In Search of Solitude

I wasn’t looking to buy a boat. I didn’t even know that I wanted one. But the moment I saw Båten, it was love at first sight. A 20’ wooden supply boat designed by Jay Benford, it had been built for two women living on Crane Island. When it was launched in 1978, the Friday Harbor newspaper headline read, BÅTEN LAUNCHED AT JENSEN SHIPYARD; JUST RIGHT FOR 2 PEOPLE AND A COW. (It was the last wooden boat built at the Jensen Shipyard.) Marilyn Anderson and Rachel Adams were retired military women who had decided to farm on tiny Crane Island, which had no ferry service. So they needed a boat for transportation and hauling supplies… including a “nice little Jersey milk cow.” Years later they decided to give up the farming and move to Orcas Island… and that is when I saw the photo of Båten in the Boats for Sale classifieds. To this day, I have no idea why I was looking there! Båten became mine in January 2004, and she was everything I could have hoped for – she transported me safely to remote islands in search of solitude, and brought a smile to the face of all who saw her. Now it is time for me to pass the happiness along to some one else. I will say goodbye to Båten by remembering my first solo outing. (Båten is Swedish for ‘The Boat’ and is pronounced Boaten.)

In Search of Solitude (first solo passage with Båten)
18 February 2004, A Journal Entry

BÅTEN snugs up close to the dock. I throw the stern line around the tie rail and secure it with a double half hitch. Moving forward, I do the same with the bowline. Then I reach into the pilothouse and turn off the idling diesel engine. Instantly I am struck by the absence of sound. Båten, Bustopher (my cat), and I sit alone in the winter stillness of Reid Harbor (Stuart Island).

I left Roche Harbor at eleven this morning with my feline crew. Releasing the bowline and waving goodbye, Bob yelled, “Have a fun trip Morningstar.” A brisk breeze was coming out of the southwest and I had very little to do to back out of the slip, the wind and current did it for me. I was so focused on starting my first solo adventure with my new boat, that I forgot to tell Bob when I was coming back!

As I left the entrance to Roche Harbor, I took a 315° compass heading towards the Danger Shoal marker. I needn’t have bothered---visibility was excellent and I could see the buoy with my naked eye. There were no small craft advisories in effect, so I was surprised to encounter a sea of whitecaps and large swells when I started across Speiden Channel. The rollers came from Haro Strait to the west, hammering Båten abeam. Bustopher decided that the floor by my feet was the safest place to be. I just rolled with the rollers and thought to myself, “If I’m going to do this alone, this is a good initiation. Be prepared for anything.” …and I had not expected this. Another part of solo boating is trust in your boat. On that point I never had any doubts that she would take me safely wherever I wanted to go.

After making my turn at Danger Shoal, the new heading gave me a following sea, which swiftly pushed Båten into Reid Harbor and its relative calm. The sun made a brief appearance, casting a mirror bright spotlight on the empty bay, before clouds firmly packed together again to form an overcast winter sky.

The moment I tied up and turned off the engine, Bustopher was off the boat, onto the dock and heading towards the ramp. This was the moment of truth. Could I trust him not to escape up the ramp? I followed closely behind. He stopped to nibble on a small clump of grass growing under the ramp, then placed paws gingerly on the ramp’s metal grillwork and started up. As usual Bustopher’s curiosity wins out over fear---we have a whole list of memorable stories that illustrate that unfortunate trait---so I nabbed him and took him back to the enforced security of Båten.

Setting up “camp” was first on the agenda. Arranging things, putting items away, filling the new yacht lamp in preparation for nightfall, putting food and water into Bustopher’s dish, fixing lunch for myself. Busy work. “Preparing the nest.” I’m glad I decided to stay for two nights. It takes me at least a day to loosen the reins of routine, and to feel myself expand into the ebb and flow of Nature’s rhythm.

A brief rainstorm passed through and when I stepped outside I could hear a chorus of frogs coming from the head of the bay. A double crested cormorant balanced on a nearby mooring buoy, his sinuous smoke-black shape in sharp contrast to the lifeless plastic float. A pair of hooded merganser paddled by followed by a flotilla of buffleheads. I was not alone.

4pm - The late afternoon sun draws to a close with the gathering of clouds. The first raindrops tip tap on the pilothouse roof. The air quickly cools. I place a wad of paper towel under a few sticks of cedar kindling in the Skippy woodstove, strike a match and watch the little flame bloom. Snap! Crackle! The scraps of mill ends that I found on my hike today have caught fire. It sets the teakettle dancing on the cast iron surface. An orchestra plays in my pilothouse; their symphonic music magically flows from the tiny jade green and black battery-operated radio, with only an insignificant sputter of static to mar the beautiful sounds snatched from the ether.

6pm – I am nestled in feathers and wool, snuggled into the v-berth with a purring cat at my side. Through the pilothouse windows I can see a sky of palest blue pearl; one bright star sparkles like a precious jewel. At the moment it is a solitary star, but when twilight shadows fade into darkness, I know the light of a million galaxies will join it stretching as far as the eye can see. I have found solitude. But it is a strange thing… in my small, insignificant aloneness, I feel part of something much bigger.

Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again,

O Nature, your primal sanities!

.... Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman

... P. L. Morningstar