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November 27, 2007

Milestones

Bluewater From Above: Pointed to the Horizon. Stars or Jellyfish?
Photo by Michael Sharp

There have been many milestones in our journey north, like buying the boat and moving aboard. Some milestones mark progress, like entering Canada and running our first major tidal rapid. Some milestones are predictable and often intimidating obstacles, like crossing the Columbia River Bar and the Gulf of Alaska—they are inevitable, they must be navigated to progress from point A to point B. Other milestones are not so apparent, they sneak up on you when you’re not looking, catching you unaware.

Last night we crossed such a threshold. Susanna and I are in Anchorage to visit friends and run errands. Yesterday we picked up a copy of 48º North, a favorite sailing rag. And then it happened. I opened the cover to learn that one of the people we met in past year has died.

Captain Dan Bergin pulled into the Astoria marina a few days after we arrived. Dan and I spent a few days telling stories and sharing what we knew or didn’t know. He blew out his storm jib on his trip from San Francisco and I had ideas about how to fix it in a town like Astoria sans sail loft. Dan had crossed the Columbia River Bar several times and gave me sage advice and a helpful perspective for dealing with such an impending obstacle.

Then Dan’s students arrived, the jib aboard Papawas fixed and they sailed for points north. We knew that Dan offered Papa for charter and instruction in the San Juan Islands. As we traveled north, we kept a sharp weather eye for Papa and talked about how fun it would be to share an anchorage and tell more stories.

We have visited amazing places in the past year and a half, and seen things we could never imagine. We have met wonderful and inspiring people everywhere we go. They are an integral part of the narrative thread that is this adventure. When I lay in my bunk at night, I dream about the times we will arrive in some new port or anchorage and see a familiar boat and reconnect with the very fiber of this adventure.

We never did reconnect with Captain Dan. I had hopped to meet him again, to sit in the cockpit of Bluewater or Papa and tell sea stories. Dan ran a sailing school on his boat and encouraged me to get my captain’s license, something I think of often as my love of the sea and boats grows.

So it is the age-old lesson we must learn over and over: You never know who you will meet today and you never know what lies over the horizon. There is no way to prepare for every milestone or know what way the wind will blow. So you better go, because you will see nothing just sitting there.

Posted by Michael at 2:37 PM

November 20, 2007

Tuesday Tease: Salmon Torture

Whitewater Salmon - Photo by Michael Sharp

Maybe you have seen the images of salmon leaping upstream, the ubiquitous silver streak in the white water of some far-off Alaskan stream?

What you never see are the salmon getting ready. There is no really good explanation as to why the pink salmon jump high out of the water and smack back down only to jump again. One explanation claims the females do it to rearrange their egg sacks, another declares they are getting in shape, another says they just want a look around. Whatever the reason, in late July and early August, the pink salmon—also called humpies for the distinctive hump the fish develop prior to spawning—leap and leap, splashing about at all hours of the day and night, all over the anchorage, all around the boat. Everywhere.

Nisa is obsessed with salmon. As they school and gather around the boat she peers over the toerail into the water in hopes of catching a glimpse of their shiny green bodies below. When the salmon jump and leap she whimpers and whines in excitement. Dancing and prancing across the deck of Bluewater, she is clearly frustrated that they are so close and so completely out of reach.

A particularly vigorous batch of humpies moved through Otter Cove at the end of July in 2007. Imagine a beautiful setting: tree-covered mountains, moss-covered rocks, still green water, the sun setting languidly at 10:30pm. Inject into this scene ten thousand imaginary, silent Boy Scouts with an unlimited number of fist-sized rocks. These Scouts have but one mission: to exhaust their endless supply of rocks by casting them into the sea. Each and every boy, throwing rocks into the water as fast as he can, indefinitely. Splash, Splash, SplSpash in every direction. If you can envision this, you will have a glimmer of how vigorously the salmon propelled their sleek bodies skyward.

At first it was amusing to watch Nisa try to keep track of all the jumping salmon. She whimpered and growled, groaned and huffed, the salmon just out of reach. Sometimes the jumping fish would collide with the boat. Smack! Bong! Splash! Nisa expressed her frustration. ArF! URrrrrrHuhHuhRRR! ArF! ArF! Eventually it was too much to bear, for us and for the Wonderdog.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, the salmon seemed to rest. I convinced Nisa to come inside; it was time for bed. She lay in her preferred spot, the starboard settee, blissfully drifting into doggy dreamland with her usual deep sigh and roll to her back, when suddenly the Splash, Splash, SplSpash of possessed humpies once again filled the air. Nisa shot straight up from a dead sleep, letting go a booming barrage of WOOF! WOOF! GRR! WOOF! WOOF! before all four feet found purchase on the floor. She bolted through the companionway to the cockpit and on deck faster than a fireman down a pole, the cacophony of leaping humpies driving her crazy.

The up-and-down cycle of Nisa, first asleep, then dashing on deck, continued for hours. I had to stop the madness, so I closed the boat and denied her access to the outside. She could no longer bound out to inspect the latest round of leaping. For a long time she sat at the companionway boards blocking her path, her head tilting left, then right, then left, listening. Pawing at the teak boards, hoping to gain access to the outside world for one last inspection, she voiced her frustration with whines and half-growls. Finally, exhaustion gained the upper hand. She returned to her preferred spot and lay down. Unwilling to admit defeat to the torturous behavior of her aquatic nemesis, she lay awake, eyes open, ears alert. Listening and waiting.

How did it end? The salmon won. They continued to leap and jump. Nisa became a zombie from the stimulation and lack of sleep. We decided to leave Otter Cove to give Nisa and us a break. As we departed into Bainbridge Passage and left the crazed fish behind, Nisa took up her favorite spot on deck, wedging herself between the windlass and the toerail and promptly fell asleep.

Posted by Michael at 3:10 AM

November 13, 2007

Tuesday Tease: The Seward to Valdez Gallery

Mural, Seward, Alaska – Photo by Michael Sharp

Introducing a new and regular feature here at Adventure Freaks, every week we will add a new post for your pleasure: The Tuesday Tease. It may be big; it may be small. It may be heart stopping, terrifying and eye-popping. It may subtle, unique and mysterious. The Tuesday Tease will fill gaps from the past year and keep you posted about the current happenings on Bluewater.

This week’s Tease is a new gallery featuring our trip from Seward to Valdez. We spent a month returning to the Gateway to the Chugach. We thought Prince William Sound was spectacular over the summer, and the fall was doubly so. During our month-long return trip, we saw five boats and felt like we had the entire 12,000 square miles to ourselves. We basked in sunny days and clear nights with only one real storm. One night we saw more stars than either of us have ever seen in our lives. Whales, otters and bears visited us. Red, orange, pink and white jellyfish flourished. We hiked to summits and lost lakes and across miles of muskeg.

The gallery starts in Seward and ends just outside Valdez’s small boat harbor. See images from a day sail with our friends Jerry and Mary aboard their sailboat Sweet Mary, which quickly became Nisa’s other boat. Every time we walked past the Sweet Mary at the Seward dock, she wanted to board and inspect! Enjoy views from high above Thumb Cove in Resurrection Bay and our final preparations to depart Seward for Prince William Sound. Visit the abandoned Port Audrey Cannery in Drier Bay on Knight Island, where we hope to head in February for some serious skiing. See the worlds smallest halibut--and much more! So check out the new gallery here.

Posted by Michael at 1:02 AM

November 10, 2007

Light – The Winter Blues

Susanna and Nisa in front of the GoLite...Even the tools to escape the darkness are blue -- Photo by Michael Sharp

Valdez lies at 61º 07' North latitude or 3,667 miles north of the equator. Our days are becoming noticeably shorter; we lose 5 minutes and 16 seconds each day. That’s 36 minutes and 52 seconds every week or 2 hours and 23 minutes each month. On December 21st (winter solstice, the shortest day of the year) there are only 5 hours and 23 minutes of daylight. The sun will rise at 10:07am and set at 3:29pm, then the cycle reverses and the days lengthen with the same dramatic leaps and bounds for 6 months until summer solstice on June 21st (the longest day of the year) when the sun rises at 4:01am and sets at 11:25pm. But it never really gets dark.

The shorter days bring more than darkness. With each passing day the sun sinks lower and lower in southern sky and colors of our every day life shift and take on a winter guise. In typical Alaskan fashion, the color transformation is dramatic. As the latest storm rolls in over the southern skyline, the sky turns a deep and muted purple, which is an extreme contrast against the white jagged mountains. The water of the harbor and greater Prince William Sound transforms from a silt-laden blue to a exquisite jade that seems clearer than glass.

The prevailing hue in the color shift is blue. Not a cobalt blue but a milder more subtle blue. This subtle blue infuses everything, the color of snow, the tone of shadows and if we are not careful our very moods. Seasonal Affective Disorder is a very real thing when the sun comes up mid morning and sets mid afternoon. To combat the effects of the loss of light, every morning we sit in front of a special light designed to help our brains overcome the effects of the shorter days.

Darkness becomes a strange companion, something that is always present. It would be easy to stay in bed all day and watch movies. Or one can embrace the darkness, find solace in the quiet. This winter we are living aboard Bluewater. She is the perfect size for exploring and traveling, but tied to the dock she can feel very small. This winter we will explore the dark, we will frolic in the early evening stars. Who knows what we will find.

Posted by Michael at 4:08 PM | Comments (0)