buoy behind and chugged out into
the bay on our 27 horse Yanmar. The
instruments, so carefully checked in
the previous two days were lit up and
giving us confidence that we could eat
pizza that night in Gig’s Tides Tavern.
How different sailing felt to
us than it must have been for the
ancients creeping down these bays and
straits 250 years ago. How awesome,
impenetrable, and menacing were
these tree lined shores to them? What
spirits did their superstitious minds
conjure up to stalk them down the
empty shores?
Soon Seattle disappeared on our
port side into a squall. White caps
rose up on our starboard. The trees on
Bainbridge Island turned black and a
black cloud curtain closed on the last
of the pale skies to be seen that day
within 100 miles. For all we could see of
civilization from the cockpit, we could
have been Midshipman Sanford in his
gig searching for anchorage in 1841.
Our Yanmar thumped and pushed but
the tide had things to do behind us and
slowed our speed over water to a mere

The
Spirit

of the
Patti Taylor and “The Promise,” at the deserted
docks at Blake Island, a welcome refuge on a
Island
cold, blustery day in March.
by Rick Taylor
It was a March morning when morning with highs and lows opening 3.5 knots. Then the wind came to meet
Everett school kids would get an extra and closing drizzly gray curtains on us in force.
day off. It was an early spring morning a thin blue sky. We only knew part of We felt the brush of an impatient
when Rainier skiers would get a fresh that – the sunny skies part. We were hand heel us out of its way. We rose
blanket of powder. It was a long returning to the Sound after a long to the top of a surprisingly insistent
awaited morning when we were to take enforced absence and anything would wave and slapped down hard on its
delivery on a new Hunter 36 and sail have been a sunny day. following neighbor. Never having had
her from Lake Union to Gig Harbor. At Tori, our broker, and Patti’s parents a boat this long in rough water we were
least that’s what we thought. helped us through the locks and into slow to find the right angle to catch the
It was a March morning with far Shilshole’s gas dock. We topped off, waves and reduce the battle. The swells
away winds hurtling up from the bundled up and waved goodbye under cheated us by changing their direction
south. It was an early spring morning cold, crisp skies and a 7 knot breeze in every moment. Great splashes from
with a bitter cold front clawing down our face. The dodger/bimini/connector the bow sent bullets of saltwater at the
from the north. It was a seductive paid for itself quickly as we left the last dodger. The rain above turned to hail
48° No r t h , Ma r c h 2010 Pa g e 36
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