“Dare to be lucky,” one of my friends always says whenever I consider a risky adventure on the water. Ever the cautious planner, I was hesitant to charter a Grand Banks 42 for a cruise to Desolation Sound in British Columbia in late spring.
“That’s not a good time to go,” another friend warned. “Last May was windy and nasty. Locals will tell you that summer up there starts on July 5.”
My husband, Frank, and I took the leap anyway. And we were lucky: May 2023 was one of the driest and mildest on record in the area.
We set out from Bellingham Bay on Seahome with our friend Alan Newell on a cloudless, breezy morning. It was what I call a “diamond day,” with the sun sparkling on the water.
Each of us took a turn at the helm as we bounced through the whitecaps, getting to know the boat.
As sailors, we found the salon, galley, staterooms, flybridge and stowage to be spacious—palatial, even. We had been able to bring an assortment of items typically restricted on our own smaller vessels, including a library of cruising guides, foulies in just about every size and color, a guitar and mandolin, and even my favorite serving spoon. On that first day, we sat at the helm station, gazing ahead at the forested hills and sandstone cliffs of the San Juan Islands, contemplating three comfortable weeks aboard.
“Well, this does not suck,” I said.
In the afternoon, we piloted Seahome into an empty dock at Henry Island in the San Juans, our first stop. While we expected to encounter few boats on our spring journey, the three of us were stunned to find this typically boisterous, thriving spot to be deserted.
Our first task was to create a makeshift flagstaff for our yacht-club burgee. Alan carved a piece of wood that slid neatly into Seahome’s bow fitting, and added his initials. It became a cherished symbol of our trip, signifying our resourcefulness as we ventured into the wild of the north.
A few hours later, another trawler approached. It was a Grand Banks 36, arriving early for an annual rendezvous in nearby Roche Harbor. We soon fell into the comfortable chatter of boaters at the dock, comparing vessels and exchanging cruising stories. It turned out that this couple from Olympia, Wash., had purchased Voyageur in 2007 for the build quality and two staterooms with separate heads. The husband had cruised in British Columbia many summers. “Desolation Sound is very crowded in August,” he said, making us feel as though we had our timing just right.
The next morning, we pointed Seahome north, clearing customs at Bedwell Harbour before heading to the town of Ladysmith and the Dunsmuir Islands. Our bow thruster helped us glide to the empty dock, where we spent a quiet evening planning the next day’s journey across the Strait of Georgia, an arm of the Salish Sea running between Vancouver Island the mainland.
Most cruisers have at least one story about this often-volatile passage. I have endured so many rough rides and close calls in the strait in so many different boats that I was beginning to take it personally. But our Grand Banks 42 crossed on a windless day in water so eerily flat that it felt like we were floating above the water, especially from the flybridge. The only other vessels we encountered were distant freighters and the occasional ferry.
After an evening in Garden Bay (again, as the lone boat at the dock), we were ready to enter Desolation Sound.
“Wow—just wow,” I said, awestruck as the first peaks, still dotted with snow in early May, came into view.
“Desolation Sound has that effect on people,” Alan said from the helm.
It was easy to see why these cruising grounds are so popular. In a region known for spectacular scenery, Desolation Sound stands out, with multiple fjords cutting deep through jagged mountains that plunge straight down to the shoreline.
Our first night, we anchored alone at Melanie Cove in the provincial marine park. Frank and I explored thick stands of cedar, fir and madrone trees from the dinghy, searching the shoreline for signs of early portages and historical cabins. This is the traditional territory of the Tla’amin, Klahoose and Homalco First Nations, who have paddled their cedar canoes in these waters for centuries.
Back on board Seahome, we brought our guitar and mandolin on deck, assuming that our playing and singing would not disturb anyone. A pair of great blue herons drifted over us, squawking in protest. They did not break the spell, nor did the arrival of another Grand Banks on our second night. “We prefer Melanie Cove before all the boats get here,” the couple informed us.
A few days later, we resumed our voyage north. Teakerne Arm, with its thunderous waterfall dropping straight into the sea, was an easy stop. We were able to view nature’s majesty up close, maneuvering straight into the spray. And we could not resist visiting the store at Refuge Cove, on the southern tip of West Redonda Island. Reached by a wooden gangplank and surrounded by structures sagging with moss, the store has an early waterfront vibe that leaves customers wondering what year it is. We selected a few dusty bottles of wine from last year’s inventory.
“Dammit! Please slow down,” the sign instructed as we approached the entrance to Cortes Bay, our final destination. The gentle blues and greens of Cortes Island, along with the noticeable quiet, lulled us into a slow rhythm. Our days were spent clamming and oystering while shorebirds picked their way along the rocky beach and orcas surfaced in the distance. Back at the dock, otters glided past, watching Frank and Alan shuck the oysters.
When it was time to return to Bellingham Bay, we realized that we had not opened many of our books or even unpacked our foul-weather gear. Tales of our idyllic journey sparked interest among family members back home.
“Let’s go to Desolation Sound together,” Frank’s sister Pat
suggested, hoping to check out anchorages for a future cruise on the Nordic Tug 42 that she and her husband, Steve, own. Frank and I arranged to escort them in August, reserving a beach cabin on Cortes island and outfitting their Takacat tender with an electric motor for exploring.
We discovered a different world in peak season. The BC ferry refused to accept our car because the Takacat that we had strapped to the roof measured shorter than I’d anticipated. The woman at the entry booth advised us to add height with pool noodles from a nearby big-box store.
Never one to take a pool noodle seriously, but with the next available ferry slot several days away, I asked, “Is this a prank?” She assured me it was not, so we fastened the dinghy’s oars to the roof in a vertical X position. And with our oars protruding skyward, we were allowed to drive aboard.
Our dock at Cortes Bay was nearly unrecognizable, with boats rafted in all directions. The water was a maze of activity from seaplanes, trawlers, sailboats, fishing boats, canoes, kayaks and paddle boards. We saw someone attempting to row what looked like a toy raft. Frank was able to gather clams and oysters, but the harvest areas were more restricted in August, owing to larger competition for fewer shellfish.
We did not see as much wildlife, unless you counted parties at the dock. Playing music was different, too. When Steve brought out his trumpet, an international group of onlookers urged him to perform “O Canada.” Every evening, we puttered around the bay in the dinghy while Steve gave a trumpet concert for a cheering audience of boaters, anchored and at the dock. People took photos of us. One woman hollered her approval as she shot a video from the deck of her boat.
It was hard to imagine that this was the same place we had visited just a few months earlier. We learned that there are at least two Desolation Sounds, and both come with advantages. We left thinking there is no bad time for cruising north.
This article was originally published in the July/August 2024 issue.
