Part IV: Heading Home
By Marc Edge
I quite enjoyed learning something other than
diesel mechanics, but soon began to long to be aboard again. The quarter
system at Ohio provides for a six-week winter break between Thanksgiving
and New Year's, so I planned to head back to Hawaii to launch the boat,
do some work aboard and, oh yes, enjoy some warmer weather for awhile.
But soon I decided to take the entire winter quarter off and spend it back
aboard. I could spend winter break visiting friends in Eastern Canada,
a family Christmas home and still have a few months back in Hawaii before
having to head back to school at the end of March. Ian decided that he'd
like to spend some time in the Kona sun as well and visited for a few weeks,
during which we got lots of needed work done. My time back aboard was abbreviated,
however, when I learned the paper I had submitted to a conference had been
accepted for presentation, which meant I had to be in New Orleans the second
week in March. That was OK, so I put Markenurh back in storage and
flew to Los Angeles for a week to visit friends on the way to New Orleans.
I didn't book an onward flight to Ohio because I had a week to get there
and in the end decided to rent a car and drive up through the South, which
I had never visited before. I toured through Mississippi, Tennessee and
Kentucky, stopping for a couple of days at Memphis to visit Graceland.
Soon it was back to the grind of school. Living on campus and having no
social life to divert me from my studies, I was able to take a full course
load of 18 credits a term and had my course work completed by November.
My comprehensive examinations remained, so I studied for them over winter
break and sat the 20 hours of exams in January. Scheduling my oral defence
for early February, I learned that I had another paper accepted for presentation,
this time by Western Journalism Historians Conference. They hold their
annual conference at Berkeley in late February, so I booked a flight there
on the way home and gave notice on my apartment. I won second prize in
the student competition for my paper on Pacific Press, which will form
the basis of my dissertation, so considered that excursion a success. By
late March, after attending to some family business back home, I was back
in Kona to launch Markenurh. Ian came along, too, and we prepared
to set sail for Honolulu, where I would spend a couple of months before
heading north in June. Of course, there were more mechanical problems,
as could be expected from almost two years in storage. The engine roared
to life and actually ran better than could be expected, but the gear shift
cable broke when we tried to put her in gear, so we had to order a new
one and that meant a delay of a week or so. Finally, we were ready to go,
but the engine, which had started making a "ticking" sound, refused to
start. She had been starting on the first try until the day we wanted to
leave, of course. Finally we got her going and headed out, motoring out
another 30 miles before getting out of the Big Island's wind shadow. What
a difference when we got back out into the trades and especially the rollicking
seas in the channels between the islands. We had a great sail and set a
course for the island of Lania, which we wanted to visit, along with Molokai,
on our way to Honolulu. We sailed up as far as we could to Lanai before
lost the wind in its shadow, and turned the key to start the engine. Of
course, she didn't want to start, no matter how we tried. Giving up, we
decided to sail to Honolulu, but it took us almost a full day to ghost
our way back into the trades. Arriving at Waikiki at 3 a.m. a day later,
the engine still refused to come alive. I radioed the Coast Guard, which
promised to broadcast a request for assistance later in the morning. Meanwhile,
we tacked back and forth along the beach, gazing at the bright lights.
Daybreak came and the Coast Guard finally broadcast our call for help.
We got one response, but we were too big for the small power boat to pull.
We called the Coast Guard, which had originally offered to tow us in themselves
if we were unable to get other assistance, but they told us we would have
to use the commercial towing service, which we learned would be $150 an
hour. That prompted us to consider sailing in, but informing the Coast
Guard of this brought them to reconsider their refusal and they agreed
to send a boat out to tow us in. The Coasties were great, first towing
us in, then rafting up alongside us to dock us. I asked to be dropped at
the famous "Aloha Dock" at the Hawaii Yacht Club, of which I'd heard tales
of great hospitality. As we approached, I could see figures scurrying from
the clubhouse and assumed they were deploying to assist us. As we got closer,
though, it became clear they were instead there to repel us. A fishing
tournament the coming weekend made them unable to let us land there, they
said apologetically, offering to later help tow us from the loading dock,
where they suggested we tie up. The loading dock is in shallow water next
to the Ilikai Hotel, and we were subjected to a parade of tourists inquiring
about our passage before we could arrange with the Harbormaster to get
a spot on the transient dock. Back at the yacht club to arrange for their
promised tow, we were told instead they would be unable to help us because
that wasn't covered by their insurance. Instead, we took up the offer of
88-year-old Howard Barron, who towed us over in his sailboat Southern
Cross.
Asking around, we found a helpful mechanic who was also a cruiser, and Sherman diagnosed our problem from what we told him -- a blown head gasket, no doubt a delayed result of that overheating incident in Tonga. Luckily we had a spare head gasket aboard, and Sherman decided from talking with him that Ian was more than qualified to install it. We tore the engine apart and took the head off, giving it to Sherman to take to a shop for reconditioning. My job was to clean and paint the greasy, rusty old engine parts while they were out of the engine room. In a week they were gleaming Volvo green again, and we awaited the return of the head. Finally Sherman brought it by and we put the engine together. Turning the engine key, again it roared to life! An old newspaper colleague, Alan, flew over to join us for the trip home, which we planned to make via Alaska. Looking at the globe, it was apparent that the closest point of land to Hawaii is Kodiak Island in Alaska. Heading north form there would take us to Prince William Sound, which is said to be a prime cruising ground, if a bit cold. That's where we planned to go, but several factors changed our mind. One was the continual procession of storms in the Gulf of Alaska, which we could avoid by diverting to the mainland coast. The other was the ice-cold water temperature, which was a good 8-9 Celsius colder than the averages for June shown on the pilot chart. The water got as cold as 4C, which is colder than it was when we were in Glacier Bay four years earlier, watching pieces of ice float past. After first considering heading straight home, we decided instead to compromise on Sitka, Alaska, which was actually closer, if somewhat farther north.
Another factor which made the passage north particularly difficult was related to the cold water -- fog. Warmer air hitting the cold water caused a thick soup in which we could often barely see the bow. It was a bit disconcerting, knowing there were large freighters out there with us, but the chance of a collision was one in a million and, for once, our luck held. Unfortunately, other things didn't. The fog proved insidious, getting into everything. It even got into the instruments, fogging them up. About 500 miles off the Alaska coast, the trusty GPS, which had navigated me almost 20,000 nautical miles across the Pacific, proved unable to acquire satellites and give us a "fix." We scratched our heads for a while and decided to try a trick I'd read about in a sailing magazine -- baking. That got the moisture out and eventually the GPS was working again. Luckily, because we made landfall at Sitka in thick fog and needed both the GPS and radar to weave our way through the islands.
South from Alaska
Alan decided to leave us there and took the ferry home, leaving just Ian
and I to take Markenurh south. I had arranged with my friend Peter
to meet us in Prince Rupert, where he used to live, and Ian decided that's
where he'd get off. We planned to stay only a week or so, but the forecast
was for southerly winds, so we decided to spend an extra weekend in Sitka.
Finally given a favorable forecast, we provisioned up and started the engine.
She started OK, but soon was making a loud screeching noise. Shutting her
down, Ian reported bad news -- the water pump had gone. This was the same
water pump that had stranded me in Tonga, of course, and we had only put
a few hundred miles on the engine since then, so I was a bit surprised.
But it turned out that water had gotten into the bearings while we were
in storage for two years and seized them. Instead of the bearings turning
on the water pump shaft, the shaft itself was turning, wearing a groove
where the bearings were and making it wobbly to say the least. Luckily,
there are more repair facilities in Sitka than in Tonga, and we found a
machine shop that was able to repair the shaft that day. If the bearings
had been available at either of the auto parts stores, we could have been
away that evening, but they had to be ordered from Seattle, which delayed
us an extra couple of days. Finally we were off, and motored out under
the bridge into Sitka Sound and the open ocean once more. We had a great
sail down, flying the bigger genoa foresail instead of the smaller job
which we'd used on the passage across. The wind vane set on a southerly
course, we reeled off a record 159 miles the first day and, changing course
to the east the next day, did almost as well -- 153 miles. But once in
Dixon Entrance between Alaska and the Queen Charlotte Islands, the wind
shifted from the northwest to the west, and we couldn't make a direct course
for Prince Rupert, having to gybe back and forth through Dixon Entrance.
That made us late into Prince Rupert, so I radioed the Coast Guard, which
kindly passed the message to both Peter and the Prince Rupert Yacht Club.
We were late, all right. I had underestimated the distance, and we ended
up pulling in to the Yacht Club at 1:30 a.m. our time, and Prince Rupert
was one time zone east, which made it 2:30 a.m. there. But resident yacht
club manager Travis McNeice was there along with Peter to catch our land
and we were glad to be back in Canada again. Ian was so glad to be relieved
of duty that he booked a flight home leaving that night.
Peter and I decided to waste no time in Prince Rupert. He had been there a week already waiting for us, so we decided to head out the next morning. The Volvo roared to life again and we left the dock, but something didn't seem right. The engine, which had worked fine in neutral, now wouldn't respond to the throttle. I'd give it more gas, but it increased speed very reluctantly. We decided after some discussion to head back to the yacht club to troubleshoot. We learned that the diesel we bought in Alaska -- Number 1 diesel because the gas dock attendant said it was "cleaner," if a bit more expensive -- also had much less lubrication that the cheaper, dirtier diesel we should have bought. The fuel pump was probably getting insufficient lubrication, we were told, so we tried adding some lubricating agent to it, but that only made things worse. Now the engine didn't want to run even in neutral. Peter couldn't take any more time off work, so he had to fly home while I hunted for a good mechanic. I found Ken, who suggested we try doing the injectors first because the fuel pump is a very expensive job. I had done the injectors in Hawaii two years earlier, but had decided against replacing the tips, which were corroded, because they would have cost an extra $200 or so. That decision may have caught up to us in Prince Rupert, so Ken shipped the injectors off to a fuel injection shop in the Lower Mainland. They couldn't get tips in Canada, having to go all the way to Germany, so I settled in to enjoy Prince Rupert for awhile.
Well, it turned out it wasn't the injectors. That cost me $650 and three weeks, plus another $800 in moorage at the Yacht Club. Next we attacked the fuel pump. Ken sent it down to the shop and got an unenthusiastic report. "We haven't seen one of these in years," was the reaction Ken reported. "We don't even have the equipment to test it anymore." With the help of my mechanic in Vancouver, we found somewhere that could test it, and it turned out to be fine. But all this long-distance diagnostic work was taking time. I was supposed to be in Prince Rupert for two days, and it was turning into two months. We decided to put the fuel pump back in and adjust the timing, which a delicate procedure. When Ken thought he had the setting rights, we turned the ignition key. And turned. And turned . . . and she fired up! Wonder of wonders! She actually didn't run too bad, except for a bit of smoke. We decided to do something that should have been done a long time ago, before I started pouring so much money into such an old engine -- do a compression test. If one of the cylinders was low on compression, it would have to be rebuilt, except that it couldn't because the engine was long since obsolete and the necessary parts couldn't be had. So one by one we tested the four cylinders for compression level. They were all quite low, indicating loose and sloppy cylinder fit, but sure enough, it turned out one was particularly low. In fact, the engine had basically been running on three cylinders for some time. But she was running! That was the main thing. If we could keep her running long enough to get out of Prince Rupert, we could sail south and, if need be, get a tow in to my berth in False Creek, which had been waiting since I evicted my tenant at the beginning of August. It was now September! My neighbors at the liveaboard co-op wanted to know when I was going to return, and if it wasn't soon, there was a movement afoot to vote me off the island! I kept assuring the membership coordinator that I was on my way, just a few engine problems. She was knowingly reassuring, having suffered similar problems herself. But I needed crew, and fast. Sure enough, good old Ian volunteered to fly up and help me get her back, and I'd met a letter carrier through a friend of Peter who was interested in coming along for the ride. Brent seemed like a nice enough guy, but he had never been sailing before. He just wanted to come along as far as Port Hardy, which was a two-day sail south. Come on along, I said. We got the boat provisioned up and ready to go, then waited for the weather to clear up. And waited. That summer had been incredibly rainy -- even for Prince Rupert, residents insisted. The winds were blowing south up Hecate Strait, which didn't sound like fun, so we waited for fair weather. Finally the sun came out and we prepared to cast off. What do you think was the Volvo's reaction to all this? Right! It didn't want to start. We must have ground that poor starter for hours. Finally she roared to life, with clouds of black smoke coming out the stern, and now lots of blue smoke rising from the engine room as well. "Blow by," Ian said -- coming out that sloppy cylinder No. 3. But at least she was running. All we had to do was make it to the gas dock, fuel up, and motor out the long, narrow entrance to Prince Rupert Harbour, about 20 miles to reach Hecate Strait. We decided to go for it.
The Voyage From Hell, Part IV
There were times in that 20 mile stretch that I thought we'd never make
it. Our speed kept getting slower and slower. More and more smoke started
coming out of the engine room. The Volvo began making the most awful noises,
sputtering and complaining as it it was going through its death throes.
But finally we arrived at the entrance marker, and with a sailing wind,
no less! We hauled up the sails, pointed her south, and I mercifully silenced
the Volvo. We didn't know then that was the last time she would run, but
we had a pretty good idea of the chances she might start again. But at
least we were out of rainy Prince Rupert, although we were two months behind
schedule. It was bad enough being stuck there all summer. I had heard some
stories about what it's like in winter and I didn't want to be there to
find out for myself. So we sailed along, set up our watch system and I
cooked up some dinner on the swing stove: chili with cheese and crackers,
mmmmmmmmm!
But then the forecast came on the VHF radio. Our old friends at Weatheradio Canada had bad news. Yes, the winds were forecast to swing around to the southeast again. Oh, no! Just when we were making some progress southward, the prospect of beating back and forth across Hecate Strait wasn't very appealing. I kept a keen ear to the forecast, and sure enough, within hours it was upgraded to a gale warning. The shallow waters between the Queen Charlotte Island and the mainland of British Columbia are not where you want to be in a gale, as the wind whips up the sea into washing-machine waters. I looked on the chart of a likely place to anchor and wait out the weather. We were closer to the mainland side of Hecate Strait, so I picked a couple of places out and looked them up in my various pilot books and cruising guides. Calling the crew together, I gave them the bad news that we would have to seek shelter. That is, if we could get the old Volvo to run again. I gave her an extra long warming up with the glow plugs, then turned the key. Nothing. Ian tried a few tricks, spraying some "Starter Fluid" we had picked up in Rupert. Still nothing. We ground that hound until our batteries got dangerously low. It was beginning to become apparent that the Volvo had breathed its last. I looked on the chart. We couldn't make any headway into these southerly winds, and when things picked up it would get really uncomfortable. Brent was already complaining he was feeling seasick. The best course of action in a gale would be to turn and run with it, but that would give up all the southing we had made and blow us up north of Prince Rupert, toward Alaska. The alternative was to try and sail into an anchorage, a tricky manoeuvre at the best of times. And these certainly weren't the best of times. We were getting close to the mainland, so we tacked back and headed for the Charlottes. Then the updated forecast came on the radio. I listened to it without pulling the crew around, as I often did. The gale warning had been upgraded to the storm warning! That meant winds of over 50 knots. This was getting serious. I began to wonder, "Why me?" I closed my eyes and pounded my fist on the hatch. I think that was about the closest I ever came to losing it in the whole trip, through all the setbacks and problems. But I had to deal with the situation, and I knew I could count on Ian to do what was necessary. Brent by now had begged off watch-keeping duty and was flat on his back in his berth below. I called Ian up and we pondered the options: Head back north with the storm, or try to head into the Charlottes and anchor under sail. We decided on the latter.
As we got closer to the Charlottes, I recognized the area as on we had visited four years earlier, with its ghostly toppled totem poles. There were several likely anchorages, some of which would be well-sheltered in a storm. The problem would be getting in. We could sail most of the way, of course, but as soon as we got close the high headlands would begin to block the wind. And now it was getting late in the day and we faced the prospect of doing this in the dark. So we formulated a plan. As soon as we slowed enough to launch the dinghy, we would inflate it and tie it securely alongside, clamping on the five-horsepower outboard for propulsion. Ian was the engine expert, so it was his job to get the thing running and keep it running long enough for us to inch our way up the inlet I had picked out. I would be at the wheel with the chart and a flashlight handy to read it by in the fading light. It was a bit of a scramble, but it worked! We got to the anchorage entrance just as twilight was fading and I hauled up enough chain on deck to set the big Bruce anchor. But as we made our way up the linlet, the wind began to rise, and the three knots we had been able to make under putt-putt power was now slowed to two, and then one. Finally we reached a point where I knew we would be safe if we had to drop anchor there, and then it was just a case of how close we could get to our intended location. Eventually we got close enough that I just said "screw it" and tossed Bruce over. We had made it! Whew! There aren't many feelings like that in the world, I'll tellya! "I'm alive! I'm still alive!" I couldn't stop hooting, pulling some well-earned beer from the icebox. We sure slept well that night, and when daylight came we tuned in to the weather reports from up and down the coast. Sure enough, it was howling out there, but we were nice and secure, even with the occasional gust coming over the hill. Another boat had come in during the night, a native fishing boat. Ian went over and traded a six-pack for a nice halibut they had hauled in and we ate well that night, playing cards until late. We explained out plight to our neighbors and they offered to give us a tow out into the Strait once things had blown over. At the crack of dawn the next day they came by and thumped on the hull. I took their tow line and hauled up Bruce without waking the crew, who roused themselves once we were under way.
Once we were out into Hecate Strait again, we tossed off the tow line with thanks and set our sails to head south again. Finally we were making progress after two more days lost. Brent was only taking a week off work, planning to visit family in Port Hardy and then take the ferry back again. Oh, well. These things couldn't be avoided. We sailed on and on and finally got out of Hecate Strait out into the open ocean between the Charlottes and Vancouver Island. That's when the big rollers began to hit us, waves that had come all the way from Japan. Brent began to feel queasy again and went below to his bunk. Ian and I kept watch, all the while keeping an ear to the forecast, which was updated every few hours by Environment Canada. Soon the winds began to die, and we tuned in curiously, aware by now that this usually preceded a wind shift. Sure enough, the forecast was for another gale. Not again! We'd just had one! It was only 24 hours later. And this time, there was no place to hide. At least we were in deeper waters. So with foreboding we decided to soldier on and take this one on the chin. If we could just keep going east and west and not lose too much ground by going north, we'd be OK. I made a call to the Coast Guard and informed them of our plight. They offered to send a boat out, but after coming all this way I wasn't about to give up op easily. They insisted we keep up a regular contact every four hours, then as conditions worsened they made it every two hours. The saving grace was that the wind only started to pick up only in the morning. At least we could see what was coming. We shortened sail from the jib to the staysail and set the wind vane to closehauled. Up and down we went. The guy I really felt sorry for was Brent. He thought this would be some sort of pleasure cruise. It wasn't much fun, but once it began to get dark the wind started to die down again. We tuned in anxiously to a Mayday call from a fishing boat off Cape Scott and followed the rescue efforts of the Coast Guard. By morning the wind was gone completely, which caused almost more problems than having 30 knots. Now the sea was all whipped up and we had no means of stability from forward propulsion. We bobbed around violently, the sails slatting back and forth before we took them down completely. I decided it was now time to call for assistance and I radioed the Coast Guard, requesting a tow. Once of the rescue boats that had spent all night off Cape Scott was heading back in and diverted to pick us up. They towed us in to Port Hardy and helped us tie up at the marina. Whew! We had made it -- again!
Ian looked for a flight home, while Brent beat a path to the ferry terminal. I looked for a mechanic. Problem was, they were hard to find in this fishing village, as an opening was expected and all the boats needed something done. I consulted a couple of wrench-twisters whose ancestors must have been pirates, because the rates they quoted me were about double what they had been in Rupert. I had considered replacing the Volvo there and had even picked out the engine I wanted, an Isuzu 70-h.p. model. It was the cheapest and had a great reputation for reliability among fishermen. I had phoned down to Vancouver and was told they just had one come in to their shop in Victoria for a rebuild. I could have that one at a nice discount! So I flew down and bought a 4X4, took the ferry over to Vancouver Island and loaded her in the back. First I had to cash in my co-op share to finance the purchase, which was a tough pill to swallow. Markenurh had always lived at Spruce Harbour Marina, as her builder had been a founder of the liveaboard co-op. I felt like I was letting her down. We would have to go and live up the Fraser River on our return, but at least I had taken her to the South Seas! I drove Suzie the length of Vancouver Island and set about finding a mechanic who could put her in for me. Finally I found a sympathetic ear, and while he couldn't help me, he suggested I try the Cat dealer in nearby Port McNeill, as they had a mechanic in Port Hardy who might be able to squeeze my installation into his schedule. Luger was a great guy and quoted me an honest price, charging me for far fewer hours than he actually put in, and taking some cash on the side for hours he worked on his own time. The first task was yarding the grimy old Volvo out of the engine room, but to do that we would have to cut the boat open. Markenurh had been built around the old engine, which was installed before the deck was put on the hull. To get her out, we would have to cut out the cockpit floor, and it would be a tight squeeze getting her out. I got the name of a carpenter who came down one night with his various saws and sliced open the cockpit after I had taken off the steering pedestal and drained the hydraulic lines. Then we had to raft her over the fishing dock to use the crane. I tied the dinghy alongside and we did it the same way as before. Out came the old Volvo, but not before dripping oil all over my bimini in one last parting shot. Then we lowered the nice new, shiny Isuzu into the hole. Lining her up, we hired the services of a local welder, who made up some sturdy brackets, as the new engine fit quite differently from the Volvo. Much adjusting later, we hooked everything up back at the marina dock, and she ran. Man, did Suzie sound sweet. So nice and tight! What a sweet exhaust, compared with the awful gasping of the old Volvo.
By this time, almost another two months had passed, and I would be lucky to make it back by the end of November. It was getting cold at night, and the nights were getting longer as well. Daylight now only began about 8 a.m. and lasted not much past 4 p.m. That only allowed for a maximum eight hours of daylight. I phoned Ian back home, asking for one last favor, but he was swamped at work and had to finally say no. Peter was similarly engaged, so I decided to finally become a single-hander! At least now I had a reliable engine, and that's what most of the remaining 200 miles would be -- motoring through the wicked currents flowing through the narrow waters of the Inside Passage. I had forgotten how strong they could be, and I hadn't realized that while I had a new, more powerful engine, we could still only go our usual five knots because the propeller was only 15 inches and needed to be upgraded to a 19-inch model to utilize all the new power. And I had to baby Suzie while she was in her break-in period, so I didn't want to rev her much past 2000 r.p.m. Finally I set off on what was to be a four-day trip, but of course it never works out that way. Currents off Port McNeill and Alert Bay slowed us to a crawl, and I still faced the most daunting obstacle of all -- Seymour Narrows at the head of Georgia Strait, where currents run in the double digits and a small craft can only transit at slack tide. I pulled in to a deserted Port Neville and tied up in the dark, a harrowing manoeuvre when you have to jump off with the lines, leaving no one on board. I checked my charts and hoped to make it through Seymour Narrows at slack tide the next afternoon, which would allow me just enough time to pull into nearby Campbell River before dark. I was up before dawn again to get Suzie fired up and cast off single-handed. Soon we were headed south again, but as usual the GPS gave my progress over ground as much slower than the knotmeter said was my speed through the water. That's because the water kept heading the wrong way -- toward me. As I checked my watch, I soon realized we would never make it to Seymour Narrows in time. I found a nice little anchorage near Duncan Bay and set Bruce on the bottom of a very cozy bay. There I enjoyed a rum and coke or two and listened to the Canucks game on the radio. They lost to expansion Atlanta. The next day Suzie and I set off for the vaunted Seymour Narrows, and we hit it right at slack, as you're supposed to. It was wild, with whirlpools all around, but we made it through without a hitch. The current expelled us at great speed southward to Campbell River, and I pulled into the nearly-vacant marina to find my friends Henri and Gabby from Belgium aboard their beautiful 47-foot yacht, Falcon. I was surprised to see them, and they had come through Port Hardy on their way to Seattle a month earlier. They had planned to visit friends there, put their boat in storage for the winter as they usually do, and head back to Belgium. But alas, they had encountered engine problems of their own on leaving Port Hardy and had to get a tow to Campbell River, where they were having their Mercedes replaced. I had been so impressed when I met Henri just as we were leaving Honolulu -- how nice it must be to have such a reliable engine as a Mercedes! But he admitted that repair work he'd had done in Chile was coming back to haunt him, and she finally died off Alert Bay. I felt a bit guilty, as if maybe my bad engine karma had somehow rubbed off on him. We commiserated as can only those who have gone through similar struggles. I told him about my new berth near Shelter Island in Richmond, just south of Vancouver. As winter was approaching, perhaps he might want to check out the storage yard there, which was bound to be cheaper than paying U.S. dollars. He did just that and I gave him my contact number back home before I shoved off southward again.
I literally crawled out of Campbell River, having neglected to check the tide tables. I'll swear I was going backwards for a time until the tide turned and I got a boost southward. I didn't pull in to Comox until well after dark and only managed to tie up with the aid of radar. Then I almost went aground through inattention the next day, motoring south past Denman Island. Finally I got to the familiar waters of Newcastle Island off Nanaimo, just in time to make it home for an important event, for which I HAD to get back home. I set out with the aim of motoring up the Fraser River to my new berth, but as I rounded the top of Gabriola Island I could see that the southeasterly gales that were forecast had already begun. This wasn't going ot be much fun, but I had to get back home. Once into more open water, however, it became obvious that it wouldn't happen today. Even worse, I was towing the dinghy like a fool, with the outboard on. Suddenly I saw her flip when swamped by a wave, and things started to get serious. I cut Suzie's speed and headed back alongside. I was all by myself! How would I ever recover the dinghy? I put the autopilot on and secured a dock line to the amidships mooring cleat. First putting my safety harness on and clipping to a secure point in case I went overboard, I lassoed the other end around the leg of the overturned outboard. I made her fast alongside and turned back for Newcastle Island. Safely anchored again, I flipped the dinghy back upright and drained the remaining water from her. I unclamped the outboard with frozen fingers and hauled her back onto the stern rail, where she should have been in the first place. You would have though I'd have learned my lesson from our adventure off Ucluelet four years earlier. I deflated the dinghy and pondered my options. I had to get home for this important date, but I guess I was going to have to take the ferry. I prepared to weigh anchor again and motored across the narrow channel to Nanaimo, where I slipped into a marina. I spent the night and got a nice, hot shower in the morning, catching one of the fiasco "Fast Cat" ferries to Horsheoe Bay. Two days later I was back, and the weather was much more co-operative this time. I had a quite nice sail across Georgia Straight until Sandheads hove into view and it was time to fire Suzie up for the long motor up the Fraser to my new home. I finally made it back on December 1, four months after I had hoped to be home on August 1.
If only I had decided to head for Vancouver from Hawaii, instead of heading north to Alaska! The Volvo would have probably lasted long enough to get us there, and I wouldn't have had to give up my prime liveaboard slip in False Creek. Oh, well! Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. At least I was home, with 20,000 nautical miles under Markenurh's keel. It had been quite the adventure, and I couldn't have done it without help from friends like Ian and Juliette, who looked after all my financial affairs while I was away. It makes you realize how lucky you are to have friends like that. And that's the most important thing.
The End.