Cold is where the heart is, or, our summer sailing vacation

To know me is to know I hate to be cold. So why I've chosen a pastime, sport, hobby, activity, or whatever you want to call it that almost requires cold air, I'm not sure. Give me a sunbeam any day just like a cat and I'm a happy camper. Friends don't call me Kitty or L-Cat for nothing.

Here in the Northwest, we rarely have a warm wind. And it's only hot enough a few days a year for a wind chill to feel good. The temperature range of our Puget Sound waters or anywhere in our Salish Sea varies between the mid 40s and mid 50s (f), where hypothermia can set in almost immediately should one accidentally fall in (there are few of us who dip more than a toe intentionally, at least not without a wet or dry suit), and death is pretty much guaranteed after being immersed for not more than an hour. Much of our wind blows straight off that water.

Forrest loves all things boat, and I'm pretty crazy for them - and him - too. He bought his first Seattle-based sailboat just shy of three years ago, gutted it, put it back together, and got it under sail for the first time two years ago. I took sailing lessons. We day sail. Together, we've been out for more than a day just twice so far.

And so it was inevitable that we would take a sailing vacation. Our first was just this week. Six days on the 30' S/V Kennisis from Shilshole Marina to Sucia Island, the most northerly of the San Juan's, and back to Shilshole, with less than half a tank of diesel and an arsenal of sails.

By any description, here in the Northwest we're currently enjoying a stunningly gorgeous, hot-by-our-standards Indian summer. On the water, the sun is high, the winds are varied, and mostly, the temperature is anywhere from cool to cold.

Sailing is awesome. Moving a boat along under pure wind and sail is magical, amazing, exciting, and sometimes mesmerizingly fun. When the wind and currents are just right and the boat hits 6, 7, 8 knots or more, it's pure delight. Hit the wake from a passing ship and it's a carnival ride, only better.

However, to stay even remotely comfortable most days on the water, I resemble a weeble wobble with my 3 - 6 layers of various weights and fabrics. I'm sure Forrest would prefer I take more time with the sails, but hoisting and trimming sails can be hard work and while these can induce a sweat for a few minutes, wicking is tough with that many layers, and layering and de-layering isn't efficient or convenient. So my place is typically at the helm, doing my best to stay warm and keep us on course.

Overall, our trip was fantastic. We stopped twice in Port Townsend (well, 2.5), home of beautiful wooden boats, a crazy mix of tourists, boaters, disaffected youth and counterculture throwbacks, gateway to the Strait of Juan DeFuca, northerly islands, and really, the entire world. There is no shortage of coffee shops, restaurants that serve local organic food, kitschy gift stores, art galleries, and you can find every type of boating anything. With the Olympic Mountains the backdrop for Victorian homes, classic brick buildings, ferries and passing ships, it's a beautiful and delicious place for a short visit.

The Strait can be a wild ride. Currents collide, winds whip down adjoining straits and waterways. It can be unpredictable, the scourge of vessels large and small. Or it can be smooth as glass, with nary a breeze to move a small boat. That's what we got. No wind. Neither north nor south.

We motored across to Fidalgo to fuel up (stove alcohol to ensure a continuous flow of coffee), finally leaving Whidbey and the ongoing air parade of fighter jets behind. Then onward up Rosario Strait by sail and d-sail, passing Decatur, Blakely, and Cypress, then into the Georgia Strait alongside Orcas Island's northwest shore. We paused at Matia, then sailed on to Sucia, at last tying up to a mooring buoy in the aptly named Fossil Bay. A handful of boats and the dramatic island landscape framed a spectacular sunset.

A gorgeous morning prompted a leisurely start with coffee in the cockpit - in shorts (topped with fleece) - followed by a dingy trip to shore to replenish our water supply, visit a composting toilet (something I remembered from sailing days gone by), chat with the park ranger, and go for a short hike out to Fox Point, where the cliffs are steep and the beaches rocky. According to the Washington State Parks site, Sucia is consistently ranked as one of the top boating destinations in the world. A marine park, the island is accessible only by private boat (as are many of the San Juan islands).

A man-made breakfast of bacon and eggs gave us sustenance to layer up and hoist the main sail. We glided gently out of the bay, taking photos, in awe of the contrasting landscape; the east shore is heavily marked with evergreens, while the west is dotted with arbutus (madrona) and defined by fossilized rocks.

While changing sails in President Channel, still north of Orcas, we're passed by a beautiful Morgan 45 (Kennisis is a 1973 Morgan 30-2), whose name I meant to remember, and the perfectly refurbished 1929 David B, which now offers charters throughout the inland waters. The chug-a-chug sound of its antique engine could lure anyone to the great white north.

Southbound, we again have little wind. It's warmer, but slower, and not nearly as much fun. We motorsail through San Juan Channel, past San Juan Island and the ever-busy Friday Harbor, beyond Shaw and past Lopez back into a glassy Strait. Until the engine dies. At dusk. Forrest is skilled and talented with anything mechanical, but it's a long way across the Strait and with a sketchy motor and a setting sun, we retreat with fewer RPMs into MacKaye Harbor at south Lopez. The red sky couldn't be more amazing as it beams a fiery streak across the water, and the harbor is entirely picturesque with the outlines of boats amid the shadows and stillness. For the first time, we dropped anchor.

The harbor proved to be both an amusing and unsettling place to wake up. The morning sky was already blue and the air held only a slight chill. But creeping in at dusk presented a very different picture than the early morning view. There were boats I hadn't noticed, houses on the shoreline that weren't visible, and what looked to be a mooring buoy on the way in was probably a rock flagged by a previous boater. Even the island's outline looked different.

Dolphin? Looks much smaller from a distance.
When it was just off our starboard side,
right next to the boat, it was pretty big. 

We were eager for an early start, just in case. Again, no wind in the Strait, but the engine revvs up. About halfway across, it hiccups and stops. While Forrest is below working on the fuel line, something breaches to starboard, catching me off guard and taking my breath away. Forrest was convinced I made it up until the giant mammal finally reappeared a bit further away, this time on our port side. We concur that it must be the biggest dolphin either of us have seen, although it was big enough to be a small whale (and since an Orca is technically a dolphin... ). By the time we got the camera, it was further away and quite a bit smaller. Regardless, it was impressive. While this was clearly the largest, we saw a lot of finned critters on this trip.

Including en route back to Port Townsend. Having pulled in for the afternoon to regroup, walk around, have lunch and get our bearings, we headed south again. A couple hours out, with no wind, the current against us, and a sputtering motor, we turned around for a final evening in PT. The school of dolphins that surrounded us as we made our way back in was quite a sight - I stopped counting at a dozen. But by then I just couldn't go below to get the camera. As it was, I was ready to be tucked into a marina for the night, warm and safe. We found a slip as the sun set, then trekked ashore for steamed muscles and clams loaded with garlic and butter, along with a hearty salad of fresh local greens, at the Port Hudson marina restaurant.

Forrest sent me off on my own the next morning so he could work on the fuel line and throw temper tantrums if needed. None were, however, so we met at "Better Living Through Coffee" after I'd ascended and descended the terrace stairs that connect upper and lower PT. A quick walk through the upper PT farmers market, a pastry stop at Sweet Laurette's, and a few photos were all I had time for before a short text changed my course. Once we primed our own pumps with sufficient caffeine, we again pressed on to Admiralty Inlet.

And what a day! For just the second time since he's had this boat, we flew the spinnaker. The sun was hot; the wind, light but enough. Coming into Shilshole, we were wing and wing, dodging cruise ships, ferries, fishing boats and other sailors, with nearly perfect weather for a leisurely sail (a beam reach would have added excitement, but by then, it was late and we were tired). We tied up to our slip about 8 p.m., dragging out the last bit of sail and sunlight. A happy hour stop at Ray's Cafe capped the week.

Every moment was worth it despite the necessary layers of clothing. That said, I realize that for me, being warm is essential. Once I'm too cold, functionality diminishes. Add in a healthy dose of tiredness, and I can be fairly worthless without an adrenaline kick. Earlobe-to-toe woolies? Not sure they're the answer (although I recall seeing a pretty intriguing all-in-one piece at Outdoor Research). But I know I have to figure it out as there are more sailing adventures ahead. Better base layers, and an effective sun/wind screen for my lips, and I'll be ready to go again.

Next up, however, is a warm vacation destination. My heart is definitely wherever Forrest is, and I do love sailing, but hey, "warm hands, warm heart." Warm hands will definitely warm my heart. 


UPDATE: Forrest put together a video here.

Fresh picked

Ah, the joys of foraging. There are few flavors as delightful as the sweet tart juice of a ripe blackberry. Found nearly everywhere throughout our urban jungle, this abundant and pervasive berry grows thick on trails, in alleys, in parks, backyards, and empty lots, and anywhere else a seed can take root and spread vociferously.

Here in the Northwest, the Himilayan's are plentiful. A short break from work and I'm out on the Interurban Trail, helpless, sucked in every few steps to pick another handful, dodge thorns, and attempt to keep the berries from staining my hands and clothes.

I have a method. I pick a handful, hold on to them, continue to pick, and shove the newly picked into my mouth while keeping the handful for eating while walking.

These aren't native to the Northwest. They're invasive, and we welcome them only in August and September when they're bulging with berries; the rest of the year, they're a thorn in the sides of anyone charged with landscaping. A message into our our general email box at work asked whether the berries on the trail were sprayed. I had to inform the sender that they were, in fact, a weed, and if sprayed, they would die.

That said, the berries can be found in the stores here during the height of the season, sometimes for as much as $6 a pound. I just can't bring myself to pay for them, although I'll admit to being occasionally tempted when I haven't had time to pick them.

We fought the good fight in our own backyard. When I was a kid, my grandfather kept the bushes manageable. I had tunnels and pathways throughout so I could get to the best berries. But over the years, long after he was gone, they just kept growing, and spreading, until they covered much of the back yard and lot.

Close to a decade ago now, we decided they should go, along with all the other invasives, and Forrest dug them out - root by root, thorny stem by thorny stem. Some of the roots were 8 ft. long and at least six inches around. The effort to remove them was arduous and valiant.

Today, we still come across a fledgling vine, and it's quickly dispatched. I miss the berries, but it's much more satisfying to have a yard and multiple gardens that produce for more than a month.

While not quite as accessible as a few steps away, the roadside thatch is enough. I could still make the jams, jellies, pies and cobblers I grew up with if I felt so compelled. But for now, I'm happy just to pick a daily handful (or five) and savor the memories of melting ice cream on a fresh-from-the-oven (or in one case, the Coleman stove) cobbler.