To my surprise the day dawned crisp and clear. All those nighttime thunderstorms keeping me awake with visions of dread and mayhem, had managed to clear the air, meaning our usual cold, wet blanket of impenetrable morning fog was absent.
I had been watching her for 45 minutes now, and my arms ached from holding the binoculars steady on the gently rocking boat. But she was such an awesome sight, full of grace, yet with powerful movements. I couldn't take my eyes off her, as she ambled along in the blackberry thicket, nimbly removing just the ripest and juiciest specimens. Eating them up. Ursus Horribilis, also known as Grizzly bear.
The empty camping pot on the cockpit seat, needed for my own foraging, reminded me how well these berries could supplement the stale muesli and dried soymilk breakfast. But now, with her image clear in my mind, it was unlikely I could muster up the needed courage to thrash thru the 6' tall bushes, blindly filling the pot.
This tiny overgrown bay that had provided shelter from last nights storm used to be someone's home. A barely useable dock sat by the mouth of the little creek, and on shore you could still make out a partially collapsed ghost house slowly being reclaimed by alders and birch. Out behind the fir covered islets that ringed the bay, I could hear the rapids, those fierce tidal currents that ran like swollen rivers in the narrow passes between the islands. The scene appeared both sinister and irresistibly idyllic at the same time. The bear would rip me open in heartbeat if I stepped between her and the little cub I occasionally glimpsed through the foliage, yet the berry picking and sun glistening brown fur was such a peaceful sight. The numbing white noise created by massive amounts of rushing water belied the boat swallowing force of the currents now approaching their diurnal climax, a mere 300 yards away. And then this homestead. The grey weathered planks and gaping window openings, full of blackberry bushes. A place for contemplation. Sailing alone for weeks now, I was definitely soulsearching. Anyway, let's backtrack a few months and see how it all started.

Seattle, April 1994.
It was yet another rainy, grey morning and my girlfriend had just scraped together her stuff and left. It didn't come as a complete surprise, but still, seeing her walk out the door for the last time was not pleasant. Not long thereafter the apartment became uninhabitable, as the walls were plastered with memories and ghosts lurked in the unfurnished rooms. I let the dishes pile up together with the dirty laundry molding in the corners, until one day I simply terminated the lease, forfeiting the sizeable deposit with a mere shrug. I put my two backpacks and the climbing gear in a friends basement, and moved back into the pickup truck. Being a retail slave at a large outdoor supplier was low on stimuli, but did provide me with a convenient parking lot to crash in. This could all have been business as usual for a climbing bum like me, if it hadn't been for a recent knee surgery. Thanks to impatience, that omnipresent disorder of the 20th century, I had botched the crucial rehab and was now off the rocks indefinitely. Quiet frustration with life in general was setting in, reduced as I was to therapeutic limps around Green Lake, doing all I could to dart the uber-moms with their sport strollers. This exicitement was followed by long damp evenings under the low slung canopy of the truck, eating almonds and carrots for dinner.

On a day of idle loitering at Barnes & Noble I picked up a copy of the local sailboat classifieds, hungry as I was for diversion from the activity around which my life had hitherto been based. In sailing I might find some needed adventure, was my thought. I vividly remembered how effectively I was held in terror during the dinghy lessons my parents forced me to take at age 12 or 13. Back then on the waters surrounding my native Denmark it always felt like November: Cold wind and frigid sea, capped by a low grey sky producing an incessant drizzle. The witty instructor had sensed my fear and sent me crawling out on the slippery foredeck of the Yngling Class sloop, to jibe the spinnaker over and over again. Directly traced back to this trauma came my later passion for mountaineering, developed seemingly out of nowhere in a flat country full of sailors.

Anyway, on page one was an add for an awkward looking little thing with a caption alluding to the capabilities of this "perfect pocket cruiser". It was a Potter 15. The price was right, so I spontaneously arranged for a viewing. In real life the boat looked a bit more appealing. While not knowing precisely what I wanted to do with a miniature cabin cruiser, I saw myself hand over the cash and subsequently drive off with a trailerful of fiberglass and stainless steel. Initially, now a second room was added, the parking lot comfort was greatly enhanced.

Shortly thereafter a plan began forming. I would trailer up to Port Hardy, a small logging/fishing community at the north end of Vancouver Island, in British Columbia. There I would launch the boat and sail back to Seattle via the famed Inside Passage. This should yield a trip of around 500 miles, including meandering side trips. The summer arrived and slowly went by as I worked long hours at the store during the day and tinkered with the boat at night. I needed at least two month of reasonable weather conditions, so mid August was the cutoff date.

Deeply inspired by the narratives of Hal Roth and the Pardeys, I set about preparing the little boat for my own odyssey, a task almost as good, if not better than actually setting sail. This is a twisted mindset that disturbs me a bit. Having lived through similar prepping events a few times now, I find it very hard to keep a clear definition of 'need'. As the frenzy of outfitting builds, aided by juicy catalogs, flashy marine stores and simply reading the wrong books, it is important to slow down, and rethink everything. It proves far more challenging to approach the issue from the polar opposite angle, and gut out systems and clutter until the pure functional minimum is achieved. This desire to pile it on, for me at least, was rooted in middle class materialism and being taught early on the shallow joy of acquiring; and off course I totally overdid it that first time. My job provided enough money to do what I'd like to the boat and, having the aforementioned tomes of real, nasty ocean cruising as the benchmark, the list grew long. In retrospect, most was extraneous and never of any real use and just kept me from casting off.

In those early days I found it was easy to shift mindset from climbing to long distance cruising. The dangers seemed as real, the inseparable connection to the elements of nature was there, and, having chosen a small and unusual vessel, the sense of paradoxity, absurdity, was just as strong as when starting up 3000' of vertical granite. I became suddenly very focused. Life felt like it was back on track. Several days went by without thinking about lost love or missed opportunities. The boat was certainly a one person affair, being only 14' long and having the second bunk destined to house all the gear I wanted to cram in there. This made me aware that a new girlfriend right then would have been catastrophic, besides off course the associated intimacy. Not surprisingly, I was left alone.

I rarely felt the urge to go daysailing in the months leading up to the trip. Tried it once or twice and found the boat to be boring and sluggish, and it lacked the good looks or esthetics needed to make up for its performance shortcomings. No, the allure for me in this endeavor was the sum total of the experience. Mix in all the aspects of currents, weather, logistics, navigation and stamina needed for an extended cruise and I felt a deep yearning to embark. Where these feelings came from I don't know since the only place in North America I'd ever sailed was Lake Union. I had little idea of what to expect out there, both from the environment and my craft, and my limited circle of friends consisted mainly of climbing bums and retail lifers, none of whom could qualify as experienced yachtsmen. But even without any real input, I knew it would be a great adventure; albeit a slow and pondering one, without the immediate satisfaction of smoothly leading a 50' rock climb.

Eventually I did arrive in Port Hardy, after 2 days of pulling the boat on desolate highways.
Having my numerous strolls along the docks of Shilshole Marina as the primary nautical influence, arriving at this northern waterfront was a rude awakening. Hardly a pleasure craft to be seen. No Docksiders and Blazers, no fancy restaurants, and certainly no vessels even remotely similar to my little salmon red piece of plastic. Everything appeared to hinge around fishing, serious fishing. The brackish water lapping up the busy launch ramp had a sheen of oil on it and fish entrails and other associated garbage floated about. Old wooden seiners and beat up aluminum trawlers shared the battered docks with rusty commercial barges, and piles of crap collected everywhere. Besides this spectacular scenery, the day was cold and grey, causing a proliferation of dirty coveralls and greasy wool caps covering the gnarly types busying themselves on the wharf. I was fascinated, and needless to say, intimidated. This seemed a lot more real than the Puget Sound yacht scene. I clearly didn't fit in here either, nor would I ever, but somewhere I wished for living a life based on a single skill, one all consuming focus. A real one that is, unlike my previous all-out absorption of climbing and now cruising, both of which were artificial in the sense that they wouldn't exist without making a living somewhere else. These folks here depended on the ocean, made it their life, and in the process nearly wiped out most aquatic life, but that's another story. I imagined some of the older among them would quietly have survived the years and acquired so much experience and deep knowledge that they approached deification.

So I was in a state of mild anxiety when finally casting off from the rusty fishing boat I had rafted to while hastily depositing my vehicle in some weedy back lot. What crucial gear was left behind in that dark corner of the truck bed? Did I misread today's tidetable? Had I informed anybody of the precise layout of my route? Did I even know the precise layout of my route? The afternoon breeze was uncommonly strong and not exactly favorable, so Hardy Bay presented me with a long beat to weather, something the Potter did very reluctantly. In fact it took all afternoon to round the point and bear south. In those first hours it seemed like a long, lonely journey was starting to unfold. As I cast a glance at the few square feet of boat surrounding me, I wondered what I really wanted with this trip, and more pragmatically, what would lie ahead?

Well, it soon became obvious that the thrill of small boat cruising in the vast inland waters of the Northwest, with their peculiar challenges of endless summertime calms and periodic strong tides, exist on a very subtle level. Being completely able to sit back and accept the whims of nature would be healthy for anyone, and myself in particular. but drifting for hours, however Zen like it might be, was in conflict with my, umm... need to be back before winter, among other considerations. To anticipate this restless nature, the Potter had 4 different propulsion methods onboard, none of which worked entirely satisfactory: A paddle for ghosting into quiet anchorages, 10' oars for covering ground, sails because it happened to be a sailboat, and a 2.5 hp gas guzzler. My guiding ethics, if I had any, was to limit the use of the latter to an extreme degree. Besides a host of other good reasons, it was just too uncomfortable to sit within 24" of a 2 stroke at full rpm, for any length of time. As it turned out I didn't quite succeed. Exercising a bit more patience at times could have cut the engine use in half.
As a footnote to the use of the aforementioned means of propulsion I observed that when you drift along by yourself, in a very small boat, occasionally wielding 10' oars, it is not a struggle to establish social contacts. In fact people seems drawn to you. But the most common conversation opener I was faced with was the question: 'Engine trouble?', an exclamation often accompanying any display of physical exertion, voluntary or not, on the water.
Because I took the time to meticously record the raw statistics in my old logbook, I include them here for all to gape over: 461.6 nm was the total trip. Under sail, 317.7. Rowing, 54.1. Motoring, 89.8, or 20%. The fact that I actually sailed more than 300 miles of the distance was only due to fully accepting the role of an unemployed drifter with lots of time on hand and nowhere besides this boat to call home.

A day to day account of my trip would not only be repetitive, but probably not make for the most interesting read. The scenery along the way was as splendid as expected, but little change was observed day to day: Above the dark blue and grey water was thick mats of conifer on islands, on headlands, along straits. I happened to avoid any of the epics that fill really exciting sailing narratives, a fact that actually kept me from writing this story for many years. Roald Amundsen, another, albeit more famous scandinavian seaman, once said that expeditions turn into adventures only when you mess up, or something along those lines. These are wise words to live by if you want grow old as a polar explorer. Or even as an amateur boater, so I tried hard to do that. The few storms of significance was safely weathered in some snug cove and I was not attacked by whales. Equipment failures at critical moments limited themselves to an annoying air bubble in the compass. All in all the trip spun off as planned, although at 53 days we were under way a bit longer than anticipated. Control freaks like Roald would have been proud.

In fact, the single most frightening episode was, in retrospect, rather hilarious. A friend back in Seattle, an avid flyfisher, called my destination the 'inner sanctum of saltwater game fishing' and convinced me of aquiring a suitable rod myself. I had never felt any passion for the sport, even up there where every passing boat was filled with grinning fanatics hauling in salmon after salmon. My level of participation was limited to mindlessly dragging a random lure, until it became just another step in the daily routine of readying ship. Until.. one morning the reel suddenly started feeding out line at high speed. A bite! Or whatever the correct lingo is. I grabbed the twisting rod, while momentarily getting into the whole deal. Something sizeable was resisting my actions down there, and the score from Jaws started playing in my ears. Eventually a big ugly fish surfaced and, after another 10 minutes of struggling, I victoriuosly swung it inboard. Mistake. Brody to Capt. Quint: 'You're gonna need a bigger boat'.
The cockpit in a potter is just a few gallons up from a kitchen sink and quiet clearly I was now faced with a shortage of available space. Besides, the thing was full of spines and other aquatic means of self defense, and it wasn't quietly lying there either. As result I had to retreat to the coaming, staring in disbelief while this flapping, writhering monster took over. What now? The boat had fallen off, tiller unattended as it was, and the flapping sails added to the sense of chaos. Having precious few tanks of compressed air lying about, I saw no other solution than grabbing a piece of driftwood from the water. With a snarl I hurled myself into the cockpit to reclaim my property. In my mouth was a taste of primal bloodthirst when I started clubbing the creature over and over again. Was this me? Blood and other bits and pieces of the fish got smeared on the dull chalky gelcoat. It finally stopped moving and with bared teeth and hair in my eyes I heaved the waterlogged stick for one final blow. Obviously, the theme had now changed from great whites to something like Simons fate in Lord of the Flies, although the symbolism in my case seemed less straightforward. But unlike Golding's kids I gleefully cooked the few salvageable bites of my victim that evening. After storing the fishing rod in the bilge for good.

On the route I sailed I encountered two committing open water passages of more than 20 miles. The first and also longest was crossing the Strait of Georgia from Secret Cove to Nanaimo. The day before attempting this hwas a rare and awesome broad reach from Mccrae Cove, without any of the all too frequent rowing or motoring, and I was all fired up. Yeah, I loved sailing! This elevated state caused a bit of untimely debauchery in the pub that evening, but I still managed a reasonably early start. I only felt slight apprehension about the 24 miles of exposed sailing, since after all this was day 38 and I had acquired enough trust in the Potter and, to a lesser extent, in my burgeoning skills. The day turned out to be pure magic, one of those rare moments in life that you know will never be forgotten. The wind was light and friendly, but most amazingly it never stopped. For a full 12 hours it blew at a steady 5-8 knot from the southwest, gently filling the sails, and allowing me a tack free passage. The Strait, normally plagued by swells and other unpleasantries was calm and flat, with just the tiniest ripples from the breeze. Even the omnipresent squadrons of opulent powerboats had decided to stay in the marinas, content with sipping Martinis all day long.

The other of the crucial crossings was the potentially most dangerous section of the entire trip, namely the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Aleck Bay on Lopez Island to Port Townsend. This large body of water lead straight out in the Pacific, and provides a convenient corridor inland for all kinds of nasty weather, until it abruptly ends with the formiddable leeshore of Whidby Island. It is also a busy shipping route, meaning big freighters going fast. Although this entire ordeal can be avoided by going inside Whidby via either Deception Pass, or even safer, Swinomish Channel, I felt the conditions on that morning in late September was favorable for my little boat. Again the force was with me, and a motorless, light wind sail of some 8.5 hours took me to the dock at Point Wilson. A wildly confused sea gave me a bit of concern close to the destination. It was caused by a conflict between tide and strong afternoon gusts from all directions and furling sails and taking to the oars turned out to be the most salty solution.

So the days went by like so many turns of the tidal streams. Even the few events that stood out started to blend together. Who had I met on what boat where? I operated smoothily under the daily routines that had long been established and occasionally I felt quite content with the whole thing. There was even an underlying sensation of reason and purpose out here on in the straits and sounds that I almost could grasp at times. I really wanted to give over to this important emotion, knowing it was what I came out here to find, but something always held me back. I guess sailing was still too foreign an activity. The physical distractions of annoying powerboat wakes or glassy calms were very powerful, and brought up just a little irritation and anger, when I needed to be calm. Back in Seattle I had plenty of time to anticipate this trip but the only picture I saw before my inner eye was of a glorious beam reach with spray flying and the warm sun on my back; a scenario whose real appearance totalled maybe 2 hours. I was certainly a product of the fastpaced thrills of modern living, and being painfullly aware of this while at the same time fervently denouncing it, was causing conflicts that limited my experience. It started to sink in that I wasn't a Slocum or a Motissier, but just an average landlubber stuck in a boat. This realization off course shattered a set of carefully crafted illusions, and it took some time to regain confidence. Nevertheless, towards the end I was pretty close to accepting myself as a mariner with a good grip on seamanship. Yet having no real mission or other incentive to stay on the water after returning to Seattle, I had to look the other way as I shedded all these hard won skills and seamlessly integrated into life on land. While I was partaking in nothing more salty than retelling this story again and again, the sad little boat sat unused with stagnant rainwater in the bilge, before eventually going to the highest bidder.

Today I own a Nimble 20 yawl, and sail out of Anacortes, Washington with Sonja and Bjorn.