Day 3 - July 28, 2009
Every trip, adventure, journey (whatever you want to call it) has its moments. There are fun times, good times, bad times, hard times, etc. But all trips have two defining moments—moments that seem to still be vivid in your mind years later. They are based on the feelings you were having at that given time, causing your brain to literally take a snapshot of the moment and store it deep inside.
If you haven’t guessed it yet, the first moment is the moment you set out on your trip. Your adventure is in front of you, the dock lines are cleared, and the sail is breathing in its first full breath of salty air. The second is the moment you realize you have to head back. Everything in between is now a blur—events that seem to have happened in another age.
As I crawled out of my bunk and walked into the main saloon, the realization started to sink in, that today was our last day. My dad had just stumbled out of his stateroom and began bumping around the galley, trying to appear as if he had been awake for hours. The boat was quiet, the crew soaking up the last of their beauty sleep. I headed out on deck with the strange intention of jumping off the sprit again—something I probably picked up from the movie White Squall.
The water was like glass, with a thin layer of sun-sparkled fog hovering just above the surface as if to protect the morning glow of the sea.
I walked towards the bow and every step seemed to be followed by a thunderous voice in my head screaming, “Don’t you dare jump into that freezing-a** water!” I stepped up onto the bowsprit pulpit and just stood there, staring at the translucent surface of the water, as if it were staring back. I stood there for what felt like an hour but could have only been 3 minutes or so. I gathered every bit of courage I had. I was ready, physically and mentally prepared for the harsh impact into the freezing, morning-chilled water. I braced myself and closed my eyes. Leaning forward, I began the countdown. 3, 2—“Hey Derek! Breakfast is ready.”
“OH MY GOD!” I thought. “Yeah, yeah! I’ll be down in just a second.”
Man, talk about running into a brick wall. Just when I thought there was no turning back, my sister Tami had to poke her head out of the companionway and train-wreck my whole thought process. You gotta love siblings. There wasn’t enough time for another courageous build-up so I just went for it. 3-2-1 GO! I was in the air. I was falling. I was falling fast. I shouldn’t have done this. Oh sh*t!
I hit the water and instantly felt my man-coconuts contract up into my rib cage. The shock of hitting the water was like falling out of bed into a pile of crushed ice. “Wow! How refreshing,” I thought. Painfully refreshing. I swam back to the stern like a dead fish, flopped myself over the rail, and reached for my towel. Hmmm, seems Tami took the towel when she went back down below. How convenient…
As I made my way down below, I was shivering like a Hawaiian on a trip to Fairbanks. I sat down at the dinette and started eating some leftover fish and potatoes my dad had cooked up, once again remembering that this was our last breakfast on board. I quickly inhaled the last few bites and headed topside with Josh. We pulled up the anchor, raised our sail, and headed east—back into Rosario Straight.
As we made our turn southward, we passed by one of the many ferries that shuttled folks between Canada and the lower US. Tourists were crowding the rails, waving as we passed by. It was almost as if they had never seen a sailboat before. I was slow to take into consideration that Josh and I were holding onto the port shrouds, leaning off the side of the boat, shirtless, and wearing pirate bandanas. We probably looked like a ragged group of buccaneers that couldn’t remember the last time we had stepped on land. That image was just fine with me. We waved back trying to satisfy their tourist needs, and sailed on.
About halfway between our turn southward and Deception Pass, my fish-and-potatoes breakfast had started to wear off. I had Josh take the wheel as I went down below to scavenge through our storage of food, in hopes of finding something worth eating. I stumbled upon a can of Chicken Noodle and a couple of other off-brand cans of noodles and chicken. I mixed them all together and made what I now call, “Noodly chicken-chicken noodle and chicken soup,” or something like that.
After gulping down my signature soup, we were coming up on our turn toward Deception Pass. Luckily enough, we happened to get to the pass during slack tide and were able to motor through without any problems. Believe me, we have had problems there before. I have seen boats grabbed by the current and slammed into the steep rocky sides, or swept off course and run aground on a pile of submerged rock. It does happen, sometimes even to the best of us.
From what I have read and seen, every time you untie the lines and leave safe-harbor, you are taking that risk—the risk that you might not come back, or that you will come back but with slightly less boat than when you left. It is all part of the adventure—to battle the currents, fight a headwind, or scrape along the bottom in a place you thought was deep enough.
Without these things happening, what have you overcome?
What challenges were there along the way?
Sometimes a perfect voyage can only be appreciated after a not-so-perfect one, kind of like appreciating an afternoon of sunshine after a week of constant downpour.
With the pass now behind us, we had one last 5-hour stretch along the weather side of Whidbey Island. The deep rumble of our diesel engine vibrated the cockpit deck under my feet and hummed in a way that was almost hypnotic.
The sun was beating down on our white non-skid deck, and you could start to see the heat rising into the air. Walking forward and aft became quite a quick-paced event. Using my ever-so-evolving brain, I grabbed our water bucket, tossed it over the side, and began lifting bucket after bucket of water to cool off the decks. After a while, it became sort of a routine. I would stand mid-ships and splash a bucket of water forward and let it run over my feet as it raced aft towards the scuppers. It was as relaxing as having your feet rubbed by a French masseuse with fifteen fingers—or maybe that would just be weird.
I walked back to the cockpit to find my brother lighting underwater firecrackers and tossing them overboard. They weren’t near big enough to be considered a type of redneck fishing gear, but they made a little pop. The majority of them were duds anyway.
As I looked around I could see everything that I had called home some 3 years prior. Since then, I had joined the military and was stationed in Virginia, counting down the days till I could return to the Pacific. I missed the fiery sunsets on the water and the unique bluish-green tint of the northern Pacific. The West Coast is a place, for some, like no other place on Earth. Yes, there are so many other places on this big hunk of rock and water that are truly beautiful, but the Pacific Northwest will always have a special place in my book.
We rounded Strawberry Point and were now heading SW past Polnell Point. The sun was going down faster and faster, or so it seemed, but that didn’t make much of a difference to my dad. He suggested we stop and anchor in the SW corner of Crescent Harbor to do some fishing and eat dinner.
It was that time of day when the sun isn’t setting yet, but it might as well be. The blue in the sky was starting to fade as the orange began to blanket the western horizon. The warmth of midday was still radiating off of the boat, and I could hear the soft sound of water lapping against the hull. I didn’t want it to end. Our voyage was coming to a close and it wasn’t something I was ready for yet. Even after a trip as short as this, I just wasn’t ready.
It is somewhat like visiting a close relative that you haven’t seen in years, and not knowing when you will ever see them again. When the time comes to pack your things and say goodbye, you wonder where all the time has gone.
Will you ever get any of that time back?
Is it possible to ever relive that experience again?
Some things never change, and the sadness that is felt at the end of a journey is one of them. No matter how many times you stop to tell yourself, “Slow down and enjoy this moment,” the moment always seems to fly by and fade away.
I didn’t want to round our last point and enter into Oak Harbor, but time was ticking away towards my flight in the morning. We hoisted anchor and made our way around Forbes Point and into the harbor. We tied her off on F-Dock and headed for the showers. My journey was over. For me, it was the trip of a lifetime. It was the first time I had seen my dad and little brother in years, and my first real taste of freedom since joining the military.
I will come back one day. I had it set in my mind that this was the life I wanted. Like all good cruisers say, “The first part of planning a voyage is setting a date.” So I did just that, and am now counting the days till I can return—aboard my own boat this time—with the sun in my face, the wind at my back, and not but a couple of dock lines between me and another chance to be free.
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