We had spent part of the morning and half of the afternoon onshore at Friendly Cove / Yuquot. While talking to the lighthouse keeper, Cap’n Adam had asked about what the conditions were off of Estevan Point, our next hurdle to jump over on our way down the west coast of Vancouver Island. “There is zero visibility, but no wind at all” was his reply. At this point, fog does not concern us as much as wind & waves do, so this seemed to be pretty good conditions to us. Once back on the boat and eating lunch, we listened to the VHF weather forecast. “Current conditions at Estevan Point – NW wind 12 knots, 1 foot wind waves, increasing to 20-30 knots overnight and tomorrow morning”. Good now, but it will be getting hairy soon. We listened to the broadcast for the whole west coast, from Juan de Fuca Strait to Queen Charlotte Sound. We were in no hurry, and Nootka Sound, like everywhere else in this magnificent corner of the world we live in, is a beautiful place to be. But, we were not really wanting to be in a situation where we were waiting out the weather again. And since Hot Springs Cove & Clayoquot Sound were our next highly anticipated destinations (and they were literally right around the corner), and since the current conditions of the sea seemed to be calm, at 15:00 we pulled up anchor. We were headed out of Friendly Cove and back into the Pacific swell around Estevan Point, on route to Maquinna Provincial Marine Park and Hot Springs Cove. Based on our distance and anticipated speed, Cap’n figured our journey would be about a 5 hour one, and that we’d arrive at about 20:00 and have dinner once we put the anchor back down.
It was foggy. So foggy that we could not see the tip of land 15 nautical miles away that we intended to pass around. Cap’n Adam would have to rely on the GPS, and its ability to accurately tell us where we were currently at, and where the land (and any rocks or reefs) were in relation to us. It was not so foggy that we wouldn’t be able to see any boats near us, and so the radar wasn’t necessary. Our GPS has made this trip infinitely easier for us, a luxury item that this generation of boaters deeply appreciates. In days past, with zero visibility mariners would have to rely on a magnetic compass bearing based on nautical charts and a known fix of their location. At night they would use celestial navigation if there were no clouds. After our Power Squadron Boating Course, Adam and I both know how to take a compass bearing and plot a course, and we would both like to learn celestial navigation as soon as we possibly can. Just in case, heaven forbid, our GPS ever stopped working. Technology is a fabulous advancement for sailing, but it is good to be able to go back to old school if technology somehow fails.
As we came out of Nootka Sound, to our Starboard side was a tip of land with a plaque commemorating Captain Cook. To our Port side was a big Coast Guard vessel, dropping off supplies and doing maintenance on the lighthouse. We felt good knowing that the lighthouse keeper knew where we were heading, and a whole fleet of Coast Guarders were right there should need them. Not that we thought we would have any difficulty, but it did give us more confidence.
It got very lumpy, very quickly. Grey skies, light mist, and some big ol’ Pacific rollers that we were, again, cutting diagonally across instead of surfing with. But all 3 of us felt good. I am happy with the progression of my sea leg strength this trip, and for a while I comfortably rode the swell and chop. I introspected on my increased sense of proprioception. There was a new ease as my leg and abdominal muscles subconsciously responded to the irregular rhythm we experienced, as we forced our way southwest into an easterly flowing Pacific swell destined to crash into the land. A couple of times at the beginning of the trip, an air bubble leaked into the Starboard side diesel lines, so Cap’n had to go below and manually drain the lines so the motor would function. During those brief 2 moments, I took the helm as Cap’n became engineer. From that position, I could see in a 360 degree direction all around me. Neither land nor sky could be seen. As far as I could see, the sea was a grey, undulating eternity. And we were but the smallest of specks floating along, focused in our intention but paltry in comparative physical strength. We had nothing but ourselves and our faith – faith in our technology, faith in the experience we’ve gained along the way, faith that the sea would not crush us in an instant as we all knew she could and, most importantly, faith in our Cap’n to get us to our next port. He remained a centre of calmness in the chaos all around him.
After about an hour of riding out the waves in the salon, my legs began to get tired. Slowly that maritime slumber began to creep in, first suggesting that I sit down for a while, then convincing me that I’d probably be a whole lot more comfortable just lying down. Bundling up in a sleeping bag, I headed out to lie in a spot near the Cap’n’s chair, in case he needed anything, but keeping out of his way. That lasted about another hour until the cold and the wind and the mist sent me in search of warmer digs. Usually at this point I’d head into the salon to be on-call, but JP was passed out there so I headed right down to our bunk. For the next several hours, it was a battle at sea. We tossed and turned, rose and fell, heaved and hoed. For brief moments it seemed to ease off a bit, and then we’d be slammed with another set of 3-4 meter rollers, causing packed items to rock in their stowage, and the trampoline netting between the hulls to be temporarily flooded by the sea. 5 hours went by, then 6, it was starting to get dark and we were still fully engaged in our crusade to get around Estevan point and into the safe harbour of Hot Springs Cove. Each time I would gather the strength to leave the cabin and check on the state of the Cap’n, I found him bright-eyed, determined, and seemingly having the time of his life. Good enough for me, I’d head back down to find my own comfort. As time went on, a lump started to grow in my throat that I knew was not a good sign. I hadn’t yet experienced the copious saliva, or all-over-body-cold-sweats that I know foretells that final stage of motion sickness – vomiting. But I knew it was coming. My pressure-point-electrical-pulse-motion-sickness-wrist-band was in my pocket as I was trying to see how I’d do without it. Within 30 seconds of strapping it on turning it on, the lump in my throat was gone. Muscle fatigue remained, but nausea was gone. Hmm. Go figure, it works.
Once it was fully dark, adrenalin started to take over fatigue. By this time JP was also up and working hard on-deck, helping Cap’n on look-out, as we were in search of a narrow inlet with the help of only navigation buoys and the GPS. On the first try we overshot the entrance to the cove, and were forced to turned around. The last couple of hours had been riding with the current, which was still heave-y but with far less sideways rocking. But now we had to turn around and go back directly into the oncoming current. From my bunk downstairs I did not know this was going on, but I certainly felt the effects of it on the boat. There have been a few times on this boat when I have “caught air” – a moment when your own gravity and the gravity of the boat are temporarily independent. This was the first time, however, where I had felt the boat catch air** – the gravity of the boat was temporarily independent of the sea, and when we came crashing back down I got a much better understanding of exactly how strong this boat really is. And our Cap’n, it didn’t faze him at all, either. (**note - Cap'n Adam and First Mate Erin seem to disagree on this point. He does not believe the boat caught air. All I know is that I, myself, have caught air myself in the boat before, and this was a hell of a lot more than just that...)
At long last, 23:00 and 8 hours into our journey, we glided into Hot Springs Cove. The waters in the cove were deceptively calm, if we hadn’t just been there I would find it hard to believe that giant rollers were rocking the Pacific less than a nautical mile away. We slowly worked our way through the couple of boats that were already anchored, found the perfect spot for us, and with extreme gratitude dropped the anchor.
Warm chicken soup for dinner, and a deep, deep sleep for the crew. We made it to port – safe, dry, and in one piece, but a little late. And with a new experience in the sea. Yes, there were no winds. Which meant there were no wind waves / chop. And yes there wasn’t much visibility, but that wasn’t our biggest challenge. Our challenge was the 3-4 meter swell which Environment Canada hadn’t warned us about. Perhaps that was because it blew up suddenly, and by the time the updated accurate forecast came out we were already underway. Or, perhaps somehow all 3 of us missed that part when listening to the radio forecast. Whatever the reason, we now know what a bigger swell feels like, and how well the boat and her Cap’n can handle it.
I have very few pictures from this part of the journey. This is monument to Captain Cook at Nootka Sound Lighthouse (the last land we saw before finally arriving at Hot Springs Cove), and the Coast Guard vessel in the harbour before we left.
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