Arctic Outflows

The first question we get this time of year is: how much snow do you have right now? People are generally unimpressed with the answer.

We live on the coast. Our boat sits in salt water, the same water that touches Alaska, Hawaii, Mexico, and Antarctica. The ocean keeps the weather more temperate, bringing "warm" air up from the south.

We also live in one of only a few temperate rainforests in the world. By definition, this means that we average at least 4.5 feet of rain per year (we blow that statistic out of the water, with an average of 10 feet of rain per year) and our temperature primarily stays in the range of 39 and 54 degrees (F).

All winter (and spring and fall…) low pressure systems move over us from the southeast, bringing strong winds and LOTS of rain. Sometimes these systems pile up on each other and low grey clouds cover the sun for weeks at a time. Whisky Cove is fairly protected from the southeast, with a hill buffering the full force of the wind from us. But don't let me sugar coat it- we still have plenty of sleepless nights as gust after gust lays us on our side, pumps our mast, and throws books off the table.



And then, every once in a while, we get an Arctic Outflow. Instead of the normal west-east moist/mild air flow, cold arctic air comes down from the north and gets stuck on the west side of the Rockies, funneling bitterly cold winds down valleys and channels.  The sky clears, the temperature plummets, and the wind shifts around to the northeast.

If you stand on our boat and look northeast, the first piece of land you see is a small island a mile away. We lie completely unprotected from these winds.

Last week, the first arctic outflow of the year visited Denny Island. For four days, the temperature hovered around 10F, with a windchill below zero, and the seas never calmed. This was a minor outflow, they can be significantly longer, colder, and windier, but it was enough for me. Even with our diesel heater running 24/7, we had ice build up on the inside of our windows.

 (don't mind the water stains...when the window's not frozen, it's wet...)

Our water pipes froze, our boat engines wouldn't start, our equipment failed, and my fingers were numb!

The outflow brought us perspective on what "cold and windy" really meant. When the storm finally broke, the temperature jumped 50 degrees in two days, the clouds moved in, and it started to rain again. I never thought I'd be so excited to see a week's forecast of nothing but rain and wind...

A Christmas Story, Part III

So now it's dark. And windy. And raining. We are motoring down the channel, navigating blindly by compass and chartplotter (an electronic map with our GPS location). Every third gust shoves the bow one way and the stern another, sending teacups flying and completely disorienting the crew.

Still on island time, we had left our sheltered bay late and were now slogging our way home, after dark.

The wind continues to build as we approach the mouth of the channel, shaking it's finger at us for leaving the security of our protected bay to tempt it.

It's Christmas, so of course we festively have lights strung up the stays and down the mast, wound tightly around both our mainsail and jib. We had no intention of Sailing our sailboat! But as we enter Seaforth (that's the big channel that runs right out to the ocean), John and I independently ponder the quickest way to rip those lights down and get a sail up in the case of an engine failure.

Keep breathing Grandma, 
we didn't have to do that.

But we did have to turn around, admitting defeat and subjecting ourselves to a much longer journey than we wanted. But with 40 knots of wind on our beam knocking us over at every opportunity, choppy waves crashing over the rail, daggers of icy rain pummeling us, an almost swamped dinghy, and only 1 knot of forward progress, we just felt it was the "smart" decision.

The wind hurried us along, encouraging our retreat. Back in Troop, out of the waves, the wind and rain continue to hound us. And here's the crux, the crucial moment, the climax:  Now  What?

I hover over the chart, dripping, my left index finger lying flat on the page, meagerly imitating the violent winds pummeling us from the southeast. I search for an indentation in the land, protected from the force of my index finger, and shallow enough to hold our anchor. I find it- Troop Lagoon- perfect. It's only 20 minutes away.

As we approach the lagoon entrance, I turn on our high powered spotlight and casually shine it off to starboard, wondering if we'll be able to see shore through the rain. The solid rock wall that materializes next to me, reflecting my light like a mirror, startles the light right out of my hands. The entrance suddenly feels claustrophobic. Disoriented and unnerved, we turn around and pace the entrance, trying to find and keep our bearings.

As we creep through the narrow corridor (on our third try), my body tenses in anticipation of that sudden remarkable calm, as if someone has flipped the switch on the wind machine, and the corresponding confidence that you've found a sheltered anchorage.

My body stays tense. The calm doesn't come. The hills that on the chart looked glenda-like, with mothering instincts, instead take handfuls of already tempestuous air and hurl them down their backs at us. We take one lap and craw right back out of deceptive Troop Lagoon.

Our feelings are hurt, our feet are soaked, and our eyes are strained, but we keep chugging, tracing our own wakelines from a few hours ago.



"At least we know it's protected," I offer, breaking the exhausted silence. Halcyon is heading right back to our nameless bay, where there is: protected anchorage (for wind), shallow bottom (for anchoring), good crabbing (for eating), freshwater stream (for hiking). It also fills tonight's simplified criteria: Safe. Close. 

I still have the spotlight out, the beam shakily following the coast on our starboard side, as we creep back into our safe bay. Suddenly the beam is alive and flapping- 200 sleeping seabirds startle and simultaneously ascend. For the first time in three hours, I tear my gaze away from the shore and wiggle my numb toes. I stand, stretch, and head to the bow to perform my end of our Team Anchoring routine. John turns Halcyon in a big U, so the bow will face what breeze squeezes past our beloved sheltering hills, while I unlash the anchor and prepare the windlass (that's the very handy piece of equipment that does all the heavy lifting for me). I've just turned on the windlass remote when John -gasp- breaks the routine.

"Drop the anchor, now," he calmly shouts up to the bow. I don't ask questions, I drop the anchor. At 100 feet of chain out, I stop, waiting for John to resume the routine and put the boat in reverse. Instead, he stands on the deck and shines our trusty spotlight on some rocks that look a bit too close.

For a few moments, I pause, my finger still on the "anchor down" button, watching John watch the rocks, confident there is logic behind the staring. Soon he turns to meet my gaze.

"prop's wrapped"
"oh S@#!" it escapes before I can stop it.
Now we're both watching those rocks, and they definitely seem too close.

When Halcyon had made her big U to get into anchoring position, our faithful dinghy had followed a bit too close. Without a glimpse in the rearview mirror (perhaps we should get one of those...), Halcyon backed right over our poor dinghy's painter line (it's leash, essentially). The dinghy walked -floated- away with only minor bruises, but Halcyon was incapacitated, her propeller firmly entangled in the line and jammed to a halt. 

What happens next is simply astounding. John and I act like sensible, smart, calm people faced with a crisis, instead of the cold, wet, hungry, exhausted people we are, and shuffle below to warm up and sort out our options. This turns out to be quite simple, really, as we have very few to sort.

• we have no engine
• we have an anchor down, but were unable to set it properly, so it may drag
• if the anchor drags, it will drag us towards a pile of menacing looking rocks
• there's currently no way to move the boat away from the menacing looking rocks
• it's late, dark, and still blowing hard
• there's no way to help the prop in these conditions

The decision is a quick one.

It's 10pm by the time we set a second anchor, peel off the drenched layers, and collapse into bed. I set the alarm for 11...pm. Every hour I'll pry my eyes open, stick my head out the companionway with our trusty spotlight (fast becoming our most prized piece of boat equipment), and squint at the rocks, trying to guage if they are actually closer than they were an hour ago... or maybe we just swung a bit... or maybe I'm paranoid and they are no closer at all. I'll eventually convince myself it's the latter and fall back into bed. For an hour.



"You're going barefoot?!" John is covered from head to ankle in neoprene. The sun is up. Sometime during the night the tempest blew itself out and now the water in the bay is a mirror. A schizophrenic one, granted, with no recollection of it's previous night's demon act. The neoprene is to slightly delay the onset of hypothermia as John goes for an involuntary day-after-boxing-day polar bear swim. The only way to free our propeller is to cut the line away by hand. I stand on the icy deck, empathetically shivering as John lowers himself into the 41 degree water.


15 freezing minutes later, John climbs out with what's left of the chewed up line.
45 minutes later, I lash the anchor to the bow as John steers Halcyon out of the bay.
3 hours later, we pull into Whiskey Cove, after a pleasant, uneventful motor home.

                It didn't even rain.

A Christmas Story, Part II

My favorite part about living on a sailboat is that our home doubles as our vacation getaway vessel. Twenty minutes after making the torturous decision to damn the forecasters and take Halcyon out on Christmas despite the pending gale warning, we were motoring down the channel, already out of sight of the dock and any doubt that we made the right decision.

We chose a small nameless bay in Troop passage, a pleasant two hour motor away. It easily fulfilled our standing criteria: protected anchorage (for wind), shallow bottom (for anchoring), good crabbing (for eating), freshwater stream (for hiking).

We arrived mid afternoon, set the hook firmly, and settled into the satisfying tempo of boat life at anchor.

Take watch off -- go fishing -- set crab pots -- dinghy ashore -- bushwhack through woods -- wrestle with Chaco -- skip stones -- collect clams -- explore bay...
Drink tea -- warm up -- dry off -- read books -- eat chocolate bars -- play chess -- snuggle with Chaco...
Pig out on [free] gourmet seafood dinner -- go to bed early.

Yes, the wind was blowing and the rain was dumping but that's why we have closets full of fleeces, hats, gloves, muck boots, and waterproof pants. We could hear the gusts charge through the treetops above us, the broad hillside sheltering Halcyon like a shield.

Sleep in -- make pancakes -- read books -- stay in PJ's until lunch...
Suit up -- dinghy ashore -- wander -- check crab pots -- go fishing...
Wonder what time it is -- look for watch.

It wasn't getting late, the sun just sets very early around here. And that hillside performed it's sheltering duty alarmingly well, concealing the brunt of the storm from us with the deceptively calm bay in it's shadow. And our faithful dinghy, blindly following in our wake, so trusting in Halcyon to prudently lead the way.

To be continued...

A Christmas Story, Part I

Picture this:
It's Thursday afternoon. The clouds are high and the seas are calm. I'm stuck in the office, on my third hour of mindlessly crimping and coiling cables, pondering why I always have "indoor" jobs when it's not raining, when John asks,

"So, what should we do this weekend?"

"Let's take the boat out. We can anchor somewhere nice. We can catch dinner, and go hiking, and play games. Maybe even hoist the sails on the way!"

It sounds glorious. I crimp and coil a little faster, thinking of a relaxing weekend away.

On Friday afternoon, though, John has the gall to CHECK THE FORECAST...The Nerve...

Gale warning in effect, says one source. Winds 30-40 knots, 100% chance of precipitation, says another. My heart sinks. "We'll check again in the morning," John says with a forced smile, "maybe the forecast will change." I go to bed preemptively grumpy.

Saturday morning's forecast is worse and we begrudgingly make the "smart" decision to stay put. With spirits dashed and no back up plan in place, John reluctantly starts on an indoor boat project (with all that rain coming...) and I pout. Our frowns deepen when Saturday night rolls around and there are no halyards clanging, no waves slapping the hull, and no rain pelting the dodger. THE FORECAST WAS WRONG. A common occurrence in this complex meteorological topography, but I take it as a personal offense. Why would they do that to me?! They just don't want me to have a fun weekend away. How rude. 


This story, unfortunately, is not fiction. I have wasted more than one weekend grumbling about non-existent foul weather. So when we decided that for Christmas we would take the boat out, anchor somewhere nice, catch dinner, go hiking, and play games, I was prepared. I assumed the worst, banned all thoughts that allowed anticipatory excitement, and made other plans. 


Gale warning in effect for the central coast starting tonight, December 25th, through tomorrow night, December 26th. Winds southeast reaching 40-50 knots. Rain likely. 

And the debate begins: 

It's not supposed to start until later, 

we could already be tucked away in a protected cove

But what if it comes early

But what if it doesn't come at all?! 

We don't want to get angry at the forecasters on Christmas, 

that's just not fair

So LET'S GO!
 
To be continued...

The requisite 'Year End Review'...

And 2011 comes to a close. It was a great year for us, full of adventure, transitions, development, and happiness. We achieved all of our goals for the year (and how often can you say that?!), including some huge life alterations.

A few highlights--

Where we live:
-spent many many weekends driving all over the Pacific NW looking at boats to buy (Jan-March)
-bought our first home (which also happened to be a sailboat) (March)

-moved out of 8035, our residence for 3 years (April)
-started living aboard Halcyon (April)
-sailed our home up the coast of BC (June-July)
-became Canadian residents (and therefore qualified for Canadian health care) (July)

Where we work:

-received unofficial job offers from PacificWILD, pending work visa (February)
-(finally) received Canadian work visas (June)
-moved to Canada (July)
-started our jobs at Pacific Wild (July)

What we do:
(perhaps not surprisingly, I have many  more pictures of "what we do" than I do of "where we work"...) 


-raced sailboats ALOT (Jan-June)







-went to Mexico (March)
-were initiated into the world of never-ending boat projects (March)



-won the Van Isle 360 (with the help of the extraordinary crew of Kotuku, of course) (June)

-caught lots of salmon (July-September)







 
-started planning our wedding (August)


And a few things Stayed the same:


-Chaco stayed with us through every transition, adapting perfectly to life on the boat, and relishing life on Denny Island




-The way my heart feels when I hug my husband-to-be

2012 promises to be an equally pivotal year, with sailing adventures, vocational successes, travel expeditions, and a new piece of jewelery!

Winter Projects

When we bought the boat (9 months ago now!) we talked a lot about our "winter projects" list.
This is an imposing list of things to fix or change, best done in the "quiet" months of the year. The list contains such daunting tasks as:

-add refrigeration
-remount engine
-replace water tanks
-refinish sole (floor)

Now it's the end of the December, and we're still talking about our "winter projects". I'm starting to recognize that this "winter projects' list could simply grow year after year without shrinking much at all. There is always a reason not to start the project yet.

Well, I worry no more. Two nights ago, I came home to this:

This is John, crouching on the seat under which rests (one of) our completely useless leaky water tank, surveying the best way to saw open our perfectly functional settee.

There were no power tools out yet, but a whole lot of head-scratching had already taken place. I encouraged it. In fact, I went to the shop to retrieve the power tools!

And three hours later, it looked like this:

Night number two saw us scrunching ourselves uncomfortably trying to finagle the tank out the boat with out scratching the wood.

We now have a very practical...pit...in the boat:

While our maimed tank sits, broken and dejected, on the dock:

Sorry broken and dejected tank, but had you not sprung so many leaks we would not have disowned you quite so readily!

Next step: order new tanks in strange dimensions and hope Santa's sleigh has a cheaper delivery option than Shearwater and Canada Post... 

And the first (of many) winter projects is underway.

Same and Different

Over Thanksgiving this year we spent a week in Seattle- visiting friends, eating lots, and buying things! The pertinent part for this blog is all the questions our friends in Seattle had. They made me realize I have not done a very good job portraying our life on this blog! So over the next few blog posts I'm going to try to paint a picture of life in our home, at our job, and in this wonderous place.

Let's start with life on a boat. We live on a sailboat, a unique lifestyle we have taken for granted, surrounded as we are by other boat-centric people. Our boat is 40' long and 12.5' wide at it's widest point. If you exclude the cockpit and take into account the tapering hull, we probably have about 250' of living space. This may seem small. That's because it is. We downsized considerably to move aboard. But it's amazing what you learn you don't need when you don't have the space for it!

To see pictures and to get an idea of the layout of our home, read this post.

Taking an average land-dweller's home, here are some similarities and differences between our life and yours.

The Bedroom
Same:
~We sleep in a full sized bed with plenty of foot room (enough, even, that there's extra so Chaco can keep our feet warm on the coldest nights).
~We have a hanging locker [closet] with plenty of space for our limited selection of hanging clothes.**

Different:
~Aside from the bed, our bedroom consists of 4 square feet of standing space. Only one person can stand in there at a time
~We get gently rocked to sleep most nights (and violently pitched around some nights...)
~The hanging locker butts up to the hull, so we have to watch for condensation (it's also, technically, outside the bedroom, but just barely).
~There is a small entrance into the bed, so some acrobatics are involved if the person on the inside wants to get up first

The Dog Bed:
Same:
~Chaco has a dedicated bed where he spends most of his time when we're home

Different:
~His bed is above the couch!

The Galley [kitchen]
Same:
~We have a full galley complete with a stove, oven, two sinks, counter space, and lots of storage. I challenge you: anything you can make in your kitchen I can make in my galley. I bake lasagna, make bread, and cook homemade pizza.
~When we are at the dock, we tie directly into a hose that runs from a rain collection cistern and so we have pressurized water

Different:
~We don't have refrigeration, but this time of year that is not a problem. We keep things we want cold in a box in the cockpit, easy to reach from the companionway [doorway].
~We have a manual foot pump that pumps in salt water to conserve freshwater when it doesn't rain enough (ha!) or if we're not at the dock
~When we are not at the dock, our freshwater comes from a 5-gallon jug (*this is only because our water tanks leak, once we replace those, we will have running water all the time)

The Work space 
Same:
~Our [nav station] desk houses work, electronics, and paperwork, and is frequently cluttered! 
~We have a great sound system with speakers throughout the boat including in the cockpit [back porch].
~We can listen to our Ipod or to the radio (though we only get one station- that's not because we live on a boat, that's because we live in a very remote place!)
~When we are at the dock, we plug into shore power and have all the lights, electronics, and hot water we want

Different:
~We get our internet through a cell "dongle" that connects to John's computer. (My computer is too old to support the software, so I go to the house to use the internet).
~When we are not at the dock, we are limited to the electricity our batteries put out. This means less lights, limited electronics, and no hot water (unless the engine is running)

The Head [bathroom]:
Same:
~We have a bathroom with a toilet, sink, showerhead, mirror, and storage

Different:
~The toilet has a manual hand pump to flush, and flushes with sea water. It can either go into a holding tank and get pumped out or go overboard.
~We use marine-grade toilet paper that degrades quickly
~We do not have a separate shower stall, so the whole bathroom gets quite wet during a shower. We chose to shower up at the house, since that option is available to us right now, and much simpler. 

The Vee [guest room]:
Same:
~We have a guest room!
~It has a bed and lights and shelves and sheets and pillows (it's comfy, come try it out)

Different:
~It is in the shape of a "V", so you play footsie with your sleeping partner
~It rocks gently in the wind and waves
~The window is above your head, and provides a beautiful view of the stars (or...clouds...)

Heat:
Same:
~Our home has a heater. While I don't think I can call it centralized heat, the heater is quite central

Different:
~We use a diesel stove to heat the boat
~To turn on the heater, we prime the stove by letting some diesel into the cup, soaking a piece of paper towel, lighting the paper towel, dropping it back in the diesel, and hoping it catches before the paper has burned up.
~The fuel comes from our main fuel tank, there is a small electric pump that pumps the fuel into the heater. It makes a dull 'thump' every 5 seconds or so from the engine room. I've come to expect the sound, like the ticking of a clock, and miss it when it's not there

Cockpit [back porch]:
Same:
~We have a fantastic back porch, which is great for parties, summer evening dinners, and sunbathing
~We enter our home through a doorway from the back porch
~This space is unhelpful in the winter, and serves primarily as a wet, slippery entrance to our home

Different:
~We also drive our home from our back porch
~The door into the boat is two wood panels that slide into place vertically and a large panel that slides horizontally over the top. There is no door knob. (but don't worry, mom, there is still a lock)
~The use of this space practically doubles our living space in the summer, when we can leave the door open because it's warm and sunny (ahhh)


**After I wrote this post, I read it to John and he pointed out how skewed my vision is- the hanging locker I describe as having "plenty of space" is 3' wide, 4' tall, and 2' deep. Everything we hang, hangs in there.  I'm sure many other things I think of as "same" are actually quite "different", at least in scale!