"Adrift" is a on going work (the name will change as the story develops)

Sailing Vacation x’s 2

GETTING UNDERWAY

Tom has been burning up the internet downloading and printing everything he can find.  Mike and his family are making supply lists and discussing ports and parks to visit.  As summer approaches the two adventuresome families eagerly await their fates.  Tom’s wife has more than a little trepidation, she knows her husband and is fully aware of the many bonehead problems and situations he has gotten them into.  In spite of his promises and guarantees, going offshore with his history does not give her any solace.

The appointed day in July finally arrives and by 9am their little two rig caravan is heading north on Interstate Five. Within a few minutes after crossing the Columbia River into Washington State Mike’s cell phone is ringing, Tom is having problems controlling his SUV and trailer. Several times he has had dangerous swaying episodes; one time so bad his car swerved out of its lane and almost collided with another vehicle. He was lucky to be able to slow down and get it under control.  They agree to pull into the next rest stop a few miles ahead. At the rest stop, Tom is visibly shaken, his wife and kids are scared and don't want to continue, sure that they will have a bad accident. Tom says he has never experienced anything like this before.  Mike calmly assesses the situation and begins asking Tom questions.  Holding his hand next to one of the trailer tires, he discovers it is too hot to touch. How much pressure is in your tires? What is the maximum trailer weight your car is designed to tow? Do you have good brakes on the trailer? Mike then shoves on the SUV noticing how soft the suspension is. Tom brags about how great his little truck is, and how it smoothes out the roughest roads. Tom has no answers to any of Mike’s questions, especially the last one about tongue weight.  In fact Tom offers that when they were loading gear in the boat they had to pull down on the hitch to get it attached to the car. They climb up into the boat and what a sight.  Tom and family have brought everything they own, three ice chests, a cast iron Dutch oven, cases of pop, cases and jugs of water.  The boat is stacked full across the back end. Mike says this is your problem, come on; we need to move some of this weight forward.  You’re lucky this time.  You should have about 10-15% or your total weight sitting on your hitch. Not enough tongue weight causes you to sway, pretty soon you’ll crash. Shortly both rigs are back on the road and looking for a service station to get some more pressure in Tom’s tires.  The next exit brings them to a store where for $1.00 in quarters they can fill all their tires in five minutes or less. Tom doesn't have trailer tires; the maximum psi marked on the side of his tires is 42 lbs.  Under inflation and overweight loads cause the tires to run hot and could eventually lead to a blow out. Mikes tires are running just a little warm to the touch; he has trailer service tires that are marked maximum 85 psi. In five minutes they are back on the road again. He wonders to himself, what’s next?

It doesn’t take long, Tom takes the lead and quickly accelerates, Mike holds back wanting to watch how Toms rearranged load handles at freeway speeds.  Soon they are at 75 mph and he’s becoming worried, not that Toms trailer is going to sway any more but that he is really speeding fast and on crappy tires at that.  Suddenly something blows out of Tom’s trailer landing in the gravel median; Mike quickly brakes and pulls over to retrieve someone’s favorite wind breaker.  Seeing in his mirror that his friend and mechanic have stopped, Tom pulls off also.  While meeting to return the jacket the two men notice that Toms right rear trailer tire is almost flat, the added pressure must have been too much. “your lucky,” comments Mike, “lucky that we pulled off just as the tire was losing air, another few minutes at 75 mph and the least damage would have been a ruined tire, the most could have been a horrific accident.  Let’s get your jack and spare says Mike, this vacation needs to get going. Tom’s blank stare tells the story, no jack, no spare, and no tire wrench.  I don’t need that stuff; I’ll just call AAA or a local tire store, says Tom, as he gets out his Blackberry.  Ten minutes later he says that AAA will call back within an hour to let them know when help will arrive. Clearly exasperated Mike says look, were only an hour into our vacation, I have some tools and a jack.  We can do this ourselves and be on the road again before you know it.  Quickly he gets out his bottle jack and four way spanner, remarking how glad he is that the flat is on the shoulder side of the trailer instead of next to the high speed freeway traffic.  See these cracks in your tire sidewall Mike points out, this tire is rotten, old age, dog pee and sunshine have destroyed all your tires. Even though they have lots of tread, none are any good.  Heavy loads and heat are the last straw.  Soon he has more bad news, all your lug nuts are rusted, when I turn them, some may break off, or worse, break off later when you’re hitting 75.  Sure enough two studs next to each other snap off, “were going to need an auto parts store and a tire store”  Using his Channel Locks Mike pops the wheel bearing cap off and pulls out the cotter pin and bearings allowing him to remove the wheel hub. “See these bearings, they are almost bone dry, another crash waiting to happen, and a burned out bearing at freeway speeds besides being a potential wreck can be very expensive if you have to replace spindles and hubs too.”

The two of them take the kids with them in Mike’s car, leaving the wives alone with the broken down trailer and sailboat beside the freeway. Tom’s wife, “Fran” apologizes for the delays and confesses that her husband means well, but just seems to have bad luck.  She is really worried about this trip and their safety, especially the children’s safety.  Fran tells Jan about the time Tom cut the tree so it fell on the car, and then when the neighbor came to help he nicked him with the chainsaw.   That’s OK says Jan, raising her hand, let’s talk about warm sailing breezes and quiet campfires.

While Mike was pulling apart the wheel, Jan was calling ahead to locate a Tire shop and auto parts store.  Luckily she finds what they need across the street from each other just a few miles further up the freeway.  The wives have been best friends for years and this trips problems are not unexpected.  While underway Mike explains the facts of life to Tom, first testing their friendship he calls Tom an idiot for thinking he could leave town without doing routine maintenance, furthermore he is risking his family and both their vacations. Next he explains fixing the one wheel is not enough, they need to do all four, Tom totally agrees sensing Mikes growing exasperation.  At the tire store Mike leaves Tom to make the best deal he can buying four new tires, stressing to him that paying a little extra for trailer rated tires is preferable over cheap passenger tires, especially if he expects to continue over loading and fast driving.  At the auto parts store he places the hub on the counter asking for twenty replacement studs with nuts.  Soon they are on the way back, they have been gone less than hour when AAA calls back, Toms cancels the emergency roadside assistance assuring the operator they will be OK. It takes Mike only seconds with his hammer to pound out the remaining studs and tap the new ones into place. Not surprising Mike has with him a can of waterproof wheel bearing grease that he quickly applies to the dry bearing. Tom is quite pleased with himself, not only are they about to be on the road again, but he has not had to do a thing except get out his credit card. Meanwhile Mike is cleaning up using his waterless hand cleaner, thinking unspoken words.  The vacation convoy limps off the freeway and at the tire store; they get instant service when they arrive. Soon three more tires are being mounted.   Mike passes to the technician the remaining fifteen studs and nuts requesting that they switch them at the same time that they grease all the wheel bearings including redoing the one he had done by hand. Tom is ecstatic with everything; this vacation is really coming together.

ABOARD AT LAST

Once again they hit the road north; the delays for repairs weren’t that time consuming.  Stopping along the way for snacks and last minute supply shopping breaks up the drive, plus gives Mike a chance to apologize for calling Tom an idiot. They arrive at Deception Pass State Park boat ramp in the  afternoon and park “Puffer and Turtle Dove” side by side in a level area of the parking lot.  The kids take off exploring the park and fishing docks while the adults organize the boats.  They help each other with rigging and stepping masts. Soon Tom is backing his boat down the ramp stopping just short of the water to unhook the bow eye and discuss their next moves.   Mike is on the dock holding the lines; Tom begins to back the trailer into the water.  At the last second Mike notices the brake lights and  yells wait, wait, but it’s too late, they had forgot to unplug the trailer lights and the hot bulbs all pop as cold water floods around them.  Puffer floats free and is quickly tied to the floating dock.  Mikes boat goes in the water next and is tied behind Toms, their homes for the next week eagerly tugging at the lines waiting for the adventure to begin.   Unfortunately there is no fresh water rinse hose so they are forced to leave their salt water doused trailers to the corrosive forces of nature.

They have planned to cast off at low tide when the water in Deception Pass is slack. Since it was now low tide they had no time to lose, the water would soon be coursing back through the narrow pass increasing velocity by the minute. Everyone boards the boats and put on their pfd’s except Tom.  Tom explains he is a good swimmer and with all the help and two boats he will be perfectly safe. As fate sometimes gets the last word it is fitting that Toms son at this very moment loses his balance and catches himself on the boom. The very same boom that Tom had forgot to secure swings over and soundly whacks him in the head leaving him throbbing and slightly dazed.  Tom’s wife after seeing that he is still alive demands he either go in the cabin or put on his life jacket.  As they approach the pass Mike is relieved to see smooth water and little current, but in the distance he can see Rosario Strait and a slight haziness warning of possible fog forming.   For safety the boats keep a short distance apart and it is difficult yelling so Mike radios Tom to alert him of the possibility of fog reducing their visibility.  When Tom responds his transmission is so poor Mike asks if the radio is working correctly.  That’s when Tom realizes he forgot to screw the antenna on to the top of the mast.  Without a proper antenna, Tom’s radio will only work for short distances.  Their plan is to reach James Island State Park a distance of about 10 miles, with the incoming tide pushing them along Mike expects to be in the little protected anchorage in about two hours.

FIRST FOG

As the two boat flotilla makes its way north in Rosario Strait the fog thickens, soon land is not visible.  Sailing is not possible, there’s not a breath of wind. They motor along at about 3 mph plus the speed of the current; all total they are probably making 5 mph over ground.  Mike has previously determined he would follow a compass course of 300 degrees magnetic. This course would keep the boat pointed in the right direction and as long as they kept making forward progress they would eventually cross the strait. The current is constantly pushing them north, so it was important they get across the strait or risk being swept past James Island. As the fog thickens the two families feel more and more isolated. The laughter and joking give way to quiet as the seriousness of their situation becomes apparent.   Mike is wishing he had radar; Rosario Strait is travelled by commercial vessels that not only could run them over but their wakes present a danger to small boats as well.  The two boats run much closer now; they don’t want to lose sight of each other in the fog. Mike calls Tom on the radio and says to be sure to keep a course of 300 degrees if they lose sight of each other. About once a minute the kids ring a brass bell he keeps on the boat, Tom’s boat does the same thing. Hearing the bell is reassuring to them as the fog swirls around threatening to separate them.  Peering deeply into the fog ahead of them Mike spots what appears to be a wall of white water or surf breaking on a beach.  For a second Mike is in disbelief how they could be headed for disaster.  He quickly scans his depth sounder and GPS, the boats have 40 fathoms below them and they are in the middle of the strait. It dawns on him that they are headed for a tide rip; the incoming tide they are riding is meeting the outgoing tide.  The recent minus tide must have created a monstrous opposing force and now they are heading right into the face of a six foot over fall. Mike swings his boat around and Tom seeing the wall of water follows him.  Both are now fighting the current but their little auxiliary outboards are barely able to make headway against the incoming tidal rush. Mike has read about tide rips in Rosario Strait sometimes extending across the entire 3 ½ miles. There seems to be no real good solution to their situation, continuing to run away from the tide rip will use up all their fuel, attempting to run towards shallow water near shore may make it worse plus in the fog they could run aground. The skippers decide to batten down the hatches, keep everyone in the cabins and trust their boats to carry them safely through.  Turning the boats once more towards the wall of water quickly brings them squarely face to face with nature’s awesome power. The distance closes unbelievably fast. Tom is white knuckled steering his boat, there is no turning back now, Fran peers out from below the cabin hatch, looking for support in Toms face. He tells her to hang on. Tom sees the over fall double in height as they get closer, and thinks he can hear the thunderous roar of the standing wave. In an instant it is over, the two boats hardly feel the wave as they ride up over it. Tom and Mike can see now that the tide rip over fall was only one foot or less. Their eyes have been tricked by the fog and their own imaginations.  In almost pure white out conditions they have had no depth perception, nothing to compare or judge what they were seeing. With things back to normal everyone on both boats get back to watching and bell ringing, the fog has taught them a lesson they won’t soon forget.

THE WHOLE NINE YARDS

Turtle Dove and Puffer are now about halfway to James Island and about halfway across Rosario Strait.  Plainly marked on Mikes nautical chart is Bird Rocks and Belle Rock and they are headed right for them.  He chooses to go west of the rocks; this course will take them well clear of the commercial traffic in the middle of Rosario Strait.  Keep a good watch out and pay close attention to your depth sounder Mike radios Tom, we will be less than ¼ mile from the rocks.  The fog begins to lighten and in a few minutes they are completely in clear air. While dealing with the fog they were so busy keeping watch they had not noticed how wet and miserable it had become. Now in warm bright sunshine everyone is noticing how they and the boats are dripping wet. Tom points to Bird Rocks on the starboard side, right where expected. Then up ahead is today’s destination, James Island is only 1 ½ miles away. A fresh breeze is building on the beam, Mike kills his motor and begins hoisting the mainsail, and then he unfurls the jib sail and starts pulling away from Tom’s boat.  The outboard motors are no match for a little wind.  The last thing Tom hears is “were going sailing, race you to the cove” as he trims the sheets and sets a close hauled course to clear Belle Rock, he plans to shoot out into Rosario and then tack back in time to still make James Island. Tom and his crew are still motoring, apparently when he was rigging the boat he had not tied off the main halyard and somewhere along the way the halyard had run up the mast, so now there was no way to raise the main sail. In a little while Tom’s jib sail is up and he kills his motor also.  The rest of the afternoon is beautiful sailing, exactly what they had come for. Mike repeatedly cuts across Toms bow taunting the other boats crew knowing they don’t have a chance of keeping up with only the jib flying. When Mike reaches the cove he blasts right by, it’s hard to quit sailing when the conditions are so perfect.  They make several more tacks in the channel between James and Decatur Island. Tom drops his jib and starts his motor outside the cove afraid to sail the last 500 feet to the dock.  Meanwhile Mike has almost overtaken Tom and continues charging for the cove.  Both boats are racing for the dock and Mike with all sails up is pulling ahead until with only 250 feet to go the wind in the cove dies. Tom cheerfully motors past Mike and takes the only free space left at the dock.  Tom’s boat is completely tied up and the family has gone ashore by the time Mikes boat, sails hanging limp slowly ghosts up to Tom’s boat. Mind if I raft up to you tonight skipper, asks Mike, it seems there’s no room at the dock. Sure says Tom, if you don’t mind helping me take down my mast, someone left the halyard at the top, right next to where the antenna goes.

JAMES ISLAND

James Island is a dog bone Island, with two summits connected by a low narrow isthmus.  The shape forms east and west coves which are almost ideal anchorages.  The east cove is open to Rosario Strait so it is subject to more wind and wave action. The west cove is a little larger with room for six or more thirty foot boats at the dock and quite a bit of anchor room a dinghy ride away.  On shore are a number of campsites with tables and fire pits, and of course the popular composting toilet. Trails circle the island and lead to the summit which is somewhat rounded and knobby, opening the question of exactly where the highest point is.  All of James Island is a State Park, camping or using the dock overnight requires paying a self service fee as do the anchor buoys.  Anchoring in the cove is free and many choose to do so. Campers on shore or at the dock can expect local residents paying them a visit, and not just after dark.  Raccoons are seen ransacking kayaks pulled high up on the beach while their oblivious owners are only a short distance away.  Boats at the dock and anchored out are open game for Otters that will climb lines and chains, leaving behind distinctive little footprints on deck, evidence of their transgressions on private property.  Yes, that thump you heard during the night was real, you’ve been boarded, and not by pirates.

While Mike and Tom’s family take care of exploring and preparing for a campfire dinner on shore the two men busy themselves dropping Tom’s mast. Taking down a mast on a stable trailer in the parking lot is one thing, but a rocking unstable boat is precarious at best. In Toms hurry he almost loses the mast over the side, Mike’s quick action securing a temporary stay does the trick.  With the mast lowered they screw the radio antenna to its base and retrieve the wayward halyard. Tom sees the wisdom of having a spare halyard. 

 Violent storms, some with winds near 100 mph had pummeled the island last winter.  The aftermath has left plenty of firewood from entire trees to broken limbs.  It doesn’t take long for the kids to gather lots of tinder dry blow downs and dead limbs for their cooking fire, and soon they have a massive bonfire blazing.  The huge blaze gets everyone’s attention including some boaters with buckets that are racing up the dock.  As they rush by Mike and Tom one of them demands “are those your kids?” they can’t have a fire like that here.  That could burn the whole island.  There’s no fire protection.  If that fire gets out of hand, everything will go up.  When the adults reach the fire the children are relieved to see them with buckets of sea water, for they were already worried the fire was out of control.  In short order the fire is brought down to a safe size.  James Island is a little over 100 acres in size; a mainland fire would burn 100 acres before anyone could react.  People on the mainland around Anacortes would helplessly watch the western sky light up as their little State Park only four miles away turned to ashes.  The boaters are satisfied that they have saved James Island plus made a lasting impression.  They leave the buckets, offering to pick them up in the morning.  The wives join the rest of their families around the campfire asking what all the commotion was.  Tom quickly answers, nothing, nothing at all.  Jan and Fran briefly make eye contact, knowing there’s more to the story, Fran is becoming apprehensive about sleeping on the boat tonight but doesn’t say anything.  As daylight recedes and the darkness creeps in, the requisite scary stories are told and retold.  Tom burns his hand grabbing a hot stick and momentarily loses his temper.  Swearing and kicking at some firewood he manages to gash his foot.  All in all it’s a fine evening and everyone thoroughly enjoys eating hotdogs and marshmallows cooked over an open fire.  There is something very special about a burned charcoal tasting hotdog and charred black marshmallows for dinner after a hard day at sea.  When conversation slows and flames barely flicker the children pour water on the fire causing billowing clouds of rising steam.  The fire gasps its last breath and the exhausted group is ready for sleep, they head back to the boats. 

Mike comments on how steep the walkway has become and worries to himself that the tide has dropped.  When both families have boarded Tom’s boat, they all feel the unmistakable thud and shudder from the keel touching bottom.  With each minor swell or movement the boat bangs aground again and again.  Mike and Tom quickly discuss what to do and decide they have no time to lose.  They must get Toms boat away from the dock and into deep water before any damage is done. If the tide falls further, Tom’s boat could become trapped, possibly tipping over on its side.  If the boat tipped enough it could down flood and sink when the water rises again. The boat draws 4 ½ feet, and with all the people, gear and provisions it is probably closer to 5 feet. Working fast the two men help all the family back on to the dock asking them to be patient. Fran is terrified, and her nervousness is causing the kids to be scared also.  Without the street lights of home it is pitch black. Their little flashlights are all that’s keeping them from stepping off the float into frigid water. Fran desperately wishes she were somewhere else, but manages to keep it together, at least for now.  With everyone off, Toms boat appears to be floating free again, they hurriedly cast off and using Mike’s boat and motor they make their way to deep water about 100 feet from the dock. The women and children watch, but the total darkness has swallowed the boats leaving them alone on the dock.  They can hear the boat motor and see the occasional light. “Left you behind” a mans voice booms out startling the already jumpy group. Jan turns to see one of the men from the earlier fire incident, telling him that the water was lower than they anticipated.  It comes back he says, it always does.  For some reason both women and the children are more at ease; their imaginations had been running overtime.  Having another person around is reassuring. Meanwhile out on the water, Tom tosses out his anchor while Mike unties the two boats.  Soon they are back at the dock with only one boat.  Mikes boat has a lifting keel and draws only 2 feet so even at very low tide his boat will be just fine.  Jan and the kids clamber aboard and go below. I guess I won the race after all Mike jokes.  In the morning the tide will be higher, you can up anchor and raft next to us again, but in the meantime I guess you guys are stuck using your dinghy to get out to your boat. It’s getting a little breezy and cold, were going to bed.  Good night and Mike goes below, sliding the hatch shut behind him.

Tom and Fran and their two children silently climb into the dinghy. The quiet is peaceful yet ominous.  Pushing off with the oar Tom paddles into the darkness toward the boat.  The dock recedes leaving each person alone with their thoughts. Breaking the silence he says, I can’t see where to paddle, you will have to tell me where to go.  “Oh great” Fran yells at Tom losing all control, first you almost crash us on the freeway, then were lost in the fog while a huge wave almost rolls over us, then you lose a rope and can’t get the sail up on a sailboat, next your kids try to burn up a State Park, then your boat runs aground at the dock of all places and now were lost in our dinghy and can’t find the boat.  Before Tom can respond a blinding light pierces the night and cuts across to their boat.  With just two more strokes the dinghy softly touches home and they all climb aboard.  Mikes light goes out as fast as it had come on.  Lets get to bed says Tom, this wind is chilling me. In the morning everything will be great.

Tom and the children went right to sleep, but Fran was awakened by every little noise, the wind blew the halyards against the mast, she could hear the boats at the dock squeal as hulls rubbed against rubber fenders. She heard or felt the low throb as a ship or ferry went by, the wakes would rock their tiny little boat. Several times she thought she was hearing something moving on deck. Afraid of the unknown and building on her own fears, Fran never looked out a window.  Finally the noises subsided and Fran fretfully slept.  When she opened her eyes it was daylight and she peeked out.  What she saw outside scared her plenty, but somehow yesterday’s events prepared her for the miles of open water now outside her window. She calmly tells Tom to wake up.  Not hearing a response from his so called queen bed shoe box under the cock pit Fran tugs on his sleeping bag. “Tom” she yells, “where are you”” do you kids see your father anywhere”? Squelching a scream and feeling a sudden emptiness in her stomach Fran throws open the hatch, she stands on the steps where she can see the entire boat. Toms not on board, the dinghy’s gone.  Looking around she has no idea where they are, but it is not the cove at James Island.

THE SEARCH

Meanwhile back on Turtle Dove, Jan has discovered Fran and Tom are gone. Wake up, wake up, is the first thing Mike hears as he shakes away last night’s dream world.  Tom and Fran are gone says Jan, their boat’s not in the cove.  “Oh no, not already, can’t we just have a nice relaxing vacation” laments Mike as he pulls on his pants to go topside. Once outside a quick scan verifies, Tom and Frans boat “Puffer” is nowhere to be seen.  “Turn on the radio,” he asks, I’ll go ask the people at the end of the dock if they know anything.  They were gone at daylight reports Mike as he climbs back aboard and picks up the microphone. “Puffer, Puffer, Puffer, this is Turtle Dove,” After about thirty seconds and switching the radio to high power Mike repeats the call. “Keep the radio on, I’m going to walk around on shore, maybe I can see them out in the strait.”   “Wait for me, I’m going with you”.  “OK, but bring the Binoculars and portable radio.” The first thing Mike and Jan do is walk straight across the narrow neck of the island to the other side. No Puffer in sight, it is over four miles across Rosario Strait and they probably wouldn’t be able to see a small boat more than halfway across.  Next they follow the shoreline trail around the south end of the island and scan the waters along Decatur and Lopez Islands, with the binoculars they can see all the way to the distant fog bank, but they see nothing.  Returning to the boat they discuss what to do next.  Jan wants to call the Coast Guard; Mike says not so fast, What if they are just fine, we haven’t searched north of the island.  We need to either take the dinghy around the north end or climb up somewhere that allows us to see as far as possible. I need coffee says Jan, let’s get a pot going, maybe something will happen. While you get the coffee cooking I’ll walk down the dock to see if anyone else is up. Then I’ll dinghy over to the ones anchored out, and at buoys, we should talk to all of them in case someone knows something. In a few minutes he returns and begins to get the dinghy ready to go. “Did you find out anything” says Jan as she hands him his coffee mug. “No, nothing, I’m going to use the motor and go over to that big cutter anchored out past the buoys, they weren’t here when we went to bed.  I’ll wake them up if the motor doesn’t do it for me. Coffee cup in hand Mike points his inflatable towards the mouth of the cove and guns the little 4hp outboard, he doesn’t back off the throttle until he is within coasting and yelling distance, then kills the motor and yells “ahoy” a few seconds later a head pops above the companion way and says “ahoy to you too, what’s going on”.  Sorry to bother you, my name is Mike, we’re tied up at the far end of the dock, during the night our friends that were anchored over there, (pointing to where Puffer had been), disappeared; since you came in late I was wondering if you saw anything.  Do you remember seeing them anchored? Charlie, the cutters skipper says, “No, no one was anchored over there; we got here early, just before daylight. We tried to get an early start but when we saw the fog down the strait we decided to come in here and wait it out.  We started at Spencer Spit and ran through Thatcher Pass.”  “Did you see a small sloop along the way asks Mike?” Just ferry boats, that’s all that was out. Mike yells, “thanks” and starts the outboard cranking the twist grip throttle  as far as it will go. A minute later he repeats the routine at the next boat, tied up to one of the park buoys, only this time the owner comes on deck with a pot of coffee offering a refill. Mike hits pay dirt, the guy remembers Puffer slowly leaving followed a short time later by a man rowing a dinghy.  He thought it was a marital squabble since he could hear him yelling to her.  Anyway it was about two hours before sun up and they went south once they cleared the cove. Of course with that tidal current out there the guy in the dinghy didn’t have much choice, no way was he going to row against the current. Thanks, says Mike, and thanks for the coffee too as he pulls the starter rope.  He doesn’t race the motor, he just runs slowly at fast idle speed back to the dock, thinking and trying to sort out what he has heard.

Tom has been in his inflatable dinghy now for over five hours, his back is killing him, the muscles he uses for rowing are cramping, the palms of his hands are bleeding and beyond blistering. Since daylight broke a couple hours ago Tom has seen nothing but flat water and white fog. He can’t see shore and has no idea which way is which.  The current has been dragging the inflatable along the entire time but Tom doesn’t know if he has drifted one mile or twenty miles. When Tom left Puffer during the night he was just going to paddle over to the dock and use the bathroom on shore.  His poor job anchoring the night before has put himself and his family in jeopardy. Tom’s method of anchoring was simply to toss the anchor and all his line over the side. The end of the anchor line is known as the “bitter end” and Tom had tied it to the cleat on the boats bow. The bitter end is still tied, and the rode (anchor line) extends into the water almost straight down.  During the night the wind had picked up quite a bit and the tide was raising the water level in the cove over six feet. Unfortunately when he tossed the rode and anchor over the side it was tangled into a big birds nest mess.  Tom had never flaked it properly for use, or it tangled when tossed, regardless Tom should have carefully lowered the anchor while paying out the rode making sure there was enough line out for the depth including the increased depth when the tide came up.  With the line tangled Puffer was barely held in place, as the water in the cove rose the anchor was beginning to lift off the bottom.  Getting into the dinghy was all it took to set Puffer adrift, as Tom paddled through the darkness to the dock unbeknownst to him, his wife and kids were slowly drifting out of the cove.

Most people have never been in a situation like this, lost and marooned in a boat with young children.  Her husband has disappeared during the night; this vacation is not going well.  The peacefulness of the water does not suggest eminent danger and being responsible for her children keeps her focused instead of panicked.  The boat does not seem to be moving she realizes and begins to absorb what she can see. Kelp and seaweed are all around them, a short distance away she can make out some rocks breaking the surface.  The water is smooth as glass, without even a hint of wind or the faintest whisper of sound. As she stares into the white of the fog she glimpses for a second what looks like a shore line. Quickly glancing at the boats compass Fran notes the shore is west of them. Next to the compass is the depth sounder, they are floating in twelve feet of water. Feeling much better and in control Fran turns on the marine radio, she will simply call for help, as she pauses to think what she will say, Fran is overcome with emotion, she bursts into tears, where is Tom.

When Tom pushes off in the dinghy it is still dark in the cove, he looks for the small light he had left as a marker hanging from the rigging on his boat. When he doesn’t see the tell tale light he immediately scans the entire cove and spots his boat not at anchor, but outside the cove about to go out of site around the point. Pulling with all his strength he follows after Puffer, but the inflatable isn’t a great rowboat, and wallows side to side.  He wastes valuable effort and time keeping the dinghy going straight. Cutting too close to the point Tom paddles into a patch of seaweed and loses more time back tracking and circling. Finally he clears the cove and spots Puffer caught in the current, a mere 100 yards away, frantically he calls out his wife’s name while he doubles his effort padding, again and again he calls out to Fran.  Puffer with her keel firmly in the grip of the outgoing current moves silently along, all aboard fast asleep.  Tom thinking he can catch them keeps rowing, in a few minutes it is obvious he is losing the battle.  The dinghy is not only unable to close the gap, but is being blown slightly to one side away from James Island.  Knowing he must get help Tom turns back for the cove, but he too is caught in the current, and is pulled along, already a quarter mile away from James Island.  Tom heroically rows the inflatable and actually may have closed the distance some, but in the end, James Island fades into the background as the eastern sky lightens and brings forth a new day. His voice hoarse and hurting, Tom calls out, waits and listens then resumes rowing after Puffer, his bloodied and blistered hands his only company.  As fast as daylight arrives so does the morning fog. Tom loses sight of Puffer; he is completely alone in the white mist unable to see any land. He is thinking of all the things that have gone wrong this trip, when Fran yelled at him last night, the danger his family is in right now.  Fran doesn’t know how to run the boat.  Are they awake yet, what will she do. Immersed in whiteness unable to see land or even knowing where the sun is, Tom has no idea which way to paddle, he can’t even tell if he’s going in circles. To make things worse, rowing is becoming difficult, the inflatable has a slow leak and is getting soft; the hand pump is on Puffer. Tom has no way of knowing how much time has gone by, has he been out there for one hour or three? Has he passed Puffer in the fog? He yells again, the pain in his throat cutting off the sound, causing him to wince. Feeling helpless he thinks about certain birds, able to navigate huge distances with some sort of built in North Star in their head.  The fog has cut him off from land, Sun, Moon, all reference points erased, Tom isn’t even aware that he is being pulled along at 1.5 mph.  His only companions are some pieces of floating debris, and a jumble of seaweed and kelp keeping pace, torn loose from some faraway land during a winter storm.

THE RESCUE

“Puffer calling Turtle Dove, Puffer calling Turtle Dove please come in”, begs Fran. Static momentarily bursts from the radio speaker as Fran releases the microphone key.  “Its Fran” yells Jan.”It’s Fran,” “I know I can hear on the portable,” says Mike as he bumps into the dock, answer her. “Hello, hello, Fran where are you” says Jan, excitement raising her voice. More static, as Fran comes back on, “Toms gone, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know where we are, all I see is fog.”  Fran this is Mike, is everyone OK? Is the boat OK? Tell us what you know, what happened?  Static, nothing happened blurts Fran, the last thing I remember is Tom taking the dinghy to shore, and when I wake up Toms gone and there’s fog all around us. More static, Mike off radio says to Jan, I think I know what’s going on. More static, Fran, is the boat moving? Asks Mike, can you see anything around you or in the water? What do you hear? Fran looks around again then squeezes the microphone, earlier for a moment I saw land to the west of us, we must be stuck in a seaweed bed.  I can see the current flowing by kelp and grasses, but were not moving, the water is 12 feet deep. OK says Mike, now turn on the GPS and tell me your longitude and latitude, I’ll stand by. With the children watching, Fran frantically tears apart the cabin looking for Toms portable GPS, sensing their fears and worry she tries to reassure them, but it has the opposite effect.  Sobbing, her four year old son asks where papa is. To which Fran answers, “In the dinghy somewhere” and then adds, “Do you know where daddy’s GPS is? Seeing him look quickly look away, Fran follows his gaze to the edge of the v berth and spots the roving GPS.  Picking it up she finds the battery cover and batteries missing.  Where are the batteries? I need them right now; once again Fran follows his eyes, this time to his game toy. In a flash Fran has the batteries back in the GPS and turns it on, only to find the window reading “shutting down low battery” Fran holds back the urge to yell at the kids while she scans the cabin for spare batteries. Living inside a cramped boat for one day and one night has turned it into a huge mess, they have brought way too much stuff and now she can’t find anything. Spotting a flashlight, Fran tries the switch and is rewarded with a bright beam of light.  Opening the case, yet another reward, when she finds that the batteries are the correct ones to use in the GPS.

Mike has his paper chart out on the table and is telling Jan what the fellow at the anchor buoy had told him.  He thinks Puffer dragged anchor and drifted out of the cove into the outgoing tidal current while Tom was in the bathroom on shore.  When Tom came back and saw the boat drifting he gave chase, but since he is not on the island or with Fran he must be drifting in the fog or made it to shore somewhere.  “Turtle Dove calling Puffer come in Fran” static, this is Fran, I don’t have the GPS going yet. “That’s OK, look on the front of your radio, are you on hi power or low power? It may say 25 watt or 1 watt?” Fran answers back, “low power Mike, should I change it”, no that’s OK, low power doesn’t transmit very far, that means your close by, if you should lose us, try your cell phone, or switch to hi power and call the Coast Guard,  Turtle Dove standing by. Jan and Mike study their navigation  chart, “this is about where the fog bank starts,” says Mike, as he points to the chart, “and this is about how far our radios will work on low power, of course having mast top antennas really help, but the island is blocking line of sight as well.  Right here is shallow water off shore and the chart shows a big kelp patch, Fran says she could see land to the west.  This is where I think they are, marking a circle with his pencil.  Let’s get going, if Fran gets us her coordinates well know for sure, if she doesn’t, well, will just head that way and play it by ear.”  What about Tom? Asks Jan, “I don’t know” Mike answers, I think we should call the Coast Guard, but what if he turns up, and we have started a search for nothing.  On the other hand what if he’s really in trouble, waiting could cause; Mike doesn’t finish what he was about to say.

Suddenly Toms little closed in world of water and mist is interrupted by movement.  About one hundred feet away, Tom can see seaweed and kelp streaming in the current.  Without hesitation Tom knows what he must do and begins the painful pull on the oars. Slowly he closes the gap and finally works his way into the kelp patch.  Bull kelp grows off shore in rocky areas that are shallow but never are bare of water, the large bulbous end floats to the surface ensuring the plant has sunshine, connected to the bottom by a long thin body that holds fast.  Tom reaches over the side and grabs the closest kelp only to have the slippery plant pulled from his grip as the current reasserts itself. Again he tries, this time Tom is able to corral four or five, the current pulling stronger than Tom is prepared for begins to upset the dinghy causing water to pour over the side and one of his inflatable seats to float away.  Summoning will and strength only a very scared person knows, Tom manages to tie the dinghy’s painter to the kelp. Moving to the back of the boat keeps things in balance and water no longer pours over the side.  Tom bails the dinghy using a cut off milk jug he keeps just for that purpose.  With a shudder and a shake Tom is scared, cold and relieved. Cold because he is totally soaked, scared because he is realizing how little he can control, his fate unknown, but relieved because he has been able to stop the dinghy’s drift. A drift that was taking him swiftly out of Rosario Strait and into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. His spirits lifted, he allows himself to make a plan.  If the kelp doesn’t break he can stay where he is until the fog lifts, or when the tide turns he can untie and ride the current north, possibly until he drifts out of the fog, maybe even all the way back to James Island.  Once again he focuses on his family.  By now they must be awake, adrift like him, adrift in the fog. Tom knows Puffers anchor is over the side, there’s a chance they are aground somewhere, maybe the anchor snagged and they are waiting it out just like him. Fran can’t run the boat, she would call for help.  It’s a good thing he and Mike had dropped the mast and installed the antenna, they never tested the radio after fixing the antenna, but it worked for short distances, they used it yesterday, it had to make it better, how could simply screwing on a three foot stainless wire whip not work better. In the distance Toms hears a fog horn, the noise sends chills through his body, he’s been hearing it all along but doesn’t remember when it began. He can’t really tell the exact direction the noise is coming from except it’s from the direction he had been headed before he tied to the kelp. Tom is now shaking uncontrollably, his body trying to generate heat. He can hear the deep throb of a heavy ship off in the distance; perhaps the ship is to the north in Boundary Pass, noise travels long distances over open water. As Tom sits, waiting, the throbbing gets closer, louder, and he can tell a change of direction too. Feeling safe in the kelp patch Tom is caught off guard when the ships wake rolls out of the whiteness, for a second it looks like the wall of water is going to go right over the top of Tom and his inflatable, but the little raft floats effortlessly over the top and down the back of each succeeding wave. His makeshift kelp anchorage seems to be holding.

‘I’ve got it working” Fran speaks into the microphone, without bothering to use proper radio etiquette. “I’ve got the longitude and latitude she says not waiting for a reply.  Following Frans lead, Mike answers simply “go ahead Fran; I got my pencil ready” Fran slowly speaks “48.29.184 N and 122.45.784W is that what you want? “Yeah, that’s perfect, hold on a minute,” Jan is already sliding her finger down the edge of the chart stopping on one coordinate while Mike is doing the same thing across the top, where the two lines cross is where Fran is, and right next to a familiar name.  “You’re at Bird Rocks Mike says into the radio, the same place we started sailing yesterday when we came out of the fog.  That’s only two miles from here; you must be just barely in the fog. We are already underway; we should be there in half an hour.” As Turtle Dove motors past the cutter anchored at the entrance to the cove the skipper yells to Mike, “I’ve been listening on the radio, call us if you need any help, I’m Mack and this here’s Sea Peace.” “Thanks,” yelling back, “I will.”  They clear the cove and set course for Bird Rocks, they can’t see their destination only two miles away because of the fog but the GPS will guide them straight to the rocks and hopefully Puffer.  It seems foolish to be intentionally headed into shallow rocky water in the fog, but right now the seriousness of Frans predicament is guiding Mike’s actions.  According to local tide predictions, the outgoing current will last about six hours. Right now the current is still heading south, pulling them along at a good clip, Mike heads slightly to one side of the GPS coordinate. If he has any problem he does not want to be dragged onto the rocks. He keeps having nagging thoughts about Tom; If Tom has been drifting since two hours before sunup that means he has drifted for five hours; with the current he could be all the way into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  “It’s time to call for help,” says Mike as he reaches for the radio.  “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, Coast Guard” Mike speaks into the microphone, “This is Turtle Dove, over.” After waiting about twenty seconds he switches the radio to hi power and repeats the call.  A blast of static exits the speaker, and then as clear as if he was sitting in the James Island cove, the voice of Coast Guardsmen petty officer Rollie Jones fills the air, “This is Bellingham Coast Guard, Turtle Dove, over” Mike takes a deep breath, knowing Fran is listening he wants to be careful not to alarm her.  “We are south of James Island, one of our group is lost and adrift in an inflatable.  We think he is drifting south in the fog, over” Petty officer Jones comes back on, “Turtle Dove, do you have a cell phone?” “Yes” answers Mike, “good” says Jones“call me, I’ll give you the number when you’re ready.” Jan already has a pencil and paper, “go Bellingham, I’m ready.”  “This is the number for Bellingham Coast Guard, 360- 734-1692, repeat 360 734-1692, over” “got it” as he repeats the number.  Mike sighs a breath of relief, but he feels guilty for not acting sooner; it’s been about an hour since Jan woke him to say Puffer was gone, in that time Tom could have drifted another mile or more; should he have called the coast guard earlier? “Here’s your phone,” says Jan, “OK, I want you to steer while I talk to them,” says Mike. “When we enter the fog, use the GPS, slow her down to an idle and steer to the right of Belle Rocks, watch the depth sounder, stay in water twenty feet deep.”

THE COAST GUARD

“Bellingham Coast Guard,” booms petty officer Jones when he picks up the phone. “Hi this is Mike from Turtle Dove.  “Call me Rollie Mike, what’s your last name?” “It’s Chambers” “OK Mike, what’s going on” asks Rollie. Mike starts at the beginning, when they wake up and Puffer is gone, how he questions other cruisers and is told they saw Tom paddling after Puffer about two hours before dawn. Mike tells Rollie that they are in route to bring Puffer and Toms family back from Bird Rocks, and that based on what Fran said, she and the boat are not in any danger.  He gives him a complete description of Tom and the dinghy. Rollie wants to know if Tom has any survival gear, water, warm clothing, or emergency gear in the dinghy. The more questions Rollie asks, the more Mike feels inadequate and ill prepared for their vacation to the San Juans.  It had never occurred to him to have a whistle in his dinghy, or an anchor, signal mirror, water, after all they just use it (the dinghy) to paddle a few feet to shore or a dock, at least until this trip that is.  Mike agrees to call or radio if he has any problem at Bird Rocks;  Rollie then verifies his cell number and asks him to keep his radio turned on to channel 16.

Fran is sitting in the dripping fog listening to hundreds of squawking Puffins roosting nearby, she had heard Mikes radio call to the coast guard and the request to call on the telephone; now she is worried even more, why wouldn’t the coast guard talk on the radio? How come she hasn’t heard any more radio calls? Where is Tom? Even though Fran is isolated in the fog, the flowing current keeps her oriented and the earlier glimpse of land established which way was west, she knows where Bird Rocks are so she is peering into the murky mist exactly where Turtle dove should be appearing.  The static on the radio jumps starts here senses snapping her back from where thoughts are worse than reality.

“Securite, securite, securite, all ships, all ships, all ships, this is the United States Coast Guard Bellingham.  Be on the lookout for a single individual male adrift in an inflatable raft.  Last seen drifting with the southerly tidal current, south of James Island, on the west side of Rosario Strait. The inflatable is yellow with blue bottom approximately eight feet long. The lone occupant is dressed in shorts and a light weight fleece.  He has oars but is not believed to be able to effectively pilot the raft. He has been adrift since approximately 3:30 am.  This alert is for all of Rosario Strait south of James Island in particular the areas off shore of Lopez and Decatur Islands extending ten miles into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. All vessels in the vicinity of Point Colville and Watmough Head pay particular attention to low lying objects and or radar readings.”  Bellingham Coast Guard repeats the alert one more time and then signs off. The USCGC Terrapin an 87 foot cutter on routine patrol near Cattle pass has already been diverted to the area. The Terrapin has the Coast Guards newly developed sea surface search and rescue radar systems, allowing it to search at night, or dark and foggy conditions.  A 33 foot fast response motor launch is deployed from Bellingham, at a speed of 50 mph it should be able to cover the 30 miles and be on site in thirty minutes.  The Terrapin using new integrated charting and radar technology begins a search pattern and immediately spots a possible target. The chart shows a permanent sea weed kelp bed in shallows about one half mile off the port side, but the radar is showing a object higher than normal for kelp beds. Four coast guard crewmen launch off the stern in a Rigid Inflatable Boat (RIB) for an up close look.  In minutes they radio the disappointing news, “it’s several logs snarled in rope and flotsam” The Terrapins commander orders them to run parallel and stand by for more targets.

Fran thinks she see’s Turtle Dove, or are her eyes playing tricks on her, with fog it’s like being in a cloud; it’s almost impossible to gain perception without something in front of you that you know is true. She hears the idling motor, it’s no trick. Jan sees Puffer and yells, “here we are Fran” Fran turns a quarter turn, she was looking to the north, and they came from the west.  Mike maneuvers Turtle Dove in the current so they are about twenty feet to one side of the sea weed and one hundred feet ahead of Puffer, and then with Jan steering, holding the boat steady in place, he goes forward and carefully lowers the anchor in fifteen feet of water. On signal she puts the motor in neutral allowing them to drift backward with the current. When Turtle Dove is opposite Puffer, he cleats the anchor rode hard, and lets the anchor flukes dig in to the sea floor. The rode snaps taught, the boat shudders to a halt.  The two boats are so close they can talk without yelling, Fran wants to know what the Coast Guard said about Tom, what did they say on the phone?  Mike tells her that they have dispatched several boats to the area.  “Why did he say, ten miles into the Strait of Juan De Fuca,” she wants to know. “I don’t know, but maybe they think the current could carry him that far” is his honest and frank answer. Thinking the worst, Fran is about to cry when Mike says, “I’m going to paddle the dinghy over to you and see about getting you out of that mess.” “What do you want me to do”, nothing for now, I’ll let you know.”  He ties a half inch nylon line to a cleat on the stern of Turtle Dove and pushes off paying out the line as he paddles the twenty feet to Puffer where he transfers the line to Puffers bow eye and makes it fast.  Next he secures the dinghy’s painter to a cleat near the swim ladder and climbs aboard. Mike avoids making eye contact with Fran and quickly moves to the bow, reaching for Puffers anchor line he groans trying to pull it up, “what is on this he exclaims to no one.” Yelling back to Fran he asks, “Do you have any gloves?” “let me look, I think Tom keeps some in this compartment” as she lifts the lid, “here they are””how are the kids?” he quietly asks when he reaches for the gloves, they’re ok, they’re playing games, I don’t think they realize how serious this is””We don’t know how serious this is” “the fog plays tricks on our eyes and on your thinking, don’t let it get to you.  Back on the bow he pulls again on the anchor line and slowly pulls in about five feet of rode, and then can pull no more, with his waning strength he cleats it off without giving back anything he gained. Exhaling loudly he peers over the side into the water and sees a massive ball of sea weed and kelp right at the surface, with the anchor rode leading straight into the middle. Speaking to no one again,  “no wonder I can’t lift it with half the plant life in the San Juan’s hanging from it.”   Jan has been pulling on the line Mike tied between the boats and has them floating about ten feet apart.  The water is calm and flat, the current seems to be slowing some, it really is a nice day except for the incessant fog enveloping them. They all hear a high speed motor boat go by in the distance towards the middle of Rosario Strait.  Mike thinks it probably is the coast guard fast response boat from Bellingham, but then thinks, no the coast guard wouldn’t be so foolish to go fast in the fog, endangering the boat and crew. On the other hand they have modern high resolution radar, and maybe a quarter mile away the fog is thinner; about then the wake reaches them, it was a small wake and it didn’t take long to reach them, typical of a high speed planning hull close by. Mike thinks it was them after all. Climbing back into the dinghy and shoving off of Puffer, he asks Jan to hand him his knife with the lanyard, after reaching for the knife he pulls himself to Puffers bow. With the anchor rode in one hand and his knife in the other Mike reaches into the cold water and starts cutting away green and brown sea weed.  As weight quickly drops off Puffer rides higher bringing more plant life within Mikes reach, Mike is able pull up, and retrieve about five feet more rode when he comes to a knotted mess.  It is becoming difficult because as the mess is cleared away Puffer is drifting once again, pulling the line from his hands.  Mike has to cleat the line to the dinghy as well as pull up on the submerged anchor in order to work on the snarl. Mike isn’t really cussing at Tom under his breath because Mike doesn’t really cuss at all, but he is definitely thinking what an idiot Tom is, and then feeling bad for Tom, not knowing his condition, after all one shouldn’t be thinking bad thoughts about someone in trouble, even if it is their own fault. Once the last of the snarls and weeds are pulled from the rode and Mike has the anchor, he sets it on Puffers deck, then climbs aboard and properly stows it in the bow anchor compartment, carefully flaking the rode in a triangle shape with the anchor on top. The current has stopped; the two boats and dinghy listlessly pull against their lines, all interconnected and firmly anchored with eighty feet of nylon rope, connected to twenty feet of chain, and finally attached to a twenty two pound steel anchor with one, maybe two pointed flukes stuck in the muddy bottom.  The current didn’t really stop; it just slowed, and slowed, until imperceptibly the direction of flow reversed. The boats were slowly being drawn out of the seaweed patch, the lines hanging loose. Turtle Doves anchor rode, a lazy loop until it disappears from sight. Tom takes advantage of the stillness and pulls the boats alongside each other to transfer Fran and her children to his boat. With everyone on board Turtle Dove he adjusts the lines to tow the dinghy and Puffer back to James Island. With the water still as slack as can be and yet alive with its new northward direction, Mike walks  to Turtle Doves bow and slowly pulls in the slack anchor rode as his flotilla begins it journey. Taking in the slack is as easy as it was hard bringing in Puffers anchor, when the current carries them over the anchor the rode points straight down.  Giving the chain a little tug is all it takes,  and the flukes easily pull straight up out of the mud bottom, hand over hand Mike lays the chain in the compartment stopping when the anchor breaks the surface.  Taking a quick look over the edge Mike sees the anchor is covered in mud, with a few quick up down sloshes he clears the mud then pulls the anchor all the way on deck and stows it away. They are now completely adrift, his mind wanders to Tom, I wonder if Tom is adrift.  Climbing into Turtle Doves cockpit Jan hands him a rag to wash his dirty hands.  “The tide has changed, were moving north away from Bird Rocks, we should clear the fog pretty soon.” says Mike as he starts the motor; I guess we should head for James Island, he says as if asking the others for permission, then stares at his GPS and  puts the motor in gear.

Tom has been shivering with such force his muscles are hurting. Even his jaw and neck muscles ache. In an attempt to stay warm he is huddled atop the two remaining inflatable seats. They are the size of small pillows, but somehow in spite of his shaking, Tom has managed to blow into the small inflation tubes and fill them up until they are about six inches thick. He has positioned both of them under his hip and side with his head on the front edge of the raft. This keeps him off the cold floor of the raft and out of the water, plus affords a little bit of insulation protection from the frigid San Juan waters.  Lying prone his head is only a foot from the water. Tom shouldn’t be sleepy but he is having a hard time staying alert.  Earlier a seal had broken the surface only a few feet away and barked at him before dropping back under the surface. Tom wasn’t really asleep but the seal had so startled him that he thought that he was woken from a bad dream, a nightmare if you will. After the seal scare Tom worried about Orcas, he knew that killer whales hunted seals.  He also knew that seals would hide from Orcas in kelp patches.  He had read once that Orcas would tip over small boats and rafts to see what falls out. He thinks some boats have been going by in the fog and he tried to yell, but he’s not sure, he may be dreaming.  Tom has lost all track of time, lying on the pillows must have helped; he doesn’t think he is as cold as he was. The shivering has gone away. He may have been asleep, he’s not sure. Tom thinks his kelp patch has partially broken free, something has changed, and some of the kelp is loose, he feels as if he is drifting free again.  He grabs the painter but it is still attached to a bundle of kelp, nothing is making sense. He closes his eyes again and sleeps, the fog horn his only companion. Ten seconds, ten minutes ten days, Tom doesn’t know. Suddenly he is awake; the fog horn is speaking to him, trying to make sense, telling him something important.  Earlier he could tell the direction the noise was coming from, was over the back of the inflatable, over his feet. Now it’s coming from behind his head; He knows what the fog horn is telling him, it’s time to go, it’s time to leave this place, the tidal current has changed.  Tom is on autopilot now, he doesn’t remember why, but he is driven to release his inflatable to drift with the current. He must cast off from his kelp patch and let the current take him away. The cold water feels warm to Tom as he struggles to untie the painter from the bundle of kelp; he considers lowering himself into the warm water, leaning over the side he almost capsizes.  The current and slippery kelp are more than he can manage.  With numb almost useless fingers, Tom is about ready to give up, and then he shifts to the front of the raft and begins to loosen the knotted painter from the raft.  Finally he drops the line into the water, then curls up on his makeshift bed and lays his head down again. His hands tucked in for warmth, he watches the painter, still tied to the kelp, recede in the distance.  The fog horn continues its message, while Tom drifts off.

“Coast Guard Bellingham, Rollie” answers Rollie Jones.  “This is Mike from Turtle Dove Rollie, we have Puffer in tow and are headed back to James Island with Fran and the children; They are all alright, but very worried about their father and husband;  Do you have any good news? “Mike” says Rollie, “we have on scene the 87 foot cutter Terrapin, and a 33 foot fast response boat, Terrapin has six inflatable’s that may also be used searching. The Terrapin captain is in charge. They are estimating current and drift and surface winds over the last six hours trying to home in on Tom’s location.  Is there any new information the wife has offered? Anything at all? “No, nothing,” answers Mike, “you and I know everything, and that’s darn little” “Ok,” says Rollie, keep your cell phone and radio turned on, we will call if anything changes. “What did he say” asks Fran, not giving him a chance to speak. “He says they have two boats and up to six inflatable’s combing the area, they’ve studied the currents and are trying to figure out where he may be. Nothing new, but they have just got started.” It’s a nice day muses Mike, the water is flat calm, no wind, he’ll be fine, they just need a little time to find him. ‘I was in that fog” Fran shoots back, “it’s sopping wet and cold, he could get hypothermia and, and.”  Frans voice trails off without finishing what she was thinking.”  “I don’t want to go back to James Island,” Fran blurts out, “I want to stay right here at the edge of the fog bank and wait for Tom.  Before giving much thought Mike counters, “we can’t do anything but wait, there’s nothing you can do to help”  “Don’t tell me I can’t help,” Fran screams back, Tom need us, he needs me. I know how to run the motor” Taken back by Frans emotional outburst, he glances at Jan for help. Getting nothing but a shoulder shrug, Mike suggests they heave to, even though the sails are not up, shut off the motor, and come up with a plan of action. Jan pipes up, “I’ll make some sandwiches, are you kids hungry down there” as she escapes down the companion way going below. Fran is glaring at him, as if she can somehow will Toms return, Mike asks Jan to hand up the navigation and current charts.  He and Fran lay roll them out on the cockpit seat between them.  Pointing to James Island, “this is where Puffer started drifting before sunup, and this is where she ended up, now pointing to Bird Rocks.  The current here is basically south and yet she drifted east quite a bit.  OK, look here, on some days a counter current is shown, remember these charts are predictions, not hard fast facts.  We know the wind was blowing lightly out of the cove from the east.  Tom and the dinghy would not be affected by the current the same as Puffer.  “What does that mean?” ask Fran. “It means that Puffer with its big fin keel was locked into the current, where as the dinghy without any keel, would be mostly affected by the wind.”  I think Tom tried to catch you, at least the guy at the cove said that’s what it looked like to him.  But since he didn’t, he must have been blown further away, and once you both had drifted into the fog there wouldn’t be much chance he could find you even if he could row against the wind.  I think Tom drifted somewhere down this way, pointing along the shore of Decatur Island. “Wouldn’t the wind have blown him ashore” questions Fran.  “Not necessarily, but maybe; Most of this shoreline has vacation homes and a few stretches of forested land.  If he was ashore along here somewhere, he would be OK but probably lost or looking for someone to help.  The chart shows currents speeds of one quarter up to one and a half miles per hour depending on how far from shore.  Generally deeper water has faster flow and is farther from shore. It’s about five and half miles to lands end on Lopez Island; If Tom drifted at maximum speed it would only take three and a half hours to make it out into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  Seeing Frans face Mike quickly adds, “but at one quarter mile per hour, over 20 hours, which means he wouldn’t be out there but somewhere along here, pointing to a prominent cape and bay on Lopez’s east side.  ‘What about here” Fran points to Lopez Pass, “could he be in here?” “Sure says Mike,” same thing as along the shore, Tom would be OK, just lost.  “He could be sitting on shore somewhere waiting for the fog to lift.  With this image, Frans mood is better, “when does the fog lift?”  “Later in the day when the Sun warms things, but sometimes, especially near Juan de Fuca strait it can persist for days or longer.”  Jan appears with PB & J sandwiches, no one complains when she says she will get drinks.  After one bite of her sandwich, Fran announces, “I’m going to search for Tom, along the shore.  If the fog doesn’t lift someone has to find him, if the fog does lift, someone needs to be there, and either way doing nothing is not helping. You guys can stay here, but I’m going.” Jan doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, “we will all go, it’s not safe to go alone. Mike jumps in, “we can anchor Puffer nearer to shore in shallow water and take Turtle Dove, our lifting keel will gets us in close, and hopefully keep us from grounding, the kids are fine inside playing games.  With a plan and a missing husband to find Fran is anxious to get going, Mike starts the motor and steers toward shore, Puffer obediently in tow.  Watching the depth sounder Mike kills the motor and jumps onto Puffers front deck when the bottom comes up to only fifteen feet, next he carefully lowers the anchor until it rests on the sea floor, and then letting the northward flowing current gently pull them along he pays out all one hundred fifty feet of line. He cleats the rode and waits for the current to take up the slack and dig in the flukes.  When both boats and the dinghy spin around and quit moving he knows the anchor is well set, and enough extra line is out to allow for the rising tide and wind increases that may come along. Anchoring out in the open makes him a little nervous, conditions change rapidly plus they are right on the edge of a fog bank. As soon as he gets back on Turtle Dove, Mike writes down the latitude and longitude. This may turn out to be a very smart move he thinks, patting himself on the back so to speak.  Motoring slowly against the current, the three adults and four children enter the fog once again; Mike pilots the boat ever nearer the unseen shore. He tries to keep the boat in twelve feet of water, but the uneven bottom suddenly rises to six feet prompting him to proceed slowly.  Turtle Dove is equipped with a lifting keel, Mike can winch the heavy ballasted keel up so that the boat draws less than three feet if needed, but not running aground is much preferred. After about one half mile they stop the motor and ask the kids to be quiet as they ring the brass bell listening for a reply.  All they hear is the disappointing mournful fog horn far off in the distance. 

THE SEARCH

The Terrapin captain has ordered, the fast response boat from Bellingham to follow the course of the that mornings heaviest predicted current into the Strait of Juan De Fuca for a distance of five miles past the green flashing buoy at Davidson Rock. The crew is to run half mile parallel searches and to investigate all flotsam images that appear on radar. With fog blanketing virtually the entire strait for thirty miles to Port Angeles and most of the seventy five miles to the Pacific Ocean, the captain knows time is crucial. The weather forecast is for no change. The next current change in about six hours will necessitate increasing the search area by about thirty six squares miles.  The likelihood of finding Tom alive will dramatically decrease. Tom’s life depends on being found today, before the next tide shift, not tomorrow. The captain has launched all six RIBS on board, each with a four man crew and state of the art radar. The RIBS are chasing down targets, combing the many rocks and mini islets off shore, south of Lopez Island. When tidal currents change many times a tidal rip will form across the surface where the two opposing forces meet.  Jetsam and flotsam will sometimes concentrate along this line.  The captain of the Terrapin does not consider a drifting inflatable with a man on board flotsam, but he does know that anything drifting is subject to the same laws of nature.  He orders one RIB crew to run north until they intercept the tidal rip and then follow the rip from shore to shore across Rosario Strait. He orders the same RIB to repeat the procedure one half mile north of the tidal rip and one half mile south, investigating all radar targets in the area. The Terrapins array of advanced radar can identify a sea lion sticking its head above the surface of the water only one hundred feet away, but can also spot a small boat over twenty miles distant. During clear weather a single crewman with powerful binoculars can sweep several square miles from a high crows nest perch, but the blanket of fog requires an up close visual inspection. The sheer number of targets to investigate is daunting.

“This is Bellingham Coast Guard” answers Rollie Jones.  “Its Mike on Turtle Dove, we’ve made a change of plans, Puffer is anchored south of James Island near Decatur.  I have everyone on board Turtle Dove and we are heading south along Decatur and Lopez Island, we’re searching the shallows close to shore.”  Rollie hesitates, then answers, “OK” I’ll alert the Terrapin, be careful, stay safe.” “Thanks, we will, good bye,” says Mike, wondering if Rollie was about to say something; maybe he thinks what they are doing is fool hardy, or maybe, Tom’s best chance. What Rollie didn’t tell Mike was that the crew of the fast response boat had found Toms inflatable seat five miles into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  He rings the bell; they all stare into the whiteness listening for something, anything. When they come to Lopez Pass, he is tempted to turn in knowing the northward current could easily have dragged the inflatable towards Lopez Sound, But the earlier southward current would not.  Plus if Tom were in the protected waters of Lopez Sound, he probably would be OK for now.  He keeps heading south crossing Lopez Pass getting near enough to Lopez Island that they can see shore through the mist from time to time. The island has a prominent point and bight along this stretch, Mike thought this cove was a likely place where something may have washed up, but the current actually runs out of the cove off shore here, not at all what he had thought. Fran rings the bell, then yells, “Tom” clutching for an answer somewhere, somehow. Again the fog horn is the only reply.  With his GPS for eyes, Mike watches the screen, and steers for the point; Fran is staining her eyes and ears, hoping desperately. Sounds may travel far over water, but the thick fog feels alive, it seems to trap and absorb everything, it takes your senses away and places you in an alien world where your thoughts are only what the fog allows.  It’s easy to understand why ancient mariners thought the world was flat, and the ocean full of monsters and serpents.

Tom is having his own demons, battling hypothermia he has become drowsy, he doesn’t know if he is dreaming, or fighting for his life. Earlier he untied the raft from the kelp then lay down to sleep.  Lying on top of the cushions has warmed his body, as he struggles awake; he is slowly replaying everything that has happened. Every part of Toms body aches, he tries not to move.  Then he hears the fog horn.  Without lifting his head he can see the water, and a short ways away he can see a patch of kelp and sea weed, the northward tidal current streaming the plants, pointing the way.  The fog has successfully isolated and marooned him for hours, but the warning horn and patch of sea weed has just given back to him his sense of direction. Tom snaps alert, no longer drowsy he sits upright, kneeling on the cushions, he begins to row. The physical work warms him and brings new life to his limbs. His fingers and toes begin to tingle, a painful sensation as warm blood signals a sign of improvement. Tom knows he is drifting north, and he knows he is not in the deep waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He keeps seeing patches of sea weed to his left, so Tom decides land must be to the left of him; on the port side he muses. He steadily rows to port.  But what if, he thinks, he had drifted south of Lopez; If that were the case the northward current could be taking him up the other side of Lopez, and land would be to his right, to starboard; Tom’s spirits falter as he grapples with the knowledge that he could be rowing away from shore, and that maybe he was indeed in the Juan De Fuca Strait.  If he is on the other side of Lopez and rowing out to sea, he would never clear the fog, never get to shore, never see his family; His rowing slowing Tom sadly thinks about Fran and the children on Puffer. Blaming himself for whatever problems they are having.  Thinking they are also drifting hopelessly lost.  Right when he needs a friend the fog horn speaks to him again, from his kneeling position Tom gets a good fix on the direction where the sound is coming from, “of course,” he speaks to himself, the direction is the same as always, shore has to be on the left. His spirits suddenly restored, he yells out, but is unable to make a sound above a hoarse whisper, lack of water and yelling have taken a toll.  Like thousands of mariners before him, the lonely fog horn has provided Tom with solace and safety.  His new best friend has given him hope while ceaselessly doing its job.   Tom hasn’t seen any kelp for some time now, which worries him, it means he is in water deeper than kelp grow, meaning he is farther from shore. The fog horn is keeping him oriented, but he may not be making any progress towards shore.  One thing is sure though, Tom is heading north and he thinks he heard a bell.

The Captain of the Terrapin must systematically search and eliminate areas.  His goal is to find Tom alive.  All his decisions are based upon developing information.  Finding Tom’s inflatable seat five miles south of where he calculated is perplexing. It suggests they should concentrate searching further out, but a light weight inflatable seat is nothing but a balloon on the sea surface.  The wind could easily whisk it across the surface, even propel it airborne. Plus he doesn’t know when Tom lost it, one hour or five hours earlier. There is also the possibility it didn’t come from Toms inflatable. Studying the morning wind data for Rosario Strait, the Captain decides to send a RIB crew to search starting where the plastic seat was picked up, north into Rosario Strait until they reach the tidal rip. They are to keep to the Lopez Island side one and one half miles off shore and return keeping one mile off shore.  When running their sweeps, Tom’s radar image briefly shows up on the screen, but from over a mile away they can’t differentiate between the rocky shore, off shore rocks and a man in small inflatable boat. Turtle Dove, quite near shore, stands out sharply on their screen, they don’t investigate, they were told that Turtle Dove was searching near shore. Tom hears them go by, the high speed whine of dual outboards suggests to Tom that some kids are running dangerously fast in the fog. The tide rip moving north has reached James Island but the RIB turns around near Bird Rocks when they clear the fog; Ten minutes later the RIB goes by Tom again, a half mile closer to him but still a world away. The sound of the outboards fades to nothing, and Tom hears a faint bell again, this time on his port side toward where he thinks shore is.  “Hllpp” he croaks out, unable to complete the word, or repeat it loud enough to escape the fog. Desperately trying to think of a way to make noise, he tries whistling with his fingers to no avail; Whistling was something he never learned to do, and still couldn’t.  In frustration he slaps his hand on the air chamber of the raft, then pulls out one of the oars and slaps the raft again.  Next he hits the oars together; Nothing Tom does produces a useful signal. He paddles toward shore, toward the bell, and the current continues to sweep him northward. Fran and Mike heard the RIB too; it was much quieter than the earlier boat.  When it comes by again, only much closer, he decides it must be another coast guard vessel.  Each time they turn off the motor to listen, the current pushes them back, but the GPS guides them back to where they were.  With the motor idling in gear they aren’t able to make any progress against the current, It takes about quarter throttle to stay even; he estimates the current at about one mph.  When they are opposite Cape St Mary the current increases to over two mph, Mike thinks to himself, if Tom was trapped in a outgoing, south flowing current like this, he would be a long ways from here by now; it’s a good thing the coast guard is looking out in the strait. Mike keeps thinking; Tom was in the south tidal current for about five hours, at two miles an hour he could be ten miles from James Island, five miles into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He wonders if Fran has done the same math.  With a sense of urgency he Increases throttle. Hugging close to shore he kills the motor in Telegraph Bay, ringing the bell and yelling Tom’s name they repeat the process, but Tom is around the point to the north, he heard the motor and occasional bell get further and further distant until he heard nothing. Hearing the bell and the coast guard RIB have brought Tom new energy. So much energy in fact that he is close to being swept into Lopez Pass.  As the tidal current flows north the vast majority flows up Rosario Strait, but a small amount at a much slower speed flows into Lopez sound via Lopez Pass. Unbeknownst to Tom, he is at a fork in the river, so to speak, rowing for all he’s worth towards the left side.  Lopez Pass is less than a quarter mile wide, Toms efforts have cause the inflatable raft to split the direction, he’s not caught in either current but is being drawn to shore, in a few minutes a rocky shoreline and low beach loom out of the fog.  A couple oar strokes and the little raft slides to a stop. Tom tumbles over the bow very anxious to touch shore, his cramped cold legs can’t support him and he falls ungainly onto his side and face. Rolling over into a sitting position he ponders what to do, in a few moments he struggles to his feet and shakily walks towards the edge of the beach to the thick forest.  There are no trails to be seen and he can’t climb the overhanging  bank, Tom scrambles towards the pass a few hundred feet, seeing nothing he returns and goes the other way only to be stopped by a steep rock face and deep water. Back at his inflatable dinghy he hesitates to go back on the water.  Tom is fairly certain he knows where he is; he thinks James Island is north of him, and the current is still flowing north.  James Island is his only connection with Fran, Mike, and Jan, although when he last saw his boat, it was adrift like him. Tom pushes off, determined to make his way back, and determined to stay close enough to shore that if need be he can walk on rocks to get to safety.

The Terrapin captain has been increasing the search area.  He is very aware that a victim floating free will be at the mercy of the currents that are an everyday part of the San Juan Islands.  It is not uncommon to find a floating object drifting off shore moving at 2 mph, only to have the same object brought back hours later when the tide changes.  All the islands create whirls and eddies siphoning off some of the water into bays and flowing behind small islets.  Some bays seem to gather and concentrate flotsam, never to let it float free again, while other places are constantly scoured clean, devoid of driftwood and the little trinkets beach combers are always looking for.  The southern end of Lopez Island breaks up into steep headlands, and hundreds of off shore rocks and reefs. All were once part of the main island but over millions of years, erosion has taken its toll, creating a labyrinth of shallow passages. Turtle Dove has left Telegraph Bay; Mike knows they are nearing the end of the island and Rosario Strait when they turn the corner they will be in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, an open seventy five mile passage to the Pacific Ocean.  It’s possible someone adrift here could end up in the open ocean. Mike shudders at the thought and hopes Fran is not thinking the same thing. Killing the motor, they ring the bell, then listen, call Toms name then listen.  They hear a motor running slowly in the gloom, a moment later a coast guard RIB ghosts slowly around a rock the size of a house, and pulls up alongside.  “You must be Turtle Dove” the ensign in charge opens with, after eyeing the name on the side of their boat. “We’re part of the search team, is one of you Fran? “  “I’m Fran, have you found Tom?” “No maam, I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were alright, this area can be confusing in clear weather let alone this thick pea soup.  Both boats have their engines turned off while two crewmen hold on to Turtle Dove, they drift north with the current. The ensign looking towards Mike speaks again, “we have searched around the point all the way, starting at Mackay Harbor to here, and I understand you have searched from James Island to here, is that correct?”  “Yes, replies Mike, feeling like they are part of something big. “We stayed close to shore watching the beaches; we’ve been ringing the bell and listening.” “Were drifting into a kelp bed sir” the crewman at the helm interrupts. “OK, we should carry on” the Ensign starts out but is silenced by Fran yelling and pointing, “over there, that yellow rope, it’s from the dinghy. The RIB crew maneuvers into the kelp and unties Toms abandoned painter. Returning to Turtle Dove the Ensign asks Fran if she is sure it’s from the dinghy. “Of course I’m sure, look it has my pink nail polish, Tom painted it trying to keep it from unraveling; He said we will always know which dinghy is ours.”  What does it mean, where do you think he is?” The Ensign speaking to no one in particular, asks, “Could this have come untied by itself? does anyone know how well Tom tied this line to the inflatable?” Mike answers, it was tied well, It didn’t come off on its own, both of us towed our dinghies and tied them with a double loop and a Bowline knot.  The Ensign contacts the skipper on the Terrapin informing him their location and what they had discovered, he also tells him that the line looked like it had been intentionally tied to the kelp plus intentionally untied from the dinghy. Everyone has their own thoughts what this discovery means.  The coast guard crew has been trained to not divulge information or surmise possible outcomes to civilians, especially the family of a victim.  Mike already gun shy from Fran’s outbursts, says nothing.  Jan is silent, she learned long ago she was best at a supporting role, always thinking where she can help, remembering what others had forgot. Fran breaks the awkward silence. “He must have tied up to the kelp to stop being washed out to sea, then he untied to row to safety, he’s around here somewhere, we need to search these rocks”

Meanwhile Tom is drifting further north away from the search area, his spirits are high. Rowing for the last couple hours has warmed him up.  The burning tingling in his fingers and toes is barely noticeable, he expects to float free of the fogs tenuous grip any minute and see James Island. But in the fog your mind slows down, or maybe thoughts speed up, Panic sweeps Tom, he thinks he may go past James Island, what if the fog had moved north, he was sure it had gotten thicker.  If that happened he could float right past James without knowing it.  He could end up in Thatcher Pass and be run down by a ferry. Tom renewed his vow to not get far from shore. Staying close to shore means running into the occasional rocky spit and clogs of seaweed, it also means less current.  Slowly he allows more distance, the shoreline coming in and out of view as he skirts the edge of safety.  When he can’t see shore he watches the water, the seaweed pointing the way, when he runs out of seaweed, the panic moves back into his mind.  The fog brightens, at first he thinks what’s going on, it’s so bright his eyes are hurting, and then he is in sunshine, like turning on a switch.  Tom has gone from lost in the fog to staring at James Island on a beautiful day, all in a matter of seconds. He turns to look back at his abductor, the fog has released him, and given back his mind, the alien world is gone.  Up ahead, Tom sees an anchored sailboat, at first it does not register, looking straight on at the bow Puffer looks like any number of boats, but as he drifts closer he is sure it’s his boat and so starts rowing again, no longer thinking of staying near shore Tom wants to make sure he is on a direct path to his boat.   Just a quarter mile separates him from, drinking water, dry clothes, food, his wife and kids. Not necessarily in that order he thinks, but certainly something to drink real soon.  Tom hasn’t been very thirsty but now that he is getting close, his thirst is turning on.  Watching the deck for people, he begins to think no one is aboard, with only a few hundred feet left, Toms hoarsely yells out, “Fran” but is met with only a quiet slap of small waves hitting the hull.  Sweeping first along the bow Tom grabs the top of the deck, three feet above the water.  This requires him to kneel which has been very comfortable while rowing, but holding onto a boat is another thing, he almost pulls himself over the side while trying to balance while still not letting go.  He works his way down the side and near the cockpit grabs a dock line, but does not let go until he is sure the dock line is secure on the other end.  The day’s experiences so far have had a very strong impact, and Tom is leaving nothing to chance. Looping the dock line through the dinghy’s safety grab lines, he ties it fast.  With the dinghy trailing behind Puffer he pulls in the slack until he can climb onto the stern ladder and pull himself onboard. Convinced no one is on board he slides the hatch open calling Frans name, and quickly determines as he thought, the boat is empty.  Tom sits down at the dinette table and opens the lid to an ice chest full of pop and bottled water. In one swoop movement he pulls out water, removes the lid and tips it back. The water is half down but not gone as Tom chokes and coughs. Still parched he tries to drink again only much more cautiously.  He doesn’t stop until a second bottle is empty. While rowing up to his apparently empty boat Tom has put things together and is sure that his family is safely with Mike and Jan and their kids. He is relieved knowing his family is OK rather than in the fog somewhere lost. Puffer has been sitting closed up in the sun for several hours, inside the cabin is much warmer than the outside air. Tom switches on the main battery switch and the marine radio, adjusting the squelch and turning to channel 16 Tom first attempts to practice speak in a normal voice, finding his voice raspy but understandable he keys the mic and says, “Mike, this is Tom, Mike, this is Tom, over.”

THE RESCUE

On Turtle Dove at Frans insistence, Mike has been carefully maneuvering close to shore and around big off shore rocks.  Fran is convinced that Tom is safely off the water waiting to be found. The coast guard RIB has pulled away after receiving orders from the Terrapin.  The captain has correctly concluded that Tom had tied up to the kelp and released himself, the only question was when, and the logical answer to that question was,” sometime after the tidal current changed.” The captain continues searching the Juan De Fuca Strait, to not search there would have been irresponsible. But he also sends the RIB that found the painter northward attempting to follow the track a drifting object would make.  Jan who has been inside the cabin hears Toms transmission and yells out, “its Tom, he’s calling on the radio” Mike squeezes the button and answers, “Tom where are you?” “I’m on Puffer, are Fran and the kids with you?””Yeah,” he says, “everyone’s with us, everyone’s OK” Fran reaches for the mic saying let me talk to him, “Are you OK, I love, where have you been?  Blasting out of the radio comes, “This is the US Coast Guard Cutter Terrapin, are you Tom, the person adrift in Rosario Strait?” Snapping out of their own little world, Mike, and Fran go silent, Tom answers, this is Tom, I’ve been adrift since before daylight, over”” Welcome back sailor”, says the captain, “we’ve been looking for you, are you OK? Do you need any assistance?””I’m OK, but I’m tired, I’m back on my own boat.” “Good enough” says the captain, please use channel 16 for hailing only, Terrapin out.” “Turtle Dove to Puffer, come in” “Tom here,” answers Tom.  “Switch to 68,” says Mike, “out” Both men switch their radios to channel 68, Mike hands the mic to Fran. Now you two can talk all night if you want, but don’t forget, everyone’s listening. Setting course for Puffer he heads into deeper water and turns north, a certain satisfaction comes over him, and it feels good. Dialing Bellingham for what he hopes is the last time, Mike waits for the familiar voice to answer the phone.  Hi Mike says Rollie Jones; I’m sure glad things turned out all right for you folks. Not too surprised Mike says, “I guess the word gets around pretty fast with you guys.” We have our days.  ”Look, I just wanted to thank you, and all the others, I know you must get pretty tired of idiots getting into trouble up here.  “No problem,” says Rollie, “that’s why we are here.” All right, thanks again, good bye,” and Mike hangs up. Reaching into the cabin to put his phone away, Jan says, “who you calling idiots?”  Mike rolls his eyes and tilts his head toward the radio.

The RIB crew that found the dinghy painter is just clearing the fog and has Puffer in view when Tom’s radio call came through.  They listened to all the exchanges and now are patiently waiting for Tom and Fran to finish their tearful reunion on 68, they pull up just as the two sign off, ahoy says the ensign, is Tom aboard?  Tom comes out into the cockpit, good to see you says the ensign, and good to be seen says Tom.  We’ve come to return your rope, you know you’re not supposed to leave our kelp all tied up like that he jokes.  “That kelp saved my life.” says Tom.  How long were you tied there?  I don’t know, I was so cold  I wasn’t thinking, it took such an effort,  I think I went unconscious.  I remember trying to stay on top of the cushions to keep warm.  I thought the fog horn talked to me, telling me to cast off, then I was out again, it seems like a dream, it still seems like a dream right now. “Are you sure your ok?” asks the ensign, we can airlift you to the hospital in Anacortes or Bellingham. I’m going to be just fine, when my wife and family get here, were going to that Island over there, Tom points at James Island, have a hot meal and sit around the campfire.  Well then, we will head back to the Terrapin, I’m sure your wife and friends will be appearing out of that fog bank any minute, glad to be of service,  the RIB’s twin outboards roar to life. Less than a minute later they disappear into the fog at thirty five mph. In ten minutes they power onto Terrapins stern.  Terrapin is already underway for Cattle Pass, and then to Friday Harbor where pizza and beer will be on the menu for twenty four crewman and officers, unless of course, they get called out to search for another unfortunate lost boater.

As expected, Turtle Dove appears out of the fog heading straight for Puffer. With a two mph current and five mph boat speed combined, they covered the four miles in thirty five minutes, plenty of time for Tom to change his clothes and get cleaned up.  Mike pulls up to Puffer and snugly lays his port bow section against Puffers starboard stern section. Fran immediately steps aboard puffer to go to Tom. The two same sized boats fit together well, with fenders and lines it just takes a minute to secure the boats together in a method known as hip riding. Properly tied and with calm water either boat may be used to tow the other, or they can use both motors and helms for more speed and control. Fran and Tom embrace, both are crying, and emotions are everywhere.  Fran examines his blistered hands and notices Tom is slightly quivering and asks, “Are you cold?” No, I’m just so happy to be back.  Over on Turtle Dove Jan is busy in the galley making hot soup, soon they will all be asking for more.  Mike has pulled up Puffers anchor neatly flaking the line a second time today, and thinking he will make sure Tom sees how he does it, after all, the day’s events all started with a poorly flaked anchor line.  Stepping back on to Turtle dove he starts the motor and sets a slow course riding the current for the east cove of James Island.  The four adults lounge in the cockpit, each telling the others about their day.  Tom’s day started innocently with a trip to the bathroom on shore, but he doesn’t remember much detail except it seemed to go on forever.  Frans day started after a fearful and totally justified fretful night, snarled in a seaweed patch surrounded by fog.  Mikes day started being forced awake by Jan yelling, “wake up, wake up.” Jan’s day started after a peaceful nights rest, discovering her best friends were missing.

RETURN TO JAMES ISLAND

When they pull around the point into the little anchorage, Tom vividly remembers rowing after Puffer that morning before sun up.; Mike sees Mack and his cutter are still there, as they slip by, Mack yells “well done” to all of them. No one seems to know what to say, Jan yells back “thank you” The dock is nearly empty; last minute power boat campers from the mainland have not taken all the room yet. Mike slowly completes a 180 and backs in on the starboard side. Jostling the dinghies out of the way and leaving Puffer tied by the hip they secure Turtle dove with four lines; they have eighteen feet of water, more than enough for tonight’s low tide.  After the nights and days events, Fran and Tom are both glad to have the security of rafting the boats.  Mike knows it’s false security, if the weather kicks up, they will have to separate the boats to avoid damage, possibly anchoring Puffer again if the deep end of the dock is full. He keeps his thoughts to himself, after all the weather forecast is more of the same.  The kids took off up the gangway the minute they landed and both mothers give the go ahead, plus warning them not to light any fires until the adults are with them. The four continue reminiscing.  Tom says he just wants to have a nice evening fire with drinks, and then go to bed early. Fran has not left Toms side since they were reunited and is worried about his burned and blistered hands, she excuses herself to fetch some bandages. Mike fills Tom in on the entire coast guard goings on, Tom had no idea a full scale search had been mounted. He didn’t know about the Terrapin and all the RIBS.   None of them knew the search was about to triple, that Rollie Jones was in the process of organizing many more boats and resources.  Fran returns with some burn ointment and spreads it liberally on Toms blisters, followed by gauze, tape, and then slips a pair of light weight cotton garden gloves over all. Tom returns the first aid with a long hug. Fran notices he is shivering and gets him another fleece. Splashing oars announces the arrival of Mack from Sea Peace, after listening to the radio conversations all morning he feels like a part of the group, and is up to speed.  In fact Mack had been monitoring all the coast guard radio frequencies used to deploy the RIBS, the only thing he hasn’t heard has been the cell phone calls with Rollie Jones. Nodding to Mike, Mack congratulates Tom on his quick thinking tying up to kelp.  “You know,” he says, that may have saved your life.  I checked the location the RIB crew radioed back to Terrapin. After that, there was nothing, you were headed for the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Oh they would have found you alright, sooner or later, but let’s not dwell on that.  How would you like a long hot fresh water shower or bath, I got em both aboard Sea Peace.  Tom thanks him, saying maybe later, but right now he’s doing fine and glad to be back.  Hearing a motor throttling back they all turn to look just in time to see the fast response boat from Bellingham dropping off plane outside the cove.  Holy **** says Mack, there’s someone you don’t want chasing you. That big machine gun could empty this cove in seconds, and when I say empty I mean send us all to Davy Jones. All eyes are on the coast guard boat as it idles into the cove.  Bristling with antennas and electronic gear, its bright coast guard colors, and obvious weaponry demand respect and instill a little fear. Quite the opposite reactions from children, as they all come running out on the dock to be near the crewman and ask questions.  Letting momentum carry them the last fifty feet the helmsman shuts off the engines allowing the big inflatable to gently bump against the dock. Two men step off holding lines while the skipper steps off and approaches the small gathering. Speaking quietly he introduces himself as Chief Petty officer Tracy Stevens, and then inquires if one of them may be Tom, the man that was lost in fog. Raising his bandaged gloved hand, “that would be me”, as he steps forward.  Reaching into the boat while speaking, Tracy says “we are on our way back to Bellingham and thought you may like your seat back” Tom laughing says, “that wasn’t necessary.” “I know, I just wanted to meet you and Mike,” turning towards Mike he continues, “Rollie said to say hello”, he  would like to meet you both also, but being a big shot he has to stay in the office.  Mike is first to speak, “we are so grateful you guys are here” I can’t believe how fast you arrived. Motioning toward his boat, Tracy says, “well, we have some awesome equipment, and the water around here doesn’t wait.” “I can certainly attest to that”, says Tom.  Turning back to Tom, Tracy begins, Charlie said, er, I mean the Captain on the Terrapin calculated you were further out to sea, of course we didn’t know that you had tied to kelp.  When he was told the line was identified as your dinghies painter, he was relieved; it told us we had not missed you, and that you were still in the strait. We were wondering, did you leave the line behind as a message or signal? Some of us suggested that was possible.  “No no, said Tom, I was not even thinking, I was so cold I couldn’t untie from the kelp, I was barely able to untie it from the raft. You should be proud of your actions says Tracy, not every man can do what you did today.  Feeling good about himself, Tom notices Tracy eyeing his printed flower gloves, then says in his best pirate voice, “arrr, the wives bandages, I normally don’t use gloves.  Everyone laughs and they spend ten minutes with small talk, including one of the children asking a crewman if he had ever shot anyone with that big gun, pointing to the deck mounted machine gun. A simple no was all the answer needed.  As is always the case, talk came around to the fast response boat and its capabilities.  Many of the questions were deflected as top secret or unknown which thrilled the children but truly disappointed the adults.  The crew was very forthcoming about rescue equipment, but pointed out their mission was also to protect the country from enemies and intercept ships.  A single chirp from the pilothouse alerts all the crew, Tracy says lets go boys, and its back to business. The coast guard boat trying to not leave a wake idles out of the cove. Once in the channel between James and Decatur islands, Tracy guns the motors for a few seconds causing the boat to make a big wave and then leap forward faster than anyone would have thought possible. Turning a 180 that Indy cars only dream of, he opens the throttles again just as he hits the wave. With lightening acceleration the huge RIB leaps out of the water, backing off on the throttles while airborne Tracy eases them open again as the boat touches down, in seconds or less they are up on plane and clear of the island.  Holy **** Mack says again, “I told you, you don’t want one of them chasing you.”

The afternoon excitement is over, new boat campers arrive at the dock, more keep coming.  Some boats raft with friends, others, (usually more expensive) anchor off in the corners of the bay. A few recognize Turtle Dove and Puffer from the days required listening, radio soap opera.  I say required listening because FCC rules require all yachts with a marine radio on board to keep them turned on, and tuned to channel 16 for emergencies.   Most simply enjoy the entertainment, like the skipper that calls a mayday when he runs out of ice, or the wife that needs to be rescued because she is seasick. Of course the coast guard good naturedly with a smile, refers these requests to commercial for hire service companies. Tom is taking a nap, with Ruth beside him.  The four kids with Mike and Jan, are hiking the shore trail, every so often, sometimes with a loud scream someone spots Dolphin and Orca in the Strait.  Mike shows everyone an Eagles nest with an Eaglet chirping to be fed.  Nearby on the ground are the white headed parents, feasting on a large fish; It’s hard to believe Bald Eagles and other birds of prey, can not only pull a live fish out of the water, and then fly it hundreds of feet up a cliff side to a snag of a tree where they have built a nest, but they do it many times without getting wet.  When fishing they simply swoop in from above, slide there deadly talons beneath the surface, and snatch a meal. Eagle pairs mate for life and will use the same nest or area for ten or more years. This pair is taking turns flying fresh fish strips up to their hungry baby. Chances are the parents were also born on or near James Island, and this baby will grow up to nest nearby, but not too close by, eagles claim a territory and will fight each other to maintain property lines.  From a prominent vantage point the group can see Bird rocks and Belle Rocks, the fog has moved considerably south. Seeing the swirling currents and eddies, Mike and Jan silently relive the days events, each unconsciously reaching for each other and the kids for a group hug. Setting off cheers and yells, Mike suggests they hike to the top of the island, down the other side and get the evening fire going. “Don’t run any farther ahead than we can see you,” Mike yells after the group. The underbrush is almost nonexistent in this area affording an excellent view.  He and Jan are alone now, the first time since the trip began yesterday morning.  “I think Fran may quit boating,” says Jan, “she hasn’t said as much, but this day can’t be one of her better ones” “I know, I was thinking the same, and Tom should be told to quit before he really gets in a jackpot; his penchant for finding trouble and having problems seems to be like a black cloud over his head, and its dropping rain on everyone around him.  Let’s try to make the rest of today as relaxing as possible; I’d like to read a little around the fire before it gets dark. After walking for a ways in silent thought, Mike adds ”how about Mexican casserole in a Dutch oven for dinner, the kids can do hot dogs again, and we will have a hot meal for Tom and Fran” “sounds great, with beer? Sure, lots of beer, but not too much for Tom, you know what happened last time he had to go in the middle of the night.  Don’t remind me, but I’m leaving the boats tied together just in case.

Deluxe Mexican Casserole / Super Macho Natcho

The Mexican Casserole sprang to life in the bottom of a large cast iron Dutch oven.( here’s the recipe) First to go in was a layer of extra heavy duty aluminum foil, the foil will be peeled out later reducing cleaning work.  Next in is a layer of Taco seasoned cooked hamburger crumbles, on top that is a layer of tortilla skins, followed with a layer of thinned refried beans spiced up with enchilada sauce and maybe a little Worcestershire. Sprinkle liberally with cooked corn or if you got it, or a can of hominy, now shake a bunch of chili pepper on each puffy hominy kernel. Place another tortilla shell and repeat favorite layers, don’t forget a layer of shredded cheddar cheese (not on top or bottom, it could burn) for Grande Deluxe, add sliced olives, and sliced mushrooms.  To make it you own specialty, hide in a layer, a pocket of your favorite chunky salsa. Finish top layer with thinned beans, not tortillas, they will get crunchy and burn. For picky kids leave one quadrant empty save for beans and hamburger.  Now put on your foil wrapped lid and set you Dutch Oven in campfire directly on top of hot coals, place twice as many coals on top of lid as are under oven. Do not let flames touch or come close to oven, the contents will burn. After twenty, thirty, or forty minutes dig into middle to see if it is hot, cook some more if needed, add some coals or use charcoal briquettes for better heat control.  Serve with healthy dollops of sour cream, and guacamole. Don’t forget your favorite beverages. Don’t forget your channel locks to lift heavy hot cast iron.  Try this wonderful variation; leave out the tortilla shells, add lots of grated cheese to top, heat all the way through, now serve with chips to use as scoops and call it a Super Macho Natcho, serve with beer.

Fran and Tom did not need to be summoned for dinner onshore; children running in and out of the boats eventually brought them out.  The kids are busy with hot dogs, chips, soda, and begging for the Hershey bars and marshmallows they spotted on the table.  Mike and Jan are relaxing in folding chairs pulled up to the campfire.  “Want a beer” asks Mike as the two approach, “you read my mine” both Toms hands have socks on them with holes cut for his fingers.  “Hurt,” “nah I’m OK, at least I didn’t get sunburned today” “maybe tomorrow, if we can stay out of the fog,” says Mike “About tomorrow, Fran and I have been talking; this experience has been a real eye opener for both of us, boating can be dangerous, our, my inexperience has put everyone in harms way. We’ve decided, tomorrow were going to let you guys teach us to be better sailors, were not casting off until Fran learns to run the boat and I learn how to anchor.  How about it, will you two help us.”  “Oh thank God”, yells Jan, “we thought you were going to quit.” Speaking just for myself, I’m having a great time, why would I want to quit.  Fran adds, “Living on the edge is somewhat exciting, we just need a little more control at times.” “you mean like when the boat drifts away and your asleep” “or sinks”