It hasn't stopped raining in nine days.

It hasn’t stopped raining in nine days. One after another the storms roll through, swelling the streams, toppling otherwise healthy trees, and testing both anchor holding and patience. As the winds calm and the clouds rise, the stunningly raw beauty of the landscape peaks out just long enough to remember why you’re here. But before you can wipe the water from our eyes and reach for your camera, the sky darkens, the peaks retreat behind their veil, and the halyards take up their symphony, accompanied only by the ever-present pounding of rain- water droplets forced from their clouds and hurled at earth with apparent wrath for those subject to endure the endless line of storms marching up the coast.

So we should not have been surprised by the white-capped peaks that met our hull as we turned into Fisher Channel. Still, we were unprepared for the lashing the sea was eager to present. We quickly turned back to stow the boat, suit up, and prepare for battle. Two hours later we rounded the same corner, this time braced and poised. We hoisted sails, demonstrating our capacity to harness the same instrument the storm was using against us. Under a storm jib and a double-reefed main we pushed forward, head down and rail in the water. Perhaps to punish this stubborn exertion against nature, the winds gathered strength and the seas roiled with rage. But on we fought.

When I pulled back my hood and stole a glance at the chart three hours later, we had made a meager four miles of forward progress. The storm laughed at our naivety, using it’s own force to defeat it, as we slowly slammed our way from one side of the channel to the other. The wind freshened again, testing our limits. Halcyon sighed mightily as we turned back again, tail tucked and sails flapping. Those grueling three hours we retraced in an effortless thirty minutes, sliding down the swells now encouraging our retreat.

Back in the safety of the inlet, those seas couldn’t have been that big, the tide changed, we gave up too soon, it’s died down now I’m sure. We shook ourselves off, uttered some words of encouragement to our poor vessel, and marched around the corner, for the third time in a day, this time just plain pissed off. Fueled by adrenaline, exhaustion, and saturation, we powered up the shore, slowly, steadily, and cautiously, weary of incurring any more ferocity from the heavens. Finally we crawled into Jenny Inlet, eight hours late and utterly spent.

It would have been a successful journey, though, had that marked the end of our hardships.

A Story

"Well there goes my dancing partner", a disgruntled friend mumbled under his breath. It was Thursday night, our weekly go-climbing-then-go-dancing night, but this week there was a surprise. My friend had invited John along, not knowing we knew each other.

I hadn't seen John in three years. We had climbed together then, when I was at the gym 4-5 nights a week, but had fallen out of touch. Turns out we had taken turns traveling and living in Richmond, missing each other every time.
 That summer, we picked right up where we left off, climbing, playing kickball, and generally being goofy. But as the summer wound down, I got anxious- that summer lovin' was coming to an end and I had an impending plane ticket to Ghana.

It hurt to interrupt such a good thing for so long, but I left with a brave smile and a "see you later", knowing "later" couldn't come soon enough. Luckily I didn't have to wait long. John quit his job, let visa sponsor his plane ticket, and chased me to Ghana two months later. There we made our first joint purchase (the African painting prominently hanging on our boat) and talked about our future.

We were both ready for a new town, new opportunities, and new careers. We wanted a city with rocks to climb, water to sail, and jobs to have. So three months after I returned from Ghana, we packed up the truck with everything we owned and started a 6-week, 7,000-mile, life-changing trek across the great USofA. We friend-hopped across the country, sleeping on couches, in tents, or crammed into the back of the truck. We cooked most of our meals on a campstove, but caved and bought frosties every time we saw a Wendy's.

When we left Richmond everything was happy and profitable, but by the time we pulled into Seattle, broke and bedraggled, so was the country.  We crashed on the couch of the only people we knew in Seattle for "a couple weeks" (read: 2 months) while we found jobs, housing, and ourselves in this giant congested city. The longer we lived in Ballard, the further we migrated onto the water, until we finally gave up resistance and bought a boat (I just effectively summed up two years of learning, searching, and agonizing into one neat sentance-nice!).

Life sped up after that, and somehow three months after buying the boat and 10 days after getting the visa for our new job, we found ourselves sailing up the west coast of Canada, headed for yet another adventure together.

Now we live on Denny Island, in the middle of a temperate (very-rainy) rainforest, working to protect this fragile ecosystem.

We challenge, encourage, support, and entertain each other. Many would shudder at the number of drastic changes we have made in the last few years. For instance, last year we:

• lived in a house
• that we rented
• with five people and three dogs
• that had a yard
• and running water
• in a city of 2.7 million people
• in America

And now we:

• live on a sailboat
• that we own
• by ourselves (well, with Chaco)
• that has the Pacific ocean as a yard
• but no running water
• on an island with 80 full-time residents
• in Canada

All of this change doesn't matter, though, because the most important thing in my life- the love of my life- my best friend- is constant. His devotion is unwavering, his strength steady, and his love enduring.