Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Pendrell Sound and Isabel Bay

Cruising British Columbia Volume VI: Pendrell Sound and Isabel Bay The spectacular mountainous inlet that almost cuts East Redonda Island in two is also very deep. The peaks jut up from the smooth water leaving little or no shallow areas to catch an anchor. Nearly at its head is a bight behind a small island where a good-sized lagoon can be entered by kayak or dinghy on high tide. Predictably, it's called Lagoon Cove, and it's a place known for its oyster culture. When we got close to the cove, we drove parallel to the shore, very close in. The depths were still 80 to 100 feet at low tide! There was one other boat, shore-tied to the rocky slope under the trees. We put the anchor into 72 feet with a long loop to shore. Just off our starboard ama, very large schools of fish circled in a 100-plus hole. The other sailboat's crew returned to their boat and departed. We thought we'd have the place to ourselves! It was so quiet and stunningly lovely, we sat back to enjoy the peace. Darzee transported us into the lagoon where an old wooden barge languished, trees growing out of its deck. The entrance was piled with large net bags of oyster shells. We wondered what these were for. A sign hidden by branches partially read, "Oyster storage ---- Do not walk below 8-foot tide line." There was a well-trodden path, utilized by those who walked into the lagoon when the tide was out. As we enjoyed our afternoon coffee at the settee, a flotilla of boats was zeroing in the cove. Led by a diminutive cabin cruiser, there was a Nordic Tug and three sailboats. We should have videotaped their anchoring antics! The first mate on the cruiser called out the depths as the captain dropped chain straight down. He got out to tie a too-short line to shore. We knew he was in only seven feet of water over the "beach" and that the tide would be dropping eleven. Captain went down to assist the Nordic Tug, which was backing in and out between his anchor and shoreline– so vigorously that we were sure his crew hanging onto the shoreline was getting rope burns! Clark even rowed over to advise the first mate of the tide. They stayed put even so, pulling in some chain to correct his position. Peevishly, we looked forward to the entertainment provided when they discovered themselves aground. The biggest sailboat, a Fisher 37 pilothouse, anchored and the other two sailboats tied along each side, facing the opposite direction. All boats were travelling together, of course, and they called back and forth to one another, collected forbidden oysters, went swimming, and zoomed around in their dinghies. Our peace and quiet was short-lived. Another large sailboat arrived, a lovely green-hulled sloop, from the same marina as the others, but they were strangers. This boat dropped anchor mid-cove in very deep water. A lot of chain clattered over the bow! Then he rowed the longest shoreline we've seen to the island, pretty much taking up all the remaining space. Shortly after sunrise, we went out in Darzee to have a look at the oyster shell bags. We learned that the flotilla would be leaving and were grateful when only the sloop and Rikki-tikki remained. Clark put on his drysuit and snorkeled under our stern to replace the FrigoBoat keel cooler zincs, which had prematurely disintegrated. The water was sixty-six degrees! A little scrubbing of Rikki's burgeoning beard of algae was also in order. That evening, the golden light of sunset caught the peaks across the inlet for a moment, then faded away. We lazed around the next morning, leaving for Isabel Bay after lunch. Slowly motoring there, enjoying the scenery and calm seas, we entered Malaspina Inlet to wind on the nose and followed a classic wooden boat through. We were hoping Isabel would be uncrowded. Isabel Bay holds fond memories for me. My family visited here on my grandparent's boat, Serendipity, forty-odd years ago. We were the only boat then and, now, we also were one. I begged my grandfather to take me salmon fishing out in the dinghy, which he reluctantly did. He threw his trout net into the boat, sure I wouldn't catch anything. Soon after we rounded the island out of view, a big one took off with my lure! I shrieked and hollered, which caused concern to those left aboard. I muscled that salmon back to the boat, having tightened the drag on my borrowed reel. It was too big for the trout net, so Grandpa flipped the fish sideways over the gunwale, using it like a pancake-turner. Whew! I was so excited. We BBQ'd salmon over a fire on the little rocky island, though it wasn't the one I caught, but rather one that offered itself to us. Dad and Grandpa were shooting at paper plates with a 22 rifle (you could do that back then!) and it just came to the surface, stunned. We enjoyed mine, which measured 22-inches, a day later at another memorable anchorage– the best BBQ'd salmon I'll ever taste!

1 comment:

Jabbertrack said...

Hi Ken!
So nice to know you've found our blog and are enjoying the adventures. Great to hear from you! We may not feel bold but we suppose it takes a bit of moxie to just sail out into the ocean with only a minimum of practice and an unproven boat. Rikki-tikki proved to be quite capable... and we learn something new every day.
Take care,
Nina & Clark
s/v Rikki-tikki-tavi

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