Sailing the San Juans

As the piles of charts and literature about the San Juan Islands accumulated on the desk, my apprehensions grew correlatively: the more I read about these islands, the less I wanted anything to do with them, least of all meet them personally. Just reading the charts would dampen any would-be sailor's spirit: Danger Rock, Point Caution, Smallpox Bay, Shark Reef, Deadman Island, Massacre Bay, Skull Island, Victim Island, Cemetery Island. Furthermore, pictures of shipwrecked vessels and warnings about hiding rocks and reefs, treacherous winds and weather, enormous tides and rocky bottoms put genuine panic in my heart. Panic Island. I could not find it on the charts, but I was sure it was there somewhere.

However, when you are to be the skipper's first mate, you've got to pull yourself together and stand up and be counted. So, I decided to be more positive and looked for things in which to take comfort. And sure enough, they, too, were right there on the charts: Picnic Cove, Lovers Cove, Beach Haven, Diamond Point, Echo Bay, Snoring Bay . . .

The San Juan Islands are a cluster of inhabited islands and barren rocks in the Northwest corner of the United States. This archipelago is neatly tucked between the land masses of the State of Washington and Vancouver Island, filtering the salty waters of the Strait of Georgia and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. According to the United States Coast Guard and Geodetic Survey, there are 172 islands in the San Juan Archipelago. Some of the largest ones are Orcas, San Juan, Lopez, Shaw, Waldron, Stuart, Decatur and Blakely. In addition to these large islands, there are hundreds of reefs and rocks. (These are the ones that caused me the palpitational panic. Big islands I can handle. They are easy to miss. It's those little chameleon surprises that I did not wish to encounter.)

The San Juans have a fascinating geological history, which I was not about to dissect, but I did think that it might be informative for our youngsters' sake to know at least just how this archipelago came to be. June Burn in her book 100 Days in the San Juan Islands gives an adequate thumbnail account of their misty past:

"It was back in those mysterious ages that a mountain range . . . went down like a vast ship, bits of it left sticking up. It sank so far that the valleys between the peaks fell below the sea level, whereupon the sea stepped in. . . . During the Ice Age, glaciers gouged the valleys deeper. At one time, they completely covered the islands even to the highest peak. . . . Later on—'recently'—the geologists say, meaning only a few tens of thousands of years ago the same mountain range rose again so that you can row along below the sheer bluffs and see, 200 feet above the high tide line, a wave-cut bench where the water line used to be."

The idea of sailing through and above mountains and valleys did not exactly soothe my nerves, but it did give a fresh whiff of fantasia to the whole notion of a sailing vacation: to rub shoulders (but hopefully not rudders) with those ancient rocks and glacial striations sounded pretty fascinating. It was kind of like reenacting Peter Pan, sailing off to Never-Never Land. So, this bit of enthusiasm under our belts, we stuffed our car, rented for the trip from Seattle to Anacortes, with plenty of woolens, foul weather gear, games and food enough to last through a serious famine. There would be no balmy Bahama beaches, so the skimpy bathing gear was placed on the bottom of duffel bags—"just in case the sun should shine"—but never mind the sun glasses or lotions. We were ready for a polar expedition.

The first sighting of our floating home at the Anacortes (Washington) Marina was sobering: she was big! All forty-four feet of her! How would we ever manage this one? How would we even get it out of the slip? Nauti Finn, how I hoped you were not going live up to your name!

Well, she was a beauty—one of those salty, rock-solid Finnish boats, a schooner equipped with all the latest sailing technology, with two masts and five pristine sails: a mainsail, a staysail, two jibs—one club-footed, self-tending, and the other, a roller-furling genoa—and a curious little "fisherman" sail that was rigged between the masts, upside down! Once under sail, with all sheets displayed in their high-winded puffy splendour, the skipper proclaimed to be fulfilled, gliding along, as if rigged to the marshmallow clouds traversing across the deep blue sky . . .

The winds and the currents, rip tides and eddies in these waters don't always coincide. Three conditions are cited by experienced San Juan explorers:

"The wind and the current may be with you. In this case, you will schuss through with only some minor bounces. . . . The wind and current against you will put you on the world's slowest roller coaster. Your forward speed may be only one knot, but your speed up and down may be denture-loosening! This will usually convince you to study current charts in the future. . . . With the wind and the current heading in different directions—now there's a situation! You will get the sensation you might have on one of those mechanical bucking broncos they have in Western bars."

We, too, had the ride of our lives, not under sail combatting the wild elements, but safely anchored at Hunter Bay, off Lopez Island. Or so we thought.

The bay is reportedly one of the best anchorages anywhere in the San Juans, with protection provided by the forested hills on three sides, uniform mean depth of about 15 feet, and good holding ground for the anchor in the muddy depths. We had chosen this safe and sure spot for our first night's anchorage for a reason: we could well remember the bouncy Bahamas nights that still cause anxiety for one of us . . . For some reason, dragging the anchor or touching the bottom meant sure and instantaneous demise.

We had arrived at Hunter Bay during the daylight hours, and after checking the tide tables and the depth sounder well and many times, we dropped the anchor and gave it a good line. We turned in after sundown, fully satisfied that we were not dragging. About half way through the night, we were awakened by freshening winds. Trying to dismiss the creeping dread that we had drifted, we thought that the winds had changed and the strong northeasterlies were beating on us. Besides, we could feel the comforting tug on the anchor line. Intuition persisting, we finally went above, and what we could discern in the pitch black night was that we had dragged what looked like nearly half a mile, and that we were in the middle of the passage, dangerously close to the imposing lineup of black, rocky reefs. How we ever slipped through a dozen other boats without getting tangled in their anchor lines, we'll never know—nor will we ever cease to be thankful for. At this point we were also grateful for the winlass, which sw iftly pulled up the anchor, although it scooped up a goodly amount of the black goop from the bottom, and duly spat it all over our spotless white forward deck. But that was the very least of our worries. Meandering in the dark is not much fun, nor is it easy, especially when you don't want to awaken the whole neighborhood with your roaring engine.

Well, we found our way back to the protection of the bay, and needless to say, slept late. This episode did, however, once more prove correct the age-old claim that every cloud has a silver lining. Our silver lining came in shades of crimson and scarlet: those wonderful, electrifying aurora borealis, or the northern lights. We sat on the deck for a long time after the urgency of the moment had passed, and enjoyed the splendid production of Nature's theatre, as the gasses in the atmosphere blazed across the black night sky in colours that are not of this world.

The following day we went in search of a solidly grounded mooring. There are but only a few of them in the San Juans. We felt fortunate to find a pleasure yacht vacating one at Spencer Spit, a finger-like projection off the coast of Lopez Island. Appropriately named, the tentacle resembles a spit, poised to pierce Frost Island, which, incidentally, approximates a chicken drumstick in shape. Spencer Spit has sandy beaches for exploration, camp grounds and historical markers for the historically minded to study. People claim that they can find ancient Indian artifacts on this beach, such as spear points and hidescrapers made of bone. We found no such treasures, but we did find what we had come for: security and sleep at night.

That evening brought incredible tranquillity and show of celestial colours, with a full moon to light up our calm repose. The sea was absolute still, black and shimmering like a mirror reflecting the moon. The sky was bathed in breathtaking hues that the setting sun left behind. And quiet, serene sleep. Ah, the joys of sailing.

Our San Juan days continued relaxed and unmarred: there was plenty of sunshine, even an occasional spell of heat, which was quickly enjoyed by the sun-worshippers in the family, and a sky full of perfect sailing winds.

We never did see Smallpox Bay or Deadman Island or the like, although we must have come close to Danger Rock and Caution Point. And we did enjoy a Picnic Cove and a Beach Heaven or two, only under different names.

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