a rhumbline southwest to our next destination, Port Angeles. From the southeast, out of


Admiralty Inlet, the Princess Marguerite appears (remember this is 1976), a nostalgic gem of a steamer with the Union Jack painted proudly on her two stacks. She hurries by with her load of tourists from Seattle to Victoria for the day.


Half-way across, we come upon a


pod of Orcas actively feeding on fish below. We cut the engine and coast to a stop, as not to bother them, and just watch in wonder for a while, their explosive exhalations with each breach carrying clearly across the water. We finally arrive in the blue collar harbor of Port Angeles in late afternoon and put up for the night. No wind again the next day, so we


motor up the Washington shore all the way out the Strait, past Crescent Bay, Pillar Point and Clallam Bay, the jagged peaks of the Olympics magnificent behind them, to arrive once more, this time less eventfully, at Neah Bay. We are up and off early into


sunshine, no wind and the Straits like glass, with no swell at all from the Pacific, a stark contrast to the mountainous swells and strong winds four days earlier. We motor through the channel on the lee side of Tatoosh once again and enter the open ocean for what we expect to be a downhill ride all the way home to the Columbia River. We cut the engine and raise the sails


to catch any wind that might be present, but we’re bobbing in the doldrums just as we did the first day of the trip, only this time with no swells at all. As the day wears on, we begin


to pick up a very light – and warm! – easterly land breeze, putting us on a broad reach. Easy sailing. I can hardly believe it; we are in the cockpit in shorts, bare feet and t-shirts, spelling each other on the tiller as time and mood dictate. The easterly breeze gradually picks up then steadies at an easy six to eight knots, not seeming to vary in direction as much as a single degree. The boat’s motion is silken with no heel at all, a brook-water-burble along the hull sometimes the only sound. The sun slides down the cloudless sky, kisses the sea with a momentary golden aura, then winks out to the


west, ushering in pure twilight. As true night finally falls, we are closing slowly on the James Island light and La Push. “Do you want to go in?” I ask Eric, our first conversation in some time. “Are you kidding?” he answers,


confirming something extraordinary has been happening. We lapse again into silence. There is no moon, the stars are brilliant-bright and everywhere above us, as though we are suspended in our own private galaxy where it’s become a sin to speak and ruin the magic. We sail on south. Later the spell is gently broken,


as we talk in the close comfort of the darkness and the cockpit; of wives and dreams and voyages to be, or listen to radio stations from Salt Lake City and Las Vegas (how can that be?), or take turns napping below as the night and the knots while away. Dawn finds us north of Grays


Harbor and making slow progress south. Still in light wind and sunshine, sport fishing boats once again become part of our horizon. The daylight, other boats and knowledge we are approaching the end of the trip, has


brought me back to workaday reality and the desire to finish the trip. We sail on through the day, raising


the Cape Disappointment Light and lighted channel buoys at the mouth of the Columbia River at nightfall. We decide to fire up the engine one more time to cross the bar and button up the boat on the way to our last destination, Ilwaco, Washington. We follow the narrow, serpentine channel to the town moorage, having sailed 36 hours straight from the time we left Neah Bay. We walk through the darkness on wobbly sea legs to a tavern just off the docks for a burger and a beer, feeling just a little bit closer to Columbus. ***


Matt finished his boat but never


took it to sea. Eric and I both went on to own


several other boats which we raced and cruised in the Pacific Northwest for many years. This trip became a defining moment for us, however, two brothers as young men in a very small boat on a very large ocean and the most treasured sailing experience of our lives.


48° N


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48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2010 PAGE 61


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