Night Landfall
“Winter Passage” continues…
After a week tied to the Comox dock, riding out a series of winter storms, a day finally arrived with relative calm. The marine forecast predicted southerly winds of 15 to 20 knots by afternoon. It was scheduled to worsen again and we wanted to take advantage of our brief weather window to move on to our next destination. It was 10 am – we needed to be underway by 11. With favorable conditions we thought we could make Quadra Island in about five hours. Most importantly, we wanted to arrive before darkness. Bob and I remembered all too well our first experience with a night landfall.
It was in 1996, on our first passage with Chiron from Seattle to her homeport in Newport, Oregon. Due to engine problems, we were several hours late getting to the waypoint outside of Yaquina Bay and we were faced with a night approach. Standing off until morning was not a reasonable choice since the weather was deteriorating and the engine was still uncertain.
Although Ed the transit captain had made the same Seattle to Newport passage only three weeks before, it had been a daylight approach and he was now ambivalent; I was at the helm and our friend Allen was lookout on the bow. Everything was disorienting; dark water, dark sky, a multitude of city lights reflected in the bay, making it hard to distinguish the red and green navigational lights from the city traffic lights. Allen suddenly becomes alarmed when he thinks he sees and hears surf breaking off our port (it was actually the breakwater), and Ed becomes confused. He grabs the helm from me and turns the boat around, back into open water.
We see another boat hanging around; it appears to be waiting for us to go in. Ed makes the decision to follow it, hoping it is a local boat familiar with the channel. The boat’s captain seems reluctant to take the lead but with no other choice he slowly moves into the jaws (jetty channel)… very slowly. I take back the helm, keeping my eyes on the two white lights that cast an eerie glow from the small boat ahead of us. Suddenly it stops. Then we hear the metallic creaking sounds of a winch being cranked. The guys let out with a string of expletives, “What the f*&*! He’s pulling up crab pots – in the middle of the traffic channel.” Not exactly legal, which explains his reluctance to have us follow him. He wanted us to be gone. When he finishes, the crab boat turns toward us. A decrepit and rusting hulk, it passes by like some ghostly ship… Charon the boatman, with his load of dead souls.
We no longer have the crab boat to follow. But Bob standing next to me points out the lights on the Yaquina Bay Bridge, and I use them to navigate our way through the channel. Captain Ed uses the Texaco sign as his marker, “Now I know where we are; South Beach Marina is just to the right of the Texaco star.” To hell with navigational markers.
... PLM
After a week tied to the Comox dock, riding out a series of winter storms, a day finally arrived with relative calm. The marine forecast predicted southerly winds of 15 to 20 knots by afternoon. It was scheduled to worsen again and we wanted to take advantage of our brief weather window to move on to our next destination. It was 10 am – we needed to be underway by 11. With favorable conditions we thought we could make Quadra Island in about five hours. Most importantly, we wanted to arrive before darkness. Bob and I remembered all too well our first experience with a night landfall.
It was in 1996, on our first passage with Chiron from Seattle to her homeport in Newport, Oregon. Due to engine problems, we were several hours late getting to the waypoint outside of Yaquina Bay and we were faced with a night approach. Standing off until morning was not a reasonable choice since the weather was deteriorating and the engine was still uncertain.
Although Ed the transit captain had made the same Seattle to Newport passage only three weeks before, it had been a daylight approach and he was now ambivalent; I was at the helm and our friend Allen was lookout on the bow. Everything was disorienting; dark water, dark sky, a multitude of city lights reflected in the bay, making it hard to distinguish the red and green navigational lights from the city traffic lights. Allen suddenly becomes alarmed when he thinks he sees and hears surf breaking off our port (it was actually the breakwater), and Ed becomes confused. He grabs the helm from me and turns the boat around, back into open water.
We see another boat hanging around; it appears to be waiting for us to go in. Ed makes the decision to follow it, hoping it is a local boat familiar with the channel. The boat’s captain seems reluctant to take the lead but with no other choice he slowly moves into the jaws (jetty channel)… very slowly. I take back the helm, keeping my eyes on the two white lights that cast an eerie glow from the small boat ahead of us. Suddenly it stops. Then we hear the metallic creaking sounds of a winch being cranked. The guys let out with a string of expletives, “What the f*&*! He’s pulling up crab pots – in the middle of the traffic channel.” Not exactly legal, which explains his reluctance to have us follow him. He wanted us to be gone. When he finishes, the crab boat turns toward us. A decrepit and rusting hulk, it passes by like some ghostly ship… Charon the boatman, with his load of dead souls.
We no longer have the crab boat to follow. But Bob standing next to me points out the lights on the Yaquina Bay Bridge, and I use them to navigate our way through the channel. Captain Ed uses the Texaco sign as his marker, “Now I know where we are; South Beach Marina is just to the right of the Texaco star.” To hell with navigational markers.
... PLM
posted by Looking for Hope | 1:15 PM
1 Comments:
Very nice!
One word comes to mind - emblematical.
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