Day 55 of the 1st Voyage: In which we have an unexpectedly uneventful journey.

Nothing can turn an adventure into an ordeal faster than the weather, and we knew we were in for some rainy days. We had planned the extra day in Snug Cove specifically because the forecast called for a 100% chance of rain—and rain it did. But with only a 70% chance of rain today—and no thunderstorms—we decided it was time to break out the foulies and get a little wet. Besides, the rain would be the least of our worries. Today we would be crossing back over the Strait of Georgia where the waves and wind would be hitting us broadside, making it difficult to stay on course. And then we would have to navigate Porlier Pass—a tricky rock-strewn passage that separates Galiano and Valdez islands. And then—to top it all off—we were planning on anchoring for the night (a.k.a. Exhibit 1 in divorce court). We steeled ourselves for the challenges that surely lay ahead, and I proactively got all my eff-ups out of the way early by losing a fender as we were leaving the slip (special thanks to the guy the next dock over for jumping in his dinghy and retrieving/returning said fender.)

That being said, I’m happy to report that nothing went according to plan. The weather called for a 70% chance of rain—it was more like 70% chance of getting sunburn. The Strait of Georgia was rolly but not rough, and the winds never got over 10 knots. The Captain and I worked together to navigate Porlier Pass and didn’t even see any rocks let alone hit them. And when we reached Montague Harbor, we achieved what is arguably our best anchoring attempt yet. Follow that with a steak on the grill, a cold beer in hand, and a yellow jacket. Not a fashion choice, a loathsome pest.

Canada has been rife with yellow jackets this summer. The mild winter must have caused a population explosion and I’m pretty sure they’re exclusively targeting bars and boats. On the occasions when we go out to a pub or restaurant, we have to sit outside because of the D-O-G. Actually, to be 100% correct, we have to sit outside next to a fence with the D-O-G on the other side. You see, Canadian health codes mandate that dogs cannot be IN an establishment that serves food—even if that IN is outside. So a lot of pubs, bars, and restaurants have low, open fences around their patios so that Fido can be technically OUT while his owners are IN. There are so many dog owners in Canada hugging the fences that if you looked at a heat map of any given restaurant district, it’d have crop circles. Editor’s Note: There are a few people who sit in the middle—they’re called smokers. Apparently it’s okay to have a side of second-hand smoke with your entrée, but not an errant fur.

But back to the yellow jackets. Every restaurant, every pub, they are everywhere. Those that know me know that I have a deep-seated fear of wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, and bees a.k.a. all insects of the genus “Flying Stingy Things.” My overreactions are legendary. From climbing over tables to hiding behind the dog, I will do anything to avoid contact. Put a wasp in my personal space and I can do the 100-yard dash in 15 seconds flat—it’d be closer to 9 if I could keep the arm flailing under control. The Captain says they are attracted to me because they can sense fear. He’s only partially right. They don’t have to sense anything, they can see by my face that I’m about ready to sh*t my pants. But I don’t think the Captain appreciates the gravity of the situation. Here’s the deal: if you antagonize a Flying Stingy Thing, it immediately sends out an SOS to its hive mates, and soon thousands of its comrades-in-arms appear in the distance—the strains of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries growing ever louder as they approach. Ugliness ensues and then the next thing you know, you’re a featured item in the “Offbeat” section of the newspaper (a travesty—it should be under “Crime”.)

And now here we are—anchored in a beautiful bay—and I look like I’m in the throes of what the other boaters in the harbor must’ve thought was an epileptic seizure. I just don’t understand it—we are at least 400 yards offshore. It must’ve taken that little bastard three days just to get out here and for what? Is he the Columbus of yellow jackets? Is it his charge to venture out into the unknown and discover a shortcut to the nearest Tim Horton’s? After I composed myself, I had no trouble kicking his little ass overboard. It’d take his comrades a good 72 hours to get here and we’ll be long gone by then.

Editor’s Note: Yes, it’s true I’ve never been bitten and I’ve never been stung. But then I don’t need to be hit in the head with a hammer to know it’s going to be unpleasant.

Pictured: The Captain contemplating Porlier Pass while the Swab contemplates lunchtime

 

 

Pictured: The Captain relaxing while at anchor in Montague Harbor

Not Pictured: First Mate going mano y mano with Flying Stingy Thing