A New Perspective

A guest blog, from my Dad:

       Becca's Mom (Laura Lee) and I had a splendid visit with Becca and John for two weeks where we got to observe the two of them together with Chaco in their natural habitat.
        The back story is that Becca and John finished their summer photojournalism expedition with renowned conservationist, Mike Fay, in late September. In this expedition, they had the incredible opportunity to capture 11 terra-bytes (that is a lot of bytes) of high resolution footage of the fragile salmon spawning ecosystem of the far Pacific Northwest. They filmed bears, carribou, sheep, mosquitos, and other indigenous species doing what they do when no one is looking.

       As they were finishing up their assignment, LL and I were hanging out with friends in Napa, California, which is just around the corner from Ketchikan, Alaska, so we went to join them. We signed on as crew for a portion of Halcyon's 800+ mile southerly transit to Portland, or Seattle, or really anyplace that is not Alaska. Summer has a habit of turning directly into winter in this part of the world and early October is predictably a time of unrelenting storm systems. Most cruisers who are going to leave for the winter had already left when we arrived. We were reminded of this fact when incredulous friends of theirs said: "What? You are still here??".
        So we sailed with them for 370 miles down coast to their old stomping grounds in Bella Bella, BC. Here, we disembarked and departed for Richmond just as a serious series of storms (65 mph winds, whew!) pinned them to the dock for over a week.
        On our journey down the coast, we got a taste of rough weather on the front and the back end, but truly in between the weather could not have been more hospitable. Winds blew from every direction, but rarely at the same time. We had sun, which was a bit disorienting to John, I think. Temperatures were in the 30s at night as we were cozy around the cabin heater, and reached the high 50s a few times. John went barefoot on the boat no matter how raw the conditions; yet he gets pneumonia in Mexico where the temperature never dropped below 70. Go figure.
        It is clear Becca and John's (and Chaco's) natural habitat is unspoiled coastal waters. They are accomplished racing and cruising sailors that have easily taken to the live aboard lifestyle. Couple this with the aptitude and intense interest in wilderness photography and conservation and you have a logical self selection of coastal wilderness for their home for the past 15 months.

        We got a glimpse into this world on our visit.
        The shoreline from Ketchikan south on one of the inside passages or outside in the Pacific is devoid of development, for now. The many salmon streams are largely unaffected by industrial waste or over zealous logging, for now. Accordingly, the wildlife and marine life is abundant, for now.

     
         On our transit, we witnessed 30+ humpbacks, a huge sea lion herd, seals, porpoise, dolphins surfing our bow, at least 100 eagles (I finally just stopped looking up), and proximate evidence of grizzlies. We looked for coastal wolves for two solid weeks and heard them baying a few times, but it was disappointing that we never saw them. Then, five minutes from wheels up to Richmond four of them pranced across the tarmac at the Bella Bella airport. What we did not see was any other people or boats in any of our anchorages and only rarely did we see any boats while underway. That is mostly a tribute to the lateness of the season as these waters would ordinarily be well traveled.
     
We caught, and ate, Dungeness crabs, northwest clams, rockfish, halibut, perch, and a huge lingcod while throwing back three times what we kept. We caught, and did not eat, sea cucumbers, huge red jelly fish with 10 foot tentacles, spiny crabs and 16 leg starfish. We drank a case of wine that we brought with us from Napa, so I may be confusing what we ate and what we didn't eat.
        Becca and John were the co-captains and Laura Lee and I were clearly the crew. They worked so well as a team, even in stressful conditions, and were always respectful of each other's talents and judgment. I can't express how gratifying it feels to teach a daughter to sail at age 5 and 20+ years later see how much she has learned.
        Halcyon is their home and they were gracious hosts.
        We hope they will have us back sometime.

"Free" Power

We have been talking about adding solar panels to our boat since before we owned one. The idea of harnessing the wind for transportation and sun for power is as romantic to us as red roses and long walks on the beach.

The time was right when we moved to Alaska, anticipating leaving Halcyon on anchor by herself for a few months with no power hookup. Having worked with solar power at PacificWILD, we already had an idea what we wanted and a relationship with a distributor. So, using some of our (oh-so-generous) wedding gifts, we made a great big order with Arizona Wind and Sun and then eagerly waited for the enormous boxes to arrive.

Technicalities:

~We purchased two Kyocera 140 watt panels (these should produce more power than we should need for our system…unless we live where the sun always hides…)

~And a Tristar MPPT 45 amp solar controller (MPPT makes it the most efficient solar controller there is. If you’re gonna do it, do it right, right?)

~We also got a small 10 watt panel and solar controller to keep our start battery topped up.

~An apparently endless spool of cable and a handful of fuses, and we were set.

We mounted the solar controller next to our Magnum charger/inverter, wired and fused the battery connection and the panel connection, and ran the cables into the cockpit as discreetly as possible. We wired the two main panels in series (and the cute little start battery panel on its own), and flipped the switch. No lightbults exploded and there was no smoke, so we considered it a success. Seeing a charge coming in would have been even better, but of course the sun was buried deep in the clouds.

That was the easy part. What we had been struggling over for months was how to attach the panels to the boat. Without a hard dodger or arch over the stern, there are not many stationary places that are both out of the way and in the sun. With them mounted on the lifelines, the new challenge becomes a mechanism that holds them out when it’s sunny/calm and folds them flat when it is rough.

We threw something together for the summer/trip south, knowing it would not be permanent. The edge of the panel bolted onto a piece of PVC, through which we strung the lifeline. That allowed the panels to hang down the side of the boat.

John then resourcefully used an extendable paint brush holder mounted to the rail to prop the panels out. It works, but it’s a bit unstable (solid lifelines would be much better), and the paintbrush holder is already rusting (not to mention that ever-sought-after hillbilly affect).

[So if anybody has any suggestions (short of building a hard dodger or arch)…I’d love to hear what you have done, what has worked, what hasn’t. ]

Finally, almost three months after installation, we got to see the panels at work- powering our batteries while we sat quietly at anchor. It is, indeed, a wonderfully romantic thought. Now if we could just get the wind to blow the right way….

A Rambling Update

Last time you heard from me, we were standing on a dock on the edge of Ealue Lake in the interior of BC witnessing one of the world’s greatest stage productions.

Boy that was a long time ago.

(Sorry)

Since shortly after that event, we’ve been on the move. It’s harder to blog on the move. We’re still on the move, but we appear to be getting closer…to somewhere.

When the project ended, we drove through the night to Prince Rupert, got on the 5am ferry, arrived in Ketchikan that afternoon, drove 30 minutes outside of Ketchikan, rented a skiff, and motored 45 minutes to a tucked away cove where Halcyon had sat, alone and feeling dejected, for the two months we were away. It was the longest 45 minute skiff ride….

There are only two cabins in this tucked away cove, one rarely used and the other belonging to Mike (who was with us). Likely only a handful of boats came into the bay all summer, so we had nobody looking in on the poor girl. We approached the corner, our necks straining to catch a glimpse of our home, the dozens of horrendous scenarios still flashing across my mind. Sunk to the bottom, demasted, run aground, dragged down the bay, charred remains. An electrical fire - the most likely, it seemed- since we had finished wiring our solar panels literally minutes before we left (stay tuned for that much delayed post).

But ah- there she is. She’s floating, has a mast, no billowing smoke, still just where we left her. A quick scan through the boat confirms everything is fine- musty, damp, cold, but fine.

Jump forward a week of boring old boat work- solar panel tweaks, a deep scrub, and then another one, teak work, oil changes, reorganization, line replacements, etc. And our deckhands- I mean guests- arrive! Mom and dad landed on a blustery rainy cold winter day. We untied the next morning and pointed our bow south- finally.

Our  deckhands stayed with us for two weeks, cruising from Ketchikan to Bella Bella. I’ll save the details for another time (perhaps a post by a guest blogger?)

Knot Again under sail

Once we dumped –er- dropped them off, we got stuck for a few days at the dock in bella bella while two 65-knot storms rolled through. With those behind us and new friends on Knot Again next to us, we untied again and kept her bow pointed south. For a week we had a boat to chat with, race against, photograph, raft up to; and companions to eat with, drink with, play games with, laugh with. Eventually though the tug of the states pulled us on, leaving them to enjoy two weeks to cruise the same grounds we covered in the following two days. 

They gave us some great cruising beta on the area, and eased our anxiety about getting through the two sets of narrows on the backside of Quadra Island (where the current can run 8-12 knots between tides, creating some mean looking rapids. Even at slack water the passage can be stressful). They recommended we stop through Octopus Islands and visit the “driftwood museum”. 

In the guest book on the table, I counted over 200 entries in July and even more in August. Flipping to the end of the book, the last two entries read: September 21, October 8. It was October 23^rd. We are well outside cruising season. And yes- it’s cold, and frequently wet. The days are short and sometimes the wind blows really hard. But it’s also beautiful, the wildlife is plentiful, and we have had every single anchorage to ourselves. So there.

 
We also stopped in Knot Again’s hometown, Heriot Bay, which turned out to be one of our favorite spots on the whole coast. Not only did it provide showers (our first in weeks), laundry (you can imagine), groceries (we had been reduced to canned peas and stale tortillas), a cold beer and a warm fire, but we also ended up with some fantastic friends, a jar of homemade jam, and a new deckhand.

His name is Marty, and he’s on board to Deep Bay (north of Victoria). We met him, enjoyed his company, invited him (and most of the rest of the bar) to come with us, and he showed up with his sleeping bag the next morning. Love the spontaneity. Love new friends.

Our destination is Seattle, where we apparently already have a slip lined up (thanks Sarah Francis...). For the next few months, I will spend most of my time in Portland working with Trip on post production for the expedition we completed this summer. We will get our feet back under us, get haircuts, go for bike rides, relearn how to live in a city, and sort out what happens next in this great adventure of life.

So there, now you’re caught up.

Your regular programming will resume shortly.

An Epochal Performance

We had been grounded all day. The sky was clear but the wind was malicious, obliging our poor float plane to stay tied tightly to the dock. The crew made the most of the day- reviewing footage, filming interviews, organizing data. In the evening, in celebration of Trip’s birthday, we had a camp fire, drank some whiskey, and I made brownies. We were still lounged around the fire at 10 pm, warm and content, when John noticed a strange streak coming from the hilltop and creeping across the sky.

Hypotheses proliferated: it’s the moon’s reflection on water vapor, a very milky milky way,  it’s just a funny shaped cloud, or maybe a UFO! But within moments, a second more defined green streak peered over the hill and all other theories fell away. We were witnessing the legendary Northern Lights.

For some people, the northern lights are as common as fireflies in Virginia. For most people, they are a phenomenon to be savored and cherished. And for a few of us they are an aspiration, a goal to attain. There is something inspirational about witnessing the mystical green lights dancing across the sky, as if the earth is allowing us a brief glimpse into the depth, the complexity, the sensitivity of her soul. It is a display I have sought to witness for many years, waiting patiently for opportunity and serendipity to align.

We stand on the dock, huddled against the wind, eyes trained on the hilltop, mouths wide open. In the time it takes me to blink the colors grow stronger, a new streak appears, the sky lightens. Beside me, John exhales “wow”, his mouth forming the word again and again, his brain involuntarily using the pattern to invent some form of familiarity in the spectrum his eyes assemble. I laugh aloud, a pure sound emanating from my heart and pulsing through my body as I understand that I am realizing one of my life long dreams, and in the most profound way possible: a remote lake on a clear night standing next to my groom.

Trip, ever on task, runs for the camera. In record time, he sets up a time lapse (a camera on a tripod set to take a picture every few seconds, later stitched together into a stunning video), and we stand, toes numb and necks strained, completely captivated by the light show above. The performance lasts a full 30 minutes, an infinite story told in streaks and swirls of green and purple, a truly epochal tale of love and heartbreak, of conflict and resolve, of turmoil and tranquility, of moderation and indulgence, of inequity and balance.

Eventually the sky softens to a grey as the last wisps of green retreat behind the hills. The moon appears brighter as it emerges from a cloud, the stars pop from the recently darkened sky. Instead of seeming inferior in contrast, I feel a stronger admiration and understanding for these nightly ornaments, such essential participants in earth’s infinite story. I go to bed elated, but with just a twinge of sadness; while I had just experienced a truly spectacular and anticipated event, I also acknowledge that I will never again feel the elation of witnessing the northern lights for the first time. John reassures me though- there are plenty more first experiences to have.

Ealue Lake

We have spent the last few weeks on a little sliver of paradise called Ealue Lake. From Ketchikan, it was a 7 hour ferry, 8 hour drive, and 2-hour stop for $995 worth of groceries to get here. There are two sets of cabins on the lake- one belongs to Wade Davis, who has spent every summer here for the last 25 years. The other belongs to David Suzuki, which has generously been opened for our use. Unfortunately, last winter, in one of the dozens of hurricane-force storms, a micro burst hit Suzuki’s property and toppled over 300 trees. The mess immediately around the two cabins has been cleared, but the ½ mile driveway is impassable, even on foot. Of course we felt the need to confirm this by attempting the scramble ourselves.

Being able to drive right up to the cabin would be just to simple, though, wouldn’t it… Instead, we park our overladen van at Wade’s cabin, shuttle camera gear, aviation fuel, generators, and humans into a 10’ tippy boat with an underpowered 5 horsepower engine to put-put across the cove and unload. This, in addition to the lack of cell, satellite connection, and electricity has certainly added ‘excitement’ to this leg of the expedition.

Like a pit crew, with more practice has come more efficiency. We have perfected the process of rigging the plane for a flight, and every time Mike flies we are collecting some of the most unbelievable aerial video of this area. Deep canyons carved by millions of years of raging water, snow-capped peaks set on fire by the setting sun, abrupt ridges speckled with remarkable goats, butting and playing without concern. But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. We also have footage of clear cuts, unhealable wounds strangling powerless mountains, obscenely large trucks loaded with fuel, concrete, and backhoes barreling up narrow switchbacks, huge concrete structures diverting the flow of an ancient river, undoing thousands of years of river progress, like suddenly forcing an 80 year old to walk only with one foot. 

On the ground, we get up close and personal. Trip and John spent a week on a high plateau in the company of stone sheep, grizzlies, tarmagins, and ground squirrels. I spent a day luring trout to an underwater camera trap. In the evenings we paddle down to the end of the lake and watch for moose tromping through the swamp.

Summer has most certainly come to a close here. The leaves are falling, the hillsides are fire-red, I’ve added two layers and a winter hat, and it’s raining/sleeting more often than not. That means it’s almost time for us to move again- we will spend another week on Ealue Lake, then ferry our abundance of gear back across the lake, somehow shove and squeeze it -and ourselves- into the van, and trek further north and east, on a quest to document this amazing area and expose the plans to pillage its every resource.

Blog Detour

We created and named this blog 2 ½ years ago (is that all?!) when we lived in a house in a borough of Seattle with day jobs, a truck, and three seemingly insurmountable goals. In our “free” time, when we weren’t racing, we were inspecting sailboats, engulfed in an eternal search for our first boat- our first home. I meant to wait until we owned a boat to create the blog, but I got impatient. We wanted a name that was vague enough to encompass whatever was to come, but one that held us to our dream of a sailboat. Something clever, easy to remember, and still available.

How did we do? As I look back over the last year of blog posts, a sad minority of them incorporate sailing. That is an accurate portrayal, though; as I look back over the last year of our lives, a sad minority of it includes sailing. But don’t misunderstand me, I am not complaining.

We surmounted our first and second “insurmountable” goals, along with a few we didn’t know we had. We did, finally, find the boat. And we bought her, moved aboard, adjusted to our new aquatic life, and timidly began drilling holes, painting shelves, replacing wires. Number one: check. Then, with a weeks’ notice, we untied the lines and headed north, freshly printed Canadian work visas in hand. Number two: check.

There, we taught ourselves how to replace alternators, dis- and re-assemble head (toilet) pumps, re-bed stanchions (poorly), wire batteries, and work with fiberglass.  All while living remotely, without the knowledgeable sailing community in Seattle on which we had so quickly come to depend. Simultaneously, we taught ourselves all we could about hydrophones, fuel cells, radio transmitters, and remote cameras. Those were the goals we didn’t know we had.

Our move to Ketchikan did little to improve our sailing percentage; in the last month we have slept only 3 nights on Halcyon, sneaking in a few hours of boat maintenance when possible. Two days ago, we closed her up and hopped on a ferry to BC. For the next month or so, we will be land- and air-based, driving and flying through British Columbia and Alberta. It is hard to leave Halcyon, completely unattended, between an anchor and a mooring ball, in a secluded bay outside Ketchikan. But as doors open, goals change.

That third one, though, that one hasn’t changed. Halcyon was built to cross oceans, and we’re getting her ready to do just that. We are putting away our pennies, searching for the best deals on wind vanes and life rafts, and day dreaming about a life at sea. There is, in my opinion, no better way to see the world. That’s when this blog will find its true identity, when we are just Strait Sailing. 

In the meantime, I will continue to share our upgrades and preparations, among the bear sightings and cultural experiences, if you’ll forgive the temporarily unsuitable blog name.

Better Quality Video

http://youtu.be/L4nS27_jXjM

Let's see if that works-- should be a slightly higher quality video of my black bear friend.