One of Those Days, or Two

Returning to the boat always comes as a surprise, no matter how many weeks we’ve had to prepare for it. This time, Heron lost shore power during our absence. Steve Jackman, dockmaster extraordinaire at Port McNeill’s North Island Marina, and his wife Jessica, heroically rescued all our chilled provisions in time – including six-weeks-worth of frozen food – hauling about 50 pounds of wrapped meats off the boat to their own deep freeze. 

We learned from Steve upon our return that an eagle had landed on a transformer -- not only frying himself but knocking out power to the entire dock, making an exciting week for both Steve and the ill-fated eagle.  Of course every other boat’s power cycled right back on.  Every other boat, that is, except Heron.  Once her power was tripped, Mighty Heron, quirky British dame that she is, didn't feel like cooperating. 

Fortunately, engineer Paul LaRussa, who often troubleshoots Heron’s tricky systems in Seattle happened to be on Vancouver Island working on another boat.  He drove up from Campbell River, identified the problem within 15 minutes (a pair of hidden breakers that only a Moody’s makers would put behind the instrument panel), and hit the road. 

Welcome Home.

Returning to the dock a week after all this excitement, we repacked all the frozen provisions and now extremely ripe month-old cheeses in the fridge, then hauled our sheets and towels up to the Laundromat.  Since it was “BC Day” in British Columbia, pretty much everything in Port McNeill was closed – the diner, the café, the liquor store.  Thankfully the market and pub were open.  We restocked our fresh produce and collected enough Loonies for the dryers.

But there were more surprises!

At the end of our chilly motor across Queen Charlotte Strait, the swells picked up and we hit a massive side swell just as we were tucking into the night’s planned anchorage, one of our favorites:  Skull Cove.  The swell sent everything in the cabin that wasn’t secured sailing across the main salon – including the big storage bin under the settee.  It came flying out, exploded completely off its hinges, and landed squarely in the middle of the floor.  Hmmm...

After anchoring we unpacked everything out of the drawer (most of our pantry), removed the screws from the drawer, disassembled it, screwed it back together (going so far as to glue the screws in this time), and slid it back in.  No dice.  The impact of a single monster side-swell had busted the tracks.

Captain Jeff gets out the tool kit...

Big Drawer, No More. Luckily, the Moody 54 has many secret holds and compartments and we weren’t expecting any guests for this remote and rainy part of the trip.  We squirreled away all our nuts, dried fruits, cookies, and boxes of crackers in the forward stateroom’s closet shelves, turning it into a walk-in kitchen pantry.

Settling into a beautiful evening at Skull Cove, we realized we were in an extraordinarily wild and beautiful place, and that it was all worth it.  It turned out to be a perfectly still, high-tide evening punctuated by a resounding chorus of birds going bonkers  - including many breeding pairs of loons so loud they sounded like dogs barking on the water.  We sat in the cockpit, incredulous, listening to the night.

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Klemtu

 
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Heading north from Bella Bella, we crossed Seaforth Channel on a crisp blue-sky day, threaded our way through the rock-strewn entrance to Reid Passage, made a sharp elbow-turn into Oscar Passage, then a sharp turn north up Finlayson Channel.  Our destination: the first nations’ settlement of Klemtu, a Kitasoo native village, about which the cruising guides give almost no information.  As we floated up to the small public dock, we weren’t sure what to expect, but luckily, the dock-end was open next to a large purse seiner, the Pacific Marl.  The Pacific Marl’s young crew caught our lines, and when we tied up we met Skipper Bob, from Vancouver, who told us he’d been captaining the 1927 Pacific Marl since 1975. 

 

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The Coho were jumping like crazy in Klemtu.  One of the Marl’s crew, Peter, from the native village of Alert Bay told us it was because they were “happy,” just playing in the water, leaping around because they’d made it back to the river of their birth.  This was the first time we heard this, but now, after weeks of watching salmon catapulting themselves through the air for no apparent reason, we believe it to be true.

While we were eating dinner, there was a knock on our cabin:  it was Skipper Bob, his wife Cathy, Peter and their adopted dockhand, inviting us to join them on a walk to Klemtu’s cedar longhouse.  Peter’s cousin was the caretaker, and evidently, had a key. We were eager to see the longhouse, so leapt up and joined them on a lovely evening walk along the Klemtu boardwalk, which circles the small bay.  Most of Klemtu seemed to be out fishing or strolling the boardwalk in the warm summer light, still vivid at 8:45 pm.  Every person we passed waved and said “hello,”  (or introduced themselves and asked if we were from the sailboat – the only one in Klemtu). 

 

 
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Caretaker Gary Robinson met us at the longhouse, unlocked the door, and let us inside. Everything smelled of rich, fragrant cedar.  We admired the raven, wolf, and eagle carvings while Gary, in his soft-spoken, understated way, told us wonderful stories of his family, father, ancestors, and Klemtu.  Gary also opened the small “museum” next to he longhouse, where there were beautiful artifacts that had been donated to the Kitasoo nation, including old “coppers” used in ceremonial potlaches, and an ornate bear mask with a hinged jaw, flat copper nose, and copper eyes carved recently for Gary by a master carver in honor of Gary’s father.

 
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In the morning we woke to a chilly cabin, maybe 45 degrees and steamy windows.  We revved up the generator, got the floor heaters going along with a pot of strong coffee, then sadly slipped out of friendly Klemtu.  “Everywhere I look, I see a fish jump,” Jeff said.  And it was crazy-true.  Fish leaping in happy circles all around us, we headed north again…