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June 16, 2009 – At Sea, Gulf of Alaska
by Herb McCormick
(June 16): In the late 1990s I joined an Australian sailing expedition to Antarctica via Sydney and the windswept island state of Tasmania. I mention this today only because, as Ocean Watch made her way out of Cross Sound and into the Gulf of Alaska this morning, having departed the singular village of Elfin Cove at precisely 0700, I was instantly reminded of the day I’d set out from Hobart all those years ago. The scene looked almost exactly the same: cold, gray and foreboding, with the dark peaks cloaked in mist; the ocean the color of slate; the grand, outsized, dreary monochrome a black-and-white snapshot in the mind’s eye.
The funny thing is, seven hours later, it looks like the day we left Sydney: Blue and clear, with radiant sunshine, the water a cerulean carpet as far as the eye can see.
Ocean Watch pulled into Elfin Cove late yesterday afternoon, and though no one had had a sip to drink, we were all slightly spent and hung-over after the incredible buzz and high we experienced on our extended romp with the pods of humpbacks. We needed to regroup.
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| Elfin Cove |
Elfin Cove turned out to be the ideal place to do so. The town, such as it is, clings to the side of the hills around an inner lagoon; there are no cars, or even streets, just a warren of stairs and boardwalks situated this way and that, some of which lead to homes and lodges, others to piers and docks. We went ashore for dinner at an odd little spot called the Coho Inn, and afterwards, while some of the crew went exploring or back to the boat, Dave Logan and I hopped in the kayaks for a spin through the drizzle. At 10:30 in the evening, there was still plenty of light for a paddle.
We awoke to a cold, bleak morning and skipper Mark Schrader set the crew to work installing the side curtains that encapsulate the long cockpit beneath the extended hard dodger. Once it was in place, we all stood around looking at each other with rather pleased expressions. It was awful outside, but our new little porch and sunroom was snug and dry, and completely protected from the elements. From the outside looking in, I can only imagine that we resemble a floating Winnebago, but from the inside looking out, the view is pretty sweet.
Ocean Watch is now bound for her next scheduled stop in Dutch Harbor, Unalaska, in the string of islands west of the Alaska Peninsula. Our skipper has plotted a Great Circle route that will take us along the southern flanks of Kodia k Island. From Cross Sound, this morning’s point of departure, the voyage is almost exactly 900 nautical miles. Unfortunately, due to the snotty morning, we never did get a glimpse of the Fairweather Mountain range on the backside of Glacier Bay. But the skies did clear enough for a good view of the vast and impressive La Perouse glacier, which spills grandly into the sea. But before long the incredible ice field, and for that matter, all of Southeast Alaska, had disappeared in the rearview mirror.
Remarkably, now it’s time for the sunscreen. Winds are light and on the button. The sea is flat and glassy. We’re in full powerboat mode. Hopefully the wind will free up a bit and build enough so we can do some sailing, in large part because we’re all dying for a good sail, but also because the distance to Dutch Harbor may be slightly pushing Ocean Watch’s range under power alone. If worse comes to worse, we may have to detour to Kodiak for a fuel stop.
The immediate forecast for the next few days isn’t promising: well, actually, it’s great, just not from a sailing standpoint. A weak trough is lumbering north, with light, variable winds in its wake. Things look a little better mid-week, when a weakening front will expand over the Gulf, bringing southerly winds of around 15 knots, which would be ideal.
In cooperation with the National Weather Service (NWS) and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, Ocean Watch is participating in something called the Voluntary Observing Ship (VOS) program. Our onboard scientist, Dr. Michael Reynolds, has been filing regular, real-time observations-things like wind direction and speed, air temperature and humidity, clouds and visibility, our course and speed-that we encounter underway. The NWS gathers the information and forwards it to the National Climatic Data Center in Asheville, N.C., and ultimately the data helps form the basis of marine weather forecasts in both coastal and high-seas areas, as meteorologists find local surface conditions to be invaluable input to augment their satellite pictures and other tools. For more information, or to learn how to participate, visit the web at www.vos.noaa.gov.
As the land recedes behind us for the time being, we’ll finish today’s log with one last snippet from my new favorite book, Southeast Alaska: Names on the Chart and How They Got There. Who knew, for instance, that Cross Sound did not receive its handle from The Namer of All Things, Captain George Vancouver, but by his fellow explorer and wordsmith, Captain James Cook, on May 3rd, 1778? Cook looked no further than his trusty calendar, discovered it was Holy Cross day, and a name was born.
On a somewhat related note, in an earlier log I mentioned that the capital city of Alaska was named after a miner called Joe Juneau, and lamented the fact that they chose Joe’s last name, and not his first. I’d be remiss in my duties if I failed to point out that in the lower 48 there is a town called Joe, Montana, a choice nugget gleaned from Jonathan Raban’s terrific book, Badlands. The 20 or so residents of the one-horse town apparently threw caution to the wind-these are people, one guesses, with a fair measure of excess time on their hands-and changed the name of their tiny burg in hopes of landing a visit from the star quarterback at the height of his fame. Alas, Raban reports, the ending wasn’t happy. The big, insincere lunk never did show up.
- Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson
*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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