet positioning enables you to extend.

Lindsay: The people behind you are getting blanketed by other boats.

Dalton: Then you have another beat before you get to go downwind, so any downwind advantage only comes into play at the end of the race. The focus on reaching and triangles could be so that the lighter teams don’t just fly by — in some ways the Tasar is almost more weight sensitive than the Aero.

Especially among the newcomers in the fleet, who impressed you and why?

Dalton: Stasi (Burzicki) and Sophia (Kasper) had a really outof-the-box solution for presetting the pole on jibe-sets.

Lindsay: They're also legendarily fast in light air.

Dalton: They have put a lot of focus into exactly how high to set your jib off the deck, and things like that.

Lindsay: Both Stasi and Alyosha (Strum-Palerm), they were sitting down taking notes on technical stuff.

Dalton: They are talking and thinking about it all day.

Lindsay: We weren’t clued into who the younger generation people were, and it was so cool to come back and see that they were doing so well. They’re all making it work. So many junior sailors could be sailing this regatta, but Dieter (Creitz) is making it happen. He’s sailing all the regattas — it’s hardcore. He may not have won this regatta, but he’s out there hiking hard, taking a week off of school, coming over to our boat asking a lot of technical questions.

Dalton: Dieter was the main person who was asking us questions.

Lindsay: I think everyone else was probably in competitive mode, but Dieter was in learning mode.

How does it feel to join the legacy of Seattle sailors who have done so well in this fleet, including your parents Lindsay?

Lindsay: Connor does a good job of helping us put it in perspective… We were riding home after the last day and he said, “It’s easy to win a Worlds.” I had to explain, “Dad and I have been sailing our whole lives and neither of us had ever won a world championship until this year.”

Dalton: He saw his grandparents on the trophy right away. So

he was like, ‘Oh, this is no big deal.’ It’s hard to win. Something that’s become apparent to me is that there’s such a delta between winning and second. I remember when I came fourth at the Moth Worlds or third at the Youth Champs, and thinking I had sailed so well. It’s kinda like you’ve gotta win.

Lindsay: I don’t think I’ve won that many regattas in my life. It’s fun to put it in your back pocket, it’s done!

Dalton: Let’s say the McKees or the Renehans — who have each won Worlds already — had won and we got second; it’s just not the same. It’s kind of ridiculous, but it’s a little bit of a relief. Finally, we won.

Lindsay: It’s great being part of the Tasar fleet, and it makes it more prestigious and cool that we’ve got such good sailors that we sail against. It’s not easy to win a Tasar Worlds twice. Many recent World Champions were there. Next year, we’re supposed to go to Australia and get our butts kicked. I can see why Jonathan and Libby have won multiple Worlds. They turn it on, they’re good, they’re competitive.

Dalton: That’s why it was a stressful regatta, because you had to concentrate so hard.

Lindsay: Everyone is making their boats go pretty darn close to the fastest they can. You can’t be unfocused or have weeds on your board.

Dalton: You’re giving 100%.

Photos courtesy of Sean Trew.

The Bergans are the latest in a long line of Seattle couples who have won a Tasar Worlds.

Well done and congrats, Dalton and Lindsay!

SUMMER... FALL RACING FUN!

PSSC 2022

Are we sure it was October? You’d hardly know it by the revelers packing nearby Golden Gardens or the wildfire haze obscuring the mountain views from Puget Sound. It was almost spooky how lovely it was to be on the water for this year’s “big boat” installment of Puget Sound Sailing Championships hosted by Corinthian Yacht Club of Seattle (CYC).

Sailors on 60 boats spanning nine classes enjoyed a pair of days with remarkably consistent northerly wind velocities ranging from 8-12 knots, after a brief delay on Saturday. The first day brought some big shifts, while the direction matched the pressure in steadiness on Sunday.

In the ORC fleet in which I sailed, three TP 52s traded positions with each boat taking at least one race win. The whole fleet was tied on points after Saturday’s two races, one of which was the longest of the weekend. Aboard John Buchan’s Glory, we left ourselves a hill to climb after finishing last in the first race on Sunday; but we benefited from the consistent breeze and a punctual race committee who managed to squeeze four races in on the regatta’s second day. We needed every one of those races, and just edged the competition in Sunday’s final

three races to take the top spot — we corrected above Smoke by only 2, 10, and 26 seconds respectively in those races. That’s some fun, tight racing!

The J/105 one-design class had nine boats to make the racing even more interesting. Here’s a snippet from Al Hughes’ report on their fleet activity: The first race set the stage for the weekend. Peer Gynt almost led wire-to-wire with great upwind pace flying their complete set of newish sails. It seemed like you had to find some clear lanes both upwind and down with the large number of other classes sailing around, all while avoiding the light patches. The Race Committee also introduced a leeward gate mark, which helped split up the bunches at the rounding and give more options to those trailing. Sunday brought more of the same conditions with smoky light northerlies. Peer Gynt and Moose Unknown engaged in a course-long battle in Sunday’s first race, with Peer Gynt edging out a 2-second victory. Those two crews put on a master class in those conditions and huge kudos to Peer Gynt for handily winning the weekend series.

Around the fleet, fast, fun competition was on display. The largest fleet belonged to the fastest PHRF class, ranging from the Farr 36OD and Farr 49ML to the four J/111s, with first place going to Jay Renehan and Chris Lanzinger sailing the J/111 Hooligan. In Class 3, two boats that rate the same but are fundamentally different designs — Sierra 26 Dos and Beneteau 36.7 Vitesse — ended up even on points with the tie breaker going to Brad Butler and crew on Dos. Welcome and congratulations to two relative newcomers to the Seattle racing fleet who took top honors in the J/80 one-design class (Suze Cumming’s Alchemist from Royal Victoria Yacht Club) and PHRF Class 7 (Ben Towery’s Capri 25 Little Wing).

Hats off to all sailors and thanks to CYC Seattle for running a great fall event, especially one that felt so much like summer!

by Joe Cline. Photos by Dave Sinson

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