Today we laid in at Cordova and did all the necessary things to be done in port. Overall, it was fairly uneventful and relaxing, as days on land sometimes are. I like Cordova. Lots of friendly people, and set among a stunning wilderness.
We awoke well-rested and refreshed. The days are getting so long now that it is impossible to catch both sunrise and sunset. It is always light! Numerous sea otters were floating and rolling through the water around the boat, calling to each other with their odd chirping noises. It is yet another cyrstal-perfect day, what amazing weather we’ve been having (knock on wood!). We began our day at the center and base of Prince William Sound. The scene was very pleasing. It was remarkably like being on one of the Great Lakes, except ringed by stunning mountains in the distance and full of wildlife. The air even smelled of freshwater, very sweet and river-like. From the center you can just barely see all the shores because of the elevation of the mountains. But from the side the mountains disappear below the horizon. We motored along in a glassy calm afternoon. A pod of humpbacks was chuffing and spouting near shore. We are now in beautiful, friendly Cordova. All the sailors in the harbor have been coming down and admiring the boat. Apparently we are one of the smallest boats that has ever sailed to here from the Gulf. The fishermen think we’re completely insane. I guess we created quite a stir when we sailed into Yakutat on that windy day. But it turns out that was absolutely the right thing to do. Had we gone on we would have encountered 30-35 foot seas off Kayak Island in a heavy East gale. We met up with Dennis and Pat of the “Nellie Juan” and had a great laugh at our good weather luck in the crossing. Down at the dock we met Danny and Diedra who live aboard their “Hans Christian” and are preparing to sail to the Sea of Cortez. It is a wonderful boat. We drank rum with them in the stateroom and talked well into the night of ships, shipwreck, and politics. Truth be told, I had actually forgotten about the war in Iraq. I was quite surprised when Danny brought it up. I can’t even imagine the horrors that so many people my age (several friends included) are facing right now over there.
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Night-watch again, and I was alone at the helm as Neptune slept soundly below. The seas were only rippled, and it was warm enough that I scarcely needed gloves. Earlier in the day I had even pulled a brief stint at the helm in my underwear only. Imagine that! Who would have thought the Gulf could be this warm in April! We are steering a course of 250 degrees magnetic. Tonight the stars were out however and it was much easier and more pleasing to steer by them. I caught a glow in the corner of my eye and turned my head back. My heart jumped at seeing a brilliant light behind the boat and I thought a ship was upon us. A second later I realized it was the massive crest of the moon, rising from the sea. It was enormous and bright orange, such a sight that I woke Neptune immediately. The massive glowing orb seemed to squat on the horizon and it was shaped like a watermelon, due to some properties of refraction. Though we were quite some distance offshore, we could see all the towering mountains in the eerie moonglow. Everything is so big out here, to the point that even the moon rise shocks me! It is not a small world after all. Whoever wrote that song hasn’t been out here among these sweeping expanses, nor crossed an ocean. What a foolish illusion that telephones, computers, and airplanes create! Tonight, as we floated upon the freezing abyss of the Gulf, beneath the heavens, and beside the mountain range to end all mountain ranges, I entertained these thoughts: Once you get out and truly travel through the land and experience it for what it is, you will discover the immensity of the world. Nothing can ever change this fact, and I take great comfort in that. The weather and seas remained favorable all through the night. I was even able to warm a pot of tomato soup on the cooking stove! We enjoyed a hot meal. Neptune pulled two heroic stints at the helm and I was able to catch up on my sleep. We are making wonderful progress. In the afternoon a gray whale approached the boat. We received a crackling radio signal too. “Silent Partner, this is Nellie Juan” came a thin staticky voice. What a comfort! They were unable to receive my reply, most likely because our antenna is lower and still under their horizon. Later on we heard them once more hailing us, but we are still to low to transmit a good signal. At 1300 hours we rounded the base of Kayak Island, a point of major significance for us. Here we altered our course to 280 degrees M and are on our approach angle for entering Prince William Sound! 17 mile long Kayak Island juts out into the sea and is a spectacle to behold. At its end is a three-mile long verticle slab of white rock 1,600 feet tall that culminates to a knife-edge ridge. Offshore stands another massive pinnacle sea stack, perhaps 500 feet tall and completely verticle. The whole scene can be best described as “biblical” It looked like the edge of the Earth. It was when we were rounding this cape that Neptune and I saw one of the weirdest and most amazing things ever. I saw what appeared to be a massive dead-head (semi-submerged log sticking straight up and down) in the water. But on closer inspection, I found it to be an elephant seal 20 feet long! Not only that, but he was in the process of eating a shark! “Neptune, on deck, camera, now!” I shouted. We drifted right up to the sea monster only 5 feet away now. He looked at us with an eye the size of an orange. The shark was still alive and flopping limply in its jaws. Neptune and I stood directly next to the seal in stupefication as he slowly swallowed the shark whole. Elephant seals are huge! After he swallowed the shark, he simply slipped beneath the waves under the boat and vanished, very slowly. All day long albatrosses wheeled about the boat, skimming over the waves. In the evening the sea became a vast sheet of smooth glass, and the horizon became indistinguishable from the water. It looked as if we were suspended in a vast steely-blue vaccuum. Save for the tops of a few hazy peaks away off on the horizon, no land was in sight as the sun set. A sweet smell drifted across the sea as we made our final approach to Prince William Sound through Cape Hinchinbrook.
Today marks the beginning of “Sient Partner’s” greatest voyage. Right now we are 45 miles offshore, en route to Prince William Sound 243 nautical miles to the west. We are currently graced with favorable weather and moderate 6 foot seas, allowing me to write! I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time now. It is hard to believe that what once started out as a distant dream is actually coming true today. At 1115 hours we steamed out of Yakutat Bay under clear skies and upon glassy seas. All the mountains are out. What a spectacle! I have never seen such a striking and impenetrable mountain range in all the world! It is impossible to imagine the scale of this place. Glaciers much larger than many east-coast states bulge out into the sea here, stretching as far off to the horizons as far as my eyes can see! It is an infinity of ice, a vast blank expanse of white, backed by the endless chain of soaring pinnacles. What a differnce a day makes out here in the Gulf of Alaska. Whereas yesterday we arrived in heaping seas in the teeth of a gale, today gentle cat’s paws stirred among the glassy swell. Exiting the bar across the entrance to the bay the swell had come down to 10 feet or so, and flattened out even more once we put out to sea. Dennis and Pat, aboard S/V “Nellie Juan” are making the crossing today too. Their boat is faster than mine, so I got an 8 hour head-start on them. Our plan is to meet up 230 miles to the west and try a shortcut into Cordova that Dennis knows well. If we are able to meet up, it will save me 75 miles of open ocean. If not, the shortcut is too dangerous for me to attempt without any local knowledge. Two hours out of the bay we established radio contact on channel 16. I happily reported to him the docile conditions of the Gulf, and we wished each other well. And two hours after that, I tried hailing “Nellie Juan” again, but we were too far out for reception. Neptune and I pulled 4 hour shifts at the helm, and I drifted in and out of sleep on my off-watch, always monitoring the weather conditions. I don’t consider myself religious, but I am asking the higher powers for all the help and luck they will give “Silent Partner” as she crosses the treacherous Gulf of Alaska. This is no California Coast or even the Washington Coast. This is the Gulf of Alaska in April, at 60 degrees North Latitude, one of the roughest bodies of water on the planet. It has already scared me a bit, and that was on an average day. Today we are truly lucky to have such calm, settled weather. Around noon a pod of dolphins darted along with “Silent Partner”, a good omen. I enjoyed the rest of the day napping, chart-plotting, receiving good forecasts on the Iridium satellite, and gazing in disbelief at the mountains.
Many strange thoughts go through my mind while standing the night watch at sea. Especially here in the Gulf, when I was tired but alert. Neptune was catching some sleep down below and I was all alone on deck. It was 20-25 knots of west wind and driving spray, the boat pounding violently into the waves. Steering by the compass gives you vertigo at night, producing dizziness and disorientation. I was very pleased to see a few stars despite the full moon at my back. I peered around the dodger and steered to the stars for a few hours. I thought for a long time about how everything is constantly moving–me, the boat through the waves, the mountains lifting from the sea and the glaciers pouring off them, and even the stars I was steering by drifting slowly through space. Nothing ever comes to rest. And things certainly were not at rest aboard “Silent Partner” tonight!! At one point I tried to mix up a bowl of tuna fish. The boat dropped into a trough and slammed hard. WHAM! All loose articles throughout the cabin flew about. I looked into the bowl of tuna fish and discovered a pencil, pocketknife, and flashlight that had somehow made it into the mix! Neptune and I pulled two-hour shifts at the helm throughout the night and into the morning. I caught 10 minutes of sleep here and there, drank coffee, and we listened to the radio really loud. Eventually the swell moderated a bit and the boat stopped pounding, but it was still rough enough that you couldn’t stand up. I looked at “Silent Partner” with “Modulus” perched on deck and they came alive in my thoughts. “Silent Partner” was communicating a sense of eagerness as she bounced along on her mission through the waves. “Modulus”, clinging tight on the back of the mothership, was enjoying the ride. I got the sensation that I was being pulled along across the Gulf by my two boats. Perhaps it was fatigue and delirium, but I do swear that “Silent Partner” has a mind of her own and I can sometimes read what is on it. I was so tired of the pounding in the night, but a huge smile crept across my face as I listened to my boats and it got me through the darkest hours of the night. In the twilight before the dawn we made our general approach into Yakutat Bay, the only “safe” harbor between Prince William Sound and SE Alaska’s Inside Passage. Heavy fog and an enormous groundswell were the order of the morning. Eerie silent walls of water materialized and vaporized in the fog as they rushed under the boat. The fog gave the swells a rather alarming optical illusion, making all sense of size, distance and direction disappear. Vertical and horizontal became indistinguishable with such a large swell running. We were met with a heavy west wind and towering heaping swell as we crossed the entrance bar into Yakutat, still shrouded in fog. It was a hell of a way to come into Yakutat! After we passed the first bar the fog lifted some, revealing 18,000 foot tall Mt. St. Elias and 19,000 foot Mt. Lagoon, and all the other unreal mountains that form together the solid wall of white that is the land here. We were met by a small fishing boat who contacted us on the radio. He was having a rough go of it and inside the pilothouse were two guys grinning at us and giving us the thumbs-up. “Just around the corner there the swell will die off and it will be flat as can be” he said. I told him I was really looking forward to that and he said “I’ll bet you are, Jesus!” Later he radioed the rest of the fleet telling them not to even bother trying to go out today because it was so rough. I’m glad they think it’s rough today. If it were “normal” I think “Silent Partner” would be calling Yakutat her new home! The land here is pristine with unbelievable wildlife. Unbelievable everything! The head of the bay has a tidewater glacier with a face 700 feet tall and 6 miles across! The biggest glacier in North America, along with the second and third tallest mountains on the continent, right here in this bay! Yakutat is a strange town of about 600 people. Neptune and I ran into the Chief of Police and his family in town. They were extremely nice to us. We got in the back of the Police truck and they drove us 5 miles out to the the one restaurant that is only open today. We ate breakfast with them and then they took us to the store and to the gas sation, where we filled up our jerry cans for the boat. The chief and his family were so nice that they even helped us carry the gas cans down to the boat! There are so many good people in this world. We also met a cruising couple who is sailing to Prince William Sound on their sailboat. They have done the crossing before and gave me lots of great advice. We are going to try and leave together so we can remain in radio contact with one another on the ocean. They will probably be out of sight, but it will be comforting to know we are not alone. In the meantime, I’m going to go to sleep now and get some well-deserved rest! There is so much more I want to say about how amazing the landscape is, but I can’t– it defies description. It’s hard to believe we’re on planet Earth.
We awoke to a blissfully calm and clear day! But when I tried pulling old Forfjord off the bottom it wouldn’t budge. My fears were confirmed: the anchor had snagged on one of the millions of trees that sank to the bottom after the wave of ’56. It was a mixed blessing that probably saved us from blowing onto the beach during the williwaws. My heart sank with thoughts of cutting the chain and leaving such a good anchor on the bottom. Neptune had a few good ideas however and managed to manoeuver the boat such as that he could jockey it free. Hooray! We steamed to the head of the bay to admire the wave scars and glaciers at its terminus. The three glaciers were in such a state of change that the actual shoreline was a full mile OUT from the charted shoreline. Where the charts showed 475 feet of water a mile from shore, I found a wall of gravel 30 feet tall! It was a reminder that we must be totally self-sufficient here as we can’t even trust government publications to be updated. Such a change in geography in such a short time! I won’t even bother describing the glaciers, 13,000 foot mountains, and landslides that soared above us. We drifted in the bay for a few hours and prepared for the ocean crossing to Yakutat, 105 miles to the north. We cleared the decks for sea and lashed “Modulus” to the bow. Everything was stowed away, food pre-prepared, and our route plotted on the GPS and charts. At 1200 hours we made yet another uneventful transit of “The Chopper” and proceeded out into the Gulf. It was a crystal-clear day and the mountains were all out. 15,300 foot Mt. Fairweather looked like a huge moon looming of the northern horizon. I have never seen such a coastline, my god. Try and imagine a wall of ice rising 2 and 3 vertical miles directly out of the sea. There are no mountain passes or low points, just countless glaciers and endless shimmering fields of ice, for hundreds of miles. The shore is an ugly lee shore, hammered by swell and offering absolutely no protection anywhere. It is one of the most drastic and remote places in all the world, and simply amazing to behold. A moderate head wind picked up giving us an ugly chop. Neptune and I are harnessed into the boat as the sun sinks into the clouds and we prepare to spend our first night at sea in the Gulf of Alaska.
In 1956 the tallest wave ever measured in the world washed through Lituya Bay. A massive 9.0 earthquake triggered the wave and stripped the thick forest from its shores down to bare bedrock. The wave stripped the forest to a height of 1,720 feet, 500 feet taller than the Empire State Building. Today we can see alder trees growing out of the bedrock, with a sharp line where the old-growth spruce start. Simply incredible. All day long the wind howled and we sat at anchor. This is wild country! I have never felt so small, exposed, and close to nature as I do right now. All I ask is for the ability to make the best decisions in navigating this country safely. All emotions are brought to the surface at once just being here. I am on a constant adrenaline rush and we are bombarded with incredible sights and experiences all the time. The whole day thousands upon thousands of Sandhill cranes flew north, high over the boat. I rowed to shore and made a failed attempt circumnavigating the perimeter of Cenotaph Island on foot. The west shore of the island is a high cliff inhabited by millions of birds. I scambled to the top and looked down at all the birds. They sounded like children crying in a Russian tongue. Something scared them from the water and they all took off at once. I was just leaving my perch above when they took flight. I instinctively flinched and ducked when then the sudden shrieking roar of the birds erupted from below. My ears hurt it was so loud! It gave me quite a scare. All around the island I heard the strangest bird calls I’ve ever heard before. I truly feel I am in another country now! The center of the island has a low 125 foot tall pass to the other side. The wave of 1956 swept over the top of the pass and uprooted every tree. It was here that my circumnavigation came to an abrupt halt. I tried for a bit to walk along the trees but soon became entangled in dense brush. The trees were stacked 20 and 30 feet deep above the ground and all covered with moss. I took a minor fall off one and gave serious thought about what would happen if I broke a leg out here. I decided to turn back immediately. It was the thickest brush I’ve ever seen. I kept the sun (when I could see it) over my left shoulder and tried to make a straight line to the edge of the island. It took me an hour to walk out 1/8 of a mile. On the beach once again I picked the thorns from my hands, emptied the briars from my boots and gazed fondly at “Silent Partner” riding at anchor. For all its hardships, boat travel is a very efficient way to move through this land. All day I couldn’t take shake the sensation of being exposed to the elements. This place just does something to me, unexplainable. Incredible legends have been lived out right here and I stand in awe of just having the privilege of being here.
“Silent Partner” got her first taste of the Gulf of Alaska today. It marks a new era for her and in my sailing career. The Gulf demanded, and got, all of my humbled respect. I sprang out of my berth early after listening to a good forecast: we had a brief window in which to make it to Lituya Bay, 70 miles to the north. In the Strait we ghosted through thick fog banks and glossy waters. Every two minutes I blared the fog horn and listened for boat engines, and kept to the side of the channel. We were most likely the solitary vessel upon the waters again, as usual. An hour later the fog curled through the tops of the green spruce trees, revealing spectacular mountains in all quadrants. A brisk easterly kicked up against a flood tide as we transited Cross Sound, creating steep seas. We skirted Cape Spencer giving its rip tides a wide berth. It was a proud and bittersweet moment for me as we bid farewell to the Inside Passage and struck out into the wild, wild Gulf of Alaska. Almost immediately the landscape changed from the collosal mountains of SE Alaska to the impossible Fairweather Coast. I was blown away. An unbroken phalanx of towering pinnacles of rock and ice achieving heights of 19,000+ feet stretches hundreds of miles to the west and north. Near Cape Spencer we sailed by a sea arch 120 feet tall with 60 foot trees growing on top of it. The mountains behind it are so steep and windblown that not a speck of vegetation grow on them. At their base, in the water, we were buffeted by swells, williwaws, and a nasty chop developing from the east. As I gazed up at the arch and the striking coast I thought about cathedrals, lightening bolts, castles and church organs. Then the glacier country began. Countless gargantuan fields of ice cover hundreds of square miles, spilling from any one of the dozens of 10,000+ foot peaks. Many glaciers came right down to the sea face. Miles out to sea, where we were, the water contained so much silt that you couldn’t see the end of your pinky if you immersed it. The whole sea became a dull blue-gray cobalt color. Never before have I seen on such a massive scale such a dramatic display of natural forces in motion. At 1735 hrs under (thank god!) favorable conditions we transited “the chopper”, an extremely dangerous and finicky bar that leads into Lituya Bay. It has the reputation of having killed hundreds of people who got sucked into the swift tides of the narrows and grinding boats to pieces on the 30-foot wide boulders that make up the entire beach. We had an uneventful time with it, which is just the way I like things to go aboard “Silent Partner”. A fierce east wind funneled off the 13,000 foot peaks at the head of the bay and blasted out the entrance. However, we were thankful for relief from the swell, and sought refuge behind Cenotaph Island. We dropped our trusty storm anchor, the good old Forfjord, and all our chain, and held fast instantly. Held almost too well….The sweet smell of cottonwoods blew off the island to the boat. All through the night intense williwaws screamed down the inlet at a velocity “Silent Partner” has never known. It was maddening. Bleary-eyed I stared at the GPS all night and checked the anchor rode, which was bar-tight. Higher power granted us firm holding through the night, and we didn’t budge an inch. I slept fitfully.
The storm rages on. The sky is dark and it is dumping buckets. I had to bail Modulus out as she had filled almost to the gunnels in a 24 hour time period! The seas in the Gulf are running higher than “Silent Partner’s” mast right now. The Powder Magaziners must have left, as I have not seen them on the boardwalk today. I can only imagine them huddled under a thin shred of expensive nylon, fiddling with one of those damn camping stoves and eating luke-warm freeze-dried food. Poor souls! I cooked up another huge breakfast of hashbrowns and eggs and did a bit of reading while the heater blasted me with warm air. The rain thundered on the deck. We’re getting down to the last of our potatoes. I was hoping to replenish our vegetables here in Pelican but all they had were a few balls of wilted iceberg lettuce and some celery that is going brown around the edges. The forecast shows a favorable trend in two days, with a high pressure system building on friday and saturday. I hope to use this window to get into Lituya Bay, we’ll see. In the meantime, we’re at the dock. Once North of Pelican we will lose our radio reception and will be relying on barehanded weather forecasting and the iridium phone for our weather predictions. We are happy to be using the electric heaters at the dock rather than burning all our wood supply while at anchor. It has been nice to talk to other people in town, too. All the fishermen are giving great advice for our crossing. Neptune went to the doctor because his knee has been bothering him. The doctor gave him advice, a brace, and some medications free of charge. Neptune claims the knee is getting better now. For so long now I have been planning and dreaming about the big crossing from here to Prince William Sound. It’s hard to believe we’re standing on the edge now, waiting. The waiting isn’t so bad, it is giving me a chance to clear my mind and tie up all the loose ends on the boat. It is nice to be at the mercy of the weather and adapt to her ways. This is the last transmission of “Silent Partner” until we reach Prince William Sound. I will be holding the thoughts and good wishes from friends and family in my head as “Silent Partner” sets out for her first true blue-water crossing.
