The Broken Group Part 1

It was Saturday, August 24, and we were headed to the largest anchorage in the Broken Group, known as Joe's Bay, with the aim of doing some local exploring in the dinghy. The first thing I noticed about the islands in the area is that they all leaned backwards, even the ones further in. The trees grow away from the force of the usual wind so all the islands look like they are accelerating out to the open ocean. As we left the Pinkerton Islands the fog was lifting and it got lighter as we went further. We were ready for some time without rain, the Pinkertons had been generally torrential and we hadn't even got off the boat in the dinghy.
The other thing I noticed is how close together all these little islands, islets, and reefs actually are. Barkley Sound is only 13 miles across, and the Broken Group occupies only half of it, so we generally spent more time getting organized, unanchoring, reanchoring and getting ourselves sorted out than we spent actually getting anywhere. 

We didn't have to wait long for the fog to lift, by the time we had settled at anchor the sky was blue and the sun shone again. The bay is home to two of the largest kayak camps in Barkley Sound, so there is a constant flow of kayaks coming and going. Many use the island as a base and do day-trips to the surrounding islands, returning to their camps each night.

At low tide you could see the reef that cuts the bay in half, leaving a small cut in the middle for transit. We went around a few of the local islands in the dinghy, being very careful because the swell from the open ocean penetrates quite far into the sound. The islands reminded us a lot of the Gulf Islands, mostly low and small, but there was a lot more wildness to these ones.

"Red sky at night, sailor delight, red sky at morn, sailor be warned". I don't shoot a lot of sunrises, I'm lazy for starters and the sunrises on the west coast are generally shrouded in fog. However, this one was definitely red, so we paid attention. We had stayed in that corner of the bay for a couple of days, enjoying the good weather, but the weather forecast was turning sour, and there was a major blow predicted for the coast, winds southeast to 45 knots in our area, 55 knots further north. We thought that the other side of the bay would be more protected and the predicted wind put us on a lee shore where we were currently, so we upped anchor on the 25th and moved to the southeast corner, where we would be protected by the tall trees.

For a while, it seemed that everything was working according to plan. The rain overnight was plentiful and hard, and the wind whistled through the rigging. As the wind built, however, it started curling around the southeast corner in vigorous blasts, driving us further back on the anchor and swinging us closer to shore.
I was maintaining anchor watch using our GPS, and when the swing suddenly moved back substantially, I decided that I didn't want to risk dragging onto the pile of rocks that was looming closer, so we moved to the middle of the bay and reanchored.

I was trying to lash the kayak down on the foredeck when the wind suddenly caught it and it was held in the air horizontally beside the boat, with me hanging on grimly. I finally managed to get it down into the water and it rode happily next to the dinghy behind the boat, both getting ever fuller with rainwater. It was much windier out there but I could put out a lot more anchor line and felt much more secure knowing I could drag for hundreds of feet without hitting anything. As it turned out, this anchor set did not move an inch and we rode the storm out without further mishap. We felt much luckier than the kayakers; one little boy riding in the front seat of a double, with his oilskin-clad father paddling, said "Wouldn't you like a boat that size, Dad?" Dad, tired, dirty, bearded and dripping wet, gazed wistfully up at our boat, and answered "that sure would be nice". It sure was.

We had spent more time in Joe's Bay than we had intended due to getting storm-ready, the holding tank was full and we had to get out to deep water to pump it out, and we were getting tired of looking at the same landscape, so on Tuesday Aug. 27 we took advantage of a relatively rain-free break and set out for Jaques-Jarvis Lagoon. Although it was only three miles away we managed to double that by exploring some of the surrounding islands on the way. Jaques-Jarvis Lagoon is noted for its difficult entrance, so of course we had to go there. The guide books stated we should go in an hour before high tide with the sun behind us. We were there three hours before high tide with fog and a ripple on the water. With a charted depth of three feet at low tide, squeezed in by a reef from one side and a rock on the other, the entry was taken very slowly and carefully, with a bow lookout. We managed a good line in with a minimum depth of 10 feet under our 6'6" draft keel and a couple of feet to spare on each side.

One of the writers commenting on the lagoon uses the word "primeval", and it certainly was. There was total silence but for the gurgle of a waterfall hidden in the trees, the water was glassy calm, and the foliage in the overcast light looked incredibly green, like someone had doubled the saturation. We took advantage of the momentary lack of rain to do a dinghy survey of our watery kingdom, since of course we were alone again. It was one of those places where you couldn't imagine putting a noisy engine on the dinghy; it was almost sacreligious to make noise from water dripping from the oars.

It had been a week since we left Ucluelet. We had emptied our reserve 5 gallons of water into the tanks, we had a couple of slices of bread and a couple of cups of milk left, so our time in the lagoon was unfortunately limited. Our night there was punctuated by bursts of heavy rain, but thankfully no strong wind could penetrate. The forecast was for more rain and wind, so a dry period on Wednesday morning gave us enough of a window to get organized to move. Getting out of the lagoon was made even trickier than the entry because we were nowhere near high tide. With less than seven feet of water, we followed our incoming line exactly and had no problems, but we were moving as slowly as I could manage. The underwater rocks were clearly visible on my side, just feet away. We made a resolution to come back here, we need to see this place again, preferably in sunlight.
Our run back to Ucluelet yesterday was very wet and foggy, but we had phoned ahead (cell phone coverage at last!) and Kevin and his staff were waiting on the dock for us. We got exactly the same space we had left a week earlier, so we tied up and set about drying out. We had foulie jackets and pants hanging all over the boat, we had damp charts taped up in the salon, and we had a lot of just plain wet everywhere. Lunch at the Floathouse Restaurant was a wonderful thing, as were the hot showers later. We went shopping at the Co-op and marveled at all the things on the shelves, but we were focused. Anne came up with a great idea: we took Ziploc freezer bags with us, bought our meats for the next week, divided them up and put them in the freezer bags on the spot, and handed them over to the butcher, who was happy to freeze them for us overnight.
It's Thursday, it's howling wind and pouring rain out there, and we are staying another night on the dock in good ol' Ucluelet. We picked up our frozen meats and a bunch of other supplies but tonight we're going to get all dressed up and go out for dinner. Unfortunately, dressing up in foul-weather gear and staggering down the slick dock to the Floathouse is going to be as good as it gets.

We won't be dining outside this time...stylin' in Ukee

 

Barkley Sound

It started out well enough. Magnus and Ronel had bid adieu on their way to Turtle Island and parts south, and cast off early. We had a few things to finish off, so we left a few hours later. We had a good run up the northwest side of Barkley sound, again motorsailing with the wind dead aft, heading for the fabled Lucky Creek. Of course, they were there already. We checked out the anchoring options and decided to share their space behind Refuge Island.

It was a pretty spot, and well sheltered. They had trouble setting their anchor in the shallower water due to a lot of rock, so had anchored in about 55 feet, but we got a good bite at 30 feet and settled in. We were sitting down for our sundowner when we saw them going for a run in their dinghy, then slow down and eventually stop, rowing quietly.

They had a black bear on the beach. We were a long way away, but we tracked them with camera and binoculars. The bear wandered the beach for a long time before disappearing into the brush, and Magnus and Ronel finally started the motor and came back to the anchorage. They were gobsmacked, they were so close for so long. (Ironically, the next morning a large tourist boat came around looking for the bear. We felt like specimens ourselves in our sailboats as the tourists, many German, waved and smiled as they went past). After congratulating them on their bear-sighting coup, we arranged to share their dinghy on the run up Lucky Creek the next day since it was much faster than our rubber ducky.

In a way, it was a bad choice of destinations at that time, since we had just showered the day before and didn't really need to bathe again so soon, but we really had no idea what we were in for when we made the trip up Lucky Creek the next day. It is only accessible close to high tide because the creek essentially dries at low water, so we had a few shallower spots to avoid with three hours to go before high.It is very interesting boating up small creeks and rivers, you never know what you may find.

As we approached the falls, we saw that there were a couple of people there ahead of us, and they were not wearing anything that could be called clothing. They dressed before we got there, which was fortunate, not that I'm being judgemental at all. We saw that they had left their dinghy at the bottom of the cliff, and did the same, crawling up like a bunch of alpinists. To get to the upper pools we had to strip down to swimsuits and stroke through the cold water to the next spot. It was at this point that Anne discovered the trail to the easy landing below the falls that didn't require swimming.

The water was what Magnus would describe as "refreshing" and what I would describe as "freezing". We all got totally wet, but some were happier with it than others. I liked the parts where we sat on the rocks in the sun with our feet in the water.

Ronel was almost as suspicious of cold water as I was, but was a little braver. She waded in, I had to dive. She swam to the rock shelf and climbed up gracefully, I came up like a chimpanzee dropped into the Arctic Ocean, gibbering and clutching for a foothold on the slippery rocks. For the last four feet I was skittering above the surface like a giant waterbug.

We whiled away the afternoon there, enjoying the sunshine and clean water. It has been described like a Disneyesque creation, a perfect little waterfall. It's true.

Magnus and Ronel climbed back down the cliff to the dinghy, then came and picked us up at the base of the "easy" way in. I thought it was easier, it had a larger knotted rope than the one going up the rock face, but Anne wasn't convinced. I liked it because I couldn't see anything hard at the bottom to land on.

The next morning, they set sail for the Outer Islands in the Broken Group, and we refused to tell them where we were going. Just in case.


(Just kidding. It never hurts to have a doctor in the next boat, even if he wants nothing to do with head injuries incurred while climbing. I wasn't ready to injure myself in his specialty, so we were at a stalemate). 

 We were actually going to the Pinkertons, a small archipelago of islands and reefs just north of the Broken Group, which is a national park. The Pinkertons are private, so there are things like fish farms in some of the best coves, and homes lining the shore in some places. Despite the status of the area, the charting is not all it could be, and we require a lot of guidance in the form of guidebooks. The chart to the left is a prime example of "local knowledge". The red arrow shows a rock in the middle of the channel.

That little dot on the left side of the channel in the photograph is that rock that spans that entire channel on the chart. This appears in none of the guidebooks we have, but seems important, at least to me. Strangely enough, this chart is about as high a resolution as you get for anything on the west coast of the island. Most of it is considerably lower resolution, so we spend a lot of time going slowly and staring at the depth sounder, looking hopeful.

The Pinkertons were damp. No, actually, the Pinkertons were monsoon-like. Anne said there were fountains of rain coming down inside the boat beside the mast. I wouldn't know, I sleep best in a storm.

After a couple of days of staring at rain and fog, we decided to go somewhere else and look at some different rain and fog. Off to Joe's Bay!

Buddy Boats

         

We were definitely closer to civilization, we were seeing sailboats constantly now instead of one every day or so, and a couple passed us, headed in to Bacchante, on our way out of the area on Friday, August 17. One of them was familiar, we had shared Bottleneck Cove with them during the worst of the deluge. It looked a little different now without the Great Blue Heron perched on his anemometer vane. I was surprised that the vane had survived at all.

Since Losloper had followed us out of Bacchante Bay, we were curious to see where they would go next. Since losing track of Pacific Wanderer we hadn’t seen any boats with regularity, but now we would wave back at boats we recognized from previous anchorages or fuel docks. Sure enough, they followed us all the way to Ahousat.

 They went further, into the anchorage, while we stopped at the Ahousat General Store for much-needed water and supplies. I tasted the water to make sure it was decent, then filled the tanks. More on this later...
 The store had decent stock and the prices were fair. At least half the store was stacked floor to ceiling with boxes of marine parts: oil and gas filters, nuts and bolts, plus all sorts of faded and shopworn odds and ends. A remarkable number of the odds and ends were priced at $60.20 for some reason, despite being worth anywhere from half to twice that amount.

We had lunch with the Losloper crew, Magnus and Ronel, who had come to the dock to fill their solar shower. The restaurant owner had decided to open even though it was Saturday, so we were in luck. Right next to the store, they served excellent fish and chips and pie with ice cream. Fresh seafood has been difficult to find, strangely enough. Everybody just catches their own, and since I don’t fish, Anne has to depend on the generosity of strangers.

After lunch, we anchored next to Losloper at the head of Matilda Inlet, where Anne went exploring in the kayak, and where we spent a rainy night. On the morning of August 18, it looked good enough to move to Quait Bay, where we hoped to find a famed “floating garden” called Fireweed, structure made from found materials, painted magenta and green. The Losloper crew had the same idea, so we followed them out of Matilda Inlet, but not without first doing a tour of the bay. 

The Atleo Greeter

Shawn Atleo, Grand Chief of the Assembly of First Nations of Canada, has a house on a small island in Matilda Inlet, with a magnificent greeting figure.

The Indian village of Marktosis, quite large by village standards, occupies the bay across from Ahousat, and their greeter is even bigger. Everyone we met along this path had lived up to  this tradition. It was reassuring to find ourselves so welcomed everywhere we went.

The fog cleared away quite early on our trip, so we were in bright sunshine within an hour or so. As we came in sight of Quait Bay, however, the exhaust noise from the engine changed abruptly. Unfortunately, I knew that noise all too well, and shut the motor off before the overheat alarm sounded. No cooling water was coming out. I expected to see some weed in the intake water strainer, or even a fish. We had already had two separate incidents involving fish getting stuck in the water intake before this adventure. When I took off the front of the engine cover, I found a tattered belt from the raw water pump lying in the bilge. The water was fortunately flat calm, with zero wind. It was a perfect day for a mishap like this. I requested Losloper to maintain radio watch in case we had any issues, since there was a reef nearby, and they turned around and came back to stand by until we fixed the problem. I had to remove the alternator belt to put a replacement belt on the raw water pump, so I replaced that with a new one also. Twenty minutes after we turned the engine off, we were under way again, with Losloper following just in case.

Losloper at the entrance to Quait Bay

We of course anchored at opposite ends of the bay. In our case, we wanted to hide one of Quait Bay’s peculiarities, a floating luxury lodge, currently closed. The caretaker lives on her boat at the dock. The last report we saw prior to the closure was that the dinner menu started at $100, so we could understand a certain lack of business from the locals.

We spent part of the day looking for the floating garden, but neither of our two search teams found it. They found what was possibly the framework of something like that, but that was it. Things move and disappear out here, frequently without warning.

After another rainy night, we saw Losloper pulling up anchor early, in a light mist. They wanted to get to Ucluelet that day, and from Quait Bay it was a bit of a trek. We were just going to Tofino,  about ten miles, so we hung around for a couple of hours and waited for the boat to dry off a bit. By the time we got our anchor up the sun had broken through the clouds and it was well on its way to being a beautiful day. We got to Tofino at 12 noon and went to the fuel dock to top up our diesel and fill the propane tank. The motion was ridiculous. With no breakwater, the constant flow of float planes and whale-watching boats blasting by at full speed left the water in a roiling mess. With the noise, I couldn’t tell how much diesel we needed. Usually I listen for the change of tone as the diesel fills the tank and starts to fill the hose to the deck fill. I didn’t want to spill a lot of diesel into the water so I picked a safe number of liters and went with that. We ended up with 3/4 of a tank. I wanted to look through the marine store there, in particular I wanted a spare raw water pump belt, but we couldn’t stay on the fuel dock for the search. We decided to go to the Fourth Street Dock, the largest and probably the only one with room, then walk back.

Well, we called the wharfinger on VHF radio, we called them on the phone, and there was no answer. The area on the docks marked for recreational use was filled with fishboats and decaying sailboats missing masts and other important bits. After a futile fifteen minutes of trying to raise some response I made an executive decision, and we headed out to sea, bound for Ucluelet. With all the noise and motion we wouldn’t have been happy at those docks in any case. We had heard from other cruisers that Tofino wasn’t cruiser-friendly and our experience bore that out.

We passed Lennard Island on the way, dodging crab trap buoys all the way out. The water is shallow around here so we were in 40 to 60 feet for a long time. We thought the buoys would disappear as we got further out, but we were wrong. We dodged them all the way to Ucluelet.

We got the sails up and drawing as we passed Lennard, but soon ran out of wind and motorsailed with the main up to give us some stability. The seas were reported as three to six feet, with a two-foot chop on top of that. It was lumpy. With six knots of wind off the starboard quarter, the boat rolled like a drunken pig and the mainsail emptied and filled with a big bang on each roll. I was concerned that our main wasn’t going to last for another three hours of this, so we took it down and rolled out the genoa instead. It gave us some stability and added a bit to our speed, especially since the wind filled in from abeam about five minutes after the main came down. So we rolled and pitched down the coast, seeing what we could through binoculars. Because the water is so shallow and there are many rocks extending from the coast, we kept about three miles out in 100 feet of water. Long Beach is very long. One of the peculiarities of the whole west coast of the island is that because there are so many things to hit close to shore you have to stay well out so you really don’t see a lot of the coast close-up, especially in fog.

Amphitrite Light

As we closed in on Amphitrite Light, at the entrance to Barkley Sound, the seas got even lumpier and more random. The joys of shallow water with reefs strewn through it at random.
The instructions for entering Ucluelet Inlet involve starting at whistle buoy Y42 and heading directly for bell buoy Y43. “Whistle buoy” is a bit of misnomer, that buoy sounds like moans from Hell.

I thought I saw a bit of a spout off to starboard as we did the run to Y42, then suddenly a humpback whale surfaced right off the bow, traveling almost on a reciprocal course to ours. I grabbed my camera and held the shutter button down for continuous shooting as the whale surfaced twice more before diving. That was a huge kick.

SALTS ships in Ucluelet Inlet

Ucluelet Inlet is long and shallow, the buoyed path to the public docks snakes past Spring Cove and Port Albion before you get to Ucluelet proper. We had phoned ahead and they made room for us at the dock and two uniformed dockhands were there to help us in. That was good, we were in a spot just long enough for us, although with enough extra room to tie the dinghy sideways across the stern. Getting in involved heading straight for the middle of the space then turning hard right as the bow swept the dock, simultaneously putting the boat into reverse to suck the stern in. We got it first try, which was good since missing it would have involved backing off into a mud bank. The harbour has been dredged, but only for another 50 feet or so beyond our dock. This means that most of the outgoing and returning charter fishboat fleet goes right past our boat. The Canadian Princess boat drivers in particular, handling 40-foot powerboats, only have two speeds, on and off. One had to do a panic stop/start from ten knots right beside our boat when another large boat showed at the entrance; he missed crushing our starboard side by four inches and sent waves crashing into the side of our boat. That would have shortened our holiday on the spot.

Civilization, more or less.

After showering, we had pizza for lunch yesterday, the first pizza for months. It was excellent. We also got to do some shopping in the relatively huge Co-op store. Fresh lettuce! Apples, oranges, exotic fruit like nectarines that we hadn’t seen since we left Victoria. Unfrozen meat! They delivered our groceries, wine, and Anne to the dock for $3.50. I got to walk because there were only two seats in the van. I spent a lot of time pumping out the water we had loaded in Ahousat; it wasn't bad, it was just a weird yellow colour. After emptying the tanks, I half-filled them, then pumped out and rinsed the water heater. Two hours later, we had tanks full of water which didn't look like a lab sample.

Our refrigerator is full, which is good because it’s going to be a long time until we can get more. There aren’t any stores in the Broken Group in Barkley Sound, which is our next destination. Later today, after more shopping and topping up with diesel for real, we are off to Lucky Creek in Pipestem Inlet as a starting point, and we will see where destiny takes us after that. We have given ourselves enough time to enjoy what is reportedly the best part of the west coast. Our next report will probably come from Bamfield as we get ready for the final 80-mile sprint down Juan de Fuca Strait to Sooke.

This is something I have been working on for years: water totems. Early in the morning or late in the day the light is more sculptural and the water is flat and mirror-like. Every once in a while one of the images I capture works as nature's Rorschach. You can make up your own story about this one. 

Play Misty For Me

Our sojourn up Tahsis Inlet was remarkable, not only for a total lack of fog, but more importantly, good showers at Westview Marina…as long as you wanted to lounge in the (nice, clean, hot) shower for $3. Now that’s luxury. While the boat is set up for full shower facilities, our showers on the boat are limited by the amount of fresh water we can carry, and with up to a week between fills and a total capacity of about 60 gallons, there is just enough for the necessities, which means sponge baths for the crew. We’re clean, but we’re not ecstatic about it.

The landscape on the way back down Tahsis Inlet was unusual, probably because of its volcanic past. Rounded, bulbous mountains and rock outcrops are very different from the jagged peaks of the mainland and from the eroded sandstone we’re used to in the Gulf Islands. One of our regrets is that we didn’t think to bring the reference library we need to really understand the landforms that we are passing through. Who knew we needed books on geology? We thought we had it pretty well covered with guides to birds, fish, plants, astronomy, and things you might find washed up on the beach.

We spent the night of the 10^th in a nice little spot called Bodega Cove, tucked in between Nootka Island and Bodega Island. Very protected in all winds, we had our choice of places to anchor, since we were alone there, as usual. Also as usual, we had a view of what used to be verdant hillsides until most of the trees were taken away. It is truly astonishing to see the extent of the logging all the way around the island and down the coast. The logging companies are not being kind to our planet. Hillside after hillside taken down to rock and dirt, stream after stream choked with logging debris, cove after cove full of broken logging equipment  left to rot and rust, in and out of the water.

Nootka Light

The plan was to stay in Bodega Cove for a night, then visit Friendly Cove the next day and overnight in Bligh Cove, on Bligh Island (Yes, that Bligh. He was one of Vancouver’s officers at the time, before the famous mutiny). As usual, our plans changed. The forecast was good, the reports from Estevan Point were not bad, and when we got close to the mouth of Nootka Sound we saw no fog, so we headed out. It was a little lumpy on the water, and got lumpier as we approached Estevan Point.

The only negative was that we were mid-tide, so there was a conflux of currents and wave trains at Estevan, which resulted in 6-foot seas coming at strange angles. Estevan was a little foggy as we approached, and we couldn’t see the top of the light but as we rounded the point we could see it all. This lighthouse, the tallest on the west coast, was shelled by a Japanese submarine during WW II. We were glad they missed.

From Estevan Point, we headed across the mouth of Hesquiat Harbour to Hot Springs Cove. It was a relatively short trip, but the fog we ran into on the way across hid the land from view. Anne remarked that our chart for that leg was “sad”. I had to agree. It looked pretty bleak. We couldn't see land on the chart or in real life.

We arrived at Hot Springs Cove just before 4 in the afternoon and set the anchor with a couple of other boats in a cove just off the public dock. The dock was hopping with activity, float planes zooming in and out, and tourists in six or more fast boats from Tofino, plus three sailboats. We discovered we were on the landing path of one of the float planes that ran in every hour. That was entertaining.

Then, at 6 PM, all the tourists left. All the sailboats, ours included, disgorged crew and we all hiked the path to the hot springs. It’s further than it looks, and even though the entire path is boardwalk, it took considerable time to make the trek. We changed into swimsuits in the hut at the springs, then proceeded to the springs themselves.

Having viewed dozens of people at a time heading out on the path, we expected something a little…bigger. It was nice that it hadn’t been totally redone in concrete and tile, but we were taken a little aback by the need to crawl over and around large, sharp rocks to get to the springs. It is supposedly a lot different at high tide, when the sea spills into the various pools, creating several different levels of heat, but at low tide there is no sea coming in and the three pools, fed by a steaming waterfall, were all very hot. The first pool was too close to scalding to sit in, it hurt to walk through it, so our party of eight filled the rest of the pools. That was it - we filled all the available space. I have no idea where they deploy all the people from the planes and tour boats, unless they just stand and look, or they have to take five-minute turns. We spent an hour parboiling in the pools, and then trekked back to the dock in a light shower, almost unnoticeable in the forest. We rowed the dinghy back to the mothership in a bit more rain, dried off again, and cooked dinner. It was 10 PM by the time we ate, but at least we were clean and warm, if a bit sniffy from the sulphur in the hot springs water.

It was tempting to go for another round in the springs the next morning, but we decided against it and raised anchor at noon on Monday, the 12^th.

It was only a short run to Bottleneck Cove, so we were anchored again by just after 2 PM. This gave us a chance to try out the cockpit canopy we had built, and it worked well to keep us out of the hot sun. We were alone for a few hours until a 60-plus-foot sportsfishing boat came in and anchored at the far end of the cove. Thankfully, he had a quiet generator and turned it off for the night. Some powerboaters feel the need to run their generators non-stop at anchor, presumably to power their large flat-screen TV’s. Why spend all that time and money getting somewhere so you can sit around and watch TV? Beats me.

They left early the next morning, and we had the cove to ourselves all day, so we explored by dinghy and kayak, lounged in and out of the sun, and watched eagles. There was wind forecast for overnight and the next day, so we took down the canopy. It works well, but is a little susceptible to wind in its current configuration, is awkward to set and take down, and makes the boat look like a refugee from a covered wagon train. The night brought rain and gusty winds, and the next day was mainly torrential. Every once in a while another sailboat would show up, anchor, and the crew would disappear into the warm dry interior. We were four in Bottleneck Cove by that evening.

The entry to Bottleneck Cove. It seems to be about a foot wider than the boat when you are in it. 

Two of us, a singlehander in a smaller sailboat, and ourselves, left on Thursday morning, when the rain finally stopped. We had planned to go to Bacchante Bay on Wednesday, but the downpour stymied that. It was good to have a non-travelling day in any case.
Again, two hours saw us in a new anchorage, one that many people said was their favourite in the area. As usual, we were alone.

Bacchante Bay is large, with several good spots to anchor, and we ended up close to a small waterfall we could hear splashing in the trees. An exploratory row in the dinghy revealed three small trickles coming out of the woods into the bay, and we tucked that away as a possible supply of fresh water.

Overnight revealed an even better source of fresh water, as the rainfall was very heavy. We had put up our other “wind/rain tarp cover” setup to keep at least some of the cockpit dry, and we were glad of it. We were also running a little thin on drinking water, so the rainfall gave us fresh water for two days, collected in a variety of containers set up to catch the tarp runoff. Our little trickle waterfall of the day before was now a gushing torrent, and a new waterfall had sprung up on the sheer cliff face above the cove, hidden and revealed as the fog rolled past. Another boat from Bottlneck Cove had come in and were on the other side of the bay. We envied their full cockpit enclosure.

The rain finally stopped pounding down, so we took the opportunity to raise the anchor and head off in a light mist for civilization, in the form of Ahousat, in Matilda Inlet. The other boat, Losloper, was right behind us as we left the bay. It was good to be on the move again after the enforced idleness of the rainforest experience.