On a late June morning, Johnstone Strait was a mill pond. Bathwater calm. Sipping coffee, it was a perfect moment to reflect on previous trips through this same stretch of notoriously unforgiving water. My first taste was 46 years ago aboard a leaky wooden Dragon Class sailboat. We had charts, a compass, and a lead line. No electronics at all. It was my first trip to Ketchikan and the Strait handed us the most uncomfortable hours of the summer. Our little 7hp outboard was up out of the water or nearly under water as the boat heaved up and down. Trees on the shore stayed frustratingly stationary for hours as we battled large waves with little forward progress. Limping into Kelsey Bay on Vancouver Island, everything down below was a sodden mess. The only charitable thing about Kelsey Bay was the warm welcome and homemade wine we received from a family aboard another small sailboat. They had been through the same thing the previous day.
That trip set the hook for many more passages up north, and would later spark my interest in the Race to Alaska (R2AK). Forty years after that 1978 trip, I was back in the same spot during the 2018 R2AK with Team Wild Card on our Santa Cruz 27. We had just inadvertently donated our 5 gallon latrine bucket to the depths of Johnstone Strait during “a flush” and ducked into Kelsey Bay to hunt for a replacement. We found one, and after 20 minutes or so headed back into the Strait, only to be hit hard by a sudden wind increase later that night. The wind went from near zero to well over 30 knots astonishingly fast—just a couple of minutes separated our large #3 headsail trying to grab a little wind to that same sail laying the boat over, totally overpowered, with seas building. A night of hard sailing followed and in the wee hours we found ourselves temporarily in the lead of that year’s race. It was exhilarating.
My last trip up Johnstone was in 2022, again as part of R2AK, this time with Team Fashionably Late on a Dash 34. It was another night of hard sailing and avoiding logs, but on that trip I had brought a high powered flashlight and found myself riding the bow in the pitch black, narrow beam pointed forward looking for big logs. Logs that had taken out much of the competition already. A sailboat going 6 knots covers about 10 feet per second and the light casted a beam roughly 30 feet long, which gave us 3 seconds to identify the log, yell a course correction, and make a change. Only 3 seconds between spotting the risk and avoiding it. A trimaran or catamaran going twice the speed would have half the time. We thumped our share of logs, but other than the heart stopping noise, no damage. There was plenty of debris that night, but during the time I rode the bow there was only one in our path that could have caused damage and, in that instance, 3 seconds was enough to miss it.
Bringing myself back to the present moment, on this morning in 2024 we had been greeted by a school of Pacific white-sided dolphins as we rounded Chatham Point. Leigh, my first mate (as well as my Admiral) hadn’t seen dolphins playing with the boat before and stood on the bow spellbound by the interaction of boat, human, and dolphin. Between the dolphins and the calm waters, it was a good omen.
Trip planning had begun early this year, shortly after an early February pig roast on Sucia Island. Leigh had one of those chats on the dock with a tenured cruiser who spoke of the Broughtons in reverent tones. When she returned to the boat she said, “What would it take to get to the Broughtons?” The die was cast for the summer voyage aboard our newly repowered sailboat, Cambria.
Cambria is a Stan Huntingford designed Maple Leaf 42 with an enclosed center cockpit and comfortable accommodations, making it an ideal cruiser for long days. With her new Yanmar diesel, thanks to Gordy and crew at Bellingham Marine Repair, she is, in many ways, a new boat. Not bad for a 1983 vintage. The repower was transformative. As a buddy aptly put it, “It’s like a heart transplant for your boat.”
With the repower, along with two years of refurbishing and refreshing the boat, we were ready to head out on a longer cruise, and the destination had been decided. My role was to execute the cruise.
Given my past experiences going north up the eastside of Vancouver Island, once the general route was agreed upon, it was more about preparation than planning. Planning, in my view, assumes far more control than I have. I can’t control the weather or the attitude at the time or interesting things that may happen along the way. Weather gets a huge vote each day on how far to go. Impromptu social events also can alter the schedule. I can plan for currents, but for the most part we make game day decisions after discussing pros and cons. Mutinies are much less likely when the crew has solid input.
Preparation encompasses a wide scope of things, but over the years I’ve tried to ensure the boat is always ready to go. A friend uses the word ‘reset’ at the end of a cruise— resetting the boat for the next outing. Armed with charts and cruising guides, as well as Starlink, heading out with no reservations and no detailed agenda is part of how we cruise.
The arc of the trip was to put in long days in the beginning to get us through Seymour Narrows, up the always memorable Johnstone Strait, before relaxing a bit in the Broughtons. Then we’d return via Dent Rapids, spend a little time in Desolation Sound and head back to Anacortes. We used a planning chart of Vancouver Island with bits of tape and Post It notes to visualize the trip.
As it turned out, our planned three day hop to the Broughtons was elongated to four. Anacortes to Ganges (via Bedwell Harbour), then Ganges to Nanaimo, Nanaimo to Campbell River, and finally Campbell River through Seymour Narrows to Lagoon Cove.
We had high southerly winds approaching Campbell River and the Cape Mudge area was lumpy. Waves built but a large splashing just off the starboard bow caught our attention. A humpback whale was standing on its head, flukes high above the water, then pounding the waves sending up spray in spectacular fashion. Docking at Campbell River wasn’t much fun but no gel coat was harmed and we had a great meal at the head of the dock at the Riptide Pub.
After transiting Seymour Narrows in engineless craft during R2AK, my fear of Seymour has waned. Respect remains and even with a freshly repowered sailboat I took care to hit slack tide appropriately. The last time I went through was in 2022 with Team Fashionably Late, and the R2AK film crew took pictures of us sailing sideways through whirlpools to whooping and cheers from the cockpit.
This time, we transited at first light with no drama. One tip when transiting Seymour Narrows is to tune into VHF channel 71. Vessel Traffic is monitored on that channel and it’s interesting listening as the larger commercial craft receive instructions for safe passage through the Narrows from Victoria Vessel Traffic Services. As a recreational boater, I figure my job is to stay clear of the commercial guys, but also to confirm intent on Channel 13 if necessary.
Lagoon Cove was charming as usual. Some old friends of ours, Tom and Tessa, had been up there for a few days and joined us on the dock. The happy hour tradition continued and I coaxed a story out of Tom, a commercial fisherman in his youth, about the time he helped cut a young humpback whale out of a fishing net. After several decades that story gets a little better each time. It was also here, where reminders of R2AK lingered. Just a week or so earlier, Team Boogie Barge, still in the R2AK hunt, had their discussion to continue the race or not, according to the owners of Lagoon Cove. They did not, which was unfortunate because their progress was fun to follow.
From Lagoon Cove we meandered through the Broughtons, occasionally rafting up with friends. This was the last week of June, so rain and some wind dominated the days. While expected, we had hoped for better weather, but with diesel heat and an enclosed cockpit, Cambria was designed for this. We were warm, dry, and comfortable. R2AK had set a low bar for comfort on a Santa Cruz 27 and Dash 34, so having heat, a flush toilet, a dry bunk, and plenty of time for sleep made for an enjoyable experience, even if the weather wasn’t great.
The next few days were spent in the company of Tom and Tessa who have a 68-foot Tollycraft. We prawned, crabbed, and ate very well over the course of several days. We also spent time musing on the difference between the powerboat style of cruising versus the sailboat style. Cambria doesn’t have a generator. My buddy has two, along with a dishwasher and laundry facilities. Our galley sink serves both those functions and we use a close line hung in the engine room. But, we’re both out there, which is all that matters.
The Broughtons are magical. Remote and sparsely populated, the islands are abundant in wildlife and some amenities can be found when needed. After 10 wonderful days, the time had come to pull the ripcord and head south again. We used Lagoon Cove as our final departure point, filling the dinghy with fuel and as we departed, we tucked a reef in the main in the calm of the cove knowing we were headed for more spirited winds in Johnstone Strait.
We then had one of those great days of sailing, especially with everything easily managed from the enclosed cockpit. With the current, we routinely hit 9 and sometimes 10 knots with the jib only partially deployed and, at one point, we were slowly overtaken by a pod of killer whales. In my experience, it was about as close to a perfect day as you’re doing to get on Johnstone Strait.
Towards the end of the day we bailed out of the Strait and headed up Blind Channel to incredibly scenic Shoal Bay. What a wonderful place. We scored a spot on the dock and enjoyed the stunning views up Philips Arm. Deciding to put in a lay day, we did the ‘gold mine hike’ and, once we found the right trail, we made it to the mine for a fun bit of exploring.
As often happens, a dock party organically formed and powerboating Canadians mingled with sailors from the U.S. Appetizers were shared and stories swapped. The world shrank by just a little bit on that night. After two days, we woke early to catch the slack at Dent Rapids. We just so happened to transit with the trimaran Hullabaloo, who had finished third in this year’s R2AK. On the VHF I offered my condolences on third place in a race that only has two prizes—$10,000 nailed to a log for first place and an elegant set of steak knives for second. After finishing R2AK in third place twice, I could commiserate.
From Dent, we made the transition to Desolation Sound. With warmer water, more boats, and a less remote feel, it was almost civilized. We met up with friends Bruce and Carol on their Nauticat 44 and after a couple of days of eating, relaxing, and reminiscing, it was time to move on; Leigh and I both felt that the trip should probably come to an end. The garden needed to be tended, we both have aging parents that needed our attention, and the gravitational pull of ‘home’ was stronger than the pull of ‘north’.
We left Squirrel Cove at first light and had a long, but comfortable day of motoring down Malaspina Strait, then crossing the Strait of Georgia to Silva Bay. The timing of the currents dissuaded us from taking Trincomali Channel on the final stretch home, so we stayed outside and by midafternoon we were tied up at our slip in Anacortes. We reset the boat, and headed home.
This type of trip isn’t for everyone. We covered nearly 600 miles in three weeks. The R2AK experience helped me think about cruising in a different way. It’s possible to both ‘race’ to a remote spot, then relax and ‘cruise’ the area. Long harder days followed by easy shorter days—or days of simply going nowhere.
The Northwest can be a cruisers paradise—more remote areas in the summer, closer destinations in the winter. Even with an increasing population and so many ‘guidebooks’ and internet advice, you can find quiet coves and anchorages, if you are willing to poke around a bit.
Next year we may do things completely different and spend more time but cover fewer miles. One thing is for sure, we live in an ideal region of the world for cruising while also having a home, and even having the ability to join an amazing adventure race like R2AK in the same waters. In the Northwest, you truly can have your cake and eat it, too.
Mark Aberle is a longtime Pacific Northwest cruiser, racer, rower, and paddler. He spent his childhood summers in the San Juan Islands, where he developed a deep appreciation and love of the islands and the Inside Passage. A recovering liveaboard, he tries to spend as much time on Cambria as life’s competing demands allow.
