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.