Counterclockwise

By John Westling

John Westling takes on the challenge of his lifetime in this action packed novel about a voyage taken by an old surfer, now a budding curmudgeon. With the odds against them, John and his best friend Richie set off into the unknown, circumnavigating Vancouver Island, British Columbia in separate boats. Dangerous encounters cause them to question their decision, but failure is not an option. Together, they are forced to run from the weather, abandon plans, and constantly adapt to ever changing adversity.

A true test of commitment and skills, and aided by two boatloads of incredible luck, this novel will take you on a harrowing adventure as if you were on board the Second Wind yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Westling
• Release date: Aug 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781729298060

John Westling

About the AuthorA former surfer, with a Master’s Degree in Industrial Technology, John spent his creative years as an engineer, college electronic engineering instructor, and Luthier manufacturing musical instruments for musicians worldwide. John is now pursuing a writing career and has published several books including Counter Clockwise, and Wire Wrap. Now well into his next book, a fictional novel, writing appears to be John’s fourth career.

Book preview

Index

Title Page

Preface

Chapter 1 - Trial by Fire

Chapter 2 - To Go, or Not to Go

Chapter 3 - Sea Trials

Chapter 4 - Angry Crabs and Clams

Chapter 5 - The Radio

Chapter 6 - Crossing the Boundary

Chapter 7 - Ghoster, lost

Chapter 8 - Graveyard

Chapter 9 - Boho and the Wind

Chapter 10 - Mayday, maybe

Chapter 11 - Miss Yaculta

Chapter 12 - Over the Falls

Chapter 13 - The Eddy Brothers

Chapter 14 – The IR

Chapter 15 - U’Mista

Chapter 16 - Close Encounters

Chapter 17 - Scum Lines

Chapter 18 - Sea Otter

Chapter 19 - Grotto and the Seals

Chapter 20 - The Beach House

Chapter 21 - Submarines and Shower Tales

Chapter 22 - The Ghoster Inn

Chapter 23 – It’s Not Easy Being First Nations

Chapter 24 - Sink or Swim

Chapter 25 - Reflections

Chapter 26 - First Nations, and Other Encounters

Chapter 27 - Daisy Mae

Chapter 28 - The Trap

Chapter 29 - Thirty Knots

Chapter 30 - The Intercept

Chapter 31 - The Lighthouse

Chapter 32 - Homeward Bound

Chapter 33 - The Last Turn

Epilog

Bibliography

Preface

August 2013, West Coast Vancouver Island, Canada-off Estevan Point. Three miles offshore, the sea is relentless. I'm caught—on my boat—in something I never bargained for. There is no way out, except to proceed forward and hope for the best.

Hidden in zero visibility fog are ocean rollers moving southeast at thirty-two knots. Opposing the rollers are 6-foot wind waves heading northwest from two directions, guided by wind and ocean currents. The maximum speed I can manage is about five knots between swells.

I'm steering constantly, reading the waves with all the knowledge gained from years of surfing experience—but it's not enough. As rollers lift my stern on their way under the boat, the hull tilts forward and down, and I begin to slide down the face of the swell. All of a sudden, the swell bucks upward and the water in front of me drops ten feet lower. Steering at an angle across the front of the swell, I'm trying to avoid dropping into the convergence of colliding wind waves. I'm doing my damndest to survive in this mayhem of heavy seas.

My luck runs out, as the bow plows into the bottom of the wind waves. The boat buries itself and with a loud bang, all forward motion stops in an instant.

There is so much water flooding onto the front deck and hitting the windshield that I cannot see outside for five or ten seconds. It seems like an eternity. Green water submerges the boat entirely for a few more seconds. The same scenario plays out several more times over the next fifteen miles. When I judge the swell and wind waves correctly, I manage to steer for the shoulder of the oncoming waves where the impact is less, and escape each occurrence with only a minimal impact. It's a very helpless feeling when I'm at the total mercy of Nature's whims until I can, again, see what's coming at me.

My adrenaline is maxed out. My arms ache from steering. I need to pee, and I really need a big drink of water. My head is pounding from the intense concentration.

The mayhem continues to play out over the course of the next three hours. I'm exhausted, but as I reach Hesquiat Harbor south of Estevan Point the seas finally begin to calm down, being reduced to low swells and confused chop. What a hell of a day. If my engine had failed, I'm quite sure I would have been rolled over and sunk.

I stop the boat, take it out of gear, and idle in the lee of a nearby landmass to gather what's left of my wits, and take a long pee. Thirsty, I look in the cooler lashed to the rear deck for a soda. I find that not one of them has survived, having been shaken until they’ve all exploded. I realize, then, how lucky I have been. Was I scared? No, but I was concerned about the consequences of a misstep.

A Dedication

This book is dedicated to my best friend Richard Golden and his wife, Linda. Without them, I would never have attempted the circumnavigation of Vancouver Island on my own.

Chapter 1

Trial by Fire

I had taken a ferry ride through the San Juan Islands in the 80’s on a vacation to the northwest. There isn’t much one sees at any of the island stops on the ferry route except for Friday Harbor, where one can get lunch in town. Unless you have studied the geography and memorized the island names, the shorelines are just a beautiful blur of scenery, interspersed with McMansions along the shoreline.

Later, while living in Bellingham, Washington I would go to the beach on the west side of Lummi Island and on the horizon, see islands to the north and west. I always wondered what islands they were and who lived there, but never took the time to find out. So much for my inquiring mind!

In 2006, my mother died and left enough money in her estate for me to retire. As I contemplated for about a year, the thought of retiring, I realized that what was missing in my life was adventure—the kind of adventure that produced an adrenaline rush every so often. I had been working non-stop for years and never considered having a boat because I was missing the two key ingredients, time, and money. I reasoned that if I had a boat, I could go and see what those islands were all about, and maybe have some adventures on the water. My Mom was a really adventurous person. When my dad died she flew the coop, joined Elderhostel, (now called Roads Scholar) and went to ninety-two different countries before she stopped. She shared many of her adventures with me, even taking me on a weeklong cruise up the Columbia River. She would have had a really good time with me on my boat. I'm confident she's with me on my own adventures today. She was always a great inspiration.

For the whole year after Mom died, I was still thinking about retirement, and started searching for a boat I thought would work for me. I remembered a road trip with my mom and two brothers around the Olympic Peninsula where we had stopped overnight at Neah Bay. My brother Jim and I were up early and went down to the docks to check out the boats. There, I saw a Sea Sport boat for the first time. I can remember thinking that if I had a boat like that I could go anywhere in the northwest. Solid enclosed cabin, good lines with a rising foredeck, solidly built. No canvas flapping around, no plastic windows to dry out and crack. Just a sturdy purpose-built boat.

As I began to get more serious about buying a boat, I dithered about whether to buy a sailboat or a motor boat. Motorboats are pretty easy to handle with no other crew. Sailboats, not so much. I had been sailing with my best friend Richie before, and it seemed that he was always messing with the sail and rigging, trying to squeeze the last ounce of wind out of Nature.

Sailors are definitely a different breed. I admire them for their willingness to subject themselves to the elements so they can be closer to Nature. However, after living in Bellingham for seven years I, with my keen sense of observation, noticed that it rains in the islands. Hello! It rains a LOT in the islands.

Ultimately, with sailing experience and acquired knowledge, I decided that a motor boat would be the right choice. I didn’t like being at the mercy of the wind, and I didn’t like the thought of having to stand in an open cockpit steering the boat in a storm, freezing my ass off.

I finally found my boat at a yacht broker in San Francisco Bay, of all places. It was odd, because Sea Sport boats are essentially a Northwest fishing boat. I negotiated a pretty good deal and ended up with a boat six months old with only forty hours on the engine. I pondered my mental state and wondered if I had lost my mind. How much for the boat?

Are you nuts…? This would take a huge chunk out of my inheritance. I came to terms with myself by deciding that I deserved this boat, and that it would provide me with the adventure I was hoping for.

Against all boating tradition and superstition, I renamed the boat. Second Wind. Seems like renaming a boat supposedly brings endless bad luck. I sure hope not! Mom had given me my second wind in life and it seemed like a fitting way to remember her, and honor her gift to me. She would have loved life on the boat. Thanks, Mom…

I ordered a batch of books about navigation, radar, northwest weather, and the very best reference, the Waggoner Cruising Guide. I studied that book like I was preparing for the most difficult college exam of my life. I highlighted in red all of the paragraphs about marinas that had fuel, and in yellow those that looked like I would want to visit. I ordered charts of the San Juans and Puget Sound, all the way to Olympia. I marked on my charts, all the marinas with fuel in red. I made notes all over the place on the charts about things mentioned in Waggoner.

I studied my chart plotter manual diligently and set it up like I thought it should be, with quick access to the various pages using the push buttons along the bottom of the display screen. I familiarized myself with the various icons that appear on the display. The icon depicting my boat is colored black, with one end pointed and the other end flat, so it's easy to determine the direction of the boat. It's usually placed in the center of the display automatically. As I move through the water, the marine chart moves below the boat icon in accordance with the direction I'm travelling. The marine charts show numbers with depths (in feet or meters) in various areas of the water, as well as obstacles and other necessary items for navigation. Other icons, such as anchoring locations are depicted in red with a symbol of an anchor.

It was great studious fun, and I enjoyed the process of getting my boating license and driving around in local lakes and rivers in a little boat I had finished restoring the year before. The experience of handling a small boat was invaluable for the type of boating I was to do in the future.

It didn’t hit me until a year later after buying my Sea Sport that I had to commit to taking my boat north, actually launching my new boat into water much greater than the local lake. Bang, the adrenaline rush caused by mortal fear hit me. What the hell am I getting into?

The first year I decided to stay close to help, and it looked like staying in Puget Sound held the best prospects for survival. Plenty of repair shops and no open ocean. I launched at Sequim Bay, near my little brother’s house in Sequim, Washington. I had prepared well, I thought. But when I finally left the dock I was scared to death. It felt like I was stepping off into space.

I gingerly made my way out of the winding channel entrance of the bay and into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. My plan was to round Port Townsend and head down to the Hood Canal. It was about 10 a.m. in the morning, sunny and warm. I tried my best to force down my anxiety.

Approaching Point Wilson, there appeared before me a wall of fog stretching as far to the north as I could see. Entering the fog, it looked like I could see far enough into it to safely proceed. Fortunately, I laid out a route on my chart plotter that would guide me around the corner. A little fog wasn’t going to keep me from my first adventure on my new boat. I turned on the radar and watched the purple color appear, sweeping silently clockwise on the chart plotter. It was reflecting the landmasses around me.

Those of you with frightening boating experiences in the fog know exactly what’s coming, don’t you! You’re right. Now it’s not a filmy fog scene anymore with its intermittent shafts of sunlight peering down. It’s a blank white canvas ready for me to paint a disaster scene on it in vivid colors. Zero visibility fog.

Now I’m not just nervous and scared, I’m petrified. What do I do now? The thought of turning around in the fog is terrifying. I can't see a single thing around me. I'm used to visual clues when I’m driving a car, but here I am totally lost.

I have no experience in using the chart plotter in a real-time situation yet. I thought I had it all figured out. A map page, a radar page, a depth sounder page, all in order. Shit! I’m in big trouble here, way over my head and I’m mentally blocked by the fear. So inept, that it didn’t even occur to me to look at my compass for my current heading. If I turned around, I could simply steer a heading 180 degrees from my present one, and get out of the fog.

For some reason, I choose to keep blindly stumbling through the fog, hoping things would get better. They didn’t. On the chart plotter screen a purple target appeared somewhere to my starboard side, off the bow, maybe a half mile away. What the hell is that! It isn't moving. It must be a rock sticking above the surface, being reflected by the radar. There is no rock shown on the underlying marine chart. I realize that I am totally unprepared to use the radar.

Idling along, the fog canvas remains white for 360 degrees around me. What a mess. The purple smear is approaching me as I’m moving through the water and still shows no signs of a wake on the radar. I do know that the lack of a wake on the radar means the object probably is not moving. My helm window is open, but I can’t hear a thing except the foghorn at Point Wilson. I’m looking hard, hoping to find some actual semblance of the smear. Then, out of the dense fog I see what looks like a sailboat! Oh crap, I could have run into it! It has no navigation lights on, no foghorn blowing, no bell, no one on deck, and it seems to be dead in the water.

Suddenly, I realize that my own nav lights are not on, and I haven’t turned on my automated foghorn that I so proudly installed in the name of safety. What a dummy. Switch, on… lights, on… foghorn, on. I pass the sailboat without incident. I still don’t know, to this day, if it was anchored or not. In my panic, I never looked to see an anchor line.

I hear a boat horn in the distance, and a new shot of adrenaline hits like a hammer. Who is that!? Is somebody honking at me to get out of the way? Where is it? What is it?

On the radar I see a bigger target than the sailboat produced, and this time it’s moving toward me, coming from my port rear-quarter. The direction of the wake smear diminishes in a straight line behind the moving object on the radar, indicating that at least whatever it is isn't aimed at me. I get out of the helm seat, and look out the port window then rear window trying to see what it is. Through the patchy fog I see a big fishing boat that will pass me. I’m not sure he has radar and I don’t know if he’s even aware that I’m here. What if he turns to starboard going around Point Wilson and cuts me in half? Shit! I better figure this out and save my ass.

Okay, the radio seems like a good thing to try. It is—until I realize I have no way to identify the fishing boat by name. My head is screaming obscenities for being so totally unprepared. Out of sheer ignorance I try a feeble call.

Fishing boat approaching Point Wilson southbound, this is Second Wind. Ohhh shit, I hope this works!

Second Wind, Dauntless here. I can’t believe it! Okay, so now I’ve gotta tell him why I called. Instantly, I conjure up a bluff tactic so he will think I know what I'm doing. Dauntless, what are your intentions when you reach Point Wilson? I have no idea what to do next even if he tells me.

I’m heading for Seattle after I make the turn at Point Wilson.

Another bluff tactic on my part… and I respond.

Okay, I’ll slow and maintain course so I don’t cut you off in the turn, I brazenly tell him.

I’m thinkin’ to myself, you idiot! Slow down…? You’re already at idle and he knows it. (I’m nothing more than a nuisance on his radar, and he’s been in total control of the situation all along.)

He responds with a polite, Thanks. I’ll start my turn in thirty seconds. Out.

I have just eaten the biggest piece of humble pie in my life. I’m completely unprepared for this stuff, and I’m really wondering now if I should sell my boat, call it good, and stay home.

As I round Point Wilson the fog begins to lift. The purple land mass representations on my radar start to match the terrain of Point Wilson. What a relief! I pass Port Townsend and continue south toward the Hood Canal.

I end the day in Pleasant Harbor Marina, my first experience docking and over nighting at a marina. I’m going to give some serious thought about whether this boating stuff is over my head. Geez, what a way to start my first adventure!

I spent the remainder of that first summer trip sorting everything out, organizing my chart plotter pages, practicing radar tracking in clear weather, crash-landing at various docks in the wind and current, and licking my wounds. It's a good thing I stayed in Puget Sound.

It's a long, three-day drive back to Oregon towing the boat. Second Wind gets stored in the barn for a good rest over the winter. I think I’ll return next year.

Chapter 2

To Go, or Not to Go

I did return... for the next six years, for two summer months at a time.

Each year I have explored further north than the previous one. Last year, I traveled as far north as the Broughton Islands, three hundred miles from Anacortes where I launch every year.

Every year has been filled with learning experiences, gaining navigations skills, while obtaining local knowledge of the waterways first-hand. I have sailed with my best friend Richie several times during these years on his sailboat Ghoster. Conversely, Richie has been with me on my motorboat. We both have a good sense of adventure and we enjoy exploiting that sense together.

Several times we have talked about taking our boats together on a long voyage along the British Columbia coast. We are both familiar with the coastline, and are running out of new exciting places to explore. We're both approaching seventy years of age now, and realize that we should do something soon.

This year, we decide to get serious about doing a long voyage together, but on our respective boats. Circumnavigating Vancouver Island is at the top of the list. Second only to navigating the Inland Passage to Alaska; going around Vancouver Island is a challenge met by few pleasure boaters. It can be fraught with bad weather, heavy seas, a dangerous rock-strewn coastline, and very little support from the Canadian Coast Guard. So... why would we try it? For two old wrinkling guys and one adventurous wife, we might go, just because the challenge is there. It will take good navigation skills, good knowledge of weather and sea conditions, good preparation, and lots of confidence, backed up with a ton of good luck.

Richie and his wife Linda have been sailing for years, including several years navigating the Pacific Ocean. I don't have open-ocean experience, but I feel the need to try it out. If we go together, at least there would be another boat to help if things go wrong. The entire west coast of Vancouver Island is open ocean, all the way to Japan. The Waggoner Cruising Guide contains some pertinent articles and a chapter on how to accomplish a circumnavigation of the island, with many precautionary notes.

The thought is a little bit daunting for me, because my wee boat is deemed to be of marginal size to handle the rough seas according to some cruising guides. However, Sea Sport boats like mine are made for fishing in Alaska, Washington State, and Oregon, all of which are open ocean environments. In my mind, my boat should be able to handle the conditions, as long as I'm careful. The decision to go, or not go, rests entirely on the amount of risk we are willing to take.

The risk is immense. Navigating counterclockwise around the island in July and August, the prevailing wind is on the stern, so theoretically we won't be facing opposing seas. But, there is absolutely no chance of good weather and favorable winds for two months along the west coast of Vancouver Island, let alone for two weeks. August on the west coast of the island is aptly called Fogust.

The west coast is sparsely populated, especially in the north, where storms ravage the coastline regularly. There are mostly First Nations natives living on reservation land or in small villages, usually up an inlet or fiord to avoid the coastal weather. The southern end has larger towns, better weather, and better coverage by the Canadian Coast Guard. Wi-Fi is scarce all along the west coast of the island.

If you get into trouble on the west coast, most likely you will be aided by the local natives who are ready, willing, and able to rescue you, even if you're not First Nations people. There are very few fuel stops, provisions, and almost no emergency medical facilities.

You cannot simply drop anchor along the coastline and expect the next twelve hours to be favorable sea conditions. Anchoring requires that, on a daily basis, you either find a marina or a good sheltered bay where you can drop anchor. If the wind or the weather turns rough, you need to be prepared to find the best anchorage possible because you may be stuck there for several days, wagging in the wind, and being tossed around like a cork in a washing machine.

Richie and I talk several times on the phone about how we might accomplish the circumnavigation. We agree that if it turns out to be too risky, we can always turn back and head for home. It's not a lighthearted discussion. In the end, we agree that all of the known possibilities and alternatives have been covered in our conversations. We decide that at our age, it's now or never. We agree to start in mid-July the next summer. It's now early February. We have five months to get ready.

This decision doesn't rest easy with me. Everything about this adventure is an unknown, except for navigating the east side of the island, which I've already done several times.

My motto is be prepared even when the scoutmaster is not around. Seems simple enough, but how do I get prepared for the unknown?

I decide to get prepared by first learning the things that will make the unknown a little more known. One of the best sources for all things boating in the northwest is the Waggoner Cruising Guide. The publication is refined each year and contains invaluable insights on every aspect of navigating the waters from Olympia to Ketchikan. I order this year's copy, along with an updated book called The Burgee which has everything you need to know about most all of the marinas in the northwest.

Canadian rules of navigation require that you have both paper charts and electronic charts on board. Not a bad idea when your chart plotter quits. I order a complete set of paper charts for the entire island to the tune of $1,000 USD. Next is the latest version of Navionics electronic charts for my chart plotter, and my backup GPS system.

Because I'm a little anxious about navigating in waters I have yet to experience, my plan is to actually take a pencil and mark my route lines on the charts, all the way around the island, and give them route numbers. The waters of west coast of Vancouver Island are strewn with remnants of the island land mass, broken off and tumbled into the ocean. Sometimes they extend offshore two miles or more. Unless you are a local, you cannot safely navigate these waters safely without charts or a chart plotter. If you've never been in these waters trying to find your way in zero visibility fog, using paper charts is a disaster waiting to happen. Even in clear weather, trying to figure out your true location while being tossed around in the waves with your compass in hand isn't going to happen fast enough to keep you out of trouble. If my chart plotter fails, my backup GPS is my only hope.

I decide to set my routes three miles offshore, hoping that I'm beyond rough coastal swells and wind waves. For most of the coast, three miles out puts my route beyond the reach of most rocks and reefs that I see on these charts. I