Dave Moorehead and Valerie Crystal
11/5/01: The experienced skipper and novice first mate had a rough week; among all of life’s everyday curveballs and unnerving realities, Dave closed his restaurant, The Red Dawg in Chehalis, and I was forced to move my practice to a new location. Both of us knew the coming weeks would be wracked with decision making and hard work. We might not get another opportunity to take off for quite some time. The only logical thing to do was to go sailing. This would be our shakedown cruise to see how well we moved in and around the boat for 4 days, having only been out for day sails until now, and talking about a 3 week trip in the spring.
11/6/01: We spent the first night at the dock and started out in the morning, after getting some work-related chores done in town and gathering provisions. I was happy to be getting away with my friend, but didn’t know how I would feel in 48 hrs. I’m not prone to seasickness, yet I tend to get a little restless. Dave and I got along well enough on land, but there were many unknowns on this adventure.
11/7/01: The weather was lovely, lots of sun and blue skies, but not enough wind. That was okay with me, remembering the first and second times I was in a heeling boat. A little scary, but the skipper tells me “That’s the point!” Nonetheless, I prefer to stand up straight until I get more accustomed to the unfamiliar thrill. I did not feel particularly well the first day having had a couple of emotional meltdowns, still attached to what was happening on land in my life. Dave was amazing, as always, in his ability to focus on the task at hand and to allow things to flow without too much resistance. In between my tears and tirades he taught me about apparent and actual wind, the difference between sail and mast, oops — what a blundering idiot I was about sailboat terminology, the place for everything and how to keep everything in its place.
It didn’t take long for me to feel the peace being on the water affords. I looked at everything I possibly could in the binoculars, occasionally feeling like I had discovered a treasure. “Ooohh Davie, look at that big bird!!” Scurrying to look it up in one of the many reference books he keeps on board, I feel a sense of great accomplishment when we were able to identify something wonderful. The South Puget Sound is generous in its offering of beautiful and awesome wildlife.
The first night out we stayed at Longbranch in Filucy Bay. The wind had died down somewhere near Devils Head, so we putted past the huge totem at the north end of Drayton Passage. I think it was at this moment I was able to consciously leave my problems behind, shedding any and all thoughts that were not totally present, open-minded and positive. Perhaps this adventure was a gift of peace for me, a reprieve, an offering of the Gods for my soul.
Dave slowed down. I felt calm as we circled a few other happy boaters spending the night here. We anchored a short distance from a houseboat under construction. It was an interesting and pretty structure, sitting square atop 3 hulls with a frontispiece of a grand figurehead. We waved to the owner and prepared a lovely dinner, including our two favorite items, wine and pepperoncinis. Dave lit the adorable little heat stove to get the chill out for the night. It was still pretty cold but I didn’t care. I felt alive and carefree. Any discomfort and inconvenience became unimportant. It was as if I knew the next couple of days would be filled with the necessity to dig deep for some rusty survival skills, and that this was good for me.
11/8/01: We awoke to another beautiful day and moseyed around the cabin for a couple of hours, content to continue the important business of unwinding from the traumas we left behind. They would be dealt with soon enough. We earned the luxury of this time on the water, and all the adventures we would bring back to “real life”. We were preserving memories that would comfort us in the coming weeks, and give us something to look forward to, thinking about our spring cruise.
I donned some sweats, vests, gloves and a hat. Motoring east into Balch Passage, I was at the helm for my second lesson in “taking us out”. After awhile we put Otto at the helm and relished the open course of this channel, as well as the stinging cold. In one of those special moments that we all have from time to time, when one feels the joy of being alive, I realized that a life-long dream of mine was coming true. Now don’t laugh, but I felt like I was in an episode of National Geographic. I always loved watching documentaries when I had TV, but now I was living it. My earlier-in-life quest to be a Marine Biologist didn’t pan out and I spent many years in the city, but I realized that my yearning to be on the water was being fulfilled in this way, at this time in my life. I felt a wondrous pang of gratitude for my good fortune. I looked at the skipper and smiled, wondering if he understood what is difficult to describe in words. He smiled back. He understood.
The wind started to pick up. Dave shut the motor and put up the sails. We passed Eagle Island and came into some confused waters, evidence of an ebbing tide. Swirls going in different directions, more wind, the quietness of sailing along, all served to exhilarate us. It felt like a mystery was unfolding, something was about to happen. I could feel it in my blood.
At first, I could not believe my eyes when I saw the white dorsal fin on the black body of a Dall porpoise, and then another, and another. They were all around us! I could hardly contain my excitement. I started to run up on deck. “No, Vavvie”, the skipper admonished, fearing I might go overboard in my eagerness. I took a few deep breaths and carefully stepped up to the foredeck to get as close as I could. I had been out whale watching on Cape Cod many times, fighting with 30 other people to get a look. This was a special private visit, just for us. I was very excited.
Everything got quiet. Where were they? I must confess to my readers that I said a little prayer for them to play with us. Suddenly they were blowing starboard, disappearing under the boat and emerging to port, blowing all around. I looked at Dave and recited an old Native American aphorism, “It’s a good day to die.” The meaning of this is not as grave as it may sound at first; it is simply a statement of pure contentment and gratitude at having fulfilled one’s purpose, and being thankful for the days of our lives already lived. After about 20 minutes of sheer fun with the porpoises, they went under water, leaving no trace of their enchanting visit. We didn’t even get a picture. I thanked them.
Dave decided to run a contour line the rest of the way to Oro Bay, our next stopover. As a geologist, I loved the concept of contour sailing. This was something technical that I understood. I headed into the cabin to get warm, but Dave encouraged me to stay above and take everything in. I was glad for this for entering the peaceful feel of Oro Bay. We were the only boat there that night. The vision of Mt. Rainier, stark and mighty behind us, was yet another moment that was filled with delight.
We anchored and made dinner. Everything took on a slow-moving feel, as if time was stopping. I was unwound and it felt good. I hadn’t taken a shower other than a sponge bath or two, in a couple of days. I hadn’t had my healthier food choices, nor was I able to get much exercise. Everything was different out here. I’d never been happier.
11/9/01: I peeked out of the hatch early. No wonder they call this place Gold Bay, I thought. It was charming. I went up to the foredeck with my journal, determined to get some stuff written down about the trip so far. Writer’s block! Followed by another unexpected tearful release. This forced me to stay with the timeless feel and not do anything. I’ll write about it one day, I thought. Also, when I opened my journal I noticed that my last entry was on September 10 of this year. Maybe remembering the unspeakable event of September 11 caused me to go completely blank and lament a little.
After allowing me more than sufficient space and time to let go of the last little weepy thoughts and my grief over the human condition, Dave began to raise the anchor. I didn’t want to leave; I never wanted to leave. But he knew the workings of the water and the time we needed to be where we were heading. He assured me he would take it slow. I needed to leave this place slowly. We identified cute little buffleheads and observed their behavior. I listened to the sounds of the hawks on Anderson Island and soaked up the artistic beauty of the Madrona trees. Staring at Mt. Rainier, I assured the skipper I was all better and ready to go.
We sailed and motored for hours. At one point the skipper said, “Hey grab that rope and raise the main sail, will ya?”
Me??? Raise a sail??? “ Yes!”, I said with force. “I will raise the sail. Me!!”
“Now the head sail, okay Vav?” Pounding my chest, the accomplishment made me feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway after he discovers how to make fire.
Dave and I didn’t speak much on this day, secure in the knowledge that our shakedown cruise was a success, and respecting that feeling of pure serenity one gets on the water.
Entering the vicinity of Olympia again was a little startling; I was not ready to go home. I needed one more night on the boat, even if it was only at the dock. The skipper happily agreed. I wonder if he knows what this trip meant to me, how it helped me and gave me hope for the future. Well, he does now, and I thank him. This writing is in his honor.
And that’s the end of Dav and Vav’s Excellent Adventure. Until next time.
Valerie Crystal