With the emotional
Hawaii send-off astern, we resolutely beat north against 25 knots of
NE trades. Aunt Abby's tropical bouquet, still lashed to the bow, met
green water regularly for three days and the flowers gradually eroded
away to a few desultory nubs.
 |
| Sunrise at sea |
As we neared the
edge of the tropics, the North Pacific weather situation remained
unfavorable. The semi-permanent high-pressure area responsible for
the prevalent NW wind in California was unusually and stubbornly
camped way out on the dateline, leaving
Orca with a poor
choice between headwinds and calms. On the fifth night, as expected,
we coasted into a brick wall: 600 nautical miles without a breath of
wind.
Orca floated
perfectly still surrounded by the absolute silence of outer space;
the stars, planets, milky way, and moon indistinguishably reflected
by the ocean's invisible surface. Sweeping raindrops occasionally
brought reprieve by disturbing the microorganisms at the water's
surface to lead a pulsing wave of phosphorescence over the ocean.
The ocean became mirror calm, without even the ubiquitous
long-period swell. The horizon disappeared into the sky and even
standing became difficult, balance tricky.
Drifting with a now-familiar cluster of plastic flotsam, we baked in the day's heat
and reveled in the night's magnificence for a week. Finally, a
fitful breeze riffled the water's surface from the NW. The sails
filled, barely, and we crept forward shadowed by curious Minke
whales. Passing Oregon's latitude at 1,100 miles offshore and free
from coastal upwelling, we stood night watch in shorts, and then a
tee-shirt. Crossing 50N, the temperature plunged and the air became
cold, hard, as clear and brittle as crystal. If anything, the stars
blazed brighter. Closing the Alaskan coast, an undulating curtain of
eerie green light rose in the north until dawn revealed the towering
glaciated mountains, volcanoes, and endless tree-lined fjords of
Baranof Island. We puttered into Sitka Sound in a dead calm,
appropriate to a 27 day passage in light winds and calms.
If South Africa
was the wildest place we've been from a socioeconomic standpoint,
Alaska has been the wildest in the true sense of the word. Sitka,
little more than an outpost of 8,000 people clinging the edge of an
island 70 miles off the mainland coast, is the ex-capital of the
state and the fourth largest 'city' in the Nation's largest state.
One can walk across it in 15 minutes.
This isolation
results in a rare breed of people, reminiscent of the New Zealander.
In the village south of Sitka, seven houses were broken into by
grizzly bears in a single night last week. We asked why people
didn't board up their windows and the response was "its easier
to replace the window than the whole wall." Last month, the
start of deer season was no secret. Headless carcasses hung from the
rigging of boats in the harbor, dripping and swaying as they were
efficiently disassembled. With such a low population density, the
hunting rules are generous to the point of being ludicrous: in some
areas, ten wolves per day--unless in self defense. Californians will
have trouble imagining a scenario in which its necessary or even
possible to survive an attack by more than ten wolves, but it's
something Alaskan law takes in stride.
 |
| Getting Cold |
 |
| Salmon in the river |
The season is
changing rapidly. The last salmon carcasses have rotted to skeletons
and the bald eagles are restless. Every ten days another hour of
daylight is lost and the nights grow cold. The rain has turned to
sleet and hail as the snow creeps ever further down the mountains.
This morning there was a thin layer of ice on the water around
Orca
and at high noon, the puddles stayed frozen. People are buttoning up
and the town is pulling together for mutual support through winter's
cold and darkness. Every night, it seems, a new community event
debuts featuring scalding coffee, brightly defiant lights, thick
hearty stew, a roaring cedar fire, banjos, bagpipes, Tlingit drums,
knitting for the old and dancing for the young. And through it all,
at a much deeper psychological level, Kara and I are still wondering
just what, exactly, we've gotten ourselves into.
 |
| Snowy Gavan Hill View |
The ocean became mirror calm, without even the ubiquitous
long-period swell. The horizon disappeared into the sky and even
standing became difficult, balance tricky. 
Drifting with a now-familiar cluster of plastic flotsam, we baked in the day's heat
and reveled in the night's magnificence for a week. Finally, a
fitful breeze riffled the water's surface from the NW. The sails
filled, barely, and we crept forward shadowed by curious Minke
whales. Passing Oregon's latitude at 1,100 miles offshore and free
from coastal upwelling, we stood night watch in shorts, and then a
tee-shirt. Crossing 50N, the temperature plunged and the air became
cold, hard, as clear and brittle as crystal. If anything, the stars
blazed brighter. Closing the Alaskan coast, an undulating curtain of
eerie green light rose in the north until dawn revealed the towering
glaciated mountains, volcanoes, and endless tree-lined fjords of
Baranof Island. We puttered into Sitka Sound in a dead calm,
appropriate to a 27 day passage in light winds and calms.
If South Africa
was the wildest place we've been from a socioeconomic standpoint,
Alaska has been the wildest in the true sense of the word. Sitka,
little more than an outpost of 8,000 people clinging the edge of an
island 70 miles off the mainland coast, is the ex-capital of the
state and the fourth largest 'city' in the Nation's largest state.
One can walk across it in 15 minutes.
The season is
changing rapidly. The last salmon carcasses have rotted to skeletons
and the bald eagles are restless. Every ten days another hour of
daylight is lost and the nights grow cold. The rain has turned to
sleet and hail as the snow creeps ever further down the mountains.
This morning there was a thin layer of ice on the water around Orca
and at high noon, the puddles stayed frozen. People are buttoning up
and the town is pulling together for mutual support through winter's
cold and darkness. Every night, it seems, a new community event
debuts featuring scalding coffee, brightly defiant lights, thick
hearty stew, a roaring cedar fire, banjos, bagpipes, Tlingit drums,
knitting for the old and dancing for the young. And through it all,
at a much deeper psychological level, Kara and I are still wondering
just what, exactly, we've gotten ourselves into.
