An Adventure: Sailing to Cypress and Lopez Islands

By Leslie Parks - Friday, July 28, 2023

The metal gate slammed behind me as I made my rumbly way down the metal plank to the the floating dock pulling my cart full of provisions. The morning had a chill in the air even though it was mid summer. The seagulls were just waking and starting their morning calls, the boats rocked gently in their slips. Small ripples on the water formed with the rising breeze of the day. The harbor usually busy was quiet, peaceful, still asleep. Flags fluttered from shrouds and the steam from a plant gently rose and began the slide sideways across the sky. We hauled the provisions aboard and little nooks and crannies were stuffed for the next three days. The fruit hammock cradled apples and oranges for snacks. The cold storage was piled with sausage rolls, quiches and lunch makings. Bedding was placed behind the settees while the engine compartment was inspected for leaks. The covers to the sail, winches and binnacle were removed and placed in a drawer. Tobin the dinghy was tightly attached with his bright yellow painter to the stern. We slipped on our life vests, and placed cushions in the cockpit. Flipping up the cover, I turned on the key and pushed the start button. The put put of the the engine filled the marina with noise. Slowly we eased backwards out of our slip, letting loose the dock lines and turned into the lane that would lead us out to the bay. Around the safety of the headwall we motored into the wind to raise the sails and quiet the obnoxious engine. With the engine off, I started to notice all the other sounds that were present. The wind against the canvas of the sails, the waves lapping against the boat, groans and creaks in the cabin, a distant plane overhead, the train along the tracks coming to a road, the ducks flapping past the boat. All of these sounds had been drowned out by the engine but had a voice I could now hear. Taking our bearings we trimmed our sails preparing for the crossing. We weren't going far, just thirteen miles that day. Yet traveling by wind and current takes a patience and concentration that other forms just can't quite compare. At the helm, I scanned the horizon for other boats, crab pot buoys, and flotsam. As we moved along, sometimes at 2 knots and sometimes at 5 knots. I glanced at our wind vane and then at the horizon to keep my heading. Occasionally a dolphin would arch out along side of the boat and disappear among the waves. Seals poked their nose out and when caught they ducked quickly back in the water only the reappear their curiosity getting the better of them. Slowly we sailed along the coast being pasted by fishermen in their boats, sometimes passing kayakers who were leisurely dipping their paddles into the salty water. The Alaska Ferry crossed our path and we waved wishing them safe journey to the land up north. The sun rose higher in the sky and we switched from coffee to cool water and lemonade or pop. Sausage rolls and apples were eaten in the cockpit at lunch and we sailed on. Switching tack, we pulled lines so that our genoa and our main sail were now on our starboard side. Our local volcano gradually disappeared behind a foothill as we sailed south, still the wind gently filled the sails and carried us onward. Past an island, the current started to swirl kicking up sea mist as it changed direction and pulled and pushed us deeper into the channel. Steadily the boat bobbed along and the only real movement was changing tack. Releasing the jib sheet with one hand while turning the wheel with other and timing it while my husband pulled in the opposite sheet to make our turns we zig zagged our way along our course. On the horizon both forward and back, sails had been unfurled and were making their own course to destinations unknown. Past another outcropping of rock our destination came in view and changing course again we prepared to take down the sails and motor in for a closer look wanting and hoping to catch a mooring ball for the evening. First the genoa needed to be furled and then heading back into the wind we dropped our main sail. Tidying lines, preparing the book hook we called out distances and readings on our depth finder. Too shallow, the tide was going out. We maneuvered around, deciding to push on to another cove hoping for better luck. A slow journey means that space may not be available and plans need to change spontaneously. Plan B or even C must be thought out and discussed. Sometimes plans need to be scrapped altogether but that is the beauty of slow travel. It's time to think, to dream, to be present. There is time to talk, to debrief, to share. Perhaps RiverRat said it best when he declared to Mole, "There's nothing better than messing around in boats." I must agree.