Volume: 2

Second Floor

On Tartarus, leaving the protection of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

The Lakes went down to the second floor to serve lunch and to manage the kids and their homework. This was why they invited me. They might as well have been in their living room at home. Meanwhile, I sat in the captain's chair, alone on the third floor, cruising along at fifteen knots, watching the shore of the Olympic Peninsula and its snow covered mountains, slide by to my left. Lucky me, again.

When flying airplanes, it is said, regardless of my experience, that the biggest threat to engine problems is when change takes place, specifically when changing RPM or manifold pressure. If that were true, no one would take off or land. Regardless, as we approached Neah Bay, I suggested we stay in the Strait for a bit and beat up on the engines and the helm, pushing everything against their limits before heading out to the Pacific along the less than friendly Washington coast. We had run almost a full day at cruise speed without seeing how the boat maneuvered. Ainslie, in turn, suggested we try a man overboard drill. Knowing the water temperature was 48°, I suggested she jump in. Instead, we used four life jackets tied together. We didn't retrieve them right away. We tried different approach angles at different speeds until the four of us were comfortable with Tartarus's handling.

Under darkening skies with a forecast that called for an incoming storm including gale warnings for north Vancouver Island though much milder conditions south, we motored into Neah Bay, hoping to find fuel late on a Sunday evening. I called Big Salmon on the VHF radio. They explained that they hadn't hooked up their new fuel lines yet. Tartarus floated motionless while a fishing boat motored out of the marina and docked under another "GAS" sign. Someone hopped off and ran up to a shed to retrieve the operator. After a twenty minute wait it was our turn. The operator typified the lonely, desolate and most likely, alcoholic existence, on the very edges of civilization, fueling away, smoking, without saying much. He had to say something when he made excuses for overfilling Tartarus's port tank and spilling a lot of fuel on the deck and in the water, but that was it. He filled out the credit card slip and locked up by sliding a screwdriver in the latch. He trudged up to his aluminum-sided shed. I spent a few minutes imagining what it was like inside that dwelling.