Case Inlet is clearly marked on the chart of Puget Sound, but it might as well be a blank spot labeled Terra Incognita. Every time I venture there, sailboats—frankly any kind of boats—are few. Thirty miles from Tacoma and a dozen from Olympia, the inlet is so quiet that I wonder if the tidal gates of the Narrows or Dana Passage form a force field preventing boaters from heading here. Or perhaps the stumbling block lies in its perceived absence of a concrete destination?
True, Case Inlet lacks a prettified town or major marina. Yet it’s full of intimate coves and patches of woods such as the lightly developed McMicken Island State Park and, time after time, I’m grateful for the possibilities that await me there. I never know what I’m going to experience.
With a trailer-based boat and convenient launch ramps at Joemma State Park, Zittel’s Marina, and Grapeview, I have myriad options for exploring this lightly traveled area. Despite many visits over the years, there are still parts that I haven’t yet cruised, including to the village of Allyn at the northern end of the inlet, home to a modest dock and a strip of untouristed shops, notably featuring “world famous” Bubba’s Burgers. Bubba’s one-pound burgers and 16-ounce milkshakes are the fare small boaters yearn for after a long day under sail or oar. But first we have to get there.
This year’s voyage started with a mid-inlet meet-up on the water with three friends. I was last to arrive, having put my catboat in at old-fashioned, laid-back Zittel’s, where I was greeted with light air. Although I was the lone sailor in our group with a motor, I strove not to pull the starter cord, relying instead on my sculling oar and sails.
It was hard to see the sails of my friends on the horizon and to not want to catch up using the engine. But I sculled on towards the expansive horizon, willing their tiny triangles of white to get larger.
Eventually, I reached Tom, a local, whose 30-foot boat moves a bit faster than mine. He beamed as I came astern. “The wind’s been so light. It took me about five hours to get here. Oh, and I saw a whale spout on the way down.”
“A spout?” I was envious. “Like whale, whale? Or more like an orca?”
“No, like whale, whale,” Tom replied and then noted he was heading for home while the tide was still in his favor.
I wanted to believe him, but I was more than a bit surprised. Orcas occasionally travel through here, but larger baleen whales heading this far south seemed unusual and didn’t bode well. If they were here at all, they were often sick or confused. I longed to see the animals but I dreaded to learn why they might be in these waters.
It was late afternoon by the time I sighted Andy. For me, it had been a long day of driving, rigging, launching, and drift sailing. I’d made it a mere seven miles as the crow flies, but I was knackered. When I saw him hauled out on a beach at McMicken Island, I hauled up my centerboard and furled my sails. Running aground, I happily tossed out an anchor and plenty of rode.
It was the bottom of the tidal cycle, and it was fun to watch my anchor get covered with water over the next hour. Meanwhile, Andy and I strolled our way up the beach as the tide crept in. With a ring of trees and a hospitable public shore, the peaceful bay around McMicken always pleases. As the sun dipped lower, we watched occasional boats come and go, eventually calling it an early night.
Come morning, a fresh wind was blowing from the south. While the anchorage was still waking up, Andy and I raised sails, hoisted anchors, and sailed off, with nary a sound but the swishing of water past our hulls. Taking off with a morning breeze always inspires a feeling of freedom and possibility, since a wind in the morning often holds, or even grows, throughout the day.
Our destination was to the northeast—Vaughn Bay. Although I’d sailed through Grapeview just east of it several times, Vaughn had eluded me. In researching it, I’d learned that the sandspit enclosing its mouth was publicly owned. I envisioned a leisurely sail up there, anchoring in sheltered waters behind it, and watching a dazzling sunset from its beach.
A few hours later, after we’d passed the Haley Natural Area and tiny Stretch Island State Park, I approached the mouth of Vaughn Bay. The chart indicated plenty of water for a small boat to sail in, but I tensed as I saw fingers of sand reaching out from the shallows of the spit. I rounded it without hitting bottom; and Andy, who’d lingered behind, followed swiftly inside. We soon reached the head of the bay, which had so many houses and docks that it felt, Andy said, “As though we were in someone’s backyard.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I replied, “and with these clouds scudding in, we’re not going to have much of a sunset.”
“Let’s get out of here!” Andy called.
Briefly, we contemplated making our long-desired visit to Bubba’s Burgers, which was just a few miles distant. But the wind would be stacking waves up in Allyn’s shallows, making this a bumpy, unpleasant ride. Nearby Jarrel Cove State Park would be protected, but would certainly be busy with other boats.
Almost in unison, we agreed on a return to McMicken. The breeze was steady, and we leisurely tacked to and fro. Andy took a course to the east between Heron Island and the Key Peninsula, while I chose the longer, but more open route through the main body of the inlet.
It was then that I saw a distinct puff of vapor at eye level. Was it a whale spout? No, I told myself, that can’t be. Whales never come down here.
I sailed on, but with my modest pace and long tacks, there wasn’t much need to concentrate on driving the boat, so I stared out across the expanse of the inlet. My mind was empty and I was soaking up the silence and hum of the wind. Then I saw the vapor again, and then once more. There was no doubt: that was a spout, and these were whales—big ones.
Black humps began to appear with regularity. Per the law, I didn’t change course to see them, but it also felt respectful to keep my distance. The whales, however, kept showing up, swimming closer and closer, as if sending me a message: “We’re here!”
Long slate-colored humps appeared so frequently that I could study them. I racked my memory of whale backs. What could they be? Certainly not orcas, and a little too dark to be grey whales. When a single white-speckled fluke appeared, I stood up and cheered as if I was at a sporting event. That triggered an image from a cruise in British Columbia; they were humpbacks!
Scientists, my field guide noted, are uncertain if humpbacks use echolocation. I pondered this for a moment. Adults are around 40 feet and 66,000 pounds while a 15 foot juvenile weighs nearly triple the weight of my boat at 3,000 pounds—and here they were, swimming in my midst. A mile away, suburban-style houses hugged the shore; but here, in the wilderness of the water, I was sailing quietly with leviathans.
Bruce Bateau sails and rows traditional boats with a modern twist in Portland, Oregon. His stories and adventures can be found at www.terrapintales.wordpress.com.
