Dramamine in the morning before we leave, thinking that will do the trick. I tell him that if he leaves with Eric and me in the morning, there really isn’t a convenient place for him to get off the boat until we get down the Straits, at least three more days. He understands and still wants to go, the decision is made. After a few more beers, we turn in to our now regular berths, Eric on the settee, Matt on the dinette and me with the sails in the v-berth forward. We’re up at dawn, have a cafe


breakfast on the waterfront, top off the gas and cast off. Matt pops his pill. Today’s destination is La Push, a remote hole-in-the-wall of a port on the Quillaute Indian Reservation, the only protected small craft harbor between Grays Harbor and Neah Bay, a stretch of more than 100 miles. It’s a déjà vu sailing day, but much


longer than the run up to Westport. Calm, damp and overcast in the morning, a rising sea breeze to 20 knots plus, and beating our brains out to windward through the growing swells and seas. We shorten sail and hide from the spray when on the tiller, with Eric and me taking turns riding it out at the helm. Somewhere off to starboard is Destruction Island and, as the skies clear in the early afternoon, the snow- capped Olympics appear further inland. Matt stays below the entire day, off the cabin sole and keeping his breakfast down, but clearly not well or able, either. We are into evening now with the running lights on in a seemingly endless cold slog to weather as the overcast reforms above us. In the darkness the running lights


begin to seriously fade and I kick myself when I realize I didn’t recharge the batteries in Westport, a stupid


oversight. We have been alone on the sea pretty much since we cleared Grays Harbor, so I think our chances of running into someone are remote; it’ll be okay. The wind is still blowing strong


from the northwest and we’re on a starboard tack. I’ve been hunkered down on the tiller for an hour or so, alone with my thoughts, only concerned with gutting it out and getting to La Push. A small, southbound salmon troller suddenly darts out from under the jib, crossing our bow only 50 yards in front of us, scaring the hell out of me! He seems to be as he surprised we are as he crosses. The searchlight on the top of his pilothouse comes alive and quickly rakes this apparition, masthead to waterline and stem to stern. Apparently satisfied, he turns it off and I imagine the conversation he is having on the radio about these idiot raggers he damn near ran down, sailing up the coast in the middle of the night with no running lights. The James Island light is beckoning,


and we finally slip beneath it into the mouth of the Quileute River. Eric has been on deck with me as we approach the dock and Matt comes up from the cabin to help us tie up in little La Push; nothing but a handful of slips, a fuel dock, a store, and a gas station in the lee of the island. I remember to hook up the battery charger before we turn in.


It’s the third morning and our


routine is: eat, stow, top off and go… and Matt taking his Dramamine. Today should be the last punishing beat for a while, as sometime tonight we ought to round Cape Flattery and sleep quietly in Neah Bay! The day reels out like the first two, though the wind


seems stronger, the swells and seas higher, and the sun neglects to make an appearance at all. Matt remains at his self appointed station in the cabin while Eric does all the foredeck work. He and I sail the boat, spelling each other on the helm as usual. Every once in a while we fly off the top of a wave peak and slam into the trough below with a shudder that shakes the entire boat. This upwind slog is turning into an endurance contest of boat and crew against the Pacific Ocean, and I gain a new appreciation for heavy displacement boats with more “hour glass” lines and a longer keel. We have passed Cape Alava and,


according to the chart, this is the nastiest lee shore of the whole trip, with rocks extending into the surf everywhere. We slog on. The day sputters to an indefinite end with a prolonged twilight; there is no discernible start to nightfall, just an imperceptible creep of gray toward absolute darkness. We pick up the Tatoosh Island light


and Eric relieves me so I can go below and look at the chart. There is a narrow channel between the island and Cape Flattery and I reckon we can knock off an hour or more from our ETA at Neah Bay by taking it. The wind and seas are bound to be confused in the lee of Tatoosh and we decide to lower the sails and motor through, staying close to the island to avoid rocks to starboard. As we round the Cape, the shore and headlands break away to the east and we enter the Strait of Juan de Fuca. A mile to the northeast, there is a


huge squarish constellation of lights moving out to sea in the darkness at a steady, stately pace, in spite of the weather. It’s the only vessel we have


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48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2010 PAGE 58 (206) 784-0883


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