What a difference a week makes. This is the third or fourth day in a row we’ve gotten June weather in October, overcast, fog horns blowing, burning off in the afternoon. The anemometers are lazily rotating, the mercury at 59, kind of SoCal’s equivalent of a wet, sleety fall day in Valdez, the kind of day that would motivate me to tackle the mental work of composing one of these entries rather than going outside and doing chores. However, it would be dishonest to imply the weather is my motivation. I mean, after all this is a nice summer day in the Deez. And I have many, many jobs I could and should be doing. No, it’s because those jobs are not ones I really want to do and this one just happens to be a little higher on the desirability scale.
Procrastination was not on my mind on that sunny morning
at the end of August in Sidney Harbour three years ago. I was focused on several jobs among them the
aforementioned refrigeration replacement as well as resolving the alternator
issue. I needed a new mainsail cover,
new cockpit cushions and I was looking at installing solar panels. In addition there were numerous maintenance
items (it’s a boat, duh) I had managed to defer. I figured to be in one place for at least a
month but first I had to clear back into the US.
Years ago my parents had several close friends who
retired to the San Juan Islands from California and they used to visit them
either on their way to visit us in Alaska or on the way back. Hearing about it for years and never having
been, I picked Friday Harbor to reenter.
We arrived early in the afternoon.
The harbormaster directed us to a spot I was unable to locate but right
in front was a dock with a huge sign that said US CUSTOMS in big red
letters. We headed there. After tying up on the inside of the dock I
collected the boat papers, passport, Jazz’ health certificate and shot records
and walked the 75 feet to the kiosk that bore the customs sign. It was locked up but there was a phone
without a keypad on an outside wall. I
picked it up and it rang and rang but no answer. I tried the posted 800 number and that person
asked me where I was and took my cell number.
She called back a few minutes later to say an agent would be in the
office in 10-15 minutes. I sat down to
wait. After forty minutes of no show I
called back. She said she would check on
it and get back to me. A minute later
the phone on the wall began ringing.
Another woman asked me where I was.
My first reaction was to employ some snark. Instead I explained where I was and where the
boat was. She insisted I needed to move
the boat to the outside of the dock and come to the office. I explained I was single-handed and it would
be a pain to move the boat especially since it was only 15 feet from where she
wanted it. She relented and then said
her office was actually on the beach behind the harbormasters office and that I
should go there. I went.
I was crossing the parking lot when a guy in a black
uniform and a black Glock came up to me and demanded to know where the boat
was. I detected an attitude but not
knowing who he was and trying to be helpful I said he could see it and took a
step around him to show him where it was when he barked, “Don’t move!” I took a breath and calmly explained it was
tied to the customs dock. He then wanted
to know why I hadn’t followed his instructions.
Totally puzzled at this point I said I had never seen him before and
that I was simply trying to check back into the US. Another barked, “Follow me” and he turned on
his heel and strode back to the door I had seen him come out of. Not knowing what was to come I was more than a
little nervous as he deposited me in front of a woman behind a computer
terminal. She began the check in
procedure and I calmed down. Throughout
this the guy was eying me closely but when he heard the name of my boat he
visibly relaxed. After looking at my
passport and certificate of documentation and a few questions on ports of call
and purchases, she asked me for $27.50.
She obviously had gotten my look of dumb-foundedness before as she
whipped out a four-fold brochure and underlined some verbiage on an inside
fold, explaining the law. She helpfully
added they took plastic. I was silent
for a beat until the guy with the Glock stiffened. I hastily explained my wallet was on the boat
as I wasn’t aware of the law and my need for payment. I offered to get it and reached for my
docs. Apparently once The Procedure has
begun the agent not only can’t release documents but must not lose sight of you
because in an exasperated tone she said she would accompany me and got up off
her stool. I guess I was looking pretty
shady because Glock guy jumped up too. I
attempted to notch the tension down by asking the directions to pizza, the
supermarket, etc., on the walk out to the boat.
Glock guy picked right up on it, giving directions to his favorite
joints and volunteering that he had mistaken me for someone on another boat. They opened the kiosk, I grabbed my
wallet. While waiting to have my card
swiped I asked if they needed to see Jazz’ stuff. Nope.
Did they need to look at the boat?
Nope. I related the very short version of my experience with Canadian
Customs, that they hadn’t looked at my passport. Glock guy puffed up and snorted they had no
idea of what was important at borders.
It took all the control I possessed to grab the docs, my new entry stamp
and get out of earshot before cracking up.
The ICE idiots aside I liked Friday Harbor. We spent two nights. While there I made arrangements for a
month-long berth in Port Angeles. Port
Townsend was my first choice but because of a tall ship extravaganza there was
no room at the inn.
About 12 miles NE of Port Angeles we encountered an
armada of government vessels, both Coast Guard and Navy. One of the 40 foot aluminum high speed USCG
craft came up to us, hailed us on the VHF and told us to either speed up or
slow down to maintain a 1500 yard separation from the outbound nuclear sub. Sure enough the black sail of the sub
accompanied by a naval support vessel and the rest of the CG cutters could now
clearly be seen. We sped up.
It took over a week to realize picking Port Angeles was a
bad choice regarding the work I wanted to do.
It has an extensive marine service industry with a wide array of
businesses. Thing is it’s geared for
ships and large boats. I couldn’t find
anybody to do either the refrigeration or canvas work and the metals vendor was
several miles on the other side of town.
By this time I had ordered a replacement alternator as well as the solar
panels and accessories. While waiting
for them I was able do a couple of the maintenance items and contacted a small
vessel refrigeration specialist in Bellingham.
We made an appointment for the following week.
In spite of my disappointment I enjoyed my stay in Port
Angeles. They have bike lanes and buses
with bike racks so I was able to get around even with the long hills inland. Sharing the marina parking lot was a bar and
grill that featured live music so I could walk across the lot to get into
trouble and more importantly walk back.
There’s a good pizza joint and a supermarket even if it was a Safeway. I even had visitors. It was great to see an old and dear friend from
my earliest days in Valdez. My cousin
drove my mother over from Renton and we spent a pleasant afternoon catching up.
During the stay in Sitka, a slip neighbor had recommended
a refrigeration tech in Bellingham.
Turned out to be an excellent reference.
We traveled the 57 miles across the Strait of Juan de Fuca under a
cloudless sky and no wind. The naval jets out of the NAS on Whidbey Island
entertained us all the way past Anacortes.
We finally got a favorable breeze in the Bay of Bellingham.
I rekindled my love for the city of Bellingham. David, the owner operator of Sea Freeze had a
last minute family emergency and had to delay our appointment until the next
week. While waiting I found a canvas
shop that was able to make a mainsail cover for Blue Note. I got to visit Bellingham Kite Boards, an
outfit I had been doing business with over the net for years and, what a ya
know, I bought a new 12 meter which just happened to be on sale. Great pizza, decent fish and chips all within
biking distance is always a winner with me.
The harbor staff were outstanding, even to the point of providing
transportation to Freddies (Fred Meyer, a supermarket for you PNW-challenged)
and back because of a recent bus rerouting deprived the harbor of service. David came by, removed the old compressor,
plumbed in the new one and came back the next day for final check.
We left that afternoon, spent the night in Watmough Bay,
Lopez Island, and crossed the Strait the next day. In roughly the same area of the sub encounter
I noticed a gray boat like the orange USCG fast boats alter course to intercept
us. As it got closer it was obvious it
was some sort of government vessel and when it got within hailing distance an
armed uniform informed me they were Customs Enforcement and wanted to know
where I was coming from and my destination.
Jazz finally woke up and went into his “who’s there?” bark. At that sound the ICE boat altered to
parallel us and the uniform wanted to know when last we had been in
Canada. Throughout this Jazz is doing
his big dog bark and the uniform is conferring with the driver. Finally they decided I wasn’t an illegal
immigrant and they sped off. Jazz got
some steak scraps for his job well done.
We topped off at the fuel dock, settled with the harbormaster and tied
up in our old slip for an early morning departure for Neah Bay.
By now we were back into the short-day season and even
though the days were longer than in Alaska this time of year, it meant planning
travel accordingly. We were underway for
an hour when a beautiful sunrise began abaft.
The 55 miles passed uneventfully mostly motorsailing in the NW wind.
Well, it’s been several weeks since I’ve worked on this
so I will post it and continue the trip down the west coast later.
ap
