Sailing with Impunity

by Mary E Trimble

  Getting into place at the locks is a bit dicey. It’s hard to keep a sailboat still in the water and pointed the way you want it. Without twin screws (port and starboard propellers) the captain has to constantly keep jockeying the boat into place to maintain a distance from other boats and obstacles in the water.

  Going through the locks for the first time was intimidating for me, but Bruce had experienced it before so was at least outwardly calm. There were several other boats and we had our hands full staying clear of them while taking orders from the lockmaster. As instructed, we wrapped our line around a “button” and tied it lightly to a cleat. The water lowered until it got to the level of the Sound. The gate opened and we waited until instructed to motor out.

  Once out on Puget Sound we motored through a sailboat race in progress, then raised the working jib and the mainsail. The winds were irregular so we changed the configuration several times. At this point, I often didn’t understand the strategy behind sail changes.

  To port we passed Point No Point, the oldest lighthouse on Puget Sound. To starboard was Whidbey Island. From that location, we could see Fort Flagler and Fort Warden to port and Fort Casey to starboard.

  We gave the ferry crossing from Port Townsend to Coupeville the right-of-way. We actually had the right-of-way, being a sailboat, but followed the wise adage, “right-of-way is a matter of tonnage.”

  Strong tides at this point were against us and for awhile it seemed like we were going backwards. Bruce kept jockeying around and we finally managed to make headway.

  We reached the Strait of Juan de Fuca and had a frustrating night bucking competing wind and tide. The Strait, a large body of water about 95 miles long, is Puget Sound’s outlet to the Pacific Ocean. The international boundary between the United States and Canada runs down the center of the Strait. We considered spending the night at Neah Bay, but the weather turned beautiful so we decided to keep going. Soon, there we were, in the Pacific Ocean! With perfect winds, we sailed with full mainsail.

  I’d fixed a beef stew and it simmered in the pressure cooker. The previous Christmas son Jeff gave us a dark blue set of Rubbermaid dinnerware—perfect for life on a boat. We celebrated our first dinner at sea on our new plates heaped with beef stew.

  We set up what would be our watch system for the duration of our cruise.

  2:00 a.m.– 6:00 a.m. — Bruce

  6:00 a.m.–10:00 a.m. — Mary

  10:00 a.m.–2:00 p.m. — Bruce

  2:00 p.m.–6:00 p.m. — Mary

  6:00 p.m.–10:00 p.m. — Bruce

  10:00 p.m.–2:00 a.m. — Mary

  Our watch system gave Bruce the opportunity to take navigation star shots at morning and evening twilight, and at noon when the sun was at its highest. We didn’t find it difficult to follow the system, but it did mean no more than four hours sleep at one time. There were usually periods during the day when we could catch a short nap. I normally napped in the early evening before I stood the 10:00 watch.

  I quickly learned to share Bruce’s enthusiasm for our Aries wind vane which had come with the boat’s initial equipment. The wind vane, a flat paddle that caught the wind’s direction, automatically adjusted the self-steering gear. Without it, all steering would need to be done by hand. Bruce kept an eye on the direction of the wind and tweaked the sails accordingly while the wind vane kept us on course. When the Aries steered the boat, the tiller was engaged to a chain hooked to the wind vane.

  I found it interesting that an experienced sailor can determine the wind’s speed by looking at the sea. There are charts to determine this, notably the Beaufort Scale, but pretty soon a sailor can glance at the height of waves and the amount of spray the waves generate to determine the velocity of wind and thus how to adjust the sails.

  To quickly determine the direction of the wind, Bruce took old cassette tape cartridges apart and tied ten to twelve inches of tape to the shrouds as “telltales.” They didn’t last a long time, but the price was right and we had plenty of spares.

  Early the next morning, the winds dropped and the seas turned choppy. I fought seasickness as the boat rolled and bucked with the boisterous seas. Seasickness affects people in different ways. One of the symptoms I suffered was typical of many sailors—depression and a sense of doom. I knew, or at least hoped, that my seasickness would pass once I got my “sea legs.” I consoled myself that even experienced sailors get seasick. We’d pretty much found out what we needed to know. The boat performed well. We didn’t need to endure rough seas and I didn’t need practice in throwing up. We turned back to Neah Bay, with new confidence in Impunity and our ability, eager to just have some fun with the boat.

  As we went back through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I practiced my newly acquired shoreline navigation skills with the many landmarks along the way. As instructed in class, I found a coastline navigation aid, New Dungeness Lighthouse, visible from 18 miles with a sequence of one light flash every five seconds, as noted on the chart. With a drafting compass I drew a curved line on the chart. We were someplace along that line. Then I found Ediz Hook at Port Townsend, took a bearing and drew a line from that. We were where those two lines intersected. Yes!

  In class I learned how to do coastline navigation, but at sea shoreline navigational aids aren’t available. It’s always prudent to use all the aids available, identifiable landmarks, radio direction finder bearings, celestial lines of position, depth soundings, or positions from a Loran-C or a GPS, which at that time wasn’t commonly used nor reliable.

  Once we determined our position, we marked it on the chart at the navigation station, using a dot with a small circle around it, with the time noted alongside, using 24-hour time notation. Then, starting from that dot, we would draw our course, advancing forward.

  When we were near land or known reefs, this process of determining our position happened much more frequently. Offshore, especially when celestial navigation is the only source of position input, noting our position becomes a less frequent task, perhaps only three or four times a day, even less in cloudy weather.

  In between these position fixes, we would note our “dead reckoning,” or “DR” position on the chart, along the course line, using a dot and half circle labeled as DR with the time. The DR position is determined by advancing along our course using our speed, direction, and elapsed time, allowing for any known ocean currents.

  Using celestial navigation during the daytime, the sun would normally be our only source of position information, and a sun shot would give a line of position. We knew we were somewhere on that line, which we would draw on the chart. During morning and evening twilight when we could make out both the horizon and some stars, we could get multiple lines of position, one from each star, and where these lines intersected was our position. When getting a line of position from a star or the sun, Bruce would label the chart with “sun” or the name of the star, such as “Vega.” Bouncing around on a small boat at sea while taking visual observations using a sextant is not entirely precise, but with care each line of position would be accurate, hopefully within a half mile or less. When many miles from land, that is close enough.

  I never did get proficient with a sextant, but Bruce’s celestial navigation skills were excellent. Before we left home he made hundreds of blank work sheets to fill in to calculate a line of position. Celestial navigation is not difficult, but it requires attention to details and a few important pieces of information.

  Still in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, on the third night of our trip during my night watch, I noticed a vessel approaching from behind, coming very fast. It had a light configuration I couldn’t identify from our Rules of the Road manual, an intermittent flashing amber. I wasn’t sure they saw us, though we had on our running lights, identifying our vessel as a sailboat. I called Bruce, waking him an hour early before his watch. He called on the radio.

  “East-bound vessel in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, this is sailing vessel Impunity. Over.”

  No response. He tried
three times and still no response. We shone bright lights on our sails to be sure they saw us.

  With a huge swish, they overtook us. As it passed between us and the glow of Victoria, B.C., we could see by their silhouette that it was a U.S. Navy attack submarine, going very fast, with only its conning tower showing. It was thrilling, yet scary.

  As night became day, we made our way to Roche Harbor on San Juan Island to top up fuel. As we gingerly approached through dense fog, we heard the unmistakable “blow” of whales. Although we couldn’t see well through the fog, we thought they were orcas, sometimes called “killer whales.” They swam alongside us for quite awhile. We were thrilled to share sea space with these magnificent creatures.

  We spent the rest of our week boondocking in the San Juan Islands. One late afternoon we anchored off Sucia Island, a Washington State Marine Park, rowed our dinghy to shore, and enjoyed walking the trails. It was early in the season and we had that special island to ourselves.

  We had a few man-overboard drills. Our horseshoe shaped life ring was attached to a floating pole with a man-overboard flag on top. When launched, a flashing strobe light automatically turned on. Even the drill made me nervous.

  Heading toward home, we stopped at Blake Island where my old dive buddy and his wife lived and worked. John was a Washington State park ranger and his wife Jan managed the restaurant at Tillicum Village. It was a surprise visit and we had fun catching up on their news and showing off Impunity.

  We motored back through the locks, reversing from low elevation to the higher Lake Washington level. We were lucky to have beautiful sunny weather.

  Nearing the Mountlake Cut, we encountered hundreds of boats. It then occurred to Bruce that we had ended our shakedown cruise on opening day of boating season. It was a zoo with boats going every which way, lots of drinking and shouting. We had a few close calls, but managed to keep our distance. By late afternoon, it was a relief to finally slip into our quiet moorage at Kenmore.

  A week before our departure, we emptied Bruce’s folks basement of all our supplies and loaded them onto the boat. Thank goodness for the marina’s carts that held several cases of goods, saving us countless more trips from truck to boat. Because of the danger of bringing aboard insects, we never brought corrugated cardboard boxes onto the boat. So, with one of us aboard, we took individual goods from one another, stacking the cans and packages in the cockpit. Trip after trip. It was amazing how much stuff Impunity could store.

  We’d heard so many stories of can labels falling off as the result of moisture, leaving “surprise” contents for a frustrated cook. So, with indelible markers, we labeled the tops of every single can and every sealed plastic bag with the name of the contents.

  As we stowed supplies, we noted on a master list where goods were stored:

  Crackers – Forward port main locker

  Dish soap – Galley, under counter

  Dry beans – Behind dinette, upper center locker

  Rice – Below berth, starboard

  Spices – Galley, third drawer

  Tinned meat – Settee, forward locker

  We stored smaller items in plastic “milk crates.” In many cases, we kept a small supply of goods in the galley and the remaining like items elsewhere on the boat. It all took hours, but we knew it was time well spent.

  My tenure at Safeco came to an end. I loved my job, but felt eager to start this next exciting chapter of our lives. The folks in my department— about 30 or so—gave me a lovely going-away party.

  One of the supervisors marveled at our plans. “I can’t imagine how you would even plan for this. Why, you’ll have to have a chart for the whole world!”

  I laughed. “Make that about 130 charts. For each port-of-call you need three charts: one of the ocean, one of the coastline where you’re going, one of the harbor itself.” Bruce had collected most of the charts we’d need. It was a huge stack with most of them stowed by the navigation station.

  My last day at Safeco was Wednesday, May 31st. We were to leave in three days, Saturday, June 3rd.

  The two days before we set sail were frantic with last-minute details. We shopped for fresh food: crates of oranges and apples, fresh meat and vegetables. We’d have ice for the first few days, then not for a long time. Potatoes, onions and cabbage would last longer, but once they were gone, we’d have to rely on canned or dried provisions. We bought ten dozen eggs in foam cartons and greased every single egg with Vaseline, having learned that will help keep them fresh. We’d flip the cartons every week or so to keep the yokes from settling onto the shell.

  We gave the apples and oranges a weak chlorine solution bath to remove the surface bacteria, then rinsed them. Time would tell how effective that was.

  Above the dinette, we hung a net, like a hammock, that held fresh fruit and potatoes. It allowed for a gentle ride, ventilation and easy access.

  We put in a supply of bread. At a time when everyone was so conscientious about selecting bread with no preservatives, we searched for types that had preservatives, the more the better. Bread molds quickly in a damp environment and we wanted it to last as long as possible.

  Our kids hosted a farewell breakfast for us at the marina restaurant. All the kids, our two little grandkids, Bruce’s folks, my sister and her partner—they were all there. It was wonderful. The day was beautiful, sunny, scary, sad, and exciting.

  We received many heartfelt farewell gifts. One, a plaque, a gift from the kids and grandkids, read: “To an incredible couple living their dream. Our love and prayers are with you. June, 1989.” We also received a barometer, a ship’s bell, and many tasty food items. Son Jeff gave me a cute tee-shirt: “Escaped Mom: Don’t tell anyone where you saw me.” Our one-year old grandson gave us a fluffy white stuffed elephant. We called him Phant, short for elephant.

  We’d given Jeff and his wife my old Datsun as a second vehicle, and Bruce’s folks would keep our truck so we’d have transportation when we returned.

  Right on schedule, we set sail from Seattle just before noon, June 3, 1989.

  Although we were doing what we wanted to do, it was a sad departure. I saw anxiety in our family’s eyes. Oh, as we left there was laughter and cheery hand-waving, but as I watched our family grow smaller as we sailed farther away, I couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down my face.

  We raised the sails and crisscrossed the boat in front of them so they could see Impunity in all her glory. It was a beautiful day. In that respect it couldn’t have been more perfect. As we headed north to our destiny, my thoughts were crammed with family and our future, what we were leaving, and the adventures to come.

  Our Astra 3B sextant

  Rough Ride on the West Coast

  Log Entry—June 9, 1989: Hove to and are riding out the storm.

  By the time we passed Puget Sound’s Marrowstone Island, the wind died and we motored, which also meant hand-steering. Large wind-generated waves caused the boat to continually roll back and forth.

  We both sat in the cockpit, pensive. We were taking a huge step in our lives and felt unsure of so many things.

  Bruce reached out to hold my hand. “This morning, all four kids, at separate times, came up to me and said, “Take care of my mom.”

  “That’s so nice to hear.” Fresh tears formed.

  Bruce, understanding, squeezed my hand. “The kids have been really supportive.”

  All I could do was nod.

  We took a bearing off Fort Wilson lighthouse at Port Townsend with its steady white light and a red flash every 20 seconds.

  Midway between Admiralty Inlet and Lopez Island, we took a bearing on Smith Island, part of the San Juan National Wildlife Refuge. The island is closed to the public, but has a navigation light for mariners.

  That night’s watch going through the Strait of Juan de Fuca was nerve-wracking. There was no wind and the tied down boom continually slammed back and forth with the motion of the sea. I felt each jerk and knew it wasn’t good for the boat. Bruce’s ner
ves were on edge, too. We still had a few things to learn about Impunity, our now permanent home.

  The lights from Canada’s Vancouver Island were visible the whole time we were in the Strait. We noted the lights at Port Angeles and encountered several ships going in and out of that busy port. Bruce hand steered, keeping us to the right of the shipping lane.

  We passed Tatoosh Island, the northwest tip of the continental United States. In the dark, the only thing visible to us was the Cape Flattery Lighthouse beacons.

  The next morning we tried raising the sails again, but the winds were too light. Even on the ocean, we encountered modest seas and almost no wind. For awhile we used both engine and sails, which made Bruce happier and allowed better progress.

  The boat rolled from side to side, no matter the speed. Going anyplace meant hanging on to something. Even just sitting still we had to brace ourselves against the rolling. There was plenty to hang on to with the deck railings, the grab railings around the top of the cabin and the dodger in the cockpit. Below decks a wooden railing dropped down from the overhead. To walk the length of the boat, we hung on constantly with one hand. There’s truth to the mariner’s adage “One hand for the ship, one hand for yourself.”

  It gets tiring, always hanging on to something to go anyplace. Life got complicated with the effort it took to do the simplest thing. Even going to the head was a chore and a major physical struggle. After waiting as long as possible, lurching down the companionway, hanging on hand over hand, then finally arriving at the head. Then, hanging on with one hand while with the other adjusting clothing to allow sitting on a wildly pitching toilet. Then reversing the procedure. Nothing is simple on a boat.