We Return to the River and the Sea

Following up on "Cut the Fucking Thing."

Thanks to everyone who commented on the first part of this story, and expressed their concerns for our wellbeing, of body and of mind. The boat is right side up, still.

Mouth of the Columbia River

One of two new starters was installed, and the engine ran fine. Damage to Aurora's keel that happened during the Coast Guard tow had been deemed by several professionals to be superficial, that is, the boat was not in danger of sinking right away. But Chuck's plans to sail to Mexico are postponed until next year. He would take the boat back to Port Townsend for repairs and spend the winter there.

After watching the weather for almost a week we saw a window of calm to light southerly winds starting around 1100 hours Sunday, Sept. 22. The  run from the Columbia to Juan de Fuca Strait at 5 knots would take 24 hours. It looked like we had that and then some.

Kelly and I stepped out of our landlocked lives once more, and got a ride to Ilwaco the night before departure. I was up by 0500 walking the docks. Already the sport fishermen's engines idled. Men wheeled supplies through the dark. Carts filled with crushed ice, fishing rods, cases of beer. Ilwaco is the center of salmon fishing on the Columbia. Once the subsistence for native tribes, then the bread and butter for thousands of commercial fishermen, now the site of fish derbys and hundreds of sport fishing boats. Like this one below, more or less typical, a 900 horsepower fish killing machine. 

We were anxious to get started, but this time would cross the bar at slack ebb, that is, when the tide in the river was at its minimal flow. With no onshore winds stirring things up, and the slack tide, crossing the bar should be a piece cake. We'd been waiting a week. The once week long trip to San Francisco used up much of September, and we were impatient. Fidgeting sailors, Kelly and I un-cleated the lines. 
Well, said Captain Chuck, looks like we're casting off. 

The channel from Ilwaco harbor out to the river wends and winds for a couple of miles through mud flats. Small outboards trolling crossed in front, salmon jumped everywhere. A waterlogged geometry of pilings all that remained from scores 19th century salmon canneries.

We passed the Cape Disappointment Coast Guard Station looking for our boat, 47317, among the half dozen 47's tied up but we couldn't find it. Something tells me the Coasties don't use feminine pronouns to refer to the 47's. Maybe they/them? Something to look into. The same day they towed us a tugboat smashed into their docks. Yup, that's where the tug hit. Wonder why? 

Leaving Ilwaco. Cannery pilings, Baker Bay, and the Douglas fir clad hills of Southwest Washington. 


A piece of cake is an inept metaphor for crossing the Columbia River Bar in any condition, but...Readers asked for a sequel to "Cutting." I was going to tell of our encirclement by great white sharks, the near collision in the night with two container ships, but sea conditions over the bar were calm as they get.
This was where the second tow started.
Right, closer than I thought to the jetty.
Nice to see it in the daylight. 

Bathymetric Map of the Mouth of Columbia River, lines @ 5' intervals


Green buoys are odd numbers, and on the starboard side leaving ports. At #7 we turn north to follow the coast. This time we plan to stay close to land, ten or twelve miles off. There's no wind, so no reason to chase it. Turns out we stay in cell phone range, barely, and that changes things. We text friends and family. 

The wildlife is different. We see sand sharks swimming on the surface, and one whale. Only one boat in 24 hours. Fog settles down, and at night we run blind but for radar. I think of ships and sailors sailing this coast before electronics allowed us to see in the dark. Yes, indeed, Graveyard of the Pacific. 

All in all uneventful motoring for 41 hours. The demise of the autopilot mid voyage meant hand steering from then on. Tedium standing up, versus zoning out under the dodger. Same two hour watches this time, but with only three people, two hours on four off. I think I got three or fours hours sleep during the trip. Foggy brain copacetic with fog on the water. For fifteen hours we motor along the south side of the shipping channel in the Strait, watching the ships on AIS. The "Dangerous Vessel" message box pops up the screen again and again. Is that ship in the night an hallucination, or do I just suspect it might be a hallucination. 

I didn't lose my toothbrush, or anything else, because I took over a shelf formerly occupied by Mariner. It's a relief to recognize it wasn't me but the the design of the boat making me loose track of stuff. I hit my head one more time on the beam where a sign says watch your head, but no blood this time. When we corkscrewed though the confused seas at the west end of the Strait the nausea and sweats returned. I'll pass for now, on the lasagne. Yes, I volunteered for this. Thanks, I said to Chuck, for this opportunity to sail offshore. 

0300 hours Tuesday we tie up in Port Townsend. 
I think we can turn off the engine now Kelly. 
Such a sweet sound.