Sailing the San Juans 2026, Part 2 of 4

Monday, July 13

I awoke suddenly from a restful sleep in the early morning, about 0530 if I had to guess from wan light coming through the ceiling hatch. As I lay diagonally in the rack, the only way my long frame fits comfortably, insistent trills of Spotted Towhees punctuated the quiet. Something felt unusual but I couldn’t place it at first. Then I realized, as a kingfisher started rattling and drowning out the towhees scratching for food on the island, that my clothes were sticking to my body. Glancing upward, dew covered the ceiling hatch, the cool morning air dropping on me decidedly damp. I had not experienced humidity like this in a long time.

Morning in Echo Bay: Lenticular Clouds over Mt. Constitution, Orcas Island

After coffee and a bite of breakfast, Jon took us ashore on Sucia, a marine park, to walk one of the legs of the horseshoe-shaped island, a different hike than we made last year. As a Great Blue Heron fished stealthily nearby, we jumped out of the dinghy in shallow water and waded in, carefully avoiding the many red rock crabs and a few Dungeness scuttling along the bottom. A flash of orange color caught our eyes in the ankle-deep water, a Leather Sea Star. I have seen many different kinds of sea stars along the coast, but this 5-armed star with orange spots on a cream body was a first for me.

My First-Ever Leather Star

Beach Lined with Chest-High Hawkweeds

Madrones, missing from Central Oregon, are trees we see rarely. They are impossible to miss here, their trunks gleaming in the low angle of the morning light. We all goggled at the cinnamon-colored outer bark that exposes green inner bark as it peels and not one of us could resist running our hands over the bark so smooth that it might have been sanded with 600-grit paper. Its unique rhododendron-like leathery leaves littered the trail that verged on overgrown in places.

We Were Fascinated by Madrone Bark

The woods here are so different from Central Oregon, a blend of trees that surely must be a signature of this part of the world—in addition to the madrones, towering conifers mixed with hardwoods. In the shade of these trees, two other plants caught my eye. I recognized one as a maple with extra-serrated leaves and one as an orchid, but I could name neither. By the end of the trip, Douglas' Maple and Elegant Rein Orchid had found permanent places in my mental Rolodex.

Douglas' Maple

Elegant Rein Orchid

Out on the sandstone cliffs, another plant brought me back instantly to the Badlands of South Dakota, where a casual brush against a yellow-flowered gumweed coated my hands in resin that took days to wear away. Curlycup Gumweed grows here as well.

Curlycup Gumweed Along the Sandstone

Broadleaf Stonecrop, Another Sandstone Specialist

Pocked and Honeycombed Chuckanut Sandstone

Echo Bay Through Douglas Fir and Sandstone

As we hiked, I found myself at times trailing the others as I took in what makes this place special, etching these things into my memory.

Salal Berries Starting to Ripen

White-crowned Sparrow Sharing a Perch with...

... An Olive-sided Flycatcher, Strange Tree-mates

A Constant Ruckus Alerted Us to
Adult Crow Trying to Coax Baby Crow into First Flight
The Baby Did Not Fly While We Watched

Motoring back to the boat, I realized—for the first time—that compared to last visit to Sucia, I took few photos. Last trip, I worked diligently to record everything I saw. This trip, I was happy to be a spectator and let my memories suffice. I have vivid memories of the baby seals hauled out on the sandstone, river otters wrestling, and guillemots feeding babies in the cliffs, but no photographs.

Soon after, we set out in the direction of San Juan Island and Roche Harbor. I thought we were aiming for Roche, but Jon kept going into Westcott Bay. I was excited to visit a new and unexpected place in the San Juans, especially one that I have heard of as a great producer of shellfish.

We Passed the Two-Masted S/V Carlyn, a Training Yawl
Northwind is a Sloop, with Mainsail and Jib (Genoa)
Carlyn Adds a Mizzen and Staysail

En Route, Jette Served a Delightful Shrimp Louie

As we dropped anchor, Westcott Bay introduced itself with dozens of pairs of round black eyes watching us—curious Harbor Seals, some with pups. So populous are the seals here that although we were all keeping an eye out for debris in the water—the San Juans are rife with logs—all of us dismissed one log as a seal until we were right on top of it.

Nonchalant Harbor Seal

Soon after anchoring and knowing our fondness for oysters, Jon took me and Ann to the Westcott Bay Shellfish dock, piled with the empty cages in which they grow their oysters. Ashore, scores of tourists milled about taking photos or getting in line to dine at the seasonal restaurant. At an outdoor stand, I bought three dozen to share with everyone and when I found out they also grow clams, a bag of clams as well.

Westcott Bay Shellfish

We Took Geni Ashore at English Town British Troops Were Garrisoned Here

What Remains of the British Garrison Both Britain and America Claimed San Juan Island in the 1850s Awarded to the US after the Civil War

Just about Happy Hour, it was time to shuck the oysters. Even though Jette has an oyster knife always aboard, I brought mine along like I did last year. Mine is nothing fancy, but it is a knife I have had for decades and I use it with a familiarity born of shucking tons of oysters for the restaurant. At the restaurant, shucking oysters was work, a bit of kitchen drudgery. As I sat on the transom, the rhythm became hypnotic: pop the hinge, wipe the blade, lift the shell, free the oyster, toss the top shell back into the ocean. Before I knew it, all 36 were open. I could have shucked many dozen more in that trancelike state.

At long last, I tasted one. It may have been the ultimate oyster, small with the perfect balance of brine and sweetness. The sun, the water, the sailing, the friends, the eagle flying over, and a glass of Grand Cru Champagne might have influenced this impression. Of the uncountable number I have eaten in my life, this is the one that I expect to remember.

When I climbed up off the transom into the cockpit, I could see Jette working below, rolling sheets of freshly made pasta, then cutting and hanging strands of fresh tagliatelle to dry down in the galley, answering my unasked question of what dinner might be. After oysters and Champagne up top, we all gathered at the table in the salon to feast on tagliatelle with lemon cream, prawns, and the clams we brought back.

Kudos to Jette for Making Fresh Tagliatelle

Tagliatelle, Prawns, Clams, Lemon Cream

After dinner, Jette pulled out her guitar and entertained us until well after dark, topside in the cockpit, playing mostly her own original songs. As she sang, the final hints of sunlit clouds reflected in the now mirror-like surface of the bay, the horizon doubled on the water. In the last glimmer of light, a shape slid silently across the surface, black on black.