The weather was remarkable, at least from what I had assumed late September would be. The sunshine abundant and the seas glistened. We untied the lines bound for Kodiak Island; a two day sail away. The sunset affixed itself on the horizon, prolonging our blissful beam reach as the Pacific swell welcomed us into her arms. The same whales that greeted us into Sand Point, waved us goodbye. There couldn’t have been a better place to be. We went into the night with varied winds but accompanied by a bright moon to fasten our evening gaze. Jelly bombs boisterously exploded with light at our stern. Bioluminescent creatures abruptly disturbed by the rudder and burst with tantalizing light as we passed through. The skies were alive with starry wonders.
Ragged, snow peaked mountains of the Alaska Peninsula retreating at our stern informed us of what we were missing. We ebbed and flowed from spinnaker to motoring in the light winds. Temperatures sored to 10C/50F; feet were naked on deck. The relief was immense, both physically and emotionally. Who knew sailing in Alaska would be this balmy? It was a dream. Soon we were back to wing-on-wing in the wallowy swell. Our fortunes soon faded on my watch in the wee hours when our rigid vang popped off it’s mount, and an unusual inordinate Ben hopped on deck in the night and reluctantly hammered away for an hour while he fixed the broken joint and jerry-rigged what secured the main boom from flying sky high. That evening we arrived at the mountainous southeast of Kodiak Island. The wind always certain to creep up as we neared shore and soon we were hurdling eight knots straight into the illustrious Aliulik Peninsula. We avoided the rock indicating the entrance; mountain goats peered down on us from above and we dropped the hook in another bay fringed by a moraine bar with total protection. We ignored the high wind caution in the meagre guidebook.
Note: this is part four of four recent blogs entailing our autumn in the Arctic last year.
We stayed a couple days and repeated our explorations. We found the game trails again and bush whacked as far as we dared. Young Dean launched his surfboard and paddled on over to Caprivi, and in a ceaseless attempt to keep a six year-old entertained, John and Ben attached a line to the board and then to the dingy, and towed a joyous kid in his wetsuit through the water as Kara and I watched from aboard. The moment and lighting was gorgeous. When the laughs were over, a shivering Dean hopped back aboard, smile ear to ear with the kettle whistling in the background – shower time. Dinner was either on Caprivi or Sentijn, it was ever changeable.
By evening, wind was on the forecast and in our own complacency, we did naught. We had barely ‘put the boat away’ from her previous two days sailing; the mainsail tied down by only one sail tie. It came at dusk and only then did I proceed to spend a frustrating half hour on deck making sure everything was strapped in place as I scrambled about between the puffs. The dingy at the stern was tied securely but the tank of fuel was floating in the water, attached only by the fuel hose. I yelled down below to Ben that I was going in – into the dinghy that was – a more hectic event than usual but Ben brushed it off as I’ve had tendancies to be more vocal than a situation may pertain. There was a little worry as the painter tensioned profusely against the stern, the bow of the dinghy lifting high in the air but I jumped aboard in the dark and secured the fuel tank back into place. Scrambling back into bed, I was happy to be out of the gusts of wind that seemed much less frantic down below.
Not thirty minutes later, another gust of wind pierced down from the mountain valley hitting us good. Ben went aloft and just as his eyes came-to in the pitch dark of the night, he saw the 100 pounds of dingy flying in the air like a kite, holding on for dear life at the stern. Not a moment later the wind released its grip, the dingy spun and landed back in the water upside down with the 15 hp attached. He jumped aboard and somehow managed to flip it back over. Only able to tie it down more securely and wait until morning to flush the engine with fresh water and hope that it lived another day. Those williwaws will get you. We lost a bucket, a paint brush and a fender that we had scavenged from the shore only to return to its castaway island.
During the last week or so it was noted that we had a few missed calls from some friends of ours. It’s not an uncommon occurrence and we thought we’d get back to them soon enough. Our eyes then caught a text message that contained the words ‘flying’, ‘Kodiak’ and a bunch of exclamation marks. Our curiosity peaked. At first I didn’t believe them but then they sent the flight confirmations… I asked where their names were. They were there indeed. In three days time our friends would be flying from the east coast of the U.S. into Kodiak Island to meet us. I couldn’t tell if it would be horrendous or perfection. Only Josh and Erin could have the audacity to a) know that we were actually going to be in Kodiak, b) fly thousands of miles for six days of remote sailing, being well aware of the nuances it entails, c) think that six days would be the ‘relaxing’ get away they really needed and d) actually pull it off and deduce that our friendship authorised turning up at any given moment, to live on board and be fed because we loved them. Damn it, they had us at the airport lounge selfie!
We hoist the anchor from Jap Bay and head into the Sitkalidak passage on the inside of the island. The sailing was great and we stuck close to Sentijn simply for the pleasure of it. A royal wave thrown in here and there; a photo or two captured. To convey into words what it has been to have had the crew of Sentijn nearby this past summer is a tough one. I don’t think there could have been a better counterpart. Since meeting on that fine day in the historic Battle Harbour, in Labrador, Canada; to two days later feasting together on wild Atlantic salmon, whelks and sipping on cocktails from thousand year-old ice and now a journey through the Arctic, it’s been a moulding of a unique friendship, trust and bond that I’m not sure one can get in too many places on this earth and in this lifetime.
The word ‘buddy boat’ was never quite articulated or admitted to but the redundancy of simply another vessel was a stark undertone. To be in such a remote region for months at a time, self-sufficiency was of the utmost importance and both crews had it in spades. But to put our ideas and experiences together to form critical decisions was invaluable. This was amplified by the fact that our vessels performed similarly and that our tactics and ideals, in both life and sailing, were akin. Something I believe do not merge all too often and for those traits to come together in the northern latitudes is beyond. Nevertheless, seeking each others company meant that only one party had to deploy their dingy at a time; one galley made a mess in per evening; the ever elusive sailing photos could be shared; one shotgun be brought ashore for protection; one kid to entertain and one kid to keep us entertained. It was a well worked dynamic and we appreciated the hell out of that humble, resourceful and inspiring family who’ve spent years sailing the world’s oceans. Thank you for one hell of a summer!
The passage towards Old Harbor was filled with humpback whales. They were in close proximity, too close perhaps. Fall colours were finishing their cycle, and each bay we peered down, mountainous valleys dropped straight into the waters below followed by another on the other side. We decided to stop early in an enclave at the base of a small delta stemming straight from the highest peak on Kodiak Island. We go exploring, picked up Sentijn on the way and headed up the meandering stream on an outgoing tide. With the dingy on step, we ensured to be as skinny as possible and edge to the deepest parts of the stream. We went as far as we dared and find a spot to dock and enjoyed the radiating evening light, beaming against the burnt grasslands and glimmering waters. A picnic of cheese, cured meat and crackers set in the long grass was as inviting as ever.
We hadn’t quite planned to land ashore and didn’t bring the shotgun so we were a little on edge. After a while we saw some locals downstream who were fishing for salmon and they came hollering on their skiff thinking we were one of their friends. Not long after we spied a Kodiak brown bear upriver; the locals seemed casual. We peered through our one pair of binoculars. The large mass of bear was making its way over. The locals headed in its direction with a gun. I wasn’t liking this at all but they seemed to know what they were doing and we followed in a concernful glee. Next minute, a whiff of air peaks the bear’s senses and it started running towards us. I barely contained my conflicting exhilaration and could not believe that this was happening all while with a local hunter and guide at hand who does this by day.
The bear crossed back over the small stream and we watched in perceived safety, another joined him and they sat watching, as we did them. It permitted time for each party to observe one another, to comprehend the colossal sized head of the bear and the beauty peeping out through the grass. Back in the dingy we had a time of it trying to get back on the lowering tide. The waters were much shallower and we misjudged one meander, beaching the dinghy in high ground. The locals laughed as they took the precautionary route in their aluminum skiff. They soon stopped to harvest a fallen tree for wood and we carried on bumping our way through the delta. One moment we thought we were free, the next it was a crap shoot. Soon we began to notice crabs on the bottom of the seabed. We reached down and grabbed one to see what it is. Dungeness crabs were sporadically crawling all over and we took our jab at collecting dinner by hand. The captain aborted all control of the vessel and was arms deep collecting any crab that lingered too long. Dean was in charge of keeping them contained in the dingy and we had a meal. Sentijn offered to prep, we brought the wine and enjoyed one of the most delicious crustaceans I’ve had. A feast by misjudgment and opportunity, perfection.
Midday we get on with it, a hop, skip and a jump to the next bay. Sentijn ahead searched for surf in one bay but to no avail. The sun shone, the wind was down and we had friends joining us. We opened the hatches. Blankets and mattresses came out on deck to air, and we allowed Caprivi to breathe for once. At one point a limb or two made a presence outside of its summer hold of cloth – miraculous. We looked like an untanned gypsy camp; the sea gods would have frowned. The following day we lifted anchor and rounded Cape Chiniak for a sporty tack into Kodiak Harbour, along with the staysail, a hope and a prayer. We docked in the harbour at 3pm, tied the lines and hitched a ride to the airport to pick up Josh and Erin that evening. Phew, we made it!
We told them their first morning of vacation would be spent at a laundromat, and indeed that’s what we did! A mile on foot and a load of gear divided between us. It turned out to be a wise choice as the laundry attendant knew his stuff. A fisherman at times, he winced when we told him about Japanese Bay, stating that’s the windiest place one could go on the coast. We concurred that he was probably right. We decided to hire a van for 24 hours and go on a bear hunt. Sentijn joined us and we made our first turn off a few miles down the way. The small road led to the water and soon enough out of nowhere a Kodiak brown bear ran from the bushes, across the street and only a few metres in front of us. We were astonished into silence and weren’t quite expecting that so quickly. We parked up and went to the nearby stream where another few were sitting happily waist deep in the water, fishing the remnants of any salmon that looked a little more alive than dead. It was the end of the season after all.
Further south on the peninsula, we find more bears dotted along the bay. We ventured up an abandoned road to see where it took us, the landscape reminiscent of Ireland’s west coast. The boys get the cans out and we fired off the unused shotgun to our liking. I was soon up, Ben plugged my ears with his hands and I fired the gun off and ran squeamishly back into the car in disapproval of the loud bang and to get out of the sharp wind that was diluting our time there. We dashed back down the country road while Dean tested Ben’s endurance and played read-the-sign-of-every-speed-limit-and-confirm-that-Ben-is-on-point, then popped over to check out the massive windmills that sit, looming above the town of Kodiak.
We had a decision to make. Our weather window was to leave the next day in large swell and high winds on the beam or the following in large swell and no wind. We were headed across the Gulf of Alaska to the rugged Kenai Peninsula for a 24 hour run. The former was chosen and we left that afternoon. The swell hit us immediately, the logbook stated ten foot seas, my memory told me otherwise. We were cruising eight knots down the waves. The wind was a little windier and a little more forward of the beam than anticipated and we had an island to port that we needed to avoid. Whales made their presence known nearby. Just as Josh and Erin were adjusting to our rhythm on Caprivi, we smacked a huge tree bulb rendering a horrifying bang. Ben quickly took the helm and veered up wind making sure to avoid any contact with the rudder and propeller. I checked the bilges – dry but an unease was in the air. Soon another bang and another log. Things were getting spicy and we were headed into the night. To make things more dramatic I peered aft of Caprivi and saw the image of a large fin whale looming above us in the swell. My memory tells me it was almost spreader height. I doubt it but you get the point, usually you look down upon whales, not from below. It was magical and frightening all at once.
Soon Erin was forced to her bunk, a bowl by her side. A slight dread and sea sickness don’t go hand in hand. We persevered. Ben and Josh remained in the cockpit and carried on as usual. I stuck below and more closely examined our landfall. It didn’t take long for Josh to soon mumble ‘I gotta pump’ and over the side he heaved. We continued on and I rested for my shift; my anxiety was through the roof and no rest was had. Not for the particular conditions but for the experience that our friends were having as their first sail aboard Caprivi as they lay in bed with a bucket. They only had a week and this is what we were putting them through. These two were hardy sailors and self-inflicted multi vessel owners. Josh being the most experienced mariner I know, and we had reduced him to his bunk. I felt terrible. But despite our crews woes, Caprivi was in tune and handling it like a champ, we knew her rhythm well.
The weather eased into the night but as we neared shore the breeze came back up and was directly in our face and where we needed to head. We were triple reefed with the staysail now beating into the swell, barely making way. Our landfall had to change and I wasn’t sure where we could refuge. We had sights on a small enclaved island but as we passed by the entrance was being hammered with white water. It was wet and cold but we kept on inland, creeping in as conditions allowed, and finally the seas dispersed. We found a small ledge in Crater Bay and tucked in using the led weight and string to give us our depth. It would have to do. To be still after a hectic 24 hours was simply momentous.
Josh and Erin rose merrily from their cabin and surmised that they hadn’t slept that well in a long time. I’m not sure I believed them but I did suspect they needed the sleep. The vertical walls that we parked mere feet from trickled with streams of water. My anxiety soon faded and a wonderful evening commenced as only such polarities of a life at sea can do. We awoke the next morning to a semi-clear and refreshing day and made a plan. We could head east or head up into Northwestern glacier. When Erin told us she’d never seen a glacier, the choice was obvious. We passed the moraine bar, collected a chunk of glacier ice and enjoyed mimosas while dancing to music in the cockpit. Josh cooked breakfast and we rejoiced in the absolutely stunning, mountain ladened scenery of the Kenai Fjord National Park. Slushy ice passed our hull and we sat in awe at the base of the glacier. To share this with friends watching as the Harbor seals pondered about on ice floes while we listened for the inevitable cracks and groans of the fjord was exceptional. No one else was around. We were late in the season and who dared be out here at this time. We thought it was rather brilliant.
We head back out to sea and east bound for Resurrection Bay. We shoot the gap at Pete’s Pass, enjoy some pleasant sailing into Porcupine Cove and resume an evening on Sentijn for the final time at sea. The evening bioluminesce was incredible, the most ignited I’d seen. Three hours away was Seward, a small town nestled beneath the mountains and our final destination. Memories traced back to that moment we departed north from the tepid Caribbean on May 10th. Making that decision was a masterpiece at work. In-between we filled it with adventure and a quest, and now here we were on October 8th, a laborious six months later, our journey at an end. It was everything we could have imagined and more.
Awaking that solemn morning we took one last leap into the frigid waters, cleansing any sorrows or tension that we could surrender to start anew in a small, and once familiar place. An excitement was in the air; we were home.