Leaving Port Townsend, we found ourselves “running with the
ebb” (i.e. the current was pushing us from behind and/or Otter and his bladder
were willing us forward), motoring through Admiralty Inlet at a Ferrari-like 10.5-11.5
knots. Unfortunately, once we turned into Rosario Strait, the tide turned and
we found ourselves bucking the current at a Kia-ish 5 knots. Otter looked at
us, we looked at Otter, we motioned to the Tinkle Turf, Otter clamped his knees
a little tighter. Apparently an iron will goes hand-in-hand with an iron
bladder.
But soon Cap Sante Marina in Anacortes came into view and we
began our careful approach…our VERY careful approach as the marina is nestled
in and amongst very shallow shoals mined with very big, very sharp rocks, with
a big hill looming over it all. There is a narrow passage marked on both sides
by pilings bearing “Warning, here be Monster Rocks” signs or they may have been
pictures depicting boats running aground as large boulders fall on top of them (I
was too scared to look). Once through the narrow entrance, we were instructed
to make an immediate, sharp right turn toward the fuel dock followed by an
immediate, sharp left turn toward our slip. Nothing the Captain couldn’t
handle, but even he wasn’t expecting the everything goes, yakity-sax chaos that
awaited round that first turn: oblivious Thurston Howells backing their
powerboats out into oncoming traffic, dinghies zipping in between the boats
like high-strung fruit flies, and the yacht cutting us off as it was leaving
the fuel dock with a dazed man at the helm who had the look of someone that just
spent the equivalent of Bolivia’s GDP to fill up his tanks. Plus the annual
Anacortes Waterfront Festival was in full swing adding loud music and the
heavenly aroma of deep-fried fair food to the mix.
On the one hand, it’s overwhelming; but on the other, all potential
onlookers were preoccupied and didn’t witness my less-than-stellar line handling
on the dock in which I attempted to physically pull the boat forward using the
bow line at which time the Captain reminded me that the engine does have the ability
to go “forward”.
With Raven safely tied off, Otter was harnessed up and
allowed off the boat. Aaaand he’s off! Going into the first turn it’s Otter in the
lead followed closely by the Captain’s arm socket. The First Mate and a poop
bag round out the top four. Deck Boss is still in the gate. They’re keeping a
furious pace down the straightaway, up the ramp, through the crowds, and onto
the green. Coming into the home stretch, Otter has pulled away from the field. He’s
frantically going from bush to bush. And at the wire, it’s Otter for the win,
the Captain in second, poop bag in third, and First Mate bringing up the rear.
Deck Boss is still in the gate.
You’ve got to get up
to get down (time). The nice thing about complete chaos is that it
(generally) doesn’t last and the time that follows is all the more precious
simply by virtue of its nothing-is-happeningness. And so we spent a couple of
days in Anacortes provisioning, taking care of some personal business, wandering
the historic district, talking with other boaters in the marina, and being
generally chill. It’s when life slows down that the world opens up, and you
really start to think about things. I witnessed this firsthand when I saw the
Captain gazing upon Raven after washing her hull. His eyes lovingly looked her
over from stern to bow, eventually coming to rest on the Tinkle Turf—that little
three by four patch of pristine Astroturf—and I heard him sigh, “I should have
brought my putter.”
Pictured: The Captain at the dock in Anacortes—contemplating his short game
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