The Raven Odyssey: Day 56-57 of the 1st Voyage: In which we finally cross the border and respectfully ask Canada to kiss our red, white, and blue butts.

In the middle of Haro Strait, sometime around noon, we crossed the invisible border between Canada and the United States. I don’t think anyone was too upset. The last few days notwithstanding, Canada has not been too kind to us—they took our eggs, rammed our boat, chased us down in their ferries, nearly burned us out of house and home, accused us of importing bombs, and then had the gall to charge $18 for a 6-pack of Heineken. Editor’s Note: I wish I was making that up. Liquor prices in Canada are exorbitant unless you buy domestic, in which case it’s just highway robbery—which is how we came to drink Lucky Lager beer for a month (it’s called Lucky because if you drink six of them, you might be lucky enough to get a buzz.) And yes, I realize that our opinion of the country is wildly skewed due our involuntary residency in Campbell River. But as the Captain noted, “Had we WANTED to spend a month there, it would have only been half as bad as it actually was.”

To be fair though, parts of British Columbia are breathtakingly beautiful and the smaller harbors we visited were well worth the effort. We met some great people, had some nice dinners al fresco along the fences of assorted pubs and bistros, and found 32 different products with “poutine flavoring”. And if I were to rate our Canadian experience based solely on the past few days, I would give it an “Eh” minus, but with CRBC bringing down the whole grade, it’ll have to settle for a “C” you in some other lifetime.

Pictured: Two BC Ferries conferring as to which one will drown us in its wake

Pictured: The winner

Someplace Old. Someplace New.

We cleared US customs in Roche Harbor—a feat remarkable for two reasons. The first being that we executed arguably our best docking ever. The customs dock is at the entrance to the marina directly adjacent to the seaplane dock—so our flawless docking was witnessed not only by the other boaters clearing customs, but by the people hanging out on their too-big-to-fit-in-the-inner-marina yachts and the twenty-odd people waiting for the seaplanes. For once it completely, 100% looked like we knew what we were doing (and by “we” I mean “I”) and the fact that the boat that came in next to us hit the piling head on just made the victory that much sweeter. The second reason this was remarkable? Of all the boats at the customs dock, ours was the only one not searched. The Deck Boss took credit for that—as she said, “Once they saw there was an 80-year old on board, they probably figured we couldn’t get into too much trouble.” Umm, yeah. They don’t know us very well. Especially since one of the hot ticket items of the day was Cuban cigars—despite current events, still technically not legal—as witnessed by all the confiscated boxes piled high in the customs office. The Captain told me as much later that evening as he puffed away on a cubano.

Once cleared through customs, and not wanting to tarnish our record of 1 perfect docking in a row, we opted to anchor out in the harbor—which went quite smoothly. We then ~~threw~~ persuasively positioned Otter in the dinghy and lowered it down—which could have gone better, but at least he did end up on the water and not in it. We sped Otter to shore to let him do his business—which went quickly. We sped back to the boat to get us, the dinghy, and Otter back on board before it started raining—which was unsuccessful. We got me off the dinghy, but couldn’t get the motor off so that the dinghy could be raised—which was ill-timed because at this point it was practically monsooning. We finally got the motor off, got the dinghy hooked up, got the Captain off, then hoisted the dinghy back up with Otter in it—which was wet, weighty, tedious, and wet. When we got inside, we told Otter that we hoped he appreciated his trip to shore because that would be his one and only. He responded by shaking the water off himself and drenching the cat.

The next morning we set out for Rosario Resort on Orcas Island—our only “destination” of sorts in that we had to make a slight detour to get there, but had heard that it was a great place to stop over. And it really was. The resort is anchored around a turn-of-the-century mansion commissioned by a shipbuilder, and his personal involvement is evident. Let’s just say that as other visitors were oohing and aahing over the stained glass and the massive pipe organ, the Captain and I were marveling over the intricate teak closets with their many drawers and compartments. When you live on a boat, space—especially storage space—is at a premium. You have to make the most out of what you have—hence storing the extra dog and cat food in the bilge—and you have to get creative (who else but a boater would have a pantry that doubles as a bar, a hardware store, and an electrical box.) So to see a closet built with so many cubbies and drawers and pullouts that you could store the contents of a Macy’s behind one door was just awe-inspiring.

The marina itself was small—just 36 slips—but well-managed and with lots of amenities (moorage came with passes to the three pools and the spa). A pub was just at the top of the gangway where we sat outside WITH the D.O.G., drank beer, ate pizza, and slew yellow jackets with an electrified tennis racket that shocked the little bastards out of the air (I gotta get me one of those!) All in all, a great place to spend a day and night. But unfortunately my daily eff up affected one of the staff. When we were docking, I threw the stern line to the dock attendant and smacked him full in the face. I saw him an hour later still rubbing his forehead. I feel kind of bad about that.