Bashing South

June 17

Our third member arrived at 8PM and we immediately disembarked Port Hardy for Bull Harbor on Hope Island, this so as to stage our run around Cape Scott with the tide. Here we dropped anchor at midnight. Glassy black water. Two fishing boats; cabins dark. Steady drizzle.

June 18

Up at five and underway before coffee, a worrisome practice if it continues. Motored around the horseshoe cove opposite Bull and inside Tatnall Reefs, so as to avoid dangerous Nahwitti Bar. Unnecessary given the calm sea, but interesting. Weather still and rounding of Cape, eventless. Low cloud kept us from seeing it or anything except sea and birds. Murres, Sooty Terns, the occasional seagull.

The forecast called for light southerlies turning to the northwest in the late morning. Given that the forecast continued on to describe a southerly gale coming in Thursday afternoon, we opted to make a long leap around Brooks Peninsula, the other difficult feature of this coast.

As the afternoon wore on, the southerly wind increased. Not much. 10 – 15 knots only, but the chop reduced our speed to 3 and 4 knots, and pushed our arrival at planned anchorage to after midnight, so we turned hard to port just north of Brooks and put into a deep fjord called Klaskish Inlet, where we dropped anchor in the basin at 7PM. 72 miles.

Dinner immediately. Kurt cooked spaghetti with ground buffalo in tomato sauce; heavy, hot, thoroughly satisfying. Hit the bunk by 9PM with intention of departing well before dawn in an attempt, again, to get below Brooks before the low arrived in the afternoon.

June 19

Gusts began in the night and laid the boat over. At 4AM I asked Kurt, “So, what to you think?” All he said was “NO.” We both crawled back in our bags.

We drug sometime between then and 9AM. And drug again before coffee (a pattern is developing). Took an hour to reset. Williwaws to 35 knots off the high walls of the Fjord spin the boat. Rain sideways.

So we are here today. Fried eggs for breakfast and Kurt and Jay sawing away at their stories while I type. For a man of my temperament, a crew of three is the perfect number as long as the other two can talk and I can disappear into the corner. Torrential rain. Cozy cabin and it appears the hook is hooked.


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