| |
|  |
|
“Hmmm? Hummphhzat?”
It was an unusual sound – sufficiently strange as to intrude upon a dream and prompt me to partly cock open an eyelid. “Schmuk, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk….” “What in the…?” Now, both my eyelids were opened to the dawn’s early light sifting through the portlight beside Full Moon’s V-berth. My ears were at full alert. “Schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk….” The sound seemed to be coming from just to the other side of the hull from where I lay. I reached over and gently shook Nancy’s shoulder. “Did you hear that?” I asked. “Did I hear what?” she mumbled back from her pillow, her tone hinting at slight perturbation for having been disturbed. There wasn’t any need for me to reply. The sound outside the hull answered distinctly for itself: “Schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk.” “That’s pretty weird. What do you think it is?” Nancy asked. Now fully awakened, she continued, “Do you want me to go check it out?” “Yeah, maybe you’d better,” I responded, feeling roughly equal parts of guilt and appreciation that she’d volunteered to climb out from under the warm covers. Slipping into some sweats, Nancy made her way aft through Full Moon’s cabin, pulled open the main hatch and went topside. I listened as the softened pattering of her footsteps proceeded to the starboard bow and paused. A couple of moments later she hastened back into the boat’s cockpit from where she commandeered to me through the companionway: “Hurry, hurry – get up quick! You’ve got to come out and see this for yourself!” “Gotta see what for myself?” I queried while at the same time I quickly climbed out of the V-berth and grabbed a pair of sweatpants. “Just hurry up!” Nancy insisted as, again, the sound resumed from somewhere outside Full Moon’s hull. “Schmuk, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk.” We scrambled our way forward to Full Moon’s starboard bow where we both leaned over the lifelines and peered down toward the boat’s waterline. A mostly submerged, pudgy, mottled gray bundle somewhat larger than a football was working its way back and forth against the hull, creating as it did so the sound: “…schmuk, schmuk, schmuk…, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk, schmuk.” It took me a moment to ?comprehend what I was seeing; but then, as the object separated itself slightly from the boat’s hull it peered upward toward me with what easily qualified as the sweetest pair of liquescent eyes that one could possibly imagine. It was the tiniest harbor seal I’d ever seen – obviously a very recently born pup. As the little creature wriggled and repositioned a bit more in the water I noticed the distinct remnant of an umbilical cord still attached to its stomach. The pup was possibly only a few hours old, perhaps born during the night. The seal pup returned itself to Full Moon’s hull, against which it began working its mouth from side to side, creating that “schmuk, schmuk, schmuk” sucking sound. It finally dawned on me what it was attempting to do – it was mistaking Full Moon’s hull for its mother, attempting to suckle. Full Moon was moored alongside the short float in the northwestern cove of Matia Island State Park. From the boat’s bow I scanned around the surrounding water for any sign of the baby seal’s mother. Having cruised the Pacific Northwest coast for decades, I was aware that it’s quite normal for mother seals to leave their offspring on a beach while they’re off foraging for food. Doing this is a pragmatic necessity on the mother seals’ part; such young pups haven’t sufficient reserves of energy to accompany their mothers while they’re foraging. On the other hand, mother seals possess an uncanny instinct for relocating the places where they’ve left their young. Whenever a young seal is found alone on a beach, it should not be bothered. However motivated by good intentions, a person finding a seal pup shouldn’t approach it too closely or try to touch it or encourage it to return into the water. Such actions could potentially constitute a death sentence for a young seal pup. Often when a seal pup gets moved it becomes impossible to reunite it with its mother. Moreover, “rescued” seal pups are very difficult to feed and they have poor odds of surviving in captivity. Also, despite the sweet innocence of their appearance there’s always an element of personal risk involved when approaching a seal pup. A nip from one cannot only be painful, but it can also cause serious infection in people and pets. Pet dogs should be restrained from running free around seal pups. Their doing so could easily dissuade a mother seal’s attempt to return to her pup. For those few who best respond to legal deterrents, it should be noted that bothering a seal pup subjects an individual to being fined for the harassment of a marine mammal. In the rare circumstance that a baby seal is discovered to be injured or in some obvious distress, the person finding the animal should stay away from it and report the circumstance to the state police, a parks ranger or a state fisheries or wildlife agent. Unfortunately, as the occasion at Matia State Park would have it, Full Moon wasn’t the only vessel moored that morning at the park float. Across from us was a medium-sized powerboat, aboard which were three teenagers and their parents. It wasn’t long enough before these five also noticed the seal pup when, as it had done with Full Moon, it also attempted to suckle against the powerboat’s hull. The adults and the teens aboard the powerboat were understandably delighted to discover the young seal pup beside their boat. On the other hand, it soon became obvious that they were unaware that they shouldn’t bother it. As the teens and their mother gathered on their boat’s swim step and coaxed the seal pup near I interceded, explaining to them that while it was fine for them to observe it, they should otherwise leave it alone. This seemed to fall on deaf ears. I watched with frustration as they reached down and petted the young seal. Then, bringing out some potato chips, they attempted to feed these to the animal. As they escalated their actions and began attempting to pull the pup up onto the swim platform my frustration finally got better of me. “Hey - you shouldn’t do that,” I objected. “Please, just leave the poor thing alone, alright?” My growing irritation was surely evident in the tone of my voice. From the boat’s swim platform the mother looked up and shot me back an angry glare that clearly translated into: “Why don’t you just go mind your own business!” Reluctantly, I concluded that escalating this confrontation would be futile. Discussing the situation with Nancy, we both decided the best thing that we could do was to leave the park. As Nancy prepped Full Moon for departure, I quickly wrote a short note expressing our concerns about the seal pup, mentioning in it how the individuals aboard the powerboat had chosen to ignore my advice not to bother it. I went up and placed the note inside the moorage fee box located at shore side. As a general rule during cruising season a park ranger visits at Matia Island daily. I hoped the ranger would have better fortune attending to the little animal. As we motored away from the float we glanced aft to see the teens and their mother still toying around with their tiny visitor. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret that I’d not done something more. However, as things would turn out this wouldn’t be the last time that we’d hear about the little seal pup – but more about this later. A Plunging of Eagles During our decades of cruising the coast we’ve seen a fairly good percentage of the bird species that reside here, and, as with brown pelicans, some species that only occasionally pay visits to the region. Two of the most unusual circumstances we’ve experienced with birds involve bald eagles. While cruising through the Broughton Archipelago at the southern end of Queen Charlotte Strait, we were making our way eastward along Fife Sound when we saw a bald eagle plunge itself headlong into the sea a few dozen yards off Full Moon’s stern. Next, the large bird hoisted its waterlogged wings above the surface and began what looked to be a labored breast stroke toward the nearest shore on Baker Island, which was maybe 100 yards or so distant. Concluding that it was in distress, I instructed Nancy to let out all the spare line to our inflatable as I quickly scrambled to lower the sails. Firing up our diesel engine, I figured that we might be able to pull our trailing inflatable close enough to the eagle so that it could clamber itself aboard it. As it turned out the eagle would have none of our plan. It avoided the inflatable and continued stroking its way toward the island. Nancy and I were as impressed by its apparent determination as we were by its rate of progress through the water. It soon became evident that our assistance wouldn’t be necessary; the eagle would have no problem making it to shore on its own. We continued to watch it as it finally reached land and awkwardly clambered onto a rock. At this point it became clearly evident to us why the eagle had plunged into the sea in the first place. Clutched in one of its talons was a sizeable salmon. Although a larger fish than the eagle could hope to snag and lift off from the water, the bird’s appetite was apparently larger. Holding down the still lively fish with one foot, the eagle flapped its soaked wings a few times, then settled down to its hard-earned salmon lunch. Though this was the first time that we’d seen a bald eagle willingly plunge into the sea after a fish too large to lift out, it would not be the only occasion that we’d witness such an unusual event. A year or so later, while sailing down Hoskyn Channel off the southern end of Read Island, we were passing to starboard of Dunsterville Islet when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something dark and sizeable plunging seaward. An instant later I heard the splash just off Full Moon’s port stern. The disturbance’s source became quickly evident as Nancy and I spotted yet another bald eagle performing a full on breaststroke. Making for the islet, it was dragging behind it a respectably sized red snapper. This time, rather than dropping our sails and attempting to assist the eagle like we’d done in Fife Sound, we instead grabbed our video camera in order to record the unusual event on tape. This eagle also seemed to know how to swim rather well, and it took only a few minutes to cover the hundred yards or so distance to the islet’s shore. There, after dragging itself and its fresh catch onto a rock, it flapped a bit of excess water from its wings and began chowing down. Nancy and I have subsequently mentioned our experiences with the plunging eagles to other cruisers. However, to date we’ve not encountered anybody else who has witnessed such an event - which makes me all the more glad that we managed to capture it on videotape. You know, just in case somebody should accuse us of BS. The UnBEARable Sweetness of Plums Not all of our sailing encounters with the wildlife of the Pacific Northwest involve birds. As anyone who’s done much cruising through some of the more isolated waterways of the British Columbia coast knows, it’s not all that unusual to see the occasional bear or two scrounging along the shore for something to eat - especially whenever the tide’s out. Sometimes, like when passing through an exceptionally constricted waterway such as Chatham Channel (between East Cracoft Island and the B.C. mainland), it’s possible to pass within just a few yards of a bear that’s foraging beneath beach rocks. On one occasion in Princess Louisa Inlet, Nancy and I sailed past a large grizzly foraging in such manner on a beach – our sole grizzly encounter to date. Our personal “up-closest” encounter with a bruin occurred at the abandoned village of Karlukwees, on Turnour Island, which lay on the northern shore of aptly named Beware Passage. Attracted to remnants of past habitation, we’d moored Full Moon alongside the abandoned village’s dilapidating wharf. Rowing our inflatable ashore, we climbed the low foreshore bank in front of the village to explore through some of the deteriorated wood frame houses. After awhile my attention became drawn to several fruit trees that lined the front of the desolate settlement. They appeared heavily loaded with small yellow fruit, each about twice as big as a cherry. Heading over, I sampled one of the fruit and discovered it was a small plum – an extraordinarily excellent tasting plum! To this very day I’ve not found more succulent plums than these that I found at Karlukwees…, and there I was with tree-loads of them, all mine for the taking! However, it quickly became evident that I’d need to amend that last statement to say: most were mine for the taking. Strewn about the tree beneath which I stood were numerous splats of fresh bear poop. Dozens of recently partly consumed plums lay strewn on the ground around me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in the vicinity that appreciated a good plum. As is her tendency, at the mere mention of the word “bear” Nancy decided that she’d prefer to wait for me back down on the beach whilst I did the harvesting. In lieu of any confrontation with or any competition from a bear, I quickly managed to cram my shirtfront and my pants pockets with several dozens of the fruit. Returning to the beach, I found Nancy patiently awaiting me on a sun-bleached drift log adjacent to a thick cluster of bushes growing alongside the bank. The two of us began returning to our inflatable when, from just behind us, we heard a sudden rustling. Turning, we saw a large, black-brown shape lumber itself out from the brush behind the drift log upon which Nancy had only moments before been sitting. It’s possible that my capability to accurately assess the size of a carnivore becomes influenced by its proximity; but, I’ll tell you now that this furry fellow was one of the largest black bears I’ve ever seen. Thankfully – and I’ve just decided to cursor back and underline that word – the bear didn’t follow us as we cautiously, but rapidly back-footed our way toward our inflatable. Instead, it just issued us sort of a disgusted look, then sounded a single loud snort before heading up the same clearing in the bank from which I’d just descended. It was just like it had just said to us, “Well – about time!” While making our way back toward Full Moon in the inflatable, our attention was drawn to one of the plum trees in front of the village, which was being roughly shaken. Very good plums indeed! The Vampires of Port Harvey A too close-up encounter with an over-stuffed bruin would likely give rise to a fair degree of fright in most folks. However, some of the biggest nuisances can come from the smallest sized critters. This can hold especially true when cruising through the coastal wilds of the Northwest. As we motored Full Moon into the two-mile deep inlet of Port Harvey on West Cracroft Island, the water’s surface was mirror smooth and the early evening air was heavily warm and muggy. Proceeding to the head of the inlet, we finally dropped anchor in shallow water behind a small and lightly vegetated protrusion named Range Island. Having bucked a chronic ebb in Johnston Strait for a good portion of the day, we were both fairly tired and hungry. However, before assembling ourselves something for our dinner we thought we’d best take advantage of the remaining daylight and stretch our legs on shore a bit. Close-by to where we were anchored, a lush expanse of grassy meadowland seemed just the ticket for such activity. After landing ashore with our inflatable, we’d just started making our way through the waist-deep grassland when it became evident that each step we took was stirring up a veritable cloud of tiny flying shapes – and it took just a dozen or so more steps before we both realized that we were in a whole heap of trouble. Mosquitoes! Thousands of mosquitoes! A veritable plague of mosquitoes, swarming and swirling around us like a buzzing and thickening gray fog! Ravenous mosquitoes! An Alfred Hitchcock nightmare of mosquitoes, each of which seemed to have but one demented obsession – to suck out our blood! Turning around, we began bounding in full retreat toward our dinghy like our very lives depended on crossing the distance to it. In the four or five or six seconds it took us to push the inflatable back into the water we each became covered from head to toe with hundreds of mosquitoes. They were flying into our eyes, and climbing into our ears and getting sucked into our mouths. An insanity of mosquitoes! It still gives me the heebie-jeebies and itches just to recall the utter horror of the assault. As we hastily made our escape from shore, I manned the oars while Nancy alternately slapped and brushed mosquitoes off me and herself, but with little apparent effect. Alarmingly, it seemed that every mosquito on the island was accompanying us back to Full Moon. Covered by the damnable beasts, we quickly climbed aboard the boat and made a dive into Full Moon’s cabin, quickly installing the hatch slats to enclose ourselves. It turned out that our retreat into the boat’s cabin only partly remedied our discomforting situation. At least several dozens of our attackers had followed us inside, while, outside, those that hadn’t had such good fortune were congregating on our port screens looking for any possible means of access. The attacks and the counter-attacks inside Full Moon’s cabin continued throughout the evening and into the dawning of the next day, when under the early morning light could be found everywhere the crushed and stomped and flattened and splattered carcasses of mosquitoes – on the countertops, on the cabin sole, on the bed covers and the bulkheads, in our hair…. Despite that I wouldn’t be surprised to hear from the folks who have cottages around the shore of Port Harvey that this place is their own little slice of paradise, Nancy and I’ve resolved never to visit there again. A Whale of a Tale If small critters like mosquitoes and mice can give cruisers grief, just the opposite generally holds true for the largest of marine creatures – whales. During the years we’ve cruised the northwest coast, Nancy and I’ve enjoyed the good fortune of encountering a fair number of whales – although I must necessarily add that in more recent years our encounters with these magnificent mammals seem on sharp decline. Once, several years ago, while I was single handling past the southern end of Waldron Island in the San Juan Islands, I observed a truly humongous whale break surface just a few feet away from another sailboat. The occasion was made all the more memorable not only because of the animal’s great size - it appeared far more massive than the 35-foot or so boat that it was beside - but also because of the whale’s unusual color, a medium shade of beige. On a recent occasion Nancy and I were sailing southward down Johnstone Strait when an entire pod of killer whales came up right up alongside our boat. Remaining there for more than half an hour, members of the pod would sometimes approach almost close enough to our boat to reach out and touch, making for a particularly opportunistic photo taking session. Were I to pick just one whale encounter that I’d qualify as our most memorable, this would have to be during a sail about ten years ago just off Seattle’s Elliot Bay. It happened during one of those picture perfect sort of summer days that occur now and again around the Puget Sound area - with just the right temperature and just the perfect breeze to lend itself to the finest day sail imaginable. What made this whale encounter all the more wonderful is that we were able to share it with our good friends, LeRoy and Soussan, who were visiting with us from Philadelphia. We were tacking our way northward maybe a mile or two off-shore from Alki Point, and we were all feeling pleasantly lazed and relaxed when suddenly from off Full Moon’s stern there came an abrupt exhalation of heavy breath - this immediately followed by a second strong huff and then a third and then a fourth. “Killer whales off our stern!” Nancy exclaimed. “At least five dorsal fins!” Of course, this announcement immediately got everyone’s rapt attention, and all eyes snapped themselves toward the sea’s surface astern just in time to see the dorsal fins submerging. Seconds later more dorsal fins began breaking through the surface behind us – “four…, five!…, and look back there - another two!” In all, we figured that we had at least eight killer whales following astern. No – the whales weren’t just following us – they were very quickly catching up! The entire pod seemed to be making a beeline toward Full Moon’s stern. At the helm, I decided there wasn’t a whole lot I could do but simply hold course and see how closely the pod would approach. The whales again descended and resurfaced, behaving more like dolphins than like whales. But, next, all their dorsal fins remained for several moments plowing through the surface as the creatures quickly closed the remaining distance between themselves and Full Moon’s stern – at which point I couldn’t help but entertain some concerns about their intentions. The pod approached to perhaps a boat length or so of our stern before, in group fashion, descending again in unison beneath the surface. At this point all of us aboard the boat were left completely speechless. As we each looked around at one another it seemed fully apparent that words were not necessary in order to relate what each of us was thinking – this was simply AWESOME! Then suddenly there arrived part two of our experience as multiple exhalations of breath and spray announced the resurfacing of the entire pod directly in front of Full Moon’s bow. Following this, our friend LeRoy finally broke our group’s awestruck silence: “How incredible is that!?” My personal pleasure in recollecting this close encounter off Elliot Bay is accentuated by the fact that it’s not only Nancy and I who will recall the occasion throughout the remainder of our lives. For our friends LeRoy and Soussan this especially wonderful experience will most assuredly rank alongside their best memories. All’s Well That Ends Well I could probably continue on for pages more recollecting other memorable encounters that Nancy and I’ve had with the wildlife of the Northwest Coast. Like, for example, I could try to convince you that once while single-handling in the middle of the Strait of Juan de Fuca I passed by a couple of walruses. No lie. Two freaking walruses with their tusked heads and shoulders sticking above the strait’s surface like deadheads! Of course, given that I neglected at the time to capture any proof of my unusual encounter on film, it’s only my word - so many of you’d probably figure that I was just…, well, you know. It seems as good a time as any to return to the remainder of the story about the little seal pup that Nancy and I left behind at Matia Island. A couple years following our encounter with the newborn harbor seal we were visiting at Jones Island State Park where we happened into a conversation with a park ranger. During our chat with him the topic turned to the subject of seal pups in the islands. As coincidental good fortune would have it, this ranger turned out to be the same ranger who’d found the note that we’d left at Matia Island. He said that he’d ended up transporting the little seal pup over to the University of Washington’s Marine Laboratory at Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. He went on to explain that while he’d similarly transported a number of other seal pups to the facility, he recalled this seal pup in particular because he’d afterwards been told by the lab that this seal pup had beaten the heavy odds against it. It had survived its captivity – which, I think, qualifies as a good ending. ...back to 48° North title page.
|
|
