Chapter Eight. Trish enrolled at Evergreen and was looking for a genealogy class project. “How about my grandfather?” I said.

My paternal grandfather, Big Harry’s father, had always been a bit of a mystery. He was a 19th century guide on Mount Rainier. Prior to that he’d been a cowboy on the open range, a horse wrangler and a civil war veteran. He married my grandmother who was much younger in 1902, a marriage that lasted ten years.

In 1912 two of his sons from a previous marriage showed up. It was then discovered that he had never divorced his first wife. The marriage to my grandmother was annulled and she married the piano tuner, my Uncle Ira’s father.

Dad and Bonnie remembered Henry Carter as being an admirer of great Indians he had known. He taught the kids to make hoop skirts for berry picking adventures. They visited people on the mountain including an old friend named Indian Henry. They would make the trip from Tacoma in a buggy. On one occasion they gathered with a group around a large fire and talked into the night.

Beyond that there wasn’t much. We knew that his name was an alias and that his real name was Eusebius Jasper Williams. Given the alias and the lack of a divorce from at least one previous wife, it was assumed that he was probably a rascal and some kind of a criminal.

Trish decided to take it on as a project and began by spending days on end going through archives at the Tacoma Historical Society. She found newspaper articles and other records indicating that he was possibly the first person who would take people to the top of Mount Rainier for a fee. He acquired land at Bear Prairie where he kept pack animals and improved the trail to Paradise.

The big shocker came when she walked into the Ship Canal Queen holding a book entitled “Our Veiled Monument” written by Henry Carter in 1895. The book, is about capitalism, “the private ownership of the means of production, their operation for profit and the appropriation of capital by some to the exclusion of others”.

“In her storehouse, Nature has placed at our command abundant material to supply all that the highest state of civilization requires. Through labor alone can these stores be reached and the more labor is guided by knowledge the more these forces will aid you…Our only hope that all may benefit is that if each strives to get the best of each exchange none will get the worst. We are unable to see clearly and recognize an injustice while it is lurking in the system that we are all living under and acquiescing in”.

“The result of discovery and invention that we already possess – the power loom, the spinning machine, the cotton gin, our process of making steel and fashioning it into things of use, our means of transportation, the water wheel, the telegraph – they will be improved and new discoveries and inventions will be produced”.

“Notwithstanding all these marvelous facilities for eliminating wants, want is increasing. Our present system withholds from producers their just and fair right in participation of their products by selling products at a price above the cost of production. However low this profit may be it creates a corresponding surplus value — it gives the commodity surplus value that the money put into circulation cannot buy”.

The theory of labor value, attributed to Karl Marx, Adam Smith and others claims that if an investor takes some off the top purchasing power is divided and a share is given to entities that had no hand in production. There’s no stability in such a system. It’s got to pay and in order to pay its got to grow and growth is finite.

Marx didn’t specifically advocate for communism, socialism or any other remedy. He busied himself explaining what’s wrong with capitalism. Henry Carter only mentions Adam Smith. He states that he is “indulging in no utopian dream” and likewise comes up with no specific plan of action.

“We have conquered the forces of Nature and apparently made them our slaves. The boundless power to steam seems to await only our bidding. With our wide and rapidly swelling want, we are ransacking the world to find a market”.

“How long before these streams will be exhausted? We shall then fully realize for the first time the real meaning of crises that are but symptoms and warnings. One line after another will cease operation. Those living nearest the soil will fare best”.

He ends the book on a poignant note: “The great crisis — the supreme moment in the world’s history, when it must step out of its swaddling clothes and apply the wisdom and useful knowledge it has acquired, is rapidly approaching. If we could be induced too take the step we would now find it but a short one; yet perhaps great and universal suffering will be the only means by which we shall be induced to take it. But Nature is daily preparing that means and while she is making the step more imperative she is making it easier”.

“If wisdom is hearkened to we shall avert the horrors of war and a reign of terror. The time is right, we cannot stay the change. The world’s full blessing will be within the reach of all. Then men’s heart’s will be gladdened as they look on their fields of ripening grain, not with the hope that Nature is as liberal in her bounties to all as she is to them; not because their hearts have changed but because conditions have changed. After we are forced to give up the absurd and debasing notion that all may have an abundance by snatching from someone else, civilization will be something more than refined piracy.”

Eusebius Jasper Williams was probably born in 1847. He probably entered the Civil War in the Minnesota Volunteers Heavy Artillery in 1863 when he sold his bounty (impersonated a rich kid). In 1865, at the war’s end, he mustered in under his real name in Nashville. This would allow him to qualify for veteran’s benefits.

Then to add to the story, Trish located an autobiography written by Henry Carter’s, AKA Eusebius Jasper Williams’, son from the previous marriage. Upon returning to Minnesota after the war Eucebius married the girl next door and promptly went to New Orleans where he worked as a carpenter. From there he went to Texas where he and some friends caught feral cattle and drove them up to Kansas. He returned to Minnesota once each year but was never really a member of the family beyond that. They were a clan. All they needed from him was money and genetic material.

Eusebius and his teenaged sons later fleeced towns across the midwest with a race horse. They camped with greats including Sitting Bull. He never left his wife because he never lived with her. Ultimately she found another man.

Henry Carter, Eusebius, was seriously injured by a horse and never fully recovered. He was regarded as a horse whisperer and had been called to settle an angry animal. He was gone when my father was eight years old.

I must have inherited a thing or two. We both preferred to be in business for ourselves. He built houses and drove animals. I painted houses and drove boats. We agree that climbing a mountain or crossing a sea is a good thing and that sharing the experience with others is an even better thing.

Kevin O’carroll was a geoduck diver. The geoduck is the world’s largest burrowing clam sometimes as long as three feet. Diving for geoducks was a dangerous line of work. One hangs on the bottom of an air line for hours harvesting geoduck clams with a hydraulic jet. The decompression time coming up may be an hour. If a diver loses air, there’s no coming to the surface and surviving.
Kevin hired me to skipper a dive boat for some surveys in Port Townsend. First, I needed to get the boat from Olympia to Port Townsend through heavy fog, without radar. Trish and I picked our way along, listening to buoys and fog signals and drawing lines of position. We spent the night in Kingston and upon leaving fell in behind a large cruiser with radar and followed close to their stern quarter. Suddenly a loud, deep horn blew five quick blasts. Barely visible ahead the cruiser slowed. Five more blasts. A large cable became visible. The cruiser slowly crossed it. To our left, we saw a barge as big as a mountain bearing out of the fog. I turned sharply to starboard and drove slowly in a large circle around where we assumed the barge had gone. From there they proceeded slowly as they had done the day before, on into Port Townsend.
In Port Townsend I drove the boat and Kevin dove. In the evening Kevin would place a hair in a location where if anyone came aboard they would disturb it. In Port Townsend we mostly tried to stay out of trouble, though it wasn’t easy. Geoduck divers are a bunch of pirates.
Back in Olympia Kevin and Anecia had a grand wedding. Scott, the best man was a dark, wiry guy who lived in a five story treehouse of his own creation. Cocaine seemed to follow him around.
Scott Scurlock was generous with his money.. He was generally assumed to be a trust fund hippy, living on a sizable inheritance.
Meanwhile, banks were being periodically robbed by someone who became widely known as “Hollywood” because of his elaborate disguises. Hollywood carefully picked his targets, robbing banks that were holding cash for dot-comers on paydays. In terms of money taken, he may have been the most successful bank robber ever. Scott, who Hollywood turned out to be, was finally cornered and shot himself rather than being captured. The samurai code, as Kevin explained It.
Some of the best ideas end up forgotten. Such was a form of education that flourished at The Evergreen State College (TESC) between its inception in 1970 to its metamorphosis into normalcy in the mid 1990s, sometimes referred to as immersion interdisciplinary studies. Immersion in that a student is placed directly in an environment. Interdisciplinary in that otherwise divergent fields of study are combined.
The location of the college on the shores of Puget Sound lends itself to the study of marine environments. It was logical that the school build a boat. A program in design was taught by marine architect Robert Perry. The boat then took shape thanks to the efforts of students, faculty and community volunteers and ultimately Hank Long boat works. The Seawulff, a 12-ton cutter rigged sailboat, was launched.
The Seawulff is thirty-eight feet long on deck and made of cedar, oak and fir. The main cabin has a dinette and a galley with a diesel stove. The aft cabin, the laboratory, has counter tops and a sink. Amidships between the two cabins is the cockpit with a two-cylinder 30-horsepower Saab diesel beneath. The Seawulff is a commercial vessel, licensed by the Coast Guard to carry 12 paying passengers, though on overnight trips there’d likely be fewer. There’s sleeping for six in actual bunks, including two coffin-like berths under hinged lids in the lab.
In 1986 I happened to be living on a houseboat and could see the Seawulff from my kitchen window. A teacher at the college named Bob Sluss came by regularly, talking things up. This was the most exciting program and the most beautiful boat ever, anywhere. Bob’s love of the “marvels and mysteries” of nature was contagious. My involvement was inevitable.

The first step would have to be getting my captain’s license. The test would be an all day marathon identifying lights, sounds, rules of the road and every other imaginable thing one might encounter at sea. Becoming a captain also meant regular urine tests for drugs.

The war on marijuana was beginning to seem silly. For some time the work I had been doing, dangling off buildings in a bosuns chair and bobbing around the ocean, didn’t blend well with getting high and it was no big deal. But even smelling some drugs will leave a sign in one’s urine for a month. One needed to be aware of one’s surroundings. Moreover, periodically dropping one’s zipper for the gipper, the whizz quiz, was an intrusion.

On the other hand, there’s nothing like being straight and if someone wants to watch me pee I’m willing to oblige them. Given that I didn’t drink I was now customarily and in accordance with the law a teetotaler.

I soon learned that at Evergreen, nobody is in charge. In meetings with the Recreation Department and Deans and Joe Olander, the president, all I could see was opportunities. These might be divided between Academic Programs for students who are receiving academic credit and Leisure Education classes which are open to the general public.

January 8, 1987, the first of the Leisure Education workshops left West Bay Marina at 1:30 PM on a cool, sunny, windless day. We practiced working up lines of position and other navigational tricks, returning to the marina at 4:15 PM. We did another class on January 20, and another on January 22.

On January 24, we began the first Leisure Ed overnight trip with six students. Winds departing West Bay were 20-25 knots out of the south. Near Devils Head at the southern end of Key Peninsula we were struck with a 35 knot gust and the Seawulff was knocked over on her side. Plates, pots and pans could be heard flying around the cabin. Two women were under the table screaming in terror. The boat righted itself and we reefed the main and sailed on to Gig Harbor. Amazingly, nothing broke. We returned the following day to Olympia, passing a couple of Harbor Porpoises near Toliva Shoal and arriving home at 9:00 PM.

On January 27, I skippered for an academic program. We left West Bay Marina at 9:00 AM with faculty members Byron Youtz and Bob Sluss and four students in pouring rain.

Byron earned advanced degrees from the California Institute of Technology and UC Berkeley, where he studied radiation. He had been the Vice President of State University New York, Old Westbury and President of Reed College in Portland. Byron was a gentle soul.

Bob on the other hand was rough around the edges. An entomologist and ecologist, he earned advanced degrees through the University of California, financed through the GI Bill. Bob was on the US Army boxing team. Asked how well he did at that he replied “I could hit hard”. His nose had been flattened. Although Byron and Bob were in many ways opposites, they shared many aspirations and held each other in high regard.
This was part of a year-long Interdisciplinary Studies class called Exploration, Discovery and Empire. Other faculty including Tom Rainey, Rudy Martin, Dave Milne and Oscar Soule rotated through teaching biology, botany, oceanography, logic, mathematics and technical writing. The thinking was that everyone benefits from a well rounded education. The specialization characteristic of academic institutions breeds arrogance and reduces potential. Learning should at some level be a humbling experience.
On February 5, we departed at 1:00 PM with Bob Sluss and twelve students from the Exploration program. We did otter trawls – landing and identifying sea cucumbers, slime gobs and slime balls. The Seawulff was equipped with a hydraulic winch capable of lifting 1000 pounds. Nets and other gear could be raised and lowered via a gantry overhanging the stern, like on a fishing boat. The Seawulff could also do sediment and water sampling and plankton tows.

We did Leisure Ed trips over the weekends of January 31-February 1, February 7-8 and February 14-15. We provided beans, rice and oatmeal and any other provisions were up to the individual.

All eight seats on the February 7-8 trip were purchased by the Olympia Police Union. We departed in no wind and temperatures around 35 degrees. We headed north in thickening fog and navigated using the compass and depth sounder, ultimately tying to a buoy at Stretch Island Marine Park. Much of the evening conversation pertained to their work. What if you had to shoot someone? Would you hesitate? How would you deal with the emotional and other consequences of that? We returned the following day making much of the run in light air under spinnaker, arriving at West Bay at 5:00 PM on a summer-like afternoon.

March 1987, back to the Explorations program. The class had split into ten groups of six, some of whom would make a one-week expedition on the Seawulff. The first week we left Olympia with a crew of eight. Students rotated wheel watches while underway. They also rotated all the other duties of running the boat, navigating, keeping the log, cooking, cleaning and reading aloud. On this trip we read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Other weeks we read Moby Dick, The Odyssey, Between Pacific Tides by Ed Ricketts and Log from the Sea of Cortez by John Steinbeck. The most challenging task was the bio-watch journal, an account of living things we encountered, which underway were mostly birds.

We sailed to the University of Washington Friday Harbor Marine Lab where we tied up to a dock behind Swirl II, a forty-foot William Garden sloop belonging to a fellow named Don Fassett who will come up again. We ferried students to outlying San Juan Islands where they camped. The boats also rafted up frequently while underway doing otter trawls.

A big wind came up in the middle of one particularly nasty night and waves began banging both boats against the dock. Driving the boats upwind away from the dock was going to be a challenge. Swirl II went first under Don’s hand. I backed the Seawulff down on a spring line until her bow swung out and even so barely got her away from the dock. We found good anchorage at the northwest end of the bay.

The following night we anchored in a bay on the north side of Matia Island. In the morning a river otter dragged a large wolf eel onto a rock and killed it in a horrific writhing display and began devouring its innards. A group of students paddled over to the rock, chased the otter off, and returned with the wolf eel minus a few organs. The Seawulff then found space at a small dock at the head of the bay and students went ashore to cook the eel.

Wolf eels, having paired gill slits and pectoral fins, aren’t actually an eel they’re a fish. They can grow to seven feet in length and weigh 40 pounds. They have powerful jaws and big canine teeth. The taste of wolf eel is, well let’s just call it strong. The following morning as we pulled away I looked back to see what appeared to be the head of a monkey sitting on the end of the dock with a cigarette in its mouth. It’s remarkable how much a wolf eel resembles a monkey.

We did Leisure Ed weekend trips on April 18-19, and 25-26 and again on May 2-3, 9-10 and the 16-17. The Seawulff was then hauled out and dry docked. Her steering mechanism was rebuilt, alternator replaced and prop bearings greased. She was painted and oiled and dolled up for the summer.

Our plan was to do week-long Leisure Ed trips as far north as we could go. Patricia Coon (Trish) volunteered her time which as time progressed grew invaluable. She took an active role in planning trips and creating and distributing flyers.
The plan was to make a minimum of $100 per day for the skipper and $100 for the boat or $1400 total for a week. Adding a small cushion the total came to $250 per person, an incomparably low price for a week-long cruise. We wanted to find a new niche, to fill and unfilled demand, rather than competing with established cruise businesses. We hoped to provide opportunities for people in the community to do what was otherwise impossible, perhaps the fulfillment of a life’s dream.

A person may end up sleeping on a couch or on deck. The cost did not include “food, fees and fuel” and provisioning and cooking were the crews responsibility as were all aspects of navigating and boat handling. We figured that by expecting the skipper would do nothing, the skipper might not in actuality be overworked.

Trish held classes in Olympia where students were briefed on what to expect, menus and provisioning lists were drawn up and each student took a required swimming test per Evergreen’s policy.

On July 4, the first of the week-long Leisure Ed trips departed West Bay at 11:11 AM in light rain. Wind was 5 knots from the South. At 2:00 PM we passed Eagle Island. At 3:30 PM we motored under the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. At 8:23 PM we passed Alki Beach in Seattle and sailed under staysail into Elliot Bay to watch the Ivar’s Seafood annual fireworks. The wind was 25 knots. It was choppy and some of the crew were a little seasick. We sailed across to Eagle Harbor and at midnight found an open spot at the Winslow City Dock on Bainbridge Island.

We departed Winslow at 9:00 AM on July 5, motoring north in light air. At 11:00 AM we passed Possession Point on the southern end of Whidbey Island, sailing into headwinds of 15 knots. Wind increased to 25 knots with gusts of 30 in two foot waves. There was more seasickness. Too bad, it was beautiful sailing. At 7:30 PM we dropped anchor off Port Townsend. Her looks belie her swiftness. The Seawulff is a good performer. With yankee and staysail set and a single reef in the main, she’ll outrun anything in a blow.

July 6, we motored into Point Hudson to do some provisioning. We bought enough food for eight people for a week, fifty-six meals, three shopping carts overflowing. At 12:30 PM we departed Port Townsend and at 1:00 PM rounded Point Wilson. At 2:00 PM we were mid-way across the Straight of Juan de Fuca. And in an hour, at 3:00 PM we passed Cattle Point on San Juan Island to our port. At 4:00 PM we anchored on the western side of Turn Island, a beautiful little spot covered with madrone, where all went ashore for a short hike.

July 7, we departed Turn Island at 9:30 AM and at 10:15 AM put the crew ashore in Friday Harbor for showers, laundry, shopping and eating. At 1:00 PM we departed Friday Harbor, sailing up San Juan Channel. At 3:00 PM we passed Limestone Point at the north end of San Juan Island. At 4:30 PM we tied up to a mooring buoy in Reid Harbor a bay on the southern end of Stuart Island.
On July 8, we departed Reid Harbor under sail and sailed past the Adventuress, speaking with her skipper Carl. At 11:00 AM we passed through Roach Harbor and Mosquito Pass. At 12:00 PM we sailed down Haro Strait, riding the ebbing tide in light winds. At 3:00 PM we passed thought Baynes Channel and passed Discovery Island, off Victoria, British Columbia. Sailboats in a race were rounding the downwind buoy each dropping their spinnaker as they rounded the mark. One of the students, a woman in her 70’s named Sylvia, observed that they looked like “ladies taking off their party dresses”. We sailed into the Strait of Juan de Fuca in 25 knot winds out of the West and arrived at Victoria, British Columbia at 6:00 PM.

July 9, if we could clear Canadian Customs easily, we’d do repeated trips into British Columbia. If not, we’d have to stay in the San Juans.
The Canadian Customs agent looked like an English bulldog. “Are you carrying any guns or pornography?”
“No.”
“Let’s go have a look”. We walked down to the Seawulff. “Everyone off of the boat. Wait here on the dock.” The agents went aboard with me. “What’s in this cupboard?”
“Mostly canned goods.”
“Let’s have a look.” They emptied the contents of the cupboard and repeated the process for all the bins and cupboards, reducing the boat to a shambles. “I’m going to have my assistant finish up here.” His assistant, a mild mannered young fellow, signed forms and asked a few more questions.
“Is the big guy always so friendly?” I inquired.
“If you have less there’s less to check,” he replied. “It might be easier for you to enter Canada empty and provision here. Bring money not stuff.”
Everyone went ashore and enjoyed Victoria. At 10:00 AM the following morning we departed heading back into the Strait of Juan de Fuca in light winds, riding an incoming tide running three knots, stirring up big whirlpools. I napped on the bow. We were startled by an orca that surfaced and blew a few feet off our beam. We rounded Cattle Point and arrived in Friday Harbor at 6:00 to find Customs closed.
July 10, we cleared US Customs first thing with no problems. At 11:00 AM we passed Middle Channel and Cattle Point at a minus 3.7 foot slack tide. The unusually low tide rendered otherwise safe passages unsafe. Three Mayday calls came over the VHF. “We’ve struck a rock. The water’s about to flood the batteries. We’re abandoning ship and getting in the dinghy.”
We sailed across the Strait of Juan de Fuca in light winds and sunny 60 degree weather. At 3:00 PM we passed Smyth Island, a spring tide pulling us along. At 4:30 PM we rounded Point Wilson where an orca was feeding near shore. At 5:00 PM we tied up at Port Townsend Boat Haven, trip’s end.
Trish drove the following week’s sailors from Olympia to Port Townsend in an Evergreen van. Those from the previous week including myself returned in the van with Trish to Olympia.
David Young, a student at the school with a captain’s license would skipper the following week, July 11-18. David’s crew was made up of six single women, all in their early thirties, all school teachers on summer break. He asked “What would you ladies like to do this week?”
“Hit the bars. Meet men.”
So, David drove the Seawulff from port to port during the days and put the crew ashore each evening with a request to “be back by dawn”.
We rendezvoused in Vancouver, British Columbia on Sunday, July 18. David had tied up Saturday night in front of the Westin Hotel where Princess Diana and her cousin Fergie were hanging out partying. The following week’s crew including myself and Trish stayed at the Westin Sunday night. We paid $76 for two night’s moorage which included showers, pools, jacuzzis and saunas for both crews, a total of fifteen people.
The morning of July 19, we departed Vancouver with a crew of six. At 1:00 we entered Howe Sound in 25 knot winds, rounded Bowen Island and headed out into the Straight of Georgia, running in three foot seas under main, yankee and staysail. The Seawulff sailed beautifully, rolling along from beam end to beam end. There was some seasickness but nothing too bad. The compass seemed to be a little off.
At 5:00 PM we passed into Welcome Passage at the north end of the Straight of Georgia in blustery conditions and dropped the hook in Smuggler Cove at 6:00 PM Mediterranean Style, the hook holding the bow away from shore and a line from the stern tied to a tree. We departed the following morning at 9:00 AM. At 10:00 AM we were sailing in Agamemnon Channel under the spinnaker. At 2:00 PM we sailed past Jervis Inlet. Over the next three hours we alternately sailed and motored past Powell River to the east and Texada Island to the west. At 7:30 PM we passed Lund to the east and at 10:30 PM we dropped the hook in a small scenic bay on the eastern side of the Copeland Islands under an extended twilight.
July 21, at 7:00 AM we departed Copeland Islands sailing in a light wind out of the north past Hernando Island to the south and Cortes Island to the north. At 10:00 AM we were tacking into a 15 knot wind out of the west past Sutil Point, the southern tip of Cortes Island, a point known for strong winds and rocks extending far past the point of land.
At 1:00 PM we entered Gorge Harbor through a narrow 2000 foot long passage, carved by the tide through solid rock. We had hoped to buy bread from a bakery there but the bakery had become a restaurant so we ate lunch. At 2:30 PM we pulled anchor and headed out the cut. A sixty foot cruiser named the Lou Ann IV was entering, driving full speed down the center of the channel. We hugged the shore where we were tossed like a cork by the cruiser’s wake.
At 3:00 PM we anchored in an uncomfortably steep, exposed anchorage off Manson’s Landing and all went ashore. We spent some time on Hague Lake with its white sandy beaches, warm water and exotic little crabs and other creatures. I wandered up to a restaurant named the Taka Mika where I ate dinner watching an eagle and some common nighthawks circling in the sunset. They played Marty Robins, my mother’s cousin, the whole time I was there, seemingly everything he ever wrote.
Back aboard an eagle snatched a fish out of the water and flew to a tree overhead. We spent a restless night and departed at 8:00 AM. Rounding Sutil Point, an eagle circled overhead.
At 10:30 AM we were sailing past Twin Islands just south of Cortes Island, reaching in 15 knot winds out of the west. Off Iron Point the compass seemed to be off by 40 or more degrees. I had not trusted the compass on this trip and now something was obviously wrong. “This is crazy. We must be in the Bermuda Triangle.” Then I noticed that someone had placed a hunting knife behind the compass. When removed the compass card spun into correct alignment. Somehow the knife had picked up a magnetic charge. After Twin Islands we tacked into 20 knot winds to Malaspina Inlet which though wide has rocks dispersed throughout and can be treacherous in tidal changes. We anchored in Grace Harbor an arm of Malaspina Inlet at 1:00 PM. We could hear the anchor drag along the granite bottom and moved upwind twice before it seemed to grab.
Desolation Sound, the name for this general area, is a place of incomparable beauty. George Vancouver was hoping to find it to be the entrance to the Northwest passage, hence the paradoxical name. Being the center of the inland passage between Vancouver Island and the mainland, the tide doesn’t flow, it simply goes up and down. As a result waters throughout the area warm to an ambient temperature of 70 plus degrees Fahrenheit. In protected waters it can even reach 80 degrees.
Its greater density makes floating in saltwater easy. We spent a lot of time swimming. Distant stone monoliths loom through the clear air, the sky above intently blue. Rocky islands dot the water, each covered with layers of moss. Evergreen trees scrounge for nutrients in the smooth granite, rows of lichen, barnacles and mussels leading down to the water.
I walked to a nearby lake for a swim and then returned and paddled around in the dinghy talking with folks, among them the owners of the Lou Ann IV who nearly ran us down in Gorge Harbor. They were friendly. Beautiful boat. Portland registry. I wondered how such nice people could drive such a beautiful boat so recklessly.
At 8:45 PM we pulled the hook and left, hoping to catch the ebbing tide and sailed into a deep red sunset. At 11:00 PM we anchored as darkness fell in Copeland Islands and made popcorn.
On July 23, we pulled anchor and made our way over to Lund. At Lund we tied to a floating dock that’s moored offshore and made our way in to shore in the dinghy. We ate breakfast, listening to fishermen complain about the government. The proprietor was Chinese. Some people spoke French. There were some hippies and some local indigenous people. We showered and did some laundry and got underway at 9:30 AM. We motored past Savory Island in light air, sailed under the spinnaker for a while, then motored some more as we passed Harwood Island. At 2:00 PM we were sailing in ideal conditions.
At 3:30 PM we continued on under the spinnaker in winds out of the north ranging from 10 to 15 knots. Stuart Bay, the town of Vananda and large rock quarries are visible off to the right on Texada Island. At 6:00 PM we were bucking a current past the entrance to Jervis Inlet off to the left.
At 7:00 PM we had dinner underway. Chow Mein cooked by crew member Willie. At 8:00 PM we dropped the hook in Garden Bay at the head of Pender Harbour. Garden Bay is a perfect anchorage. The mid-tide depth throughout is an even thirty feet. After passing through an opening, the bay opens into a broad expanse, capable of holding 10 or 15 anchored vessels. Ashore, there was a fuel dock, a good seafood restaurant and showers at the old hospital on the hill.
On July 24, at 5:00 PM, the sun was up and we departed Garden Bay in five knot winds from the south and a favorable tide. By 9:00 AM we were in mirror like water. No wind. We passed Texada and Lasqueti Islands under power in a slack tide.
At 11:30 AM we entered the Strait of Georgia on a close reach in five knot winds from the southwest. The tide ran with us against the wind, kicking up a little chop. By 1:00 PM we were beating into a ten knot wind from the southwest in moderate rain.
The only channel on an AM or FM radio that comes in clearly is Canadian Broadcasting, CBC. On Saturdays they play opera all day… one opera with explanations and translations and interviews and intermissions. On this day they were playing Bellini’s Il Pirata. Given the setting, all agreed it was beautiful.
At 1:30 PM the VHF radio sprang to life. “Fishing vessel lying northeast of Gerald Island, this is the Canadian Coast Guard.” The message repeated again a couple of minutes later. Then a third time. “This is the Canadian Coast Guard. You are in a torpedo testing area and in danger”. A fishing boat had decided to pass through the dreaded Whiskey Gulf area, WG on marine charts.
The vessel eventually replied. “Eh. You guys ought to go play war someplace else. There’s a lot’o people out here these days.”
“You need to move. You’re going to get a big hole in your boat. The torpedoes come up from underneath.”
At 2:30 PM we were beating to windward in a 15 knot breeze, making slow headway. By 6:00 PM we were reaching for Nanaimo, BC in winds blowing 20 knots from the southeast. At 7:30 PM we passed through Dodd Narrows southeast of Nanaimo. The tide was nearly slack but whirlpools and other turbulence persisted. At 9:30 PM we anchored at Ruxton Island part of the Gulf Islands Archipelago.
At 5:00 AM we pulled the anchor. At 6:00 AM we passed through Porlier Pass amid terrific whirlpools… swirling vortexes funneling down to who knows where and boiling back up in undulating bumps of water. At 9:00 AM we were sailing under a reefed main in the Strait of Georgia in a 20 knot wind from the south. At 10:00 AM the wind dropped to 15 knots and we shook out the reef, reaching at seven knots. At 12:00 PM we passed Point Roberts. At 2:00 PM on July 25, we tied up in Blaine, cleared US Customs and turned the Seawulff over to Captain David. In researching how to do these trips we were informed by the Canadians that we can change crews in Canada but each trip must either depart from or return to a US port or we’d need to pay Canadian taxes, “Duty Pay” as they termed it.
On August 1, Trish and I arrived in Horseshoe Bay just north of Vancouver with the next crew: Gary, a high wire lineman; Dr. Len, an ophthalmologist; Dorothy and Dorothy, a couple of retired friends and Noni and Irene, a couple of old New Yorkers who had been part of the Frank Lloyd Wright team. Noni told long stories and did magic tricks with string.
We made the same run as the previous one two weeks prior but once in Desolation Sound we went directly to Cortes Bay on the southern end of Cortes Island where we took on water and fuel and some food and anchored for the night.
On August 5, we moved over to Grace Harbor where we were entertained by eagles and otters. Some of us walked back to a warm lake for a swim and each picked up a leech or two. I attempted to brush one off my arm, like one might a slug or some other sticky creature, but this thing wouldn’t let go. I whacked at it harder. “How do I get the damned thing off?” Trish carefully grabbed the leech, squeezing its head between her nails until in released its grasp.
Noni was fascinated. “I’ve never had a leech on me” he said. So Noni was off heading for the lake. He returned a half hour later covered with leeches. “I rolled in the grass at the perimeter of the lake” he laughed. The crew carefully pulled off the leeches, Noni smiling the whole time.
The trip south was a barn burner. We passed Powell River making six to eight knots under spinnaker, wind 15-20 knots off the stern quarter with two foot waves. We continued the run all the way to Pender Harbour. At 6:30 PM we anchored in Garden Bay.
On August 7, we made an easy run down the Straight of Georgia and anchored off Gibson’s Landing. On August 8, we made our way to Horseshoe Bay where we again turned the boat over to David.
And so the first summer went. On August 13, myself, Trish, David and a tall Hawaiian friend of his named Keith took the Seawulff on one more run. After a quick passage north we spent an evening in Whiskey Slough, across Pender Harbour from Garden Bay. On August 15, we were beating up Malaspina Strait. At 7:30 AM we turned into the quietude of Blind Bay. At 11:00 AM we passed through Telescope Passage into Jervis Inlet and at 3:00 PM Princess Royal Reach. The wind at turns would go flat or blow a gale, always from a different direction. We jibed the reefed main five times. Monolithic granite slabs jutted 6000 feet into the sky on all sides.
At 7:00 PM we passed through Malibu Rapids with the incoming tide riding a six knot current. Young Christians from the Young Life Campaign waved at us from large decks attached to large buildings fronted by a large swimming pool. I recalled a co-worker at Peninsula Lodge telling of her time working here. She recalled being serenaded by John Denver sitting around a camp fire. At 10:00 PM we dropped the anchor near the base of Chatterbox Falls in about sixty feet of water and ran a line from the stern to a tree on shore, a common way of anchoring in British Columbia where the bottom tends to get deep and steep in a hurry.
On August 16, 1987, as usual, I awoke at dawn. Sheer granite, with an occasional hearty tree, jutted vertically up 4000 plus feet to the North. One could look almost strait up out of the hatch and see cliffs, stained and bleached into great streaks. Across the fjord to the South, trees grow up steep slopes broken by vertical granite outcroppings, thousands of feet tall, highlighted by distant waterfalls, seemingly half way to the sky.
It was the Harmonic Convergence. The sun, the moon and planets were lined up on this day in a manner that predicts great change. According to the Aztec Mayan calendar it’s the beginning of a heaven cycle. The last one ended in 1519, the year Cortes landed in Mexico.
Around noon some peyote cacti appeared on the table, a gift from an unspecified source. Keith mentioned that among some southwest tribes peyote is a sacrament, a central element of their spiritual practices, a means of achieving visionary experiences. In Huichol tradition it’s a means of connecting with the deities corn, deer, and the eagle. It’s also scarce and slow growing. One needs to know one’s source. David wondered how long mescaline stays in your system. Trish offered to stay strait and take command.
After lying around nauseated for a half hour a euphoria came over the other three of us. We paddled ashore in the dinghy and began a trek into the woods.
We were miles from the nearest road. Although a Provincial Park, Princess Louisa Inlet is accessible only by boat or float plane. So it was with some surprise that we came upon a group of ten or so children walking in the forest. And these children had antlers, fuzzy things coming out the sides of their heads.
“Hey guys!” David said.
“Hello” an adult voice answered. Back among the group a man stepped forward and introduced himself and the children as members of the Royal Order of the Buck Deer or something.
Keith leaned toward me and whispered “These kids have antlers right?”
“I think so” I replied. But then what would a bunch of children be doing in such a remote location and how did they get here? Perhaps the children weren’t even children but rather deer deities or shape changers or harmonic convergence travelers of space and time.
At 1:00 PM we began the ascent up the northeast corner of the inlet. Much of the 3000 foot scramble was shimmying, crawling, clinging to long tendrils of roots that mingled into elaborate ladders and toeing it up granite slabs. We arrived at the base of a waterfall next to a small old cabin. We bathed in a pool at the fall’s base looking out over majestic Princess Louisa Inlet stretching below and across, five miles down to Malibu. Rain then came, making the trip back especially challenging.
A couple of days later we were sailing southwest in light air down San Juan Channel, Jones Island on the port, San Juan Island on the starboard. At least a hundred orca whales approached from astern, the annual gathering of the tribes. A large orca surfaced off our port beam and swam there for a few minutes, then swam slightly ahead and stood on its tail, “spy hopping”. This was an enormous whale, about as big as an orca can get, probably a leader of one of the tribes who had gone ahead clearing the way of any potential problems. The whale remained with its head well out of the water, a mere fifteen feet from the Seawulff as we slowly sailed past, examining each of us in turn. When we had passed the whale swam underneath the boat and on ahead followed by the rest of the pack, some swimming close by, some further off.
The orca could have easily tipped its head to the left and plucked me off the deck for a snack. It could have invited its friend over for a grand buffet. That didn’t happen because our two species have, over the past ten thousand years, come to an understanding. I don’t make a meal out of you and you don’t make a meal out of me.
These orcas are relying on assumptions and agreements by which people today are no longer abiding. They’re holding up their end of the bargain and we’re not. They see our cities. They smell our waste. They know their world is dying. But they don’t know why or what to do. They have no voice in this modern world. There are no agreements to be made.
The trip home was punctuated by a brief stop in Seattle where the Seawulff was supposed to be turned over to John Filmer a faculty member at Evergreen. Trish, David and Kieth departed and John cancelled so I ended up single handling the boat to Olympia. I arrived at West Bay Marina, home, at 8:30 PM on August 23, 1987.
We did more weekend trips in the fall and so ended the first year of Evergreen sailing.
*
While sailing for Evergreen I continued to deliver sailboats to fill in the gaps. One such adventure was highly memorable.
June 8th, 1986. 10 o’clock PM. Strait of Juan de Fuca, the vast Pacific Ocean ahead. Thalassa, a Truant 33 designed by William Garden, has all the attributes of a good sea boat — tall bow with plenty of flare, rounded midsections, modified full keel and canoe stern. The wheelhouse is a potential weakness but the windows have been reinforced. At 33 feet overall Thalassa is not a large boat. She’s light-footed in the gentle waves.
As we passed Tatoosh Island, we steered a course to the southwest, gradually gaining distance from shore. Don Davidson and myself, both licensed captains, would sail with a local physician named Chris King to San Francisco Bay. Chris owned the boat and knew every inch of it. We were all life-long sailors.
At 2 AM a dim light appeared on the horizon and immediately became the brightest object any of us had seen afloat. A second fuzzy light appeared behind the first and also grew in intensity. As they approached the objects turned into thousands of smaller lights, which slowly took the shape of ships, cruise ships. They passed close by, every deck and cabin light blazing.
We crossed the ships’ wakes continuing offshore to the southwest. The brightness of the departing lights made whatever was ahead complete darkness by contrast. The outline of the shore behind vanished in the mist.
The plan was to head southwest until we were 100 miles offshore, then head south paralleling the coast to central California and angle southeast to San Francisco Bay. This was chosen over option B, hugging the coast, ducking in and out of the most horrendous series of harbor entrances imaginable, in fog and all kinds of weather, while hopefully not getting blown onto the rocks. Going offshore would be more comfortable, or so we figured…
The wind gradually picked up out of the west. By dawn we were beating nicely on a starboard tack. Mid-morning the wind continued to build and came more from the northwest. We changed the roller furling genoa to a heavy duty 110% jib that could be furled smaller as need be. Sea kindly Thalassa threaded her way smoothly through waves as porpoises danced off the bow. We cheered them on, applauding spectacular jumps and stunts.
June 9th. The sky was clear, broken here and there by puffy white clouds. The ocean turned a deeper blue, the blue to which the term “blue water” refers, as opposed to the greenish blue closer to land. Sometimes the line between the two is clearly visible. We were 100 miles from shore, heading due south.
The wind was at our back. The seas were running about eight feet giving us a little push. It was the kind of day sailing is all about. But it was getting chilly and we realized none of us had brought any gloves. Chris managed to find a pair of white wool ladies dress gloves on-board that brought a smile. We cracked open a bottle of wine to toast our good fortune.
Late afternoon the wind picked up suddenly. Chris turned on the VHF radio. After several minutes of static a voice announced “Gale warning! The coast guard cutter (obscured) lying 200 miles off the Oregon Coast reports winds of forty knots, gusting to 55, and seas twenty feet and higher.”
The North Pacific is the biggest, widest body of water on earth. The bigger the water body the bigger the waves. We decided a sea anchor or drogue would hold us back increasing the likelihood that waves would break over the boat. Figuring that Thalassa’s wheelhouse and cabin doors might not stand up to being pounded by waves, we decided that our best chance would be to sail through whatever nature might bring our way. There was a small painting on the foreword bulkhead of Francis Chichester rounding Cape Horn in heavy seas flying only a small jib. It looked like a plan for which Thalassa was well suited. We dropped the mainsail and lashed it firmly to the boom.
By sunset the wind tore across wave tops spreading spindrift down their faces. We furled the jib to the size of a bed sheet. Thalassa’s hydraulic steering worked easily but steering was still tiring and we decided on one hour wheel watches. Turns at the wheel drifted into one another. One hour on, two hours off, turning the wheel from lock to lock, back onto a southerly compass heading, or toward Scorpius visible in the cloudless southern sky.
June 10th the wind and the waves continued to build. We reduced the jib to the size of a hand towel. Preparing for the midnight watch, layered up inside oilskins and a safety harness, I opened the companionway and from the cabin saw a shadow come up over the sky. The tiny boat battled its way backward up the wave. Near the top, the wave struck the stern giving Don a shower. I reached across the cockpit and latched the safety harness to the binnacle and stepped out. Standard practice. We didn’t want to lose anyone overboard.
There are basically two things that can go seriously wrong in a wave. I learned about them years prior. As a teenager I spent a couple of summers in Santa Cruz working in restaurants. My neighbor at the time was Mervyn Cadwallader, who went on to be one of the first deans at Evergreen State College. One day Mervyn invited me to go “big wave body surfing”.
We arrived at a place called Little Wind and Sea with our swim fins. Most waves in Santa Cruz break right. The waves here broke left and they were unusually steep. Mervyn estimated them at 16 feet. We swam out to where he said “This looks good”. A wave approached and he yelled “Swim” which I did. The wave broke on top of me, sending me for a loop. When I swam back out, Mervyn said “That’s what’s called getting sandwiched”. He then got us lined up again and when another wave approached yelled ”Swim” which I did. The wave grew in size and I found myself looking over a cliff. It broke throwing me down onto the water below. I was then drawn up into the wave and tumbled over and over. I made my way back to the surface in time to grab a breath of air and dive under the next wave.
At this point surfing has turned into skin diving. You hug the bottom and let the wave pass overhead. It’s why board surfers don’t surf Little Wind and Sea. There’s no beach, only rocks on all sides. The only way out is the way you came in. I got back to the surface in time to get a few breaths and dive under the next wave, followed by a few more. When I got back to Mervyn he explained “That’s what’s called going over the falls. You want to be somewhere between getting sandwiched and going over the falls. That’s all you need to know.”
As it turns out, there is more to know. The third wave I caught. Per Mervyn’s instructions I held my body strait and rigid like a board, turned toward the open shoulder of the wave and experienced one of life’s greatest thrills. Water rushing over your skin causes friction. Body surfing is a tactile, sensual experience. It became an obsession.
Sailors have different terms for getting sandwiched and going over the falls, the worst kind of wipeout, but the effect is the same. Waves may also push the stern to the left or right causing a broach. The boat may get knocked down on her side. All kinds of things can happen. But generally the drill is to keep the boat heading down the waves unless you find yourself preparing to jump off the top of a mountain in which case you turn away, heading across the top of the wave or over its backside, down into the next valley, wallowing in foam.
Waves as big as mountains dwarfed tiny Thalassa. She stood on her nose and surfed, pegging the knot meter at ten knots in a vertical dive. Sometimes the rushing water would come up close to the level of the foredeck but Thalassa’s tall sea bow always stayed above the rushing water. If the bow had gone under we were at risk of pitchpoling, where the boat rolls stern over bow.
Dining consisted of crawling or sliding the length of the cabin floor forward to the galley and cracking a cupboard door open and grabbing whatever flew out, perhaps a nutrition bar and a bottle of water. Using the toilet was a matter of wedging oneself into place and holding on.
How could we possibly survive? We were dodging bullet after bullet. Which one would have our name on it? I wondered, although it didn’t seem possible, if conditions might possibly get more intense and if so if any vessel of Thalassa’s dimensions would not be smashed to bits.
The wind pressed clothing against our bodies. Thalassa rolled far over to starboard, then hard over to port, standing on her nose speeding down a wave, or rolling on the summit looking out at mountains crawling across the landscape, or standing motionless in a valley looking up at an undulating approaching mass of water.
Although we were heading in a generally southerly direction, navigation per se was dictated by each wave. It was survival sailing. We had only the vaguest idea which direction we were heading or how far we’d come and didn’t really care.
By the storm’s third day exhaustion was complete. Sometime before dawn I passed the wheel to Chris and stumbled into the cabin, removed my rubber boots, vomited in one of them, collapsed in my bunk and lost consciousness.
June 12th. When I awoke, the cabin was bright with sunlight. Adding to my confusion, the engine was running. Outside, the waves were steep and menacing but smaller, perhaps twenty feet, of which perhaps the top couple of feet formed white caps, conditions that posed little threat.
I sat up and looked toward the cockpit. Nobody was there. The wheel turned back and forth, being driven by the auto pilot. I cleaned out my boots and put them on and stepped out. The boat was running directly downwind under power, flying the small jib. I let the jib out partway, took the helm and reduced the throttle.
After a while Chris emerged. “At dawn I was finished” he said. “I started the engine and turned on the autopilot”.
The satellite navigation system had not survived. Chris brought out a sextant and a stack of books. We tried working up sun sights but the bouncing and rolling of the boat made it impossible to come up with anything meaningful. But there were other, simpler options.
Before noon we started passing the sextant around, taking sites every minute or so for nearly an hour. We then threw out the outliers, the obvious errors, and were able to get an average for the sun’s highest point in the sky. Comparing this to declination in the nautical almanac for that day gave us a latitude fix.
Chris had also noted the moment of sunrise. Halfway between this and the moment of sunset would theoretically correspond to the zenith hour angle in the nautical almanac from which we could calculate longitude.
The morning of the 12th began with perfect sailing in rolling seas coming from the stern quarter. Mid morning a ship appeared off our bow. We raised them on the VHF and got a position. We were eight miles due west of where we thought they were. The noon sights for latitude had been exact. Timing sunrise and sunset to get longitude, not as exact but not bad.
Throughout the windstorm the sky had remained clear. By late morning a thin mist limited visibility to a mile or so. By afternoon we were immersed in heavy fog, navigating by dead reckoning, following the compass and guessing our speed. We still had the depth sounder and the VHF radio though neither was at that time of any use.
Friday the 13th. We continued sailing through thick fog in a southeasterly direction, angling toward the California coastline. Every half hour someone would check the depth. There was seemingly nothing down there but water although there was no certainty that the depth sounder was even functioning. To add to our anxiety we kept hearing what sounded like surf off our port side.
Something was surely out there in the fog. We sailed on listening and checking the depth sounder with less frequency as the day progressed. The night passed without incident and the morning of the 14th dawned again in thick fog. By late morning the fog was breaking here and there. We passed a small fishing boat, then another and several more.
Then Chris emerged from the cabin and announced “We have the bottom gentlemen.” Sure enough, a broken line appeared on the screen, eighty fathoms or about 500 feet down. We followed that contour for a while, then it grew shallower which we figured must be the edge of the San Francisco Bar, location of the Potato Patch Shoal. The water then grew deeper again to our relief. We followed depth contours curving around to the east, sailing toward land lying somewhere dead ahead. The readings continued to grow deeper. The Farallon Islands appeared astern. Point Bonita appeared off the port bow. The Golden Gate Bridge appeared overhead.
How big were the waves? Taller than Thalassa’s 45 foot tall mast. According to the Coast Pilot and Sailing Directions, the largest waves on earth, measured in the Eastern Pacific off the coast of North America, can measure over 100 feet.