played the elder a few songs. It is a sure thing for me to play for people who require hearing aids—they can’t hear my mistakes—and as a result I am able to relax and let the ukulele sing. It did well. We were honored to be invited to the
only church in Hydaburg for a Sunday service and it’s following potluck. The congregation has kept going for at least seven or eight years without a formal minister. Since it is a mission village, funds are lacking to support a full time preacher. The service included singing, prayer requests and truly was one of the most meaningful services we have attended. The prayer requests were carefully written down so as not to miss a one, and then repeated, accompanied by a group prayer. We felt the power. We left town Sunday after church
and headed southward again, reaching the protection of Maple Bay and a snug harbor for the night, as predicted by the fishing elders of Hydaburg at the potluck. They know all the spots, and warned us to anchor after the SECOND island, not the first, “Too hard,” and were they ever right. In all the anchorages of the Inside Passage that the Shadowfax has weathered wind in, none had the holding mud of Maple Bay. Captain Bob had quite a job ridding the anchor of the glutinous mess when we got the anchor up. It took two attempts; one at 8:30
AM, the next at 3 PM, to best the wind and waves of Cordova Bay. As we were leaving, a fishing boat hailed us. It was the JoyLyn, Tim Young’s boat from Hydaburg had traveled down the bay, supposedly fishing, but more likely checking on us. It made me feel as if we were in friendlier waters as he inquired on our status, and wished us
We spent the night in “Charlie’s Cove,”…sharing our tiny moorage with humpback whales…
well. Since Tim is the volunteer pastor of the little white Presbyterian Church in Hydaburg, perhaps his vessel should be named “Shepherd of the Sea.” We spent the night in “Charlie’s Cove,” a bay near the Barrier Islands at the south end of Cordova Bay, sharing our tiny moorage with humpback whales, close enough for the crew of Shadowfax to hear burbles and see dark swirls in the water beside our vessel. Despite the noise we were glad to share the protection of this tiny harbor. The Prince Of Wales Islands lies
in a stony heap, its body oriented in a northerly to southerly direction, the foot lying across notoriously rough Dixon Entrance, both central and east parts. Sprayed out from this foot are myriads of tiny islets, the Barrier Islands, scattered randomly as if tossed by a giant’s hand towards the west, a cascade of rocky nubbins that form innumerable coves and bites in which to hide out a Dixon Entrance gale. We slid silently through these passageways on calm seas until reaching Cape Chacon, Prince of Wales Island’s southernmost tip that reaches out with open hand towards British Columbia as if wanting to be a part of that province, or perhaps, to play catch with the Pacific swells that crash ashore. Shadowfax is normally a gentle
sailor, not quiet, but gentle, and in fair winds lives up to is equine name by cantering and rocking. We bucked around Cape Chacon. The wind was not great, but the waves and current conspired to create a wavy condition that Shadowfax did not approve of.
In the carnage our library, normally well stowed, managed to cascade off shelves and end up on the floorboards, joined by cell phones, hats, glasses, dishes and anything else in the cabin not bolted down. On top of this sliding mass of debris I ended up, on the floor voluntarily, having given up any attempt to stay on a bunk, opting for a surface I could not be dumped further off of unless we sank. The mast extending through the cabin roof and bolted to the keel was the one secure fixture in this topsy-turvy, heaving world. I curled myself around it in a fetal position and got wretchedly and miserably seasick. Captain Bob stayed above, successfully steering Shadowfax through waves, down troughs and around the gauntlets of fishing nets. We finally reached the smoother
waters of McLean Harbor and anchored Shadowfax, not minding the rolling swells that faintly reached us, grateful they had been tamed by the rocky shores for this evening. Our next morning’s voyage
brought calmer seas to traverse the rest of Dixon Entrance’s treacherous shoals; we gratefully sailed in reasonable winds not minding the dark skies and rain that pelted us. Swollen clouds dipped low on the mainland in the distance with dangling grey tongues of mist seeming to lap at the sea, gathering more moisture to add to the deluge. As we sailed, I aimed the helm for these cat’s tongues so as to watch how closely they met the water, and to check to make sure they were benign entities, not a waterspout or tornado formation. We made our destination of Nakat Harbor without incident.
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*partial inventory
in class in class
in class*
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