The lighthouse at Cattle Passage watches as we labor through the initial flood current. We rode the remnant ebb but were caught as the tide turned before we escaped the narrows. The tide reduced our forward progress to less than 3 kts but we would eventually ply the relatively calm waters of the strait. We traded turns at the helm, paused a couple of times for a little impromptu fishing, enjoyed an 8kt speed past Port Townsend and made home port 12 hours after leaving Turn Island. Another passage completed with Ohana...and now there is talk of next year and a possible circumnavigation of Vancouver Island, as the wildness of the west coast lures the imagination.

Austin and Brooke take a break while circumnavigating the scenic hike around Turn Island. Ohana lies on one of three mooring buoys near the shore of Turn Island. Once the conflicting tidal currents, winds and ferry wakes subsided in the afternoon, the location made for a restful evening and night. We would cast off at 6:30am the next morning, catch the waning ebb flow out of Cattle Passage and cross Juan de Fuca.

Morning fog at the east end of Speiden Channel presented the question of safe travel southeast along San Juan Channel to Friday Harbor. VHF weather informed us of 1 mile visibility at Friday Harbor and with the 20 kts of wind, the fog would be quickly ushered out of the area. We were soon exiting Speiden en route to Friday Harbor to collect Austin who, despite a fog delayed flight, would arrive at the same time as Ohana.

Soft evening light provides mellow hues as Roche Harbor prepares for the "Colors" ceremony.

Cowichan Bay offers several stops along the wharf that can tempt anyone's palate. No longer the bustling fishing community, commerce has shifted to gourmet boutiques.

Looking out across the Strait of Georgia as we round Neck Point making for the turn at Dodd Narrows. The strait takes on an ethereal complexion in the filtered light of early morning. A lone sailing vessel plies the water on its way to mainland BC.

Genoa Bay marina is home to a few artists and otherwise creative types who live on the water. Metal sculpture is the preferred medium and many pieces are displayed along the dock and compliment the numerous flower gardens nestled in every corner of the marina.

Genoa Bay is picturesque. Adjacent to Cowichan Harbor, Genoa is the little sister of "Cow Bay", as it is locally referenced. It is tucked in behind Separation Point and surrounded by thousand foot hills with bold bare granite faces. We journeyed across Cow Bay to the old Pier 66 Fuel dock to rendezvous with Steve from Shawnigan Auto Parts, who volunteered to drive from Mill Bay with our much needed replacement regulator. Steve was a former Mercury outboard mechanic for 18 years in the shop at Pier 66 which is now a liquor store. He started his parts store up in Mill Bay about 15 years ago and has made a decent go of it but remembers the old days when business and fishing was booming in the Cowichan area. Steve wouldn't take a dime more than the price of the simple Ford type regulator ($18) saying he'll need help someday and what goes around comes around. We shook hands. I thanked him profusely and he wished us good luck reminding me to make sure I grounded to the outside of the unit when I did the installation. The short of it is that between Steve of Mill Bay and Rick at Balmar, I was able to disconnect the high tech Balmar regulator and install the 50year old type simple ford truck regulator in its place and Ohana purred like a kitten with very happy batteries. Next morning, after trying our luck at some salmon around Separation Point we were off to to the border and Customs at Roche Harbor.

Roche Harbor. We cleared Customs in the afternoon yesterday and were assigned slip #3 on the inner dock. Stern in starboard tie. Tricking backing Ohana with a full keel but hey we have dock space. As it turned out we had 20 feet of dock space, the other fifty behind us was taken by a large cruiser with a very prominent nose that protruded just shy of our aft grill. Made for a convenient head rest or a handy coffee table while BBQing. Ohana's pointy end stuck out in the fairway with her long bow line crossed over to a cleat on the adjacent slip. Always creative at Roche. Today we will pick up Austin at Friday Harbor and head for James Island.

Best Intentions

Best intentions are like spare change. Most folks have them but they never amount to much. Oh they clang around in your pocket and sometimes you notice. You might think about using them but then you get distracted. Eventually you may empty the pocket on your dresser or in a penny jar because those coins just seem to be an extra weight to tote, unlikely ever to be spent. But over the next days and weeks they begin to accumulate again, jingling in you pocket. So it goes. If these are your best intentions, why do they seem to be the cheapest? They really should be in the billfold or even the bank. It’s like the analogy of setting goals and priorities by thinking of them as different sized balls filling up a jar. Put the big ones in first and then fill in the spaces with the smaller ones, as they will fit. Your best intentions should probably go in first. Dinner last night was barbequed chicken. Crispy chicken. The grill hanging off the aft rail of the cockpit has accumulated grease in the bottom pan which has a tendency to catch fire. If managed right it bestows a flavorful crispiness, if there is a lapse in attention, all can be lost…perhaps even more than just the meal (I really should clean the grill). Last night’s chicken was good. Rice and black beans and a green salad accompanied. We had made a dinghy run to Hornby’s nearby grocery Co-op yesterday and were glad to be eating fresh food again. During dinner Brooke and I talked about the near future. A best intentions discussion. Her plans take her to New York for her first regular job, then perhaps to Hawaii for a temporary stint before graduate school. Her jar seems orderly. Carefully selected sizes, not too many, with a bit of room to spare. I am going to fix up the house, the boat, pursue consulting work, write a novel, learn to cook better, take a writing class, clean and organize the garage etc etc. Balls are spilling out of my jar. Big ones sit outside while little odd shaped ones with spikes take up too much space inside. Last night I fell asleep reading Cannery Row, marveling at Steinbeck’s ability to paint such vivid pictures with words... and I was happy that our children are making the best of their best intentions.

A few memorable images remind us that such journeys do bring the unexpected inspiration. A 50 ft yacht spinnaker deployed brought to full stand still by the opposing tide.















An immaculate vintage auto ready for the parade.












An equally immaculate restroom at the Hudson point marina of Port Townsend.

Tuesday morning at Hornby. It has been a blustery night. 25+kt winds with several eye opening, sleep awakening gusts. We are now tethered in Schooner Cove after a sprint from Tribune Bay. I am tired...but there is much to do. Tomorrow we cast off at 5am to catch the turn at Dodd Narrows. We hope to make Cowichan by afternoon where I must secure a replacement regulator. Did someone say vacation?

The Cortez Day festival is held at Smelt Bay Park near the Sutil peninsula and offers good temporary anchorage and access by dinghy. A narrow single lane blacktop road also winds along the shoreline to the park. Below, Brooke searches for a memorable ice cream shop from a previous visit, evidently no longer in operation. We left the festival as the incoming tide began to lift the dinghy from its dry perch on the beach and took the long way back to Gorge Harbour by way of the west shore of Marina Island giving the elusive salmon a few testing casts, to no avail. Today we're off to points south. THe weather is deteriorating slightly with south winds and rain predicted. We may take the Gold Coast south along the east shore of Texada instead of the preferred stop at Hornby. We'll monitor conditions and the NOAA weather channel on the VHF as we go.

Bicycle-powered smoothies, intricate face paint and assorted northwest style competitions make for colorful festivities.

NAIL, SAIL, BAIL - contestants at the renowned race of Cortez Days festival on Cortez Island, BC ready to launch as eager spectators anxiously await at the water's edge.





















This year's winners approach the beach with serious intent...and finish with the mandatory portage up the beach to the finish line.

There is the study of Nature - birds, rocks, marine life. All intriguing and appropriate subjects for a sailing trek up BC's inland waterway. But for some, their attention must be turned toward other subjects. Take engine mechanics, for example. Perhaps not a first choice, but it can be equally appropriate for such a journey. Field guide books with diagrams like anatomical charts. Hey this is not so different. And so it goes. Green wires, red ones, blue and brown. Wiggling this one, jiggling that one...the mystery of the missing engine electricity continues. At this point, I am accepting that we will be underway tomorrow with whatever juice we've stored and plan on another marina stop a few days south. So I may soon pull my head out of my engine, and start taking in Nature again.

We are tethered on the inner most space of the inner dock at Gorge Harbor Marina. Night two of three. There is comfort that comes from the connection to shore power and a source of food other than our own small galley. It comes at a price though. Our view is either cabins on shore or the towering fiberglass wall of an Ocean Alexander motoryacht and a captain equipped with a mouth not unlike his boat's engine - loud, deep and the more alcohol he imbibes the louder he gets. On top of that he spews verbage about stupid politicians and onboard toilet management and then just gurgles to fill the air so no one else dare interject. Maybe a night on the hook doesn't sound too bad. Alas, I must endure. Most of the day I have been stewing about batteries and alternators and regulators. The lack of cell phone reception has compounded my frustrations as I would like to resolve a recharging problem before we cut the umbilical of shore power. Web access has made connecting to outside expertise a possiblity however being Friday afternoon, it may be a couple of days before any advice is offered...and then we may be off the grid. It could be manageable though. I snugged up the alternator belt and checked connections so we'll have to see once under engine power for a few hours. The Balmar regulator may need to be reprogrammed so I hear from the Island Packet web site forum. "It may be that simple". I suppose it's all relative. I hear surgery can be easy too, once you know what your doing. So the evening wind blows rattling the halyards, the sun filters through the remnants of a tasty pinot noir, Brooke reads below in the salon and a frozen Hagen Das bar awaits in the freezer...ahh but first, dinner.

Hummingbird Pub Bus

Out of sight, round several turns in the winding narrow blacktop road, a large engine voiced its concern as its driver ground into a lower gear. As the whining grew louder there was the unmistakable sound of Motown’s Supremes permeating the surrounding tall pines. We exchanged wry smiles with a few other campers, boaters and otherwise prospective riders at the crossroad. Like an eager audience at the rock concert, we knew the main ticket was arriving on stage. Round the nearest bend, kicking up a small cloud of dust from sand and road grit deposited like silt at the confluence of two streams, the broad windshield of the early 70s vintage, faded red body, white topped converted school bus rumbled to a stop as the music ebbed away. The light silica particles swirled in the air about the tires as it rose slowly to the open windows creating a fine veil over laughing faces returning from the Pub and intent on completing the final chorus a capella. The driver reached forward, pulled the worn chrome lever which folded back the doors. He then gave a couple of squeezes on a small bicycle horn which responded with high pitched circus squeaks, turned to his raucous busload and announced their destination had been made adding with the sincere humor of the quintessential host that everyone was welcome to stay aboard and do it all again. The invitation was met with an uproar of hoots and whistles as riders edged out of their seats and clamored down the bus steps expressing their gratitude to the driver for a memorable trip. “All aboard!”, came the order, our turn now. The driver met us with the seamless engaging enthusiasm of a well practiced comedian in mid-act teasing and cajoling each new passenger as they passed him on their way down the center aisle. He was in his forties, the solid build of a former high school half-back gone construction worker, square jaw, receding hairline, T-shirt and worn jeans. With another squeeze of the clown horn we were off to the second and final pickup/drop-off 1 km down the road at the Montague Harbour campgrounds where four more riders boarded. One of the new arrivals was a stocky biker sort in a well-worn sleeveless Harley shirt, thinning long gray hair pulled back in a pony tail, ruddy face, front teeth with extra space and flattened nose from a life perhaps a little rougher than most. His companion was a thin woman in tight jeans and T-shirt with a feminine nature but a face that revealed much of the same experiences. The driver seemed to take an immediate interest in both and juggled a sincere conversation with them in the seat directly behind him during the trip while sharing the whimsical history of the bus, his own life and a few well-placed jokes with the rest of the riders. The tall pines whizzed by and the breeze blew through our hair as oldies tunes blared from homemade speakers mounted above the windshield and for the 10 minute ride to the Hummingbird Pub we were all in the moment, all in the world of the Pub Bus.

Prideaux Haven still offers panoramic views of snow-capped peaks to the northeast although some find this protected bay and the neighboring Laura and Melanie coves to be a bit overpopulated during July and August. Good prawning can be found near Melville Island, a brief dinghy ride to the south.

Austin executes a well-positioned cannonball. It was strange seeing the competitive swimmer enter the water in less than racing position. Tribune Bay affords chilly but refreshing dips. Earlier I took the plunge, forgetting my eye glasses during pre-dip clowning and now perhaps a near-sighted Ling cod may finally have corrected vision. As for me, I have pondered the negligence on a few occasions since, especially when cooking a late night dinner in the galley peering through sun glasses at a very dimly lit repast.

Crossing the Strait of Georgia. Conditions were invigorating - 25+kts and 3 foot seas. Brooke managed the helm while Austin provided some impressive navigating. We had left the calm waters of Tribune Bay at 6:00am and made the western shore waters of Texada Island by 8:30am.






Brooke takes a well-earned nap after her stint at the helm crossing Georgia.

An eagle surveys the encroaching hiker who's telephoto-aided vision is no match. Eagles are prolific on the promontory of St. John's point.


















The vistas of St. John's point on Hornby provide a humbling perspective as Austin and Betty are miniaturized within the impressive landscape.











Expansive beach of Tribune Bay at Hornby Island. The ebb tide more than triples the sandy exposure.