Patos

One crisp past March weekend Adey, Brent, Mark, Jerry and myself set sail Friday evening for Patos, a small island in the San Juan’s. Crossing the Strait of Georgia by way of Point Roberts, the deep calm of this night’s eternal silence was only disturbed by a muffled roar of the iron horse as we cut through the Pacific. The bellow of the beast echoed throughout our crossing due to a lack of nature’s navigator, the wind. Radiant pinholes of light pierced the heavens as a canopy of darkness engulfed the skies overhead like hungry seals on a school of salmon. An attentive crew was beckoned as the lighthouse looming on our port side revealed the closeness of our destination. The spotlight was essential in illumination of the jagged shoreline as we approached the mooring buoy. This was to be our home for the next two days. After another routine setting of the anchor lines, the iron horse was silenced. We had arrived. The bay, almost completely enclosed, is a cozy circa where every sound echoed skyward and a serene tranquility stretched from the smooth surface of the reflecting water straight up into infinity. Wind and waves of the past carved magnificent sandstone caves, which inhabit a shoreline that gently rose from the water’s edge. As placid as a mountain lake, the ocean waters of Patos move constantly with the tides but currents are practically non-existent. We ventured ashore, where a soft grassy field lit only by the moon ascending from the East, was to be the setting for this evening’s nocturnal activities. Years of weathering were overcome in seconds as burning driftwood crackled and glowing embers sailed upward. Stretched-out, I looked to the horizon as mountain swells emerged from a sea of crystal where every stream of moonlight caught your eye. I am sure the globe is littered with astonishing sights and I hope to see them all one day but the West-coast has more to offer than anywhere I have ever been or heard of! Under the stars, I lost my self and drifted away into a peaceful slumber only waking to meander back to our sleeping quarters aboard the “Hot Sauce”. At rest in my bunk, the gentle sway of the ocean had me among the clouds in seconds. The following day was to be nothing less than perfect. A constant trickle of sunlight through the drapes and the sound of Adey’s footsteps on the fore deck awoke me from my dreams. Opening the drapes, I noticed droplets of condensation gathered on the windows and each reflection of Sunlight created a colorful prism. A Rainbow for the senses one might say. With a quick shiver, I stepped outside to take a deep breath. Looking up, eagles perched high above on the worn branches of a withered Arbutus tree called out as if to signal the start of a new day. After the entire crew awoke which I must say took some time…hmmm…Jerry, we set off for the beach. We scoured last night’s site for any refuse then took off in all directions for some alone time. Ever since I was young there has been an attraction to the beach and beach combing for that fact. The thought that something from the other side of the planet could wash up on any beach at any time is like reading a new book. Most of you know how often, or should we say not often enough, I read but I am sure you can see the correlation between the two. There is a whole New World under every rock, in every crevasse and buried deep in the sand that would surprise the most intelligent or simple minds. My enthusiasm compares to that of a twelve-year-old with a shovel and a bucket in hand. Eels slivered, crabs scurried, fish skirted, snails retracted, starfish froze, anemones sprayed, urchins puffed, clams dug, oysters shut, sand-worms burrowed and linchins cling as the story unfolded. Each rock I overturned was the beginning of a new chapter. A distant voice from the shoreline path called out “Hawk”, it was Mark, who for some unknown reason has a metabolic rate of a Hummingbird and requires food frequently to put it mildly. Me, Smack, Batman and 80 could survive on Mr. Noodles for a week but Mark wouldn’t last a day. For some one who is extremely fit and slim he sure does consume a lot. One-day Mother Nature will catch up to him and he will slow down. After a hearty lunch aboard “Hot Sauce” we took to the sea once again. A slight breeze had kicked up and that was reason enough to raise the main. “Hotty” was exultant as the wind propelled us between neighboring islands with no aid from the iron horse. Beer in hand, Sun on our back and Wind in our sails, we soared like the eagles. 8 knots boat speed in 9 knots of wind may not sound like a lot but ask any Sailor and he will smile. I can’t recall more fluid tacks in all my days on Hot Sauce especially in light winds. The main cast a chilling shadow 10-15 degrees lower in temperature than that in the direct sunlight. For that purpose alone most of our tacks were intended for warmth not reason. As the sun set in the west, Mount Washington (on Vancouver Island) radiated hues of orange and violet as if lava had trickled from its peak. Again the night would soon be upon us and one last venture ashore before dinner was in our itinerary. Our destination was an abandoned lighthouse, which bellowed periodically and flashed a friendly glare in your direction as its lantern rotated, right out of an old Maritime fable. In years past US Coast Guard manned this structure, now Eagles, gulls and lonely Raccoons guard the secluded island residence. Strolling through the thick thorn bushes one would stumble across clues from past island dwellers. Like a ghost town, every window was boarded up and every door nailed shut. I of course still tried the rusted old door handle to no avail. Still a kid at heart I guess. The sun had slid behind the distant towering conifers by now and our bellies were eager for the marinated Sirloin kabobs prepared earlier in the day. Two fires lit up the shoreline like signal beacons, one for the Kabobs and a rager for heat & ambiance. Overlooking the San Juan Islands we feasted on a meal fit for royalty. Once again stars filled the celestial canopy above like bubbles in a champagne glass and our last night on Patos was pure heaven. Early Sunday morning we regretfully departed for home and on our return trip we were accompanied by a pod of pilot whales, or at least that is what we first believed them to be. There was a dozen or so cutting through the calms of the pacific along side us and to our surprise they turned out to be portly Sea lions. Never have I seen Sea lions venture this far from the shoreline and even stranger was how they followed in a pack formation. Never a dull moment on “Hot Sauce”, even the return home is full of surprises.
Hawk