![[Photo: Piaw on the tiller. This picture was not taken at Hughes Passage, we were too busy for photos.]](piawst.jpg)
In which Piaw steers the boat through some scary rocks... In which Larry gets scared of scary rocks...
Hughes Passage 1998 Aug 05 Wednesday
On the chart, there were a couple of islands south of Sidney island, D'Arcy and Little D'Arcy. To our right was James Island. Between Sidney island and D'Arcy island was a passage known as the Hughes passage. That indicated that the passage was navigable, yet it was marked with rocks. The wind slowly died down and we were forced to motor along a bit until we came in sight of D'Arcy, where we could sail again, albeit nominally. From where we were, the rocks looked foreboding. We debated about the wisdom of attempting to sail the Hughes passage. On the one hand, the ominous radio was giving us information about others we had floundered or ran aground (and given the feeble VHF we had on board, that meant that the ones involved were fairly close). On the other hand, Roche Harbor was to the North of us, and I did not relish going further South than necessary. As we got further South, the Hughes passage looked less and less dangerous and more and more appealing. What the heck, I had already survived one narrow scrape today, so I decided to try the passage.
Historically, my sailing time has been divided between winching and lollygagging. I don't know much about chart-reading. As I heard people debating the wisdom of taking Hughes Passage, I made a mistake. I looked at the chart. I saw various labels marking rocks. I looked at the water. I couldn't really figure out which rocks were which. Some rocks were submerged, others weren't--ideally, one would be able to use the exposed rocks as landmarks to avoid the submerged rocks. I wasn't having much luck. I tried standing up, craning my neck, looking for rocks. No dice. I sat back down and fretted.
A big bee landed on the floor of the cockpit. It was tired, carrying a heavy load of pollen. Crush it, Piaw said, before it stings someone. I remembered a conversation with Lea. She'd done some study of pollination, had spent a long time looking at one small clump of flowers, noting down everything that messed with them. She'd spent a lot of time looking at bees. No-one crushed the bee, We're just a bunch of softies.
The boundaries of the Hughes Passage, we hoped, were demarcated by two big exposed rocks. To best avoid submerged rocks, we would sail first towards one big rock. At the last minute (but not the last moment), we would turn towards the other big rock. Again at the last minute, we would turn towards the exit of the channel. Okay. I was so scared. Okay. I felt in my pocket. I had a knife in there. Okay, if the sailboat was destroyed it would only take me a few seconds to jump into the dinghy, cut loose its tow rope, and row clear. Okay. It's not like we were going to die if something went wrong, I reminded myself. Okay.
Piaw steered us towards the first rock. Okay. I told myself I wasn't really that scared. Unfortunately, I've never been a very good liar, and I didn't convince myself. My feet shifted nervously in my sandals. No, they were shifting because something was tickling one of them. I looked down at my feet. There was a huge bee crawling on one of them. Oh, the bee.
Flashback
It's July 4th weekend, I'm college age, at a family re-union in Carmel Valley. I'm in my sandals, walking across a lawn, going to pick up some toy which my little cousin Eli has tossed. I am in mid-step; my right foot is in the air; it is beginning its descent. I look down, and notice the bee on my right foot, in the space between the big toe and the index toe. That foot is irrevocably on its way towards the ground, my center of gravity has passed the Rubicon. I think, "Maybe it won't..." as my foot kisses earth, flexes, menaces the bee. The bee stings. It hurts.
We were sailing towards the rock. Really, I should have been paying attention to my roping/winching duties. Really, I should have concentrated on avoiding panic. Somehow, this bee wasn't helping me to avoid panicking. I think I said something clever at this point like, "Aaahhh!" The rest of the crew talked at me for a bit, and I calmed down. The bee was crawling up my leg, stumbling clumsily over leg hairs, dragging its heavy burden of pollen. It was making good time, though, pretty speedy.
Flashback
In Golden Gate Park, I'm maybe eight years old, I'm with my next-door neighbor, helping her to walk the dog. I decide to sit on a park bench. I am in the process of sitting, my butt is descending, I look down between my legs. There is something sticky on the bench, remains of some past confectionary. I try to halt my motion, but it's too late. I am going to sit on this thing. I think, "Oh man." Then I see the bee which is crawling over this mess, delighting in the sugar. I think, "Oh fuck." I squirm, I try to twist, I hit the bench. For an instant, nothing happens. And then there is a pain that throws me forward off the bench, reduces my voice to a gasp.
I had to stop that bee. I gingerly eased off one of my sandals. With a shaking hand, I held the sandal so that the bee would crawl onto it, which it obligingly did. I held up the sandal, gave it a little shake. The bee flew away. Okay. Deep breath. Deep breath. That's when I remembered the rock. It was still plenty far away. Okay. Deep breath. Why was I still so twitchy?
We approached the first rock, turned smoothly, winched smoothly, everything fine. Why was I still twitching? We sailed towards the second rock. I tried not to stare at it. I tried not to look wildly at the surface of the water for hints of submerged rocks. I thought I really must get my last will and testament in order one of these days. I reminded myself that mistakes in this area weren't likely to be fatal. Yeah, right.
We approached the second rock, begain the turn. It was time for me to start hauling on the "jib sheet," to pull on the line that brings the jib sail from one side of the boat to the other. If something went wrong, we could end up turning around or drifting. Usually, this would just be an annoyance. Here, it could be more than an annoyance. I started pulling on the line. Pull. Pull. And then the line was stuck. With the line in my hand, I leaned forward to see what it was caught on. Oh, the sail had been stuck on something. I leaned back, started pulling again. I was having a hard time. Each time I pulled, the rope was pulling back just as hard--the winch wasn't giving me any traction. I looked down. When I'd leaned forward, I'd unlooped the rope from the winch. Oh jeez. I wrapped the line around the winch, started pulling furiously. I looked over at the rock. Still far away, and getting further. I put a winch handle on the winch and did the final tightening up on the line. My arms didn't have much strength left.
[In Hughes Passage,] We came about. And then again. And again, each time inching along the passage. And then the rocks were behind us and I could fall off a bit. Hooray! Of course, the wind died just then, but as Larry said, we had a proof of concept. I pushed the boat on the engine past Wymond Point and then Hamley point, and then we could sail again. What a difference a day makes. Light winds yesterday on the Haro Strait, but today, the wind was steady, if not strong, and the tide was in our favor. My hand-held GPS read 6 knots to the boat sensor's 3.
For lunch, I munched on a sandwich. By this time, my hummus-and-cheese sandwiches were four days old. I was still eating them with confidence, figuring that the mustard and horseradish would either kill off any bacteria or at least cover their flavor. Still, the rest of the crew opted for tea, scones, and chicken pot pies. I heated up water in a kettle. The boat rocked from side to side. The gimbled stove rocked from side to side. I watched the kettle nervously. I tried resting a hand on it to steady it, wondering if this was a good thing or a bad thing to do.
After lunch, we approached a major shipping channel. We were on a collision course with a big cargo liner. So we changed course. I noticed that my hands were weak as I handled a jib line. I was still pretty shaken. I wondered if I'd ever be calm again.
Sailing downwind, the crew was relaxed, with Scarlet reading, Larry writing, and Lea occasionally spelling me on the tiller In less than two hours we were off of Henry island, well within U.S. waters, and heading North towards Battleship island, the gateway to the harbor.
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