That was quite a night. Psychologically there were moments that were quite challenging, mostly because life has been very stressful lately, and I’m worn down to a nub. While this was an amazing experience, it was stressful, and not least because I felt ready for bed by 9, and that’s when I left Sooke inlet!

Although you literally cannot see where you are going, rigorous watching of radar and chartplotter is required, along with constant alertness. I’ve often driven road trips all night, and that is much, much easier, which is surprising in that the margin for error while driving is orders of magnitude smaller.

Interestingly, there was actually a fair bit of light out there, reflected from clouds from both Sooke and Victoria. Not enough to see anything in the water, but not the deep black I expected.

The further along the Strait I went the brighter the phosphorescence; by Point No Point, it appeared as if Fainleog carried brilliant sparkling wings, the way the bow wake peeled from her hull. Eventually the lights of civilisation were left behind and there was only the occasional fitful mote winked at me from distant shorelines. As the night deepened, the sky bloomed overhead, my masthead stirring the milky way, which seemed caught up there as it rotated across the hours. Twice my radar alarm picked up freighters passing by; hearing their engines was impossible over the drone of my diesel.

I wish I had been able to sail. What breeze there was was light and mostly foul. There were a couple of times when it veered south, and I cautiously hoisted sail (I always tether myself to the boat whenever I leave the cockpit on a solo sail). The first time the breeze failed as quickly as my sails were set, but by the second time I was ready, and it was sheer joy to turn off that damned engine and let the wind take me.

At that moment I understood the joy of night sailing; the hush of water running along the hull, the glory of deep stars overhead, moving through the darkness as through time itself. It was sublime.

It was also short lived, and after perhaps 20 minutes the breeze turned foul and that was it for the night. 6 ½ hours of motoring, and the combination of lack of sleep, the engine noise, the constant vigilance, and I ended up with a rather upset stomach. It might also been influenced by lack of horizon; there was a swell running on the nose and without being able to see the water, it was very much like being below, which is always hard on the stomach when the boat is being knocked around.

The Dreamspeaker guide recommends anchoring at Thrasher cove in Port San Juan, which is not a cove at all but a small bight, so it was exposed to the swell, making for a very unsettled sleep. There were a couple of small lights visible in the cove, and it wasn’t until I was almost on top of them before I realised they were anchoring lights from a pair of sailboats. I’m sure they were wondering what the hell was going on when I showed up beside them at 4 in the morning, and it demonstrates how important anchor lights are; the boats were essentially invisible.  When I woke at 11, both were gone.

I wanted to go ashore at Port Renfrew to let people know I made it, and that turned into a dog’s breakfast. Although it was only blowing a couple of knots out in the Strait, rising warm air inland channels strong winds up the inlet. It must have been blowing 20 knots in Snuggery Cove, and the bottom there is covered in a thick mat of dead kelp. Contrary to the Dreamspeaker guide, holding is actually quite poor, and I dragged twice. Eventually I got the third set to hold, but I didn’t trust it so I was forced to haul out and drop my second anchor from the dinghy. I didn’t want to have to worry about the big rocks on my lee when I went to bed.

One important thing that I discovered during that night was the difference between “being grounded” and The Buddhist notion of “being present”. Alone in a boat in the dark, with everything that must be done, means that your world shrinks dramatically. Everything occupying your attention is located in the few square metres around you; nothing else exists. I was fully and completely embodied.

What was lacking was a sense of detachment, of serenity. As I understand it, the goal is to be fully present, but as an observer, watching yourself, detached from the outcome of what you are doing and experiencing.

But that night what I was experiencing I took very seriously. I believed in the significance of what I was doing, the importance of being alert and watchful, as if my survival, my need to stay on top of the situation was actually significant. The Buddhist approach teaches us that it’s not. The best I was able to do was notice how seriously I was taking my situation, and a small part had a laugh at that. I didn’t judge it as wrong, but as information that under stress it’s hard for me to remain detached.

Midnight hot chocolate

It’s dark out there.

Night sailing is amazing

Two radar contacts, the big one at the bottom was a freighter.

Snuggery Cove Port Renfrew

Fog blowing in

Fog and fishing boats

Neighbors at anchor

A friend and I were chatting online today about a love relationship he’s recently ended, and an uncomfortable notion emerged. I’m a pretty rational and analytical person, and when I witness a phenomenon, especially a powerful one, I try to understand it. He’s having a hard time getting over someone, a problem I imagine we’ve all experienced. But this is different than a simple broken heart, and it struck me as I’ve had a similar experience.

I was once in love with an incredible, amazing woman. I held her in awe, and I was quite frankly obsessed with her. Our biggest problem was that we were too much alike, had too similar wounds, had too similar tempestuous personalities. When the relationship was good, it was utterly Glorious. When it was bad, it was quite literally hell on earth. We said and did things to each other that even now I cannot think about with being completely appalled, and ashamed of myself.

Looking back I realise there was nothing all that special about her at a first glance; she was no stunning model, although at the time I found her exquisite. The most compelling feature about her was that she was extremely smart and tough as old barnacles. And just as cutting. She was also quite insightful, at least about me. In many ways she saw right through me.

I worshipped that woman, and spent 5 yrs trying to make her happy, losing myself more and more through the process. It was like trying to score a goal while the goalposts kept receding. She was horribly jealous, insecure and controlling, and believed from the beginning that I would betray her, which in my mind totally poisoned the relationship.  She was also quite found of passing scathing judgements on me. And yet despite all these massive shortcomings, I adored her. I willingly castrated myself, and handed her my balls to keep in a jar on her bedside table. The worse she was to me, the harder I tried to prove to her that I was worth her love.

But she couldn’t accept my love, she was far to wounded for that, and never really let down her guard. Early in our relationship we spent a “romantic weekend” together, that consisted mostly of sex and her verbally cutting into me. I marshalled my patience and endured it, and come Sunday night we talked and she expressed tearful gratitude. She realised that she had spent the last two days pushing me away, and yet I still stood beside her. She had met her match at last.

I was thrilled, and yet in hindsight I should have given her the number of a good therapist and thrown her out.

My friend knows that his ex is very wrong for him, and that only pain waits for him there, yet he cannot stop obsessing about her. I know how he feels. I was still having dreams of my own Astarte a full decade after I finally broke it off with her.  Despite the massive pain she inflicted on me over those five years, each time I dreamt of her the agony of loss was renewed afresh. I still want to see her; it still wouldn’t be safe for me to do so.

My wife is a thousand times kinder, more accepting, supportive and gentle. She is very patient with my numerous faults. Where my old flame cut me down, Tracy supports me. Where she had lashed out, Tracy finds understanding and compassion. Yet I still yearn for this violent woman.

There is no rational reason for my friend to give his ex a second thought, and yet his guts are being torn. Why is that? I recognise quite a few similarities between his ex and mine; they are both profoundly independent, judgemental, strong, smart, and fearful of letting a man get close.

Why are we drawn to these women? Someone once said it’s the Betty and Veronica syndrome; we are profoundly drawn to the beguiling and wilful bitch Veronica, but it’s the sweet Betty that we ultimately need as a life partner.

But what is it exactly that draws us to the Veronicas of the world? For myself, part of it is passion. Strong women are passionate women. And when two extremely passionate individuals bond, there is going be huge, violent  fireworks.

Maybe we are drawn to them because they are the feminine embodiment of ourselves. In many ways they are quite masculine, and that means a real contest for dominance in the relationship. And that the fucking will be superb.

Listening to my friend’s longing, I wonder if these individuals are in fact iconic, the ideal “perfect” women? If so, I wonder why so many seem unable to form long-term relationships with men? I’ve known a number of them, and they are all single, bitter, angry, and alone. Is it the weakness of men, that we simply can’t handle strong women? A lot of these women think so.

I know I still thought of my ex as goddesslike even while breaking up with her – albeit a crazy, soul-sucking and destroying medusa – and I still wanted her so bad. I can still recall the fantastic break-up sex we had the last time I saw her.

Are they simply too powerful for men to love without destroying themselves?  Listening to my friend obsess made me think of this possibility, which is the uncomfortable notion I mentioned in the opening of this post.

The counsellor in me wonders if that isn’t just too romantic. A more psychoanalytic analysis suggests that perhaps strong and dominant women evoke an unconscious need for the mother we lost, or more likely, the mother we never had. I know that I surrendered much of what I believed for my ex’s world view, because she seemed so damned certain of everything, while much of what I knew had (and still has) a big question mark beside it. At this point I know that doubt is actually a sign of wisdom, but at the time, her certainty was compelling.

I also believe that for those of us who had distant and rejecting mothers, there will always be an unmet need for a compassionate and accepting female figure in our lives, the mother we didn’t have. Once we are adult such is impossible, but knowing that will not placate the need. Often times we will put ourselves in a relationship that mirrors that primal, original one, so that we can live the fantasy of finally being able to earn our “mother’s” withheld love and find peace.

It’s a funny paradox, because for those of us with such wounds what we need is compassion and acceptance, and yet such things we do not associate with motherhood. What triggers that old wound, what wakens the primal yearning is more of what we knew as a child – rejection by the all-powerful feminine.  A judgmental, withdrawing partner may evoke the need of the child self, but she can hardly put it to rest, and so the wounding is simply relived.  The deep and unconscious need to heal this kind of core damage could explain the powerful feelings such women evoke.

Perhaps it’s all of the above, and more. I do know that despite the wounds I will carry to the grave from that relationship, I wouldn’t have given it up for anything. Never was I more alive in love, never was I more engaged in another. If there is one word that encapsulated it, it would be lust. Physical lust, Lust for life, lust for survival. Those three are the holy trinity of the masculine self, so perhaps the power of these women over us makes sense after all.

I’m surprised at my anxiety the last couple of days regarding my imminent trip up the west coast of Vancouver Island. There’s nothing new in it, in terms of what will be expected of me as a sailor, and yet it still is new. More than new, it feels like a great, big leap, to sail up the coast solo.

All of us sailors started small and most of us gradually expanded our horizons in an ever -increasing circle.  The sailing I’ve done to date fits that pattern, and it feels that sailing on the exposed ocean is the largest circle yet, one that really has no boundaries.

Let me explain: while sailing the Gulf Islands, there is a clear demarcation. Sailing the Inside Passage is the same. I have sailed the open ocean before, but with a couple of shipmates, and I can tell you that company makes a world of difference. This time I am at my own devices and resources, and if I die, I die alone!

I’m sure there are a million old salts that would have a good laugh at my fear, but if they were honest with themselves, they would admit that at some point they went through the same thing.

The biggest reason some of us will never sail the exposed ocean is because we have never done it, and fear keeps us in well-known locales. It’s the reason that I’ve lived in Victoria for over 4 years now and have never been in Barkley Sound, one long day away from Victoria. We do these kinds of things in steps, and as we become comfortable with what we learn (and don’t kill ourselves in the process) we move on to the next challenge.

I think part of the anxiety (and concomitant excitement) is that once I take this step, the world is mine.  Once I successfully sail the open ocean on my own, that milestone will have been crossed, and there will be nothing to stop me from heading further out. I will no longer be psychologically limited to close inshore waters.  After this cruise is completed, there will be little reason for me to not sail to Haida Gwaii or Mexico. I could argue time and money is a limitation, but that would just be an excuse. Whatever I have wanted in life I have always made happen, even if sometimes the price I’ve paid has been exorbitant.

My first issue this morning started hardly 2 hours intro the cruise. I noticed that my new dinghy was really dragging, even though it’s only 6.5 feet. Inflatables just aren’t very streamlined, and since I was motoring against the breeze, I didn’t need anything else hampering my way. I decided to haul it aboard.

Being so small, the dinghy isn’t all that heavy, although still bulky and awkward. I thought I would give it a go simply hauling it over the lifelines by brute strength rather than winching it aboard. Unfortunately it was just light enough to make this possible, although it took all my strength to do so. I got it aboard after a real struggle, and then another one getting it flipped over in the breeze. It was a real debacle, and dangerous as I was heaving so hard, if something let go or I slipped, injury could have been the result. When sailing solo you should avoid situations like this, especially when an easy alternative is available. I knew I was being stupid, but a stubborn part of me didn’t want to bother hooking up the winch.

I can’t recall if I topped up my V-drive. I seem to remember that it was low. Or was it high? Damn. I don’t want to stop and rip out the companionway stairs to check.  I’m almost at race Rocks, just at the turn.

Of course the wind is directly on the nose, as is typical for his time of year. I’ll be at Race Passage at the turn, but I’m thinking evening sailing would be best until I escape Juan de Fuca Strait. The current doesn’t reverse until past midday, and the westerlies blow strongest during the latter part of the day.  Historical data from the station at Sheringham Point shows this pattern pretty clearly. The wind usually dies off in the evening, so it makes sense to catch both the tide and the dying wind, rather than motor against a 10-20knot breeze during the day. I’m really looking forward to a night passage.

In defiance of the above, by two o’clock the winds have died, although they blew quite strongly into Beecher Bay from the south, giving me a lovely closed-hauled sail with just the Genoa. Passing Beechey Head I saw two boats land salmon, and this made me decide to purchase myself a license and go out tomorrow and try my own luck. I’ve never caught a salmon.

I’ve said it before, but again I’m very glad that I decided to dismantle and grease my Maxprop. The pitch of the propeller was set incorrectly, which I discovered after relaunching the boat after this spring’s haulout. I can easily do 4.5 knots with the engine doing 1000 RPM, if there’s no wind or chop against me. Right now I’m doing over 5 at 1200 RPM. The engine will be much more economical to run. The equivalent speed would have required 1800 RPM the way the prop had been set up previously, and she never could make hull speed.

I dropped the hook of Whiffin Spit at the entrance to Sooke Basin. It’s a lovely anchorage but rather rolly due to the numbskulls in powerboats that blast in and out of here doing upwards of 40 knots. There are two of us at anchor and one asshole in a big cruiser blasted between us pushing a huge bow wave that had to be two meters high. What the hell’s wrong with these people? I know going fast is fun, but have some consideration.

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