Ode to the Tortilla

I love tortillas.

It wasn't always that way.

I am a child of the early 1960s. Then, on the East Coast, our food was influenced by two things: the post-war 1950s (jiggly Jell-O molds anyone?) and what we call Southern food, the everyday cooking of the South. Black or white, we all ate greens, fried chicken, grits, cornbread, black-eyed peas, and pecan pie. Tortillas did not exist in my world.

Looking back, I am trying to remember how my diet evolved from foods of the South to a diet that frequently features tortillas. In the 1970s, as a teenager, I was aware of corn tortillas mainly because the school cafeteria offered so-called tacos, stale hard U-shaped tortillas filled with ground beef of dubious origin. They were bland and boring, something that I had little desire to eat, but being a ravenous teenager, ate anyway. Then, I had no idea that tortillas were soft.

College added to my culinary vocabulary, but still no tortillas. The college cafeteria did not offer tortillas, as best I can remember, but it did introduce me to bagels and blintzes, foods equally unknown in the Southern food canon. In the latter years of college, when I was cooking for myself, I do not recall tortillas for sale at the A&P. But at a secondhand bookstore, I did run across a used copy of Diana Kennedy's 1972 opus "The Cuisines of Mexico." I devoured it even though I had access to none of the ingredients necessary to replicate her recipes.

Enter grad school. After majoring in French in college, I decided to pursue a degree in computer science. I applied all over the country and ultimately selected Texas A&M because they offered the best financial package. Putting myself through college, I had racked up sizeable debt. By going to A&M, I could just barely squeak by without borrowing any more money, if I lived frugally.

Arriving in College Station, one of the first orders of business was to hit the grocery store, albeit on a razor-thin budget. I walked into an alien landscape: mounds of tomatillos, nopales, dried chiles, cilantro, tortillas, and corn husks for tamales—everything labeled in Spanish. All were items I had just read about in Kennedy's cookbook, but had never experienced. We did not have the internet in those days. I learned by asking questions—constant questions—of anyone who looked like they might teach me something.

I fed myself from the grocery store, gradually learning how to use all those ingredients and consuming big quantities of that essential cheap-eat, the taco, made with the corn tortillas that were for sale at every store.

In exploring the town, I came to notice a steady stream of hispanic workers heading for a particular building, one bearing the sign La Taqueria. Inside, I found a dozen freshly made hand-patted tortillas for a dollar and an abuelita who always ensured that my docena was at least 14 or 15 tortillas. She and I had an unspoken understanding—a dozen tortillas each morning. I was the only white guy in her store every morning and she took care of me as she would one of her own.

Soft, warm tortillas tasting of corn were light years away from the prepackaged store tortillas and even farther from the boxed U-shaped crap my high school tried to get me to eat. Suddenly, I became a full-fledged member of team corn tortilla, eating some fresh and warm for breakfast and the remainder for dinner.

After college, my first wife and I would eat out rarely, for lack of time and resources, and when we did, there was a so-called Mexican restaurant nearby with attractive prices, never mind that it was totally run by non-Mexicans. Here I learned about flour tortillas and found them lackluster. After warm and fresh corn tortillas, everything else seemed wanting.

I find it ironic that a food I had never even seen as a child has become one of the staples of our kitchen. Now in retirement, when I am looking to put a tasty meal on the table without a lot of fuss, tortillas are always on hand. And when I am feeling up to some work, I even make fresh tortillas from the various masas that I have in the pantry.

Here are a few recent meals that remind me just how indispensable corn tortillas have become in our kitchen, despite having been completely unknown to me as a child.

Loaded Quesadilla

Loaded quesadillas are a happy by-product of leftover grilled chicken and baked creamed corn. I topped a quartered corn tortilla and jack cheese quesadilla with creamed corn, sliced grilled chicken, and guacamole. This is much more of a splurge meal calorie-wise than I usually make.

Chef's Tip: The best guacamole is the simplest, made from ripe avocados, lime juice, and salt, mashed gently so that it retains some texture.

Spiced Shrimp Tacos

I coated the shrimp in a spice mix (ancho chile, Chimayo chile, cumin, granulated garlic, Mexican oregano, salt) that I make on the fly, then cook them quickly on the stove top.

Chef's Tip: I love slaw on my tacos for its brightness and crunch. I make it an hour or more before eating, starting by mixing the dressing (apple cider vinegar, salt, and ground chile) in a bowl. Then with a knife, I thinly shred young cabbage and thinly slice a carrot to add to the dressing. I generally chop a little cilantro and mix it in as well. I let it stand on the counter for a while after tossing well, then adjust the seasonings.

Guacamole and Scrambled Egg Tostadas with Salsa Fresca

Here is a dinner that, tostadas aside, takes mere minutes to put on the table. The salsa fresca is chopped grape tomatoes, minced shallots, cilantro, lime juice, and salt. I never intended it to be spicy, but add any kind of spice you like.

Chef's Tip: As much as I would love to deep fry the tostadas, my waist would suffer, so I place them between two sheet trays, to keep them flat, in a moderate oven. I flip and rotate the tortillas after 15 minutes, then once again in 15 more minutes, then every 5 to 7 minutes thereafter until the tostadas are crisp. I make 8 per half sheet tray.

Frijoles Refritos con Totopos; Fresh Corn Salsa

I cook a big pot of beans every week or so. The first night, we eat a bowl of beans with warm tortillas. The second night, I convert the leftovers to refried beans. Sometimes it is fun to cut tortillas into sixths and bake them until they become crispy chips. Chips and dip seems a splurge, but this version is surprisingly healthy. To make refried beans, I finely dice a half onion and cook it briefly in a bit of canola with a finely minced chipotle. Then I add the beans and their cooking liquid, apply my masher to them, and cook until thick. Once thick, I season them with salt. I cook the beans originally with only a little salt; if they had full salt, the refried beans would become too salty after all the liquid evaporates.

Chef's Tip: Raw corn makes a great salsa with mixed with a little tomato, cilantro, chipotle adobo, lime, and salt. If the corn is really mature bordering on too ripe, I will often char it hard in a cast iron pan for a different, if similar, salsa.

Tacos de Tinga de Pollo

Chicken Tinga is so good, so easy, and so much more than the sum of its parts, whether purpose-made or from leftover chicken. I have little use for bland chicken breast, so when I roast a chicken, the breast will be leftover. I shred it and warm it with tomatoes, onions, chipotle, and Mexican oregano until it is dry enough for a taco filling.

Chef's Tip: The best tinga de pollo is purpose made. I brown chicken thighs in a big skillet on both sides before removing the chicken. Then I cook a sliced onion in the pan until limp. I add diced tomatoes and their juice, a minced chipotle, and some Mexican oregano to the pan. I nestle the chicken back into the sauce, cover it, and bake until tender. Then I pull the chicken, let it cool, and shred the meat. The meat goes back into the sauce and reduces until thick, yielding a far superior product. Bonus points for letting the cooked chicken sit in its sauce overnight in the fridge. Like many dishes, it improves overnight.

Shrimp Vegetable Tacos

These are nothing much more than diced onions and poblanos cooked down with minced cilantro stems and a lot of garlic. When the vegetables are soft, I add small shrimp and cook until they are just done. I then mix in raw sweet corn and a handful of fresh cilantro.

Chef's Tip: To make an easy garnishing sauce, thin sour cream with lime juice and season with salt and chipotle adobo to your liking.

Sailing the San Juans 2026, Part 4 of 4

Wednesday, July 15

Rather than sounds, smells dragged me awake today, the seductive aromas of frying sausage. Still, as I lay in the bed, from the open hatch above me came the rattles of a pair of kingfishers and then a chorus of honkers.

I staggered out of my cabin to find Jette already making coffee, headphones on. She poured carefully measured water over carefully scooped grounds, then repeated the ritual for another pot. As I stepped into the galley, she handed me the warm mug she'd been keeping on the range. I mouthed "Thank you." Neither of us spoke.

After a cup of coffee and before the others emerged, Jon asked if I wanted to accompany him and Geni for a brief walk on a different part of the island. We motored through the nearby boats, few showing any signs of life yet. A seal kept a close eye on us as we tied up. After our exposed walk yesterday of a mile and a half each way across the island, I was totally unprepared to find that the island here is wooded and extremely narrow. In moments, we crossed the island, climbing a hill onto a rock outcropping looking out over Reid Harbor, dotted here and there with more boats gently rocking at moor.

Ready for Early Morning Explore of Stuart Island

After a breakfast of a sweet potato and sausage strata, we set out for Friday Harbor. Decent winds let us hoist sail and our tacks worked out perfectly, the final tack aligning us with the harbor entrance. Friday Harbor marks the practical midpoint of the trip: fuel, water, groceries, and a night tied to a dock instead of swinging at anchor. It is also a night that guests dine ashore at a restaurant.

Breakfast of Sweet Potato and Sausage Strata

Lunch, Chicken Pesto Red Pepper Panino

After accompanying Jon ashore for a brief errand, I returned to get Ann for a walk around town, a town we explored in detail last summer. Andreas and Michelle had already gone to explore the town, their first visit. Ann wanted to remain on the boat after overheating yesterday, so I made a brief jaunt to locate the restaurant at which we were having dinner. I had no drive for a long walk; the sun was broiling and the light all wrong for photography. Downtown was a mess: at least one ferry to the mainland was cancelled and cars clogged the streets as people scrambled to secure passage back from the island.

Throng of Cars Jammed Friday Harbor
Because of a Cancelled Ferry

The restaurant at which we had an excellent dinner last year, Oyster Tale, changed their hours this summer, closing on Wednesdays. A second choice was already fully booked back in June when we tried to reserve. After trolling the internet for considerable time, we finally found Tenth House with something more than a run-of-the-mill tourist menu. We booked a table for four, a dinner out with Andreas and Michelle.

As the shadows lengthened, we climbed the hill into town to the converted house that Tenth House occupies. Dinner was good, an acceptable second after Oyster Tale. The dining room was overly warm so we did not sit long, instead asking the server to recommend a bar for an after-dinner drink. Relishing the cool air outside, we walked across the street to the bar where a musician was playing outside in the side yard. After placing our order with a server at the bar inside, we returned to the cool outside to listen to the music while awaiting our drinks. Twenty-five minutes later, the guitarist wrapped up his set and as the four of us stood to leave, our server appeared without drinks. She appeared relieved when we told her we were leaving. The mini-concert sufficed to complete our evening, no drinks needed.

"Mussels Escabeche," Good but Not What We Expected

Lumache alla Vodka
Good, But Where Was the Promised 'Nduja?

Ann Grabs a Post-Dinner Dance

Back at the boat in the twilight, Jon and Jette asked if I'd like to walk with them as they took Geni on her final walk of the night. We walked the length of the dock and up the hill to the courthouse that Ann and I had seen on our last visit here. A huge Black Walnut tree graces the grounds and intrigued me enough to want to come back to photograph it in the morning. The tree took me right back to my childhood home in Virginia, surrounded by huge walnut trees. Unbidden, the sound of the squirrels dropping black walnuts on our tin roof came to my ears.

In the dark, a quiet had settled over the marina. Earlier, people were grilling out on the dock, having drinks on their boats, and taking pets for one last walk as we were. One by one, conversations faded; even the noisy Purple Martins were silent, leaving only the tapping of sheets and halyards against unseen masts.

Thursday, July 16

05:20.

Through barely cracked eyelids, I struggled to focus on these digits on my phone.

Long before I wanted to wake, rhythmic crashing bangs rousted me from a deep sleep. A steady thrum filled the pauses between clangs. As I came further to, the clamor resolved into the sounds of vehicles loading onto the ferry, each one slamming the metal ramp to the dock, complete with the squeals and hisses of air brakes of loading semis. Finally, the din lowered to just the insistent roar of the ferry engines.

As the massive diesels increased in pitch at 0535, a departure message rang out over the loud speakers at a volume sufficiently loud to be heard clearly across the harbor. I steeled myself for the incredibly penetrating horn that each ferry sounded yesterday when departing. Each blast had violated my ears not once, but twice—immediately and then on return, echoing back from Brown Island across the harbor. Fortunately, the captain spared us the early morning agony—the harbor clear of boat traffic—as he pulled away bound for Anacortes on the mainland.

Looking out the roof hatch of the cabin, I watched the sun light the top of the mast. As the warm glow crept slowly down the mast, the harbor became alive in tiny increments at first, then seemingly all at once: a waft of bacon, the purring of a dinghy motor, the wake of a passing boat slapping our hull, the soft click of the stove igniter in the galley as Jette boiled water for coffee.

Despite last night’s forecast of rain, blue skies—bluer than I had imagined—and sunshine greeted me as I left my cabin for that first delightful sip of coffee. Before anyone else emerged from their cabins, I had fifteen minutes to myself to enjoy the slowness of morning, the gradual building of consciousness, of thoughts coming together.

After a tasty and crunchy cornmeal waffle for breakfast, I set out on a walk to revisit the massive walnut tree at the courthouse to appreciate its stature in the daylight. On the way back, I wandered along the docks, taking in the harbor coming awake. I love to wander marinas with my camera; some of my best photos are set there. I did not find inspiration. That was fine. I enjoyed chatting with folks as they started their days, many loading up crab pots for the first day of Dungeness season.

Black Walnut That Reminds Me of my Childhood

Dinner Plate-Sized Big Leaf Maple

First Day of Crab Season

Purple Martin Becoming One with the Anemometer

The more alive the harbor became, the more the skies clouded over, the sun but an early morning memory. We left soon after my return, dodging many floats attached to crab pots, floats that were absent yesterday. To leave only a short sail into Bellingham for Friday morning, we needed to sail east against an easterly wind.

Obstruction Island, Fog Bank, and Mount Baker

Story of Our Day

Finally, as we motored to the south of Orcas Island, the wind shifted to southeast and we set sail in the company of many small boats trolling for salmon in the deeper water. Nearing midday, an ominous fog bank sat right on the water behind Obstruction Island and the rain that had seemed imminent all morning set in, chilly and slashing on southerly gusts. And yet, counterintuitively, Mount Baker, 30 miles inland as the crow flies, was still barely visible, a ghostly presence looming over the island and the fog.

As the winds pushed at a sustained 25 knots, we screamed along faster than we had traveled all trip. Despite the gray, rainy day, the sensation of dancing with the choppy seas was exhilarating. So rapt was my attention on the elements that I had not even noticed that Andreas and Michelle had disappeared below decks from which a wonderful aroma wafted. As Jette came up top to help with the more demanding sail and take a turn at the helm with a slight grin on her face, it was as clear that lunch would be delayed today as it was that she was enjoying this sail as much as I.

The rain slashed harder as we passed Obstruction Island. Finally, Jette maneuvered us into the lee of Cypress Island where the boat centered enough so that we could tuck into a delicious bowl of clam chowder that I had smelled cooking earlier.

Delayed Clam Chowder

On leaving Friday Harbor, Jon thought that we might shelter for the night at Cypress Island, but that anchorage faces into the relentless southeastern breeze. It would have been an uncomfortable sleep with the waves pounding the hull all night, so we pushed on to Lummi Island, plan B, where Inati Bay tucks into the island with a headland between the anchorage and the wind.

As we rounded the headland into the bay, the screaming wind halted abruptly as we left choppy Bellingham Bay for the smooth water of the inlet. The prime anchorage spot, the most protected, was occupied, so we nestled near the large powerboat that occupied it. When we came to rest, I had a chance to look around this bay that we visited last year. Despite the apparent calm here, the trees on the surrounding ridge lines were whipping violently in the wind. The sounds of thunder resounded as the front screamed through furiously.

By late afternoon, the storm, which would hammer the Pacific Northwest mainland with lightning strikes, zipped through and the sun came out once again. I noticed that the powerboat had its engine running and soon enough, they departed. We watched as the large boat crisscrossed the bay heading back to Bellingham, likely day trippers pulling their crab pots. We hoisted anchor and re-anchored in the more sheltered location.

Once the tide had risen enough for the dinghy to approach the rocky beach, Jon and I took a brief excursion into the island to give Geni a walk. Towhees called from the underbrush as kingfishers rattled behind us. Pushing inland past myriad wildflower blooms, we started up the steep path where dense foliage is swallowing up antique logging equipment. Jon offered to continue higher up, but as I glanced out at the Northwind riding at anchor, I demurred. I wanted to spend as much time as possible on our last night with the group on the boat.

The Sun Came Out Briefly

Final Night Dance Party

Prosciutto-Wrapped Prawns for Appetizers

Back on the boat, we poured wine all around and tucked into grilled Chinook salmon. After dark, we moved up top where Jette entertained us once again with her guitar. Just before we were going to turn in, another sailboat came motoring into the inlet, quite dangerously without any running lights and no ability to check if the anchored boats had extended stern ties to the shore. As he slowed in the narrow space between us and the shore—too close to us for safety—he made his way forward to drop his anchor. I was undiplomatic in telling him to leave; my patience has limits. He had some choice words for me in return, but he did move. Soon enough, quiet returned.

Friday, July 17

As I stirred to consciousness still wearing my eye mask, a cacophony of raven croaks and kingfisher rattles competed for my attention. Despite the strange raven calls that I wanted to commit to memory, thoughts of leaving kept stealing my attention. Beyond docking in Bellingham later that morning, we had no plans. We did not know how we would spend the afternoon or even where we would eat dinner. Along with the uncertainty came a smattering of dread—the looming prospect of an eight-hour drive home with the potential for nasty Seattle-area traffic. The smell of coffee pulled me back to the calm of Inati Bay, and I slipped into the salon in search of a cup.

Sitting all alone over a cup of coffee, with Jette in the galley going through her morning ritual, I listened to the high screams of a Bald Eagle in a nearby tree, probably the same eagle that I had been seeing and hearing since we arrived. I hear eagles often, living on the river, and am always surprised, even though I know better, that they sound a lot like gulls. I never expect such a high voice from such a large magnificent bird.

Morning Serenader

As I looked outside, the sunshine fought with the low leaden clouds on a relatively chilly morning that would turn sunny as the day wore on. Soon after a breakfast of chorizo and eggs over corn chips, we departed to make the dock in Bellingham by 1100. Fortunately, we had enough time on the short journey into the marina and favorable enough winds to hoist sails one final time, our last hurrah.

At the marina, we bid farewell to Jon, Jette, and Geni with that sadness that comes from not knowing when we will see each other again. Maybe next summer, maybe not. In the parking lot, we said goodbye to Andreas and Michelle as they departed for the Portland area where they would spend the night. After last year's traffic turned our drive down I-5 into a seven-hour nightmare, Ann and I opted to spend the night in Bellingham instead. Later, a text confirmed that Andreas and Michelle had run headlong into that same traffic. We would head home on Saturday through Snoqualmie Pass and Central Washington, hoping to bypass as much of the Seattle-to-Portland I-5 corridor as possible.

We too left the marina, but only for a quick drive down the street to Camber for a cup of coffee and to let a plan for the afternoon come to us. Before sailing, we had talked about picking up sandwiches from Old World Deli—we miss a good deli since moving out West. Sitting over coffee, we realized this was our chance. We would take them to Beach Cat Brewing, the place we had stumbled upon by chance on Sunday, and while away the afternoon on the pier. We walked from Camber to the deli, which reminded us of an old favorite, the now-shuttered Community Plate in our former home of McMinnville. While waiting for our sandwiches and taking in the large selection of tinned fish, bitters, spices, and pickles, the floor rocked gently back and forth beneath my feet, a sensation that would continue for three or four days.

At Beach Cat, we relaxed over a beer while eating a half an Italian cold cut sub each. The sandwiches were better than average, but my expectations exceeded the reality. While watching kayakers on the water below, we talked through the trip home the following morning. With essentially no stops for food through Central Washington and Central Oregon, we decided to buy lunch fixings at a grocery store on the way to our hotel.

Old World Deli, Bellingham

Waiting for Our Sandwiches

Sandwiches at Beach Cat Brewing

Once in our room, the mental fatigue born of a week away from home settled on us. We did not go back out for dinner and went to sleep early to recharge our batteries for the long drive ahead of us. Just before I fell asleep, the bed already rocking gently in the imaginary swell, I wished to be either on the boat or in my own bed.

Saturday, July 18

Although the previous afternoon we had considered lingering over coffee and pastries before heading home, Saturday morning found us on the road early, wanting—and expecting—to return to the comfort of our bed and our day-to-day routines. We drove for four hours through Washington, still mentally in vacation mode. But, climbing up from the Columbia River onto the vast plateau of north-central Oregon, the ever-widening view revealed heartbreaking columns of gray wildfire smoke.

The same storm front that doused us on Lummi Island kicked off dozens and dozens of forest fires. Mile after mile we counted spire after spire of smoke, each bent easterly on the prevailing winds. For more than an hour, we drove toward what looked like a fog bank hanging over the road. Near home, Smith Rock, a defining landmark of our Central Oregon skyline, was invisible, hidden behind smoke that would last for days.

Sailing is a Happy Place for Me

Jette Sent Along This Post-Trip Doodle

Sailing the San Juans 2026, Part 3 of 4

Tuesday, July 14

A sound pulled me awake, one repeated over and over. As I surfaced, the sound clarified, at once familiar yet totally unexpected. Lying in my bed rocking gently in Westcott Bay, I never expected to be awakened by a rooster crowing. Sound carries out on the water, unexpected and clear. Soon enough, a vocal gang of Purple Martins landed above my head, using the mast, stays, and other rigging for perches while hunting for their breakfast and drowning out the crowing rooster.

I lay there, groggy, listening to the martins, each attempting to outsing the others, trying hard to clear the fog from my brain, drifting in and out until sounds of breakfast from galley drew me out of my cabin. Always the first to rise—I treasure those few moments of me time—I sat sipping my coffee. My first thought was that this trip is going way faster than I want.

We did not hoist anchor at a time of our choosing—the tides wait for no man. The tide ebbing quickly, we got underway before breakfast to ensure sufficient water below the keel. While looking off the stern, I heard a profusion of unmistakably loud and piercing "kee" calls off the bow behind me. Even before turning, I knew what I expected to see: jet black shorebirds with long bright red bills. As I turned, a flock moved rapidly to the port side under rapidly beating wings. Black Oystercatchers, their voices, like those of the American Dippers back home, are pitched to carry over the sounds of the water.

The plan today was a quick trip to Roche Harbor, for sightseeing, showers, and provisions. Ann and I explored Roche last year, but did not have a chance to climb up to the McMillan Mausoleum, spending a long time in the sculpture garden instead. This year, after anchoring at 0815, we enjoyed a delightful breakfast of Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon before taking the dinghy into town.

Eggs Benedict with Smoked Salmon

When the dinghy neared the pier, I reached out to arrest our progress so I could loop the painter around a cleat. I regretted the choice immediately as pain radiated up through my index finger. I did not need to look to know that I had jabbed a large splinter into it. To look at it, I went to replace my sunglasses with my regular glasses. A sickening feeling churned my gut. My glasses were not hooked on my shirt, nowhere to be found, lost overboard. For the rest of the trip, it was either my sunglasses or a softly blurred world.

As hard as I tried, I could not remove the nagging and painful splinter, requiring a return to the boat for a pin with which to dig it out. The splinter long forgotten, we finally got ashore and started exploring the market stalls in Roche before hiking up the hill past the grass airstrip to the mausoleum atop the hill.

Market Stalls at Roche Harbor

Lime Kilns at Roche Harbor

Doug Fir Growing on a Piling

McMillan Mausoleum

When we got back to the boat, Jon was just finishing grilling chicken for lunch. After lunch, we set out with a fuzzy plan. The thought was perhaps to chase whales but the closest sightings were south of San Juan Island and southwest by Victoria BC, both requiring a long travel with slim odds of success and fewer choices of good anchorages.

Caprese with Grilled Chicken for Lunch

Mount Baker as We Were Underway

Instead, we aimed northwest for Stuart Island, a favorite stop from last summer. As we pushed north, Washington's Spieden Island slid by to starboard as various smaller Canadian islands slipped behind us to port. As we inched along Stuart Island toward Turn Point and its lighthouse, the more I was conscious of my wider stance and my knees working like shock absorbers to keep me upright in the increasing swell and chop. I am sure that they automatically straightened me out during the rest of the trip, but I was never aware of the effort as I was here in the ripping current.

The current manhandled the bow, at times thrusting it hard left or right or seeming to stall the boat or propel it quickly forward. Through it all, Jon reacted silently, confidently, always pushing forward, a veteran of decades of making this challenging passage up Haro Strait to Turn Point where it meets Boundary Pass. With Jon at the helm, I could take in the incredible sea state around us.

Last year, from the cliffs above Haro Strait, I watched myriad whirlpools swirl here. I was fascinated by a whale-watching boat that surfed the eddy line around a large vortex, orbiting through 360 degrees in a few seconds. None of this experience prepared me for transiting these waters with a violently swirling whirlpool immediately to our port, a vortex larger than our hull, looking like it might swallow anything that entered it. Smaller eddies appeared left and right.

From the cliffs, the eddies look flat, but beside them, the edges were much higher than the depressed centers. All around us, contrasts marked the sea, the normally invisible currents and tides come to life—high standing waves towering above low troughs, lighter-colored streams running against darker ones, snarling patches boiling beside placid lake-like areas.

As dynamic as this area is for sailing, the collision of currents always brings fish to the surface, a boon for the many eagles that congregate here. Bouncing up and down in the churning sea, I counted many white eagle heads in the trees as we struggled against the ripping current to the shelter of Prevost Harbor.

We inched gently into the narrow confines of the harbor between rocks seemingly brought closer, exposed by the extra low minus tide. Along Satellite Island, buffering Stuart Island from the swell of Boundary Pass, the rocks were crawling with kids from summer YMCA camp on the island.

Cormorant Welcomes Us to Prevost Harbor

After carefully anchoring in the shallow water to avoid the many rocks in the harbor, we dinghied to the pier to walk up to the lighthouse. My right eye stung as sweat dripped into it from my brow. I am in good shape, but the heat, not noticeable out on the water in the breeze, was stifling on the exposed walk. The shade of the trees far in the distance could not come soon enough. Ann had a rough go of the walk, all uphill, until just before the lighthouse.

Baby Tree Swallow

Raven Making Crazy Sounds Other Ravens Hidden in the Woods Echoed Those Calls Back

After taking in the views over Haro Strait which we had transited a few minutes earlier, we descended to the lighthouse where we learned that we had just missed a pod of orcas moving through. The whale watching boats following them were grouped far out in the strait over in Canadian waters, mere specks on the water. For many minutes, I amused myself watching Bald Eagles deftly pluck fish from the current off the point and haul them to nearby trees to consume. In looking at the eagles at close range, I was surprised how ragged and dirty the tips of their tails were. While the eagles were crisscrossing the water, Barn Swallows were busy closer at hand, swooping and diving deftly in the air above the open grassy point where the lighthouse sits.

Swirling Waters of Haro Strait

Eagle Flies By; Whale Watching Boats over in Canadian Water

Barn Swallow at Lighthouse

Back on the boat, the hot and bright sun lowering in the west forced us to stay under cover until it finally dipped behind Satellite Island. We returned topside for a few minutes after a delightful dinner of grilled lamb chops and potato gratin, followed by chocolate mousse.

Cooling Off After Overheating

While relaxing before falling asleep, I heard the screaming camp kids on Satellite Island. Finally, the kids quieted and I nodded off to the repeated "peent" calls of nighthawks.