Budd Inlet, Olympia (click here for larger image) The log of S/V Lacuna, spring and summer 2005
Chapter 1.
April 25-30, 2005. Olympia to Anacortes
Lacuna is tied to the dock at Swantown Boat Works, Olympia, Washington. She was gently dropped into the water by a 77-ton Travelift crane. Seeing her hanging 20 feet overhead as I waited at the catch dock reminded me of the vertical scale of the Columbia River locks; I felt dwarfed; Lacuna looked so small so high in the air.
While the boat was on the lift, Peter and I replaced the centerboard cable. The old one was starting to fray, and I didn’t want it to break during the journey. I always keep a spare cable and clamps on board, just in case. It went quite smoothly—I had the parts ready, the drill prepared, and an able accomplice. We moved Lacuna to the adjacent dock and continued setting up the rig. After a while, the Travelift gofer whistled down at us and said we had to move the truck. Peter and Margy took their leave to take the truck and trailer back to Eugene. I shuffled gear around for hours, it seemed.
The truck bed was full beyond the gunwales when we arrived at Olympia. I had taken virtually everything out of Lacuna during the extensive (and expensive!) boatwork that preceded this launch. Last night, I shuffled stuff out of the truck and into the boat. The persistent and tenacious rain did not help matters. By the time I got most of the stuff into the boat, it was wet. I consoled myself with the thought that there will be many times in the next few months when my gear and I will be wet with rain, and that rain is distilled water; when it evaporates, it leaves no trace.
Before I left, I bought food in bulk and vacuum-packed it in serving sizes appropriate for a solo mariner. I stuffed it, literally, under the forepeak berth. To get the last of the vac-packs into the compartment, I had to shake and shove the packs into the furthest recesses of the bow and the corners of the cabinet. During the voyage, I’ll have to work my way down through the layers. That’ll be a good way to vary my diet. In the same layer as the week’s Grizzly’s Granola packet might be a packet of dried rice, another of dried beans, another of trail mix, one of dried pea soup. Who knows what will turn up?
It’s almost 10:30 PM. I’m tired, fatigued even, with aches and pains all over. I’ve been pressing hard in the past few weeks to get things done. In the past week, I don’t think I’ve slept more than five hours a night. Getting ready for any expedition is nerve-wracking; the preparations are never adequate to address all the issues; details remain unresolved; important systems are untested; the crew faces challenges heretofore unfaced. Baggage has yet to be stored properly. Charts are buried under other luggage. The decks are dirty. Life is good. I’m going to bed.
Budd Inlet, Olympia (click here for larger image)
4/26/05. I’m on the hook in Wollochet Bay, just west of Tacoma Narrows. I made unexpectedly good mileage today, the first day of passage making—over 28 miles. I had time for more, but was facing adverse currents in Tacoma Narrows, so I anchored about 4:00 PM.
I woke this morning at 6:00, motored the short distance from the boatyard dock (where I stayed last night) to the guest dock at the Swantown Marina. There I took a shower, ate granola, had a cup of coffee, and started on boat work. My most important task, the one that must be done before proceeding further, was to get the autopilot to work. I fiddled around with the connections and found that the polarity on the plug I had installed was reversed (I had no guide to the color code on the wires). It was a wonderful eureka moment when I plugged it in and it fired up. I could hardly wait to get underway, but I had to take a few minutes to familiarize myself with the route, organize the charts and cruising guides, and figure out where I would get gas. When I figured out that I’d have to go to Boston Harbor for gas, I set off.
The autopilot is like a miracle. It holds a course better than I could (except that it can’t compensate for current set), and I enjoyed the freedom from the tiller. I read the cruising guides, kept notes, watched for hazards, fixed coffee, ate snacks, and moved around. I haven’t yet learned how to store a route in the chartplotter and have it drive the autopilot, but I hope that’s coming soon.
I took on 20 gallons of gas ($60) and had a nice chat with the young woman running the pump. She had worked on a small tour boat in Glacier Bay, so we had much to discuss as the meter ran up the money.
There was virtually no wind today. It started off cool and heavily overcast, but as the day wore on the clouds broke up. There was very little boat traffic until I got close to Tacoma. Along Nisqually Reach, a 4-engine military plane dropped parachutists, four at a time, over the reach. Four small boats were waiting to pick them up.
The evening was blessed with a visit by a gray whale here at the head of the bay. The poor thing—three 20-plus-foot power boats were following it, bursting into speed when they saw it spout, then milling about after it dove.
4/27/05. I’m at the dock in Edmonds Marina, hooked up to electricity and charging batteries. I gave them a good workout today; much of the day’s passage was under sail, so the motor wasn’t running to keep the batteries charged, and I ran the radar quite a bit because it was so foggy.
Tacoma Narrows (click here for larger image)
I weighed anchor at 6:00 AM to make it through Tacoma Narrows just before slack tide; I wanted to catch the full ebb tide cycle to boost me north. It was great to have the radar, because visibility was only a hundred meters or so. Fortunately, there was no other boat traffic, so I had the Narrows to myself. On the screen, the big suspension bridge looked like a solid object. The image finally dissolved in the center as I motored under the bridge, then it closed up again behind me; when the span was overhead, the radar couldn’t see it, but it could see the rest of the bridge.
I hugged the west shore before the bridge then angled over to the east shore after the bridge to work the currents to advantage. When your maximum boat speed is 6 knots, it helps to have the water moving your way.
On the east shore of the Narrows, just a bit north of the bridge, is a line of houses, perhaps a quarter mile long, built on pilings at the foot of a steep slope, almost a cliff. I wondered how these funky, creative, hippy-looking homes avoided gentrification—then I realized that there’s no way to drive to them. There are no roads down the cliff. Everything and everybody must walk down the cliff (there are switchback stairs) or be carried by boat; quite a few of the houses had little cranes for lifting boats onto their decks.
I gained new appreciation for the autopilot (like many mariners, I’ll probably identify the autopilot with a nickname and attribute to it a personality. I’ve already started: Ott O’Pilot). I spent several hours sailing close-hauled; I often turned the steering over to Ott, who performed better than I did as long as the wind was steady. I’m cursed by lapses of attention. Ott is on the job, never losing focus or concentration, not suffering from ADD.
The wind came up a bit after 10:00, after we left Colvos Passage and entered the south Sound. I decided to raise the sails, but I wasn’t fully prepared. First I had to rig the jackline, a nylon strap that runs the full length of the boat on both sides. I wear an inflatable lifejacket/harness when sailing, and have promised Jill that I will fasten myself to the boat when the going gets rough. Tether clipped to various points along the way, I climbed out on the bow, which was pitching up and down, tied the line to the bow cleat, and ran the line aft on both sides of the boat to cleats on the aft gunwales. Then I could fasten my tether to it and roam safely about the boat.
I sailed close-hauled, beating my way toward Seattle. The autopilot handled the boat well as long as I didn’t pinch too close to the wind. Occasionally the wind would drop a bit; I’d start the motor and run it at part throttle to keep up moving, but as soon as the wind built again I shut it off. The Seattle skyline was hazy but the Space Needle was distinct.
Giant ferries, tugs with barges, and container ships made their way across my track. At one point, I was in a convergence zone for three different ferry routes. I paid attention.
As Seattle disappeared behind, the Olympics showed through the low clouds to the west. I couldn’t see the Cascades--too cloudy in that direction. Within an hour, the view to the east opened up and I finally got some views of the mountain chain.
I sailed until 4:15, then dropped the sails and motored into the Edmonds Marina.
4/28/05. Another great day of passage-making. I woke at 6:00 and set about on various projects. Edmonds was such a hospitable place, with a West Marine within walking distance, that it seemed like a good place to do some work. I found that the new pressure water system had a couple of drip, drip, drip leaks. I wondered why I had to mop so much water off the cabin sole. Then I found that gear stashed under the port cockpit seat, normally a dry place, was wet. Lo and behold, back in the hold, the connections between the shower valve and the vinyl water lines were leaking. I took the gear out of the way, slid back into the confined space, and wrestled with it for way too long before I finally got them stopped.
Another problem with the water system that I resolved was a big leak between the shower head and its hose—the o-ring was missing. To get a 10-cent piece, I had to buy a $7 set of o-rings. Well, one of them fit, and it was worth $7 not to have the leak any more.
I also took the time to figure out how to enter waypoints and set up routes in our new chartplotter. The manual isn’t very informative, and the logic of the designers has yet to make itself evident to me in many ways.
I mounted some hold-downs for a solar panel on the sliding hatch, replaced a missing set screw in the traveler, and futzed around until noon. Then it seemed like too much of a walk to the grocery store for too few groceries; nothing more held me there, and the wind was blowing. So I left.
I got some great sailing in, 10-15 knots astern for several hours. I jibed back and forth across the wind, always keeping it at least 30 degrees off the stern to reduce the risk of accidental jibe. The autopilot did a remarkably good job of holding the course despite waves that rolled underneath, causing the boat to pitch and yaw. It was unnerving to leave the safety of the cockpit and go to the foredeck for sail and line handling. There’s no one to turn Lacuna about and come back for me if I fall overboard. So I always clip in when sailing.
As the boat rolls and pitches, the bow plunges up and down. It’s hard to keep footing or balance, but some tasks, such as rigging the jib, can’t be done anywhere else. Good deck shoes with a sticky grip are indispensable. I had to have a lot of confidence in the boat and the autopilot. As the waves rolled under the boat, the masthead vane indicated a shift in the apparent wind by 20 – 30 degrees. Even though my course was more downwind, I set a broad reach to reduce the risk of an accidental jibe—and I put on a preventer to reduce the risk further. The breeze held for five hours, then dropped for an hour, and rose from the north. I motored for a while then set a close-hauled course in Saratoga Passage for Coupeville.
Penn Cove, Coupeville (click here for larger image)
The wharf and dock at Coupeville.
Coupeville waterfront
Sunset at Coupeville.Romance for a couple, making me miss my sweetie.
4/29/05. I’m at dock C-19 in Cap Sante Boat Haven. I arrived at noon, after some five hours of passage from Coupeville. Since Olympia, I’ve traveled 141 miles in 28 hours and 49 minutes, according to my GPS. Today, I sailed in waters I hadn’t been in before—up the Swinomish Channel, past La Conner.
I left the dock at Coupeville with mixed feelings. I had had such a good time the last time I sailed here, some dozen years ago. One memory that sticks vividly in my mind is the image of a great blue heron climbing the steep-pitched roof of the big red building on the wharf. It was near sunset; the bird was silhouetted as it slowly lifted each foot, reaching up and forward on the shingles, each move slow and deliberate as if he were doing tai chi. Another memory is vivid: boat partner Ted lying on the dock, sticking his head underwater to watch the bioluminescence.
But this time was quite different. I arrived solo, there were no other boats on the dock, the building was closed, no herons and little bioluminescence blessed me. I slept late (8:00 AM—the battery in my alarm clock went dead) then tried to take a shower. The harbormaster’s office was closed and locked, the rest of the building was closed, the toilet was locked, but a shower door was unlocked. I took off my clothes in the frigid room, stood naked while I plugged four quarters into the timer, then tried in vain to get any water out of the shower. After a few curses I put my clothes on, gathered up my soap, and went back to find the harbormaster. Still locked. Instead of putting $15 in an envelope for the night’s berth, I decided that the dollar that I had lost in the shower was payment enough for the services I had received. I motored away into a warm, calm morning.
On the glassy water I could see many grebes. I love the way they look—like submarines in tuxedos. They are heavy-bodied diving birds, and when they float their bodies are almost submerged. One can see only their heads and necks and a bit of their backs. They have a bright white throat and black head and neck. They swivel their heads actively as they watch their surroundings. When they’re alarmed, they dive with hardly a splash or ripple.
With the autopilot steering and the Honda ticking away, the miles went by. I fixed coffee, ate breakfast, washed dishes, and tidied up while the boat kept up the pace. I saw only a few other boats—for the most part, I had the waterways to myself. I motored into Skagit Bay, a broad expanse of shallow water with only a few navigable channels. The channel became increasingly restricted then I had to make a 90-degree turn into Swinomish Channel, which connects Skagit and Padilla Bays and makes Fidalgo Island an island. It’s narrow, deep enough for Lacuna, and well marked and surveyed. Following range markers astern, the buoys on both sides, and the chartplotter in front of me, I followed the straight channel. It was a good thing that I had reviewed the chart, because the route seemed to lead straight into a rock wall. As I got almost to what looked like a dead end, the channel turned sharply left, a cleft opened in the wall, and then I could see through to flat land and water beyond.
Skagit Bay, La Conner (click here for larger image)
I went through the little town of La Conner, which has an interesting waterfront with several cafes and terraces overlooking the water. The boats are a mix of yachts and work boats; the houses, upscale and down.
La Conner and the Rainbow Bridge
Evviva at La Conner--a substantial yacht.
I followed the channel for several miles through low country, with quite a few homes lining the channel near La Conner but more open land to the north, then passed under another highway bridge and emerged into Padilla Bay. Like Skagit Bay, it’s mostly shoal. There’s a big gasoline refinery in the bay; three big tanker were sitting at wharfs or at anchor.
Ottawa at the Anacortes gasoline refinery.
Fidalgo Bay, Anacortes (click here for larger image)
Soon I was again in Cap Sante Boat Haven. It’s familiar waters. I’ve been here many times. I did some shopping, took a brisk walk, and did laundry. I’ll spend the day here tomorrow doing final work on inventory, equipment, and boat before leaving the country. I’m pleased that I’m on my arbitrary schedule. I’m planning to leave Anacortes on May 1, as I’d been planning for quite a while. The past few days’ passage from Olympia is a bonus in more ways than one—I’m able to do more sailing than I had planned, the shakedown has been in waters where it’s easy to get parts and supplies, and the voyage began at the southernmost part of Puget Sound.
When Jill and I were talking on the phone this evening, I said something like “We made good passage today.” She said, “What do you mean, ‘we’?” I had been thinking of that very topic earlier in the day when I found myself mixing the singular and plural first-person pronouns in the ship’s log. I realized that it was more than just personifying the boat and the autopilot, as many mariners do.
I recognized long ago that my personality is multiple and composite (as are all the personalities I know well enough to judge), and that the face that I present to the public is the work of a committee, with different voices holding the stage at different times. When I talk to myself, I use the plural pronoun to chide, exhort, or compliment myself (but not the “royal we”). As a biologist, I know that my body is a composite, that the human cells are outnumbered by symbiotic bacterial and eukaryotic cells by an order of magnitude or more, that a multitude of creatures make me their home. Whichever voice I have at the moment must speak for them too, since they cannot participate in the decisions about where to sail. Like it or not, they’re going along for the ride.
4/30/05. I had a number of tasks to accomplish today. My biggest goal was to get this web site posted. I walked from Lacuna to the Anacortes library (free internet access!) several times before it was done. After taking a shower at the marina, finishing my laundry, planning the next day's voyage, I went to bed.
--Dennis Todd
