48° North Cruising Rally Recap

Spinning on the hook, the variable breeze was light and lightly smoky. I could see friends gathered ashore. A surprise midday hoolie had blown, seemingly localized at the Bedwell Harbour Customs dock. It had momentarily grabbed a few of us by the nautical shoulders and shook, as if to say ‘Summertime cruisin’ is easy… but are you awake?!’ Now, at one of my all-time favorite underrated anchorages, Medicine Beach at the northwest corner of the same harbor, an occasional puff would find its way down the hills and into the North Pender Island nook where I now swung. Nothing like on the far side of the bay, but enough to remind you that truly settled weather would wait until sunset.

It was summer in the islands and I was happily leading 48° North’s Cruising Rally. I’d opted for a moment alone, hoping to catch-up on a few overdue work emails. Lounging in the cockpit with my computer in my lap, however, I was anything but productive. I fiddled with a few systems, checked my anchor swing track, and drank in my stunning surroundings. I reflected on past visits to this exact location on the same trusty Canadian Sailcraft 40, Blackbird—the year it was hot enough to swim, we were anchored in almost the same spot; and on another rally stopover with the hook set more in the middle of the anchorage, I wiled away the starlit night on the bow planning a wedding over the phone and kicking myself for not dragging my wife-to-be along with me. Mostly, my optimistic email effort was sidetracked by engaging in a pastime some of us only dabble in on a waterborne jaunt in the height of the Pacific Northwest summer… nothing. Glorious nothing.

Of course, this was the rally, and it’s not really about me—it’s about us! Through the years, our rally groups have been larger and smaller, and this year happened to be the latter. A couple of last–minute cancellations left our rally group at only four boats, which didn’t dampen our enjoyment in the least; though it did give us a dynamic that was more like buddy boats than an unwieldy rally armada.

We started in Port Townsend this year, a first after a long run jumping off from Anacortes. I’ve never met a trip to PT I didn’t like, especially on a boat. We docked at Point Hudson, and gathered at the recently renovated and rebranded Salish Grill at the end of the marina’s seaside structures to get acquainted and kick-off the proceedings. Seated outside, our rally group of 12 was able to share a single large table. The evening wind bit a little, and my rally co-conspirator, Chuck Skewes—Ullman Sails loft owner and newly minted Baja Ha-Ha event producer—reminded everyone that this is how the marina had gotten the nickname Hurricane Gulch. Chilled though some of us were, the warmth of cruising companionship new and renewed was palpable.

Around the table were the crews of Blackbird, the Catalina 400 Windmist II owned by Terry and Dee who had four guests aboard including a pair of adventurous 14-year-olds, the Pacific Seacraft 37 Tally Ho sailed by a highly capable Utah-based couple who described themselves as newer to sailing, David and Rachel; and longtime rally participant Bill singlehanding his C&C 30, Sea Boots.

We talked through the loose itinerary, adding detail when it came to tomorrow’s route. We’d be crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca in the morning and planned to transit Cattle Pass on the far side—neither of which should be undertaken without care. Between the brisk breeze and our hope for a fairly early start, we all retired without excessive carousing.

The morning of our first travel day as a group dawned remarkably pleasant. We had warned the crew about the possibility of fog and the necessity of threading the tidal current needle on each side of the big water. But we breezed past Point Wilson with sunshine, moderate wind just ahead of the beam, and uncharacteristically flat water. On Blackbird, we soon rigged up the Code Zero and found ourselves fetching Cattle Pass on a very ideal angle for the breeze—powered up, but not overpowered. All boats sailed pretty much the whole way across, and all participants agreed it was one of the easiest, quickest, and most comfortable crossings of the Strait of Juan de Fuca any of us could recall.

We were able to hold our Code Zero until just outside Cattle Pass, where the wind veered. A brief motorsail through the typical flotsam in the pass and we had eyes on the evening’s digs—the anchorage in the southwest bit of Griffin Bay, with nearby shore access to San Juan Island’s American Camp. After a couple of kelp-blanket misfires with the hook, we were well set.

What a place. I’d never stayed here before—in our group, only Chuck had. The setting is awesome. It’s not an obvious anchorage one would pencil-in when perusing the charts in the offseason. It’s wide open to San Juan Channel to the north; and in the wrong conditions, you’d surely want to be anywhere but here. Yet on a mellow summer’s eve, it was rather special for our four boats to share that expansive patch of lovely water with one other pleasure boat and a Coast Guard Vessel who snagged the mooring buoy a ways east of where we landed.

With all four anchors securely down, we tidied our sails and made for the beach. As is so often the case when cruising, we were pretty sure there was a trail somewhere around there; and just adjacent Jakle’s Lagoon, voilá!

The teenagers stayed to explore the beach between bracing swims, but most of the group set off through the dense woods, gaining about 300 feet on the way to the top of Mount Finlayson. The bit of wildfire smoke in the air didn’t make the climbing any easier, but as we crested the top and got our first glimpse down onto of the strait we’d just traversed, visibility was still excellent, and the view was as uplifting as the company.

We took photos, consulted our electronic charts for some geographic identification, and enjoyed casual conversation with this spectacular spot all to ourselves. Eventually, with tummies rumbling, we headed back down the the way we came, and stole away to our respective vessels for a hazy orange sunset and a night of pure calm and quiet, save for the Coast Guard vessel’s generator and its pre-dawn departure.

As the sun rose on our second day of travel, we too got an early start. We wanted to make some miles up San Juan Channel before the tide switched. We might have made more if the wind hadn’t trickled in with just enough strength to tempt us into hoisting sail. Up went the canvas, and I enjoyed a morning of singlehanding while Chuck worked below; our third crew, Chuck’s girlfriend Britt, remained asleep in the V-Berth.

I was having a grand time sailing, trading tacks with Tally Ho and Sea Boots. Alas, all too soon, I became aware of the adverse current. We were hardly to Friday Harbor by the time our tacks seemed to be getting us nowhere. The north wind was only in the single digits, but it was still an unpleasant surprise to discover that I kept having to dodge Reid Rock as I navigated back and forth with approximately zero VMG. Begrudgingly, I fired up the diesel, and we were back to making progress, albeit more slowly than if we had chosen efficiency and powered north with the last of the favorable current. We had fun though, and that’s why we do this.

On the way north, the lead boat got a terrific wildlife show on the shores of Spieden Island. Sadly, the other three of us got skunked. We motored on in now windless conditions, crossing Boundary Pass and beelining for Bedwell.

The aforementioned beam-on breeze blowing at the customs dock thankfully spared our group any real drama; but poor, generous Bill found himself assisting another boat that was pinned in on the windward side. This way and that, they tried to spring the boat off to no avail. Eventually the boat behind reversed away, and the beleaguered crew walked the stuck boat back and took off after getting way more than their share of customs dock stress, as well as every last cent’s worth out of their full-keel cruiser’s array of fenders. Before Bill was off with Sea Boots, he witnessed at least one more crosswind inflicted near-catastrophe. Public service announcement… in a heavy northerly, choose the leeward side of the dock when clearing in at Poet’s Cove.

Quaint Medicine Beach provided much of its enduring appeal, but I admit it was busier than I’d ever seen before (maybe I’ve been talking it up too much?). It was still an enticing locale, though the blackberries we’d found there in the past seemed to need a little more heat and sun to achieve the sweetness a forager hopes for. What I remembered as a general store just up the hill is now a coffee shop.

As the afternoon wore on, some of our rally group explored the nearby Pender Canal, where it seems there local kids can be found jumping into the water from the bridge approximately 100% of daylight hours. Eventually, a potluck happy hour in Blackbird’s cockpit brought together some of our pals to close out what had turned out to be a full day of cruising rally fun.

The real highlight of our stay here, however, was the rigorous hike to the top of Mount Norman the next morning. Going ashore at Beaumont Marine Park, we learned that the park is still open to the public for day use, but it is WSÁNEĆ First Nation ancestral territory and no longer open for camping. We were pleased to be allowed to access the walk via its beautiful trails. The steep 600-foot climb taking a little less than 3 miles is just as breathtaking as I remember, figuratively and literally. What awaits at the top is worth every ounce of effort. There, you’ll find an observation deck with 180° views toward Vancouver Island that are among the best anywhere in the islands.

Unlike our marvelous boat-borne miles when we’re primarily communicating with our own crews, traveling on foot—especially when it involves two-parts wayfinding and three-parts heart-throbbing exertion—is a great way to really get to know your new rally friends. I enjoyed long conversations with several of my compatriots, and only some of them were interrupted by huffing and puffing. The smoke was a component of both the hike and the visibility once again, but not problematically so in either dimension. The Mount Norman experience remains one of my cruising ground faves.

We had considered spending a layover day at Medicine Beach, but we opted for new surroundings. Summiting Mount Norman in late morning, we zipped back to the boats to weigh anchor and head for Prevost Island. The day’s travel was uneventful, save for the enormous commercial tanker we thought must have taken a wrong turn up Swanson Channel. We watched, gobsmacked, as it meandered into Active Pass; hoping any recreational boats entering at the same time had their AIS on.

As the week wore on, there was a skosh less agreement between the forecast models, and we weren’t sure we were going to like the protection we’d find in James Bay on the northeast tip of the Prevost. We’d have a look and assess, reassured by the array of options afforded by this special island. Pulling into James, our confidence grew, and it looked like a fine choice for the night.

The group spread out a bit. For all of its appeal, I’d describe James Bay’s degree of difficulty as an anchorage as higher than anticipated. It’s quite deep in the middle, and the easily anchorable depths around its edges can leave you quite close to the rocks. Soon, though, we were all set and comfortable with our environs.

Again, we headed for shore. This time, I dragged the group into a rousing round of my favorite (perhaps the world’s greatest?) lawn game, Kubb. We played among the trees of the old orchard that, under normal circumstances offer ample draw on their own. I can’t recall whose idea it was, but we wound up divided into a battle of the sexes contest. The ladies won, going away. As the game concluded, we briefly explored the orchard, before heading back to our respective vessels to soak in another summer sunset and collapse into our bunks after yet another rally day that seemed to hold at least a weekend’s worth of memorable activity.

On the rally’s penultimate morning, we were southbound early, with an ambitious Plan A of making it down to the Lopez Pass area in the southern San Juans, with a happy fallback of Shaw Island’s Blind Bay. There was the added variable that we’d have to deviate if anyone got called to the dock clearing back into the states. Motoring south near the entrance to Navy Channel between North Pender and Mayne Island the shout of “Orcas!” echoed above the droning diesel. We all quickly cut our engines and kept eyes peeled, sure enough, they crossed our path a ways ahead, disappearing from sight near Helen Point on the way to Active Pass.

We continued on, feeling fortunate to have marked that always-thrilling box on the rally bingo card. Little did we know, it was just a teaser. Leaving Plumper Sound and steaming into Boundary Pass, the group split. Blackbird and Sea Boots needed fuel and turned southwest to stop at Roche Harbor, while Windmist and Tally Ho sailed a more direct course towards our destination. We were far enough away that, when the VHF crackled to life, it was an imperfect signal. But again and again, they called, shrieks of delight and awe coming over the radio. “Are you seeing this? Are they over by you? Wow, they’re breaching!” Our envy was balanced by the happiness that our rally pals were having a once-in-a-lifetime orca show.

With progress gladly slowed by these multiple whale interactions, the dream of Destination A slipped away. As we cruised back into the friendly confines of the San Juans, the writing was on the wall and Blind Bay would be home for the night. We tucked way in on the southwest portion, and soon met for ice cream at Shaw General Store.

As it always does, the end of this special shared experience could be felt before it was actually here. We were happy to linger ashore, knowing that it was the last time we’d all be together in one place before setting course for our respective home ports. It had been a pretty perfect week with an ideal group of fellow sailors. There were wonderful connections made, ideas and knowledge shared, and confidences exchanged—David and Rachel flew Tally Ho’s spinnaker for the first time ever, for example.

As the light splashed golden across Blind Bay, a few of us enjoyed a saltwater dip, and I snuck away to Tally Ho where Bill, Rachel, David, and I stayed in the cockpit until we were too cold and worn out to stay out (or awake) any longer.

Rising on the final morning, I prepared my belongings and soon stowed away with the friendly and hospitable Windmist crew, the only boat headed straight back to Port Townsend. I enjoyed the day of travel on a different boat, with that welcoming multigenerational crew. We careened into a fog bank through Lopez Pass and skirted the worst of it heading south down Rosario Strait. Entering the big water of Juan de Fuca, we found the sea state a little less accommodating than on the first day—the queasifying combination of lighter breeze and bigger swell. Still, we managed to sail for a while where the wind compressed at Partridge Point.

Soon, Windmist was into her slip and, with handshakes and hugs, another wonderful 48° North Cruising Rally was in the books. A special thank you to Chuck and Ullman Sails Pacific Northwest for continuing to partner with us on this worthwhile event. And my heartfelt gratitude to my fellow rally goers in 2026. It was a goodie, and I can’t wait to get back out there again next year!

Joe Cline has been the Managing Editor of 48° North since 2014. He lives with his wife and two beautiful children in Edmonds, Washington.