Cruising the Gulf Islands - Horton Bay On Sunday, the 11th of May, sloop Whisper headed out toward Active Pass in a flotilla of one. Fleet Captain Brochmann, his bright red and blue pennant of office flying en charge. Humphrey was asleep and Auto Helm was at the tiller. It was a pround sight. The sun smiled. The breeze blew. The waves lapped. The world was at peace.
At Horton Bay, motor yacht Sabrina II was already tied up right below a 'no mooring' sign that warned of dire consequences for doing so. Kitty Cotton and Humphrey seemed to hit it off right away and off they went for a walk while Barry and I listened to the Coast Guard being called to rescue a boat in Ganges Harbour which reported that it was taking on water and sinking at a point a half mile north east of Deadman's Island. I calculate this location to be roughly half way along Long Harbour Road.
A short walk from the wharf at Horton is a farm on which they raise spotted deer. These seem very energetic, bounce when they run, and are fun to watch. Brochures at the roadside kiosk advertise the many fine products available - jackets, pate, and Fenison (sic) medallions
A little later we took a spin around the bay and ran into (figuratively, not literally) Allan and Betty Kirk on Gulf Wind.
Next morning I got away before a restrained Don Baxter on the school boat came by to explain the reason for the 'no mooring' sign. While listening to radio reports of the trial of that great journalist and promoter of Canadian multiculturalism, Doug Colins, Whisper proceded down Tumbo Channel and crossed behind Waldon and Stewart Islands. Very interesting. Apparently there is no public electricity utility in these parts. Most houses were equipped with solar panels and windmills. Also, there are some wonderful house designs including an obviously well built geodesic dome. On one beach there were a number of odd looking objects which I learned from one of the natives were reef net boats used for catching salmon.
Off Turn Point we were greeted by a dozen or so porpi who were so glad to have found us that they stayed around for over an hour. Humphrey found the whole display frustrating and got quite agitated.
Sabrina II and Gulf Wind awaited us at Bedwell Harbour. We told tall tales and ate fish and chips and lasagna on the veranda of the pub. There is a sign on the door denying entry to anyone under 19, so Humphrey (who is only two) had to wait for us outside. He was compensated with lots of leftover fried potatoes and another walk with Kitty who cheerfully reported that he had done his business. This must be an English expression. I heard David Stone use it as well. I have forgotten the occasion.
After dinner I moved down to one of the mooring buoys at Beaumont Marine Park. This turned out to be horrible mistake. The interplay of overnight breezes and tidal sloshings caused Whisper to prefer leaning against, as opposed to hang from the mooring buoy, with the result that from approximately 0200 and on, the periodic banging of metal against fiberglass foiled all attempts at further sleep. Not even Captain Morgan's magic sleeping potion (of which only a small amount had survived the previous evening) did the trick. My disposition at sunrise was not the best and I blame the events that followed later that day on this weakening of my condition.
Coming into Ganges Harbour, Whisper was a proud sight. The spinnaker billowed impressively in a 10 knot wind. Fleet Captain Brochmann, his bright red and blue pennant of office flying, en charge. Humphrey was asleep and Auto Helm was at the tiller. Off the Second Sister, a huge cedar branch wrapped itself around the keel, causing Whisper to lurch to a humiliating halt. Naturally, my first thought was to the honour of the club, so I went forward to strike the yellow elephant burghee. While I was thus engaged, Auto, not having steerage, bleeping insistantly, allowed Whisper to execute a ponderous 180. As a result, the spinnaker halyard wrapped itself around the mast. I uttered an expletive ('gosh', I believe), started Yamaha and put her in reverse in attempt to back off, with the predictable consequence that the dingy painter got sucked into the propeller. At this point the spinnaker found the wind and engaged with determination. Whisper assumed a suddent 60 degree heel which woke Humphrey and prompted me to utter my second expletive of the year. We limped sheepishly into port. I believe this is what is called a 'bad hair day'.