Day 16 of the 1st Voyage: In which the Deck Boss declares war on Canada

Today marked a milestone: Raven is now in her first foreign port. It sounds exotic, but the reality is that when you live in the Pacific Northwest, British Columbia isn’t that much of a stretch. In our lubber days, the Captain and I ventured into Canada frequently and aside from the metric system, the currency, and the poutine, you’re really hard pressed to notice a difference. (What’s poutine? Pure, artery-busting goodness with a side of fries.) But Canada is indeed a foreign country with a border and everything so we were required to clear customs in a designated port of entry, which in our case was Bedwell Harbor. Located in the Poet’s Cove Marina, customs consisted of a short dock with a small house at the end. Regulations state that aside from tying off the boat, all passengers must stay on board until it has been cleared by Canada Border Services. Only the skipper is allowed off the boat. And so while we waited behind, the Captain headed off to the office with the snappy-looking folder I had prepared with passports, vessel documentation, notice of insurance, pet vaccination certificates, firearms registrations, etc. (In this instance, snappy-looking is plain purple. The Captain vetoed my first choice of a smart-looking flower motif). After about 15 minutes, I was starting to get a little worried. Are they going to allow the animals in? Is there a problem with the shotgun (you know, to scare off bears) permit? Are they questioning why three people need two cases of wine, three cases of Heineken, and a well-stocked minibar? After a while the Captain came hurrying back, “Where are the eggs from?!” “Costco,” I said helpfully. “No—as in where were they laid?” A quick look determined they were farm-fresh Washington eggs. “They may have to be forfeited, along with the chicken in the freezer.” Yikes! “Is the bacon safe?” I asked. “Yes, I think so.” “Thank, God!”

Unfortunately, the potential poultry confiscation did not sit well with the Deck Boss who immediately had a cow (which is okay, because beef is now permitted into Canada) and decided that any country that’s going to take away your eggs and frozen chicken breasts is not a place that she wants to be. We reminded her that, until recently, Canadians were not allowed to bring beef into the U.S. because of Mad Cow Disease, and that if they want to protect themselves against Bird Flu that’s their prerogative and besides, what does it matter as long as the bacon is safe? But once the Deck Boss gets on the hate train, it’s a long ride to the next station. So while the Captain went back up to customs to report on the chicken, the Deck Boss continued to rant against any regime that would deny an individual an egg salad sandwich and then proceeded to contemplate ways to bypass Canada altogether which, when your destination is Alaska, is nigh impossible. We’d basically have to take a sharp left over to Japan and then jog back up, and if she thinks Canadian customs is bad, Japan would most likely confiscate the bacon and THAT would be something to get upset about.

With customs cleared—and the eggs and frozen chicken breasts deposited into an “environmental safeguard” disposal bin—we found a slip in guest moorage and headed up to register. We were a sour trio: a Deck Boss with a grudge and an overwhelming craving for an omelet, a First Mate stuck in the middle of a border dispute and another dock with no effing cleats, and a Captain who was about ready to “turn this boat around”. But at the top of the marina was a very pleasant pub, and in the end there are few things that can’t be made better with a Bloody Mary and a shot of Jameson. Even the Deck Boss conceded that this part of Canada—and Poet’s Cove in particular—was quite lovely. And so we agreed to continue northward with the understanding that not everything will be like “home”, not every dock will have cleats, and it’s very likely that countries will have regulations that we don’t agree with but must respect. However, as part of the agreement, we will not be buying any Canadian eggs.  

Editor’s Note: Although Bedwell Harbor is a designated port of entry, it is so small that there are no personnel at the customs house—only a row of telephones. So all customs procedures are conducted with a border agent over the phone. The Captain told me later that the border agent he spoke with was one of the nicest he’s ever encountered—and quite funny, too. He asked the Captain if we could be trusted to dispose of all of our eggs and chicken or would he need to send an agent around. When the Captain assured him that we would be in full compliance, the border agent said, “Good! Because this is his day off. He’d be pissed!”